The Little Girl

Haridwar is a place where India hits you right in the face. So much pain, suffering, and joy all intertwined. The colors, the music, the dirt, the filth, the grime, the Holy Ganges, the noise, the food, the smells, the cows, the Virgin Mobile signs, the temples, the rich, the poor, the barely existing on this earth, gathered together all in one spot. Kind of like an Indian version of Hollywood Boulevard.

There’s much more to Haridwar, but the beggars stand out to an American. Jezuz, looking at these guys made me want to smack the beggars I see in San Francisco and tell them they’re just pathetic posers.

Kovi surprised me by buying a bunch of beggars some tea a couple of times. He’d admonished me that I was giving too much money away when I gave 100 rupees. But this was good logic, he was buying them food directly. Even in India beggars sometimes just use the money for drugs.

The beggars in Haridwar seemed to come in three denominations. The first were the Sadhus, the holy men. With their robes and brightly painted faces they were the top level of beggar. But none of them struck me as particularly holy. Their aggressive begging and superior attitude put me off. They all looked healthy and strong. I never gave any of them money.

The second level were the general beggars, those who would hassle you continuously, follow you around, watch to see if you gave anybody money, and pounce if you showed any sign of weakness. This might include children as well. But I always looked at the clothes and health. Some of them were well fed or had clean colorful clothing. These too I generally avoided.

The third level were the mind bogglingly lowly semi-human refuse who’s presence made you feel ashamed to be so filthy rich. I saw one old woman absolutely covered in flies, and I mean a hundred flies, sitting with her palm out, in true need. Sweet death lurked nearby.

The next day I had purchased a carrot and I passed by her while she slept. She was covered up in her rags, but one hand stuck out. I figured putting money in her hand would be stolen or blow away, but perhaps a carrot would be a good gift when she awoke. I placed it in her hand and the other beggars watched me. Would they steal her carrot?

Nope. I ended up passing by the same way an hour later and the old woman was still asleep, carrot in hand. I guess there’s honor among beggars.

I saw no less than two crippled guys on what could only be described as large skateboards, making their way through the crowds. One guy was lying face down, moving a small begging bowl in front of him, then pushing himself with his arms forward through the crowd. I believe he was reciting prayers. This was the only guy I saw Indian’s giving money to.

There was one blind beggar singing songs and strumming on an instrument. He reminded me of my Eastern Religions instructor in college. He’d been in seminary school and just before graduation had taken an Eastern Religions class that had opened his eyes. He’d quit everything and made his way to India, living like an Indian, not an American.

At one spot he’d seen a blind beggar woman holding a bowl, smiling, and singing hymns to Krishna.

“In her face, was a joy that I’ve never known”, he said, obviously jealous.

He’d made his way to a famous guru who had literally thousands of people showing up for a special gathering. He’d been thinking that morning that things were crowded, he’d seen what he came to see, and he should leave the next day, but he didn’t mention this to anyone, besides he didn’t know anybody anyway.

The guru had come by giving some blessed cow dung ash, vibuthi, to everyone as they knelt in rows. Yes, you read that right, the ash is holy apparently, I forget, but I think you’re supposed to eat it.

When the guru got to my instructor he stopped and said, “I understand you’re leaving us tomorrow” and smiled. My instructor was dumbstruck and the guru moved on. Some gurus are genuine.

My instructor eventually embraced Buddhism got married and settled down. He told his wife that he loved her unconditionally, there was nothing she could do that would change his mind. Then about five years in, he converted to Catholicism. He said he had to get back to Christianity by an Eastern route.

At about the same time his wife told him she wanted to have sex with other men, after all, he’d always said she could do anything and he’d love her. He was shocked and couldn’t give his consent.

“I liked you better as a Buddhist”, she said, and left. I guess even unconditional love has it’s limits.

I made sure to give the blind beggar coins so he’d know what he got.

How much to give people weighed heavily on my mind. Crossing a bridge I’d seen a guy missing both hands. I held out a 100 rupee note (only $2, but again, a day’s pay in India, I didn’t dare give away more or I might be torn limb from limb, plus I didn’t carry much cash myself) and he pinched it between his two stumps.

“Your parents cut off both your hands so you’d be a more successful beggar”, I thought, “Good God, aren't you the lucky one”.

Walking on the bridge out of Haridwar I saw a young disheveled girl, possibly six, who looked maybe four, working like a dog creating small ochre colored trinkets for the tourists. She was the same age as my cute, little, slightly spoiled, blond haired, blue eyed, niece who lives in Palo Alto, a few blocks from Steve Jobs, and who’s biggest care in the world is that her shoes match her dress.

I asked the little girl for permission to take a picture and she gave me the Indian head bob. I took a couple of quick pictures, and gave her some rupees, but it is hard to even take pictures of such suffering. It seems such a violation of people’s dignity.

She did not look happy. I doubt she ever played much. She had probably been working as soon as she was old enough. To quote Neil Young, this little girl will never go to school, never get to fall in love, never get to be cool. She will be doing this her whole life. She’ll be married off to somebody else in the same straits as her, probably immediately after puberty, and have some kids who will end up working just as hard as her at just as young an age. I saw no sign of her parents, she knew her job and was doing it.

I never tried to look away, but I never stared at anybody’s misery either.
But when you’re looking at a little six year old girl,
working in one hundred degree heat,
covered in ochre dust,
doing the same thing she did yesterday to be able to eat,
and you know she’ll be doing the same thing tomorrow,
and she won’t have a day off from her toil,
because when you’re poor there are no weekends,
or holidays,
to relax,
kick back,
pop a coke,
and enjoy a birthday party;
you can’t actually stop to think about it,
because you realize there’s virtually nothing you can do,
you know she’ll haunt you the rest of your days,
but you can’t sweep her up in your arms and rescue her,
it’s not allowed,
she has a life,
parents,
a culture,
a government;
so you have to close down your heart,
swallow your anger,
sigh at the futility of it all,
and walk away,
otherwise you would just sit down and cry.

And never stop.

The Hindu Priest

Temples




Waiting for the Aarti





Bathing in the Ganges



Chanting



Offerings



Burn baby burn




Aarti




DEV!



We’re in Haridwar – God’s Gate or Gateway to God. This is the first large city where the Ganges river comes spilling out from the Himalyas into the flat Ganges plain. Devotees flock here every day to bathe in the river and wash away their sins. Most people come here once a year to do so. Every 12 years there is a Kumbh Mela where literally millions show up. During the Kumbh Mela I’m told they cannot park closer than 30 kilometers so they have to walk and/or take a rickshaw. There’s a huge statue of Shiva by the town.

We parked at a nearby garage and took a rickshaw into town. I don’t like the rickshaw’s, but Kovi was in an automobile accident as a young man that kept him in a coma for six months, his recovery leaves him a bit wobbly and his voice is slurred. Sometimes people are rude because they think he’s drunk.

I sit outside the hotel while Kovi gets the room. Better to negotiate before they see an American and triple the price. A sadhu walks up to me and begs for money. A small time pushcart merchant stands nearby rearranging his wares and cleaning them.

I’ve been broken of giving beggars money now, it’s become obvious that any generosity on my part is met with further demands from the masses. Every now and then if I see someone seriously in need, I’ll quickly sneak them some money before anybody notices. Otherwise I’m deluged with people and I can’t tell who’s in real need or who’s just a scammer. What’s also become obvious is that it is true that some parents/guardians cut off their children’s hand or foot in order for them to become more productive beggars. The wounds are always in the same place.

I refuse the Sadhu money, he looks like he’s in good shape, unlike a beggar woman against the wall. The Sadhu finally walks away and the merchant gives him the evil eye. I know that look, it says, ‘Get a job hippie’.

We got a great hotel with a room overlooking the Ganges. Right here the river is channeled into a large canal cemented on both sides. The river runs surprisingly fast and is thick with the minerals from the Himalayas. Not to mention the trash from upstream.
Walking across the bridge I noticed a sadhu throw some garbage into the sacred Ganges. Kind of explains a lot about India.

This is it, The Holy Ganges. I’ve seen films of this since I was a kid and now I could experience it myself. It’s pretty much as you would imagine. Thousands of people kind of camped out, if you can call sitting on the ground in the open air camping. Beggars, touts, rickshaws, sadhus, tourist shops, restaurants, the works. The sights, the sounds, and the smells overwhelm you. Life is in your face 24/7.

I’ve been in India over a week and have not been to a real Hindu temple. Kovi said there were a bunch in town so off we went. The first took me by surprise because it was brightly painted, large, and fairly new. It turned out to be a copy of a temple in Kashmir. We followed a prescribed path, through, over, and around the temple. Gods and goddesses were arranged for proper viewing. After about 20 minutes we emerged back in the front. That was odd.

Next door was another temple, brightly painted, and fairly new. Not much there to see though, just one big room with some statues.

We walked down to a third temple and this one had a fee to enter a certain area. Inside were roboticized plaster of paris representations of Krishna and other deities, telling their life story. Finally I was able to make out what was going on. I was surprised to find robots in a temple, but on reflection I realized European churches did the same thing with paintings, frescos, and stained glass. They were there to tell a religious story to an illiterate people. This was for the visitors.

“These temples are new”, I told Kovi. I wanted old temples.

“These temples are not new, they’re 50 years old”.

Oh, I get it, they were built in the time of Disney, no wonder they seemed so Disneyesq.

“They remind me of Disneyland”, I say.

“Americans do not have many Gods, therefore they need Disneyland”, he responded. There’s some wisdom there.

Afterwards we drove away down the same road I saw what looked like a Hindu Fisherman’s Wharf, games, attractions, and food.

Around dusk we made our way to an area sitting across a small conduit of the Ganges from an old temple. That’s the temple I want to see, ancient, almost 1000 years old. People bought small plastic mats and we were told to sit down and crowd closer to the edge. Many people had bought flower filled leaf baskets with candles in them to float in the river. People across the river had gotten in and were splashing around and dunking themselves.

“Would you like to go in?” Kovi asked.

“No way I’m going in that water Bubba”. I knew what was really in that water. We sat for a long while and I was wondering what was the point of all this. That and where was a bathroom if some of these thousands had to go? Oh, yeah, nevermind.

Finally a loudspeaker started up and the people responded as one.

“DEV!”

Another chant and, “DEV!”, again. This was the formal beginning of the Aarti.

There’s something about thousands of people raising their voices in unison that sends shivers down your spine. This was pretty cool. Some girls next to us covered their heads as part of the ritual. There was lots more chanting and then a chant of Hari Ganga (Holy Ganga) was played. I relaxed into it and began chanting myself.

After a few minutes I realized I was one of only a few chanting, at least where we were sitting.

“Why isn’t anybody chanting?” I asked Kovi.

“They’re mostly tourists, not devotees” he answered.

“Hmmm, I must be a devotee”, I thought and continued chanting.

Now when I say tourists, I don’t mean Western tourists. During my whole stay in Hardiwar I only saw three other Westerners, and they had obviously gone native and been living here for a few decades. Their clothing was old and soiled and their hair matted. You know guys, you can always bathe in the Ganges.

There was more chanting, and a couple of songs. Then they lit some big cauldrons with fire by the temple and everybody oohed and ahhed. It was pretty cool. Some people took their flowers down to the river a few feet away. Then it was over. Not that long, but pretty interesting. Thank goodness it wasn’t Stations of the Cross.

We were getting up to go when a priest type person came up to us and told me I could have a prayer. Cool thing.

I’ve always told people I’m a Hindu at heart. My friends have brought me small statues of Hindu Gods over the years. I have such a collection on my desk that people who don’t know better, think an Indian sits there.

Western religions are exclusive, our god is the right God, your God is wrong. Hinduism is inclusive, all are accepted. Also the multitude of the Gods in Hinduism is really just different manifestations of the one God Brahama, the eternal, unchanging, infinite, and transcendent reality which is the Divine Ground of all matter, energy, time, space, and being (I stole that from Wikipedia). The individual Gods are more like Catholic Saints, each one with their own special story and powers.

My friends took me to a Hindu temple in Livermore years ago and I remembered that one of them had paid for a prayer. I was a bit taken aback because she literally had to pay at a desk for the prayer and then she gave the priest the receipt. I’m not sure that’s quite legal from an IRS perspective, I thought it has to be a donation, not a fixed fee. The priest chanted his prayer while she sat and meditated. The priest looked bored and was barely paying attention.

I’m told Hindu priests have no power in the Hindu religion, another plus as far as I was concerned. They don’t get to tell people how to live their lives. They don’t get to interpret the Vedas to suit their own political/social philosophy. They just recite the prayers, that’s it. And this priest was bored out of his mind, he’d done this prayer a dozen times today and would do it a dozen more.

After it was over I told my friend that the priest wasn’t focused on the prayer.

“That’s okay”, she said, “I was”.

Wow, in Christianity you really feel reliant on the priest, after all, he’s got God’s good housekeeping seal of approval. If he screws up the prayer you’re in trouble. You’re always worried that after you leave he’ll tell God, “Nevermind”.

Hinduism is very personal. If you really talk to Hindu’s about it they will tell you you’re not praying to a God up in the sky or in the idol, you’re praying to the God within you.

So now I get my own prayer at the River Ganges no less. I take off my shoes and the priest brings me down to the cement steps in the river. I’m only going ankle deep. That’s as far as I’m getting in the water, and my first prayer is that I don’t fall in. That water is rushing fast.

I fold my hands together and he starts the prayer. I don’t know what to do, so I repeat what he says. He asks me my name. Then he asks me my father’s name. Then my mother’s name. Then my sister’s name. Then my Grandparents names. This goes on for about a minute.

“Donation”, he says.

I’m pretty sure the prayer isn’t finished, so I pull out 50 rupees ($1) which you have to understand is a lot of money here. A bottle of water cost’s seven cents, not two-fifty like the states.

“500 Rupees”, he says.

“What?” I can’t believe my ears. That’s about a weeks wages here. No way I’m paying that much, my hotel isn’t that much more. I look at Kovi to see if that’s a correct amount, he indicates I shouldn’t pay it. I pull out 100 rupees and hand it to him. He takes the money.

“500 Rupees”, he repeats.

“No, one hundred”, I’m irritated.

“500 Rupees. Prayer is for your whooooolllle family”. He reaches out and places his palm on my chest. There’s a couple of other assistants with him and they’re all touching me and telling me to pay.

I’m really getting pissed now. This Priest scumbag is holding my family hostage? I’m sick of this. All you want is money?

No wonder you guys can’t convert anybody. Do you realize if I were dealing with a Mormon Priest (most adult males are priests) he would take me in, feed me, wash me, clothe me, get me a job, and provide shelter for me all in the hope I might convert? And all you guys do is paw at me and hassle me for more money because I’m an American? You call yourself a priest? Get the fuck off me! I push them away and climb the stairs to go.

Another priest begs me to go back, “It’s okay, no problem. No problem”, he repeats again and again. I want the prayer finished and Kovi indicates I should, so I relent. I walk back down, put my feet in the water, and face the priest.

“200 Rupees”, he says. His assistants chime in.

That’s it, all anybody has done since I’ve come to this country is hassle me for money. There is no Holy India I realize, just a country filled with fast talking hustlers. The beggars all know better English than anybody else. You call this a religion? I turn to go again.

They realize the game is up, I’m not giving in. They shove the flower bowl in my hand and light the candle. I toss the bowl in the river disgustedly and immediately the candle goes out.

“Yeah, well I’m not to thrilled with you either Shiva”.

I’m furious on the walk back to the hotel. To make things worse these guys on motorcycles think nothing of driving at high speed through the jam packed crowds in these tiny streets. Touch one of them to balance yourself and they glare at you. I’m so ticked off that I take to kicking their exhaust pipes while they pass. Two guys on one glare back at me.

Yeah, give it a try buddy. You think you’re tough? You’re looking at a pissed off American. Did you see what we did to Iraq over nothing? Just give me a reason. I’ll bring down a house of pain on you like you wouldn’t believe.

See that statue there? That’s a nice club. And the bronze of the cosmic dance of Shiva and all those sharp points? Lots of soft tissue work there. And in the end I’ll be able to bribe the police to have you keel hauled in the river. I’ll make you regret you ever so much as honked your horn at me.

I got back to the room, washed up, and looked in the mirror. My clean white polo shirt had sooty hand prints all over it. It had been sullied by the hands of the Hindu priest, just like he’d sullied my clean pure soul.

Indian Families

I have to say some nice things about India. I’ve made fun for a couple of weeks, but there are some good things to say about the place. Firstly, nobody smokes. I’m told people do in Mumbai, but I can count the smokers I’ve seen on all my fingers and toes. This is amazing to me as everywhere else you go in the world the air is fouled with smoke, and as a person who’s lived so long in California I can hardly take the stuff anymore. Then again, I’m healthy as a horse. I suspect the lack of smoking is due to Indian thriftiness, the concept of burning money in an anathema to them.

Secondly there’s no real drug problem here. Yes it exists, but nothing like you find in other parts of the world.

Thirdly, there are no Western tourists here, at least this time of year. When I write about tourists 99.99% of them are Indians. Which is really a good sign when you think about it, Indians taking an interest in their own country. I’ve gone days without seeing another Westerner and only see a few at airports, train stations, and major tourist attractions. We look at each other uncomfortably wondering who would be crazy enough to be here this time of year.

Fourthly, it is safe. I can’t say enough about that. I was warned about thieves and pickpockets and danger from Gopi and others. But I laugh at him, who’s going to mug me in front of 100 people? In South America I’m always looking over my shoulder, stories of robbery and murder are legend. Here I’m relaxed and hardly thinking of my safety. I’m sure there’s danger and one should never get too relaxed, but compared to Oakland, India is harmless.

Fifth, the concept of family is solid as steel in India. This is partly because you cannot trust anybody else in this country except family, but it goes deeper than that. Americans believe they invented family values. Let me tell you about family values.

An Indian will do anything for their family. Need a kidney? No problem. A spleen? Easy squeezy. Your heart is failing? You can have mine, I won’t be needing it if you’re gone.

I had a guy who worked for me and then did a shift at his brother’s 7-11 in the evenings because his brother needed help. His brother’s wife was a spendthrift and he couldn’t afford employees. But there was no talk of divorce and he thought it was his duty to work two jobs for his brother, even though his brother wasn’t paying him.

Sometimes it doesn’t even seem necessary and they do it. A friend of mine told me that she was in debt and I knew how she lived and made good money. How? She’d bought her brother a nice brand new car since he graduated from school and needed one.

I told her, “In the U.S. when your brother needs a car you don’t buy him a new one, you give him your junker to get around with until he learns to get on his own feet”.

“Not in India”

“You’re not in India”

“It doesn’t matter”.

Gee, I wish my sister had gone into debt to buy me a new car. If you’re reading this Sis, my car is two years old now and I could use some more horsepower.

Family is so important that as far as I can tell the only thing Indians care about are weddings. Who’s engaged to who? What will the wedding be like? How big will the wedding be? Who was invited to the wedding? The front pages of all major newspapers look more like Hollywood tabloids than the serious press they should be.

War, the economy, terrorism, poverty, environmental disaster, all take a back seat to a good old fashioned marriage scandal. The current most famous one is a Hindu politician who was technically already married from an arranged marriage but in love with another woman. The solution? He and his mistress converted to Islam so he could have multiple wives. Top that Bill Clinton.

The arranged marriage is a very strange concept to Americans, but it seems to work for Indians. I know of a hundred arranged marriages and two divorces. I know of eight love marriages and three divorces. But one of the most romantic things I ever heard was the guy above who worked at the 7-11.

He was from a higher caste than the girl he loved. Both families, especially his was opposed. His family moved to the U.S. in part to separate them. He saved up his money and one night he snuck out of the house, made his way to SFO, flew back to India and eloped with his love. A story worthy of a Bollywood spectacular.

But even so, things are changing in India for the middle and upper classes. While the marriage is still semi-arranged, the individuals themselves are going online to find their mates instead of the family doing the choosing. However family approval is still necessary for the marriage to take place.

A friend of mine in the U.S. is an Indian Catholic. He went online and found a nice Catholic girl in India. They spent months on the phone before even meeting in person. The Catholic Church requires a six month training course to get married in the Church.
As he was in the U.S. and she was in India they took the course separately. He said he spent most of his course time explaining the whole arranged marriage concept to the priest who couldn’t quite get his head around it. I guess the priest is more used to the couple coming in after the baby’s already born.

But I still meet Indians who’ve told me that they met just 15 minutes before the wedding. How’s that for a scary thought?

“Here’s your wife. She doesn’t look like her pictures? You can thank Photoshop for that!”

The other thing curious about Indian weddings is the dowry. I’ve had women tell me they paid $35,000 for their husband. You’re kidding. You paid money for that guy? You should have invested in a dog.

My friends hauled me into a room onetime to explain to me all about the whole dowry thing. These were educated intelligent people, but still held hostage to an ancient tradition. One of them who was very opposed to the dowry arrangement told his rich friend that he should not accept his fiancée’s family’s dowry, he didn’t need it, it was time to stop this.

“You don’t understand”, his friend answered, “I have two sisters and we shelled out $200,000 each for dowries, this is payback”.

I’ve always wondered how the negotiations work.

“We think Ram is worth $10,000.”

“Our son comes from a good family, we won’t accept anything less than $50,000 for him.”

“Your son is born of camels. He’s not worth more than $20,000.”

“Our son was educated at a famous University, $40,000.”

“That University is worthless, he’ll never amount to anything. $30,000 is our final offer.”

“What a wonderful day for our children. $30,000 it is. Welcome to the family!”

Finally, when it comes to treating guests hospitably Indians have no peer. I can’t budge from my chair without them asking what I want. They’re paranoid that I might have one blessed moment of boredom to myself. That I might think they aren’t doing enough. That I might be a bit uncomfortable.

If I mention, “How much is that picture”, they buy it, have it shipped off to the U.S. and tell me about it later. I was just curious, it was the first part of thinking about where I’d put it, or if I even wanted it. I have to be very careful of what I say, it is like having a Genie granting wishes from your random thoughts.

“Hmm, I’d sure like a Hershey’s bar”.

“We can’t get Hershey’s here, so here is a chocolate store we bought for you.”

“How’d you afford a chocolate store?”

“We sold the family jewelry. Don’t worry, it’s only been in the family 15 generations.”

Gopi explained, “My mother stays awake at night worried something will happen to you and everyone will know she did not take care of her guest. It will be in all the papers and the whole country will shake their heads in disappointment”.

One night in Haridwar Kovi and I went to dinner and I got a plate with six things on it. Three were cold and I didn’t dare eat them, the other three were delicious. First of all, Kovi hates to waste food, which I can’t blame him, but Americans are used to wasting food. It is our national pastime. And when I travel I always expect there are things I cannot eat and will not touch them. This is triply true in India.

The next night I want to go back to that place but Kovi won’t hear of it, that place wasn’t’ good enough, we’ll find a better place. He thinks this because I didn’t eat half my food. I must not be one hundred percent pleased, therefore it’s not good enough for me. We end up in some dive with just nan and watery dal, no rice and I’m fed up.

“Stop trying to please me!”, I yell, when I’m hungry I get irritable, “When I travel I would rather go to a place that I know what I’m going to get even though it’s not perfect than risk something else!”

Kovi balls his fist and holds it to his lips. I think he’s going to cry.

Later I tell Gopi about this and he asks, “Did you yell at Kovi?”

“Yeah, you guys don’t listen to me unless I yell”.

“You’re lucky he didn’t hit you. He hates being yelled at. He wasn’t going to cry, he was trying to control his temper”.

See? Anything for a guest in India. Despite my yelling at Kovi, he didn’t pound me.

The Indian Head Bob

I’ve gone native, I’m beginning to do the Indian head bob. This is something that drives Americans nuts. Westerners are used to a head nod when the answer is yes and a shake of the head when the answer is no. Clean, clearcut. But in India they do this thing where their head just wobbles around on their shoulders. It indicates ‘yes’, ‘maybe’, ‘I hear you’, ‘you’re absolutely right, but there’s nothing I can do about it so I’ll just do this’, and ‘I think you’re an idiot but you’re my boss so I’ll pretend I’m listening’.

To Americans this vague response is almost offensive. Just answer the damn question.

It’s actually hard for an American to do. Our neck muscles are not trained that way and kind of weak, plus it feels like my brain is sloshing around a bit. Don’t believe me? Try it. Take your head and try and touch your left ear to your left shoulder without lifting your shoulder, then bounce it immediately over your right ear to your right shoulder, then back and forth a couple of times. Now that you’ve figured that out, move your chin in a sideways figure eight pattern. Hah! Not so easy is it? And I bet you’re getting a headache.

I met a Swiss lawyer in the Amazon years ago who described going to India to open up a business. She was in the hotel and she wanted to talk to the manager so she told one of the staff to fetch him.

“Yes, mom (ma’am)” he responded and bobbled. He then went off and got another person who was not the manager. She told him to get the manager with the same result another guy who was just a helper. This happened until she had five guys around her, none of them the manager.

As she described it, “I stood there in the lobby yelling at five bobbleheads while they all just recited ‘Yes, mom’, ‘Yes, mom’. I was ready to scream.”

But I caught myself doing it the other day. Gopi asked, “Want to go to lunch?” and I bobbled my head, “Yes, sir”.

The Oasis

I went to Khasola today. It is a small mountain town in the foothills of the Himalayas. The foothills are impressive and I haven’t even seen the real mountains yet. The mountains rise straight up from the flat India plain similar to Alaska mountains. Khasola is at about 6000 feet and the road is so windey that it makes the road to Hana on Maui look as straight as I-5.

But similar to the road to Hana it made me carsick. I don’t know what it is about people when they get in tight, dangerous, mountain roads that makes them think they’re all Formula 1 drivers in their four cylinder sub compacts. Our driver loved to hit a turn and then whip the car quickly, sending me crashing into the door.

And of course there are busses, trucks, and all manner of road hogging vehicles who think that the only way they can get where they’re going is by cutting the corners in the opposite lane. Our driver, every time he came to a blind bend would honk his horn, and then we waited in breathless anticipation for something to loom in front of us. This is not to mention the number of times where you have to pass a bus and your wheels just barely stick out over the edge of the cliff. I have to admit though, it is a well maintained road and there are cement barriers most places to prevent you from going over the edge.

About half way up I’d had enough. I asked to pull over and we got something to drink while I cleared my head and settled my stomach. As I sat there in this tiny nameless town I swore I spied something through the trees. Could it be? Up here? In this tiny little town in the middle of nowhere? That must be a mirage. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. Yes, it is there. That really is a golden arches. I roused everybody and demanded they take me to Mickey D’s.

Once there I desperately searched the menu for a Quarter Pounder, with no luck. No beef served here. Damn, not enough Moslems in this area. I got a nasty, horrible, chicken sandwich and relished it.

Once supplied we made our way all the way up to Khasola only to find that the great viewing we wanted was now part of a military base. Some terrorist group was planning to blow up a military radio antenna up there and so the government sent in the troops. They would not let me in because I didn’t have my passport with me.

I never carry my passport unless I have to because I don’t want to lose it. But I always carry a copy of it. I cannot understand the military here, they seem so laxidasical. There was a civilian guy dressed in non-important attire who seemed to work as a buffer, generally shouting at people and acting pushy. I’m told in India this is a common refrain, if you tell somebody, ‘watch this gate’, they suddenly think they are King of the Gate. The military guard took me over to somebody else who said I couldn’t get in without a real passport. It probably didn’t matter because the haze was quite bad.

We had left Chandigarh, an ugly, dirty, rubbish heap of a city in the flatlands and made our way into the Himalayas, up to 6000 feet and Khosala, an ugly, dirty, rubbish heap of a town in the mountains. I’m sure some people think this is beautiful, but not me. The mountains rise at 60 degree angles and as this is the dry season they are sparsely covered in dry foliage. Instead of looking out at magnificent peaks and valleys, through the haze we saw more towns filled with rubbish all up and down the mountains.

Of course I can’t tell anybody that. I have to say, “Wow, look at those mountains. That’s impressive”. When what I want to say is, “Doesn’t anybody have a goddamn garbage can around here?”

This is what American hippies sell everything for? To come to the trash packed Himalayas? Yes, I remember being young and loving strange exotic places so different from the sterile suburban environment I grew up in. I still remember the smell of Warsaw like it was yesterday, and I haven’t been there in 23 years. I used to love San Francisco as an exciting place when I was young, but as I get older I dread even going up there and dealing with all of the noise, traffic, panhandlers, and general irritation of a big city. So yes, this is exotic, and there are monkeys, and the people are different, and there are different smells; but give me sterile, quiet Fremont any day.

We wandered around the town and I saw a photo of the town in 1910. What a difference a century makes. It actually looks like the same town, except without all the signs and rubbish. The dirt in the old picture looks like it belongs where it is, whereas the dirt today makes it look, well, dirty.




On the way back down I begged the driver to go slowly. He tried, but whenever he got passed, the Formula 1 instincts would kick in and he’d try and keep up with some madman in a Hyundai.

As we got about half way down again I cracked; an old Barry Manilow song took hold in my brain and I couldn’t shake it.

You deserve a break today
So get up and get away
To McDonalds
We do it all for you

I just need a break from India.

When I went to school in Denmark the students used to call McDonalds ‘The American Embassy’, we all went there after classes to get something to eat before going home to that bad Danish food. Think I’m insulting Danish cooking? Have you ever seen a Danish restaurant? No? I didn’t think so.

I met a guy who was at the Moscow McDonalds when they trained the first staff. They split the staff in two and told half to pretend to be customers and the others to be cashiers. There were over thirty cash registers as it is the largest McDonalds in the world. They told the pretend customers to get in line. And they did, everybody in one line behind one register. Russians are well trained.

At another time they brought in some school kids, now remember this was 1990, the Soviet Union had yet to fall, and gave them money and told them to go to the cashier, ask for a Big Mac, fries, and a Coke, and exchange the cash. They were training a new consumer society as well as the staff, also like a pusher they were hooking those kids on those sodium packed treats. The kids all did as told and took their meals back to their tables.

But as he stood and watched, the kids all ate the fries and drank the Coke, but didn’t touch the Big Macs.

“Do you see that?” the asked his interpreter.

“Yes”

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know”, the interpreter responded.

So they went up to some kids and asked, “Do you like the fries?”

“Yes, yes, the fries are very good”, the kids smiled.

“And the Coke? Do you like the Coke?”

“Yes, Coke is very good”. Everything’s good so far.

“And what about the Big Mac? Do you like the Big Mac?” he asked.

Blank stares all around from the kids. He reached over and popped open the styrofoam container holding the Big Mac. The kids’ eyes lit up and the place exploded as a hundred Big Mac containers were popped open simultaneously. They’d never seen styrofoam before, or a Big Mac. Almost brings a tear to your eye, doesn’t it?

So, we stopped at McDonalds again as I endured Kovi’s mocking. But to me it was like an oasis and I examined it more closely. The architect had done a brilliant job of building it like a bridge across a small thirty foot gorge. They had even landscaped some of the gorge around it. This was true American ingenuity I marveled, the best looking thing in thirty miles.

As you all know, I hate American corporatism that makes us all slaves to them. I’m not against capitalism, just the big government approved oligarchies that rule our lives. Micky D’s is high on my list for poisoning America with sugar and fat while opposing teaching good nutrition. They create tons of needless waste with disposable everything. But outside America I always end up going to one at some point. It is my own little American oasis in a sea of confusion. We got a couple of ice creams and sat enjoying the view.

The place was spotless. Trash was quickly cleaned up. It was packed, but I never saw a single person put anything in the trash, the staff did all the cleanup. They have us well trained in America.

Finally it was time to leave and face the reality of India again. I asked for the restroom and was shown a building about thirty yards away. In India the restroom is usually far away from anything because it is, well, you know. I will spare you the description of the standard Indian restroom, I’m sure you’ve all heard the stories, and they’re all true. I plodded over there, steeling myself for the inevitable India bathroom experience.

I opened the door but to my surprise there was a Micky D’s staff person cleaning it! He shuffled outside, embarrassed to be caught doing such a job I presume, and I closed the door behind him. Then, in this immaculate bathroom in the Himalayas, I fell to my knees on the newly washed floor and gave thanks for McDonalds.

The Maid

The maid just stopped by to clean the place. I’ve been telling Gopi I wanted a mop so I could clean the pigeon poop in the bathroom that fell in when I opened the window. The toilet leaks and it’s now just a mess. He refuses of course, they will hire a maid. All they ever do is complain about the help, I beg him to just give me a mop, but this is India and maids are a tradition. He told me to expect the maid at 7:30 A.M. and I was to point out to her the places I wanted clean, especially the pigeon poop.

At 6:15 A.M. I am awakened by the holler of the doorbell. It’s like something out of the Addams family. I believe it’s an Indian song/chant everybody here recognizes, but to me it sounds like the Moghul invaders are returning.

The Moghuls were the Islamic invaders from Afghanistan who set up shop in India in the 1500’s and were the last great empire on the subcontinent until the Europeans showed up for tea and biscuits. The Taj Mahal is actually a monument by a Moghul Emperor to his wife after she died, it’s not a Hindu temple.

So the Moghuls got me up in a hurry as that sound is nerve wracking to an American steeped in the fear of Jihad.

I answered the door in my pajamas, discomfited by my appearance. To my shock this short frail old woman with a scarf covering her head opened the door and barged right in. Now when I say old, I suspect she might be around 60, but looked like she was going on 100. She marched across the living room, picked up a stick twig broom about two feet long and proceeded to whap the hell out of the shelf.

This did not bode well. That stick twig broom was probably really good at sweeping out large pieces of whatever you wanted to sweep, but inside, on a dusty shelf, she might as well have used a rake. No wonder Indians spend half their time yelling at the help. I retreated to my room to dress properly and left her pounding away in the living room.

I tried to wake myself up and figure out exactly what I was going to do. Think Mark, think! I went into the bathroom and startled the pigeon on the window sill. It cooed at me angrily and flew off.

“Yeah, well I didn’t know she was going to show up this early either girl. Besides, this is all your doing.”

Having my grandmother clean up the pigeon poop in the bathroom was not something I wanted to do, but having her pound around the living room was useless, and telling her to go away might be insulting. How would I communicate with her, I know exactly two Hindi words, ‘hah’ – yes, and ‘nah’ – no.

One of the problems I find when I travel is that in the face of a new language I usually use the last foreign language I used on my journeys. In this case that is Portuguese as I’ve spent some time in Brazil. Let me tell you, nobody, but nobody in Punjab speaks Portuguese. I could probably get by in Goa, an old Portuguese colony, but up here it is Hindi or Punjabi with a little English thrown in. I’m constantly responding with Portuguese words to people talking to me in Hindi. But that’s okay, they don’t usually understand my English either.

The English here is fun to observe. People will be talking in Hindi or Punjabi, and then suddenly throw in four or five English words, just enough to make you believe you have a chance of following the conversation, before lapsing back into Hindi or Punjabi. The conversation might go something like this: blah blah blah blank CDs blah blah blah.

The signs on the stores are mostly in English surprisingly, even in the smallest villages. But the best part is the spelling. On one store selling kitchen appliances the main sign said ‘kitchen’ and the secondary sign said ‘kitchan’. I guess if you don’t know exactly how it’s spelled, try a bunch of different ways, one is bound to be right.

So I’m still rubbing the sleep from my eyes and figure it’s time to face the music. The maid is now in the kitchan throwing around pots and pans. Oh no, please don’t re-clean the bowls and utensils I use, I washed them very thoroughly with soap yesterday and left them to dry.

I straighten up my room and bring my computer out to the living room. Ravi is on the couch and demands to know what the hell I’m doing in his area. We’ve created kind of a Berlin Wall peace between us, I don’t go in his room and he stays away from mine. I walk out to the porch and leave my stuff there for the moment.

I finally signal the maid that I’d like her to follow me. I lead her into the bathroom and show her the pigeon poop to be cleaned. Also there were the exoskeleton remains of another bug that surprised me one night. In my panic I stepped on him, not thinking this might be one of Ravi’s relatives. I was so sleepy, and I didn’t know where there was a rag to clean it up that I just left him there.

The next morning I found a mound of tiny ants cleaning up the remains. They looked like they knew what they were doing and were enjoying themselves so I left them alone. A few of them had a large piece of shell and looked like they were carrying it off like the Roman Legion carrying off the spoils of Gaul. Out of the corner of my eye I sensed movement and noticed a small juvenile lizard, it had obviously been feasting on the ants. I marveled at the efficiency of nature and let it take its course.

So I showed her the pigeon poop and she indicated she knew what needed to be done. She went into the second bathroom and I began to wonder where the cleaning supplies were. I hadn’t seen any in my explorations of the house. I crept back into the living room. Ravi was gone.

“Ravi, I’ve got to stay somewhere while she cleans”, I announced, “I’ll be out of here as soon as she’s gone.” There was a ‘harrumph’ in the corner so I took that as assent and sat down trying to busy myself with nothing.

I hear much crashing around in the second bathroom. I think she thinks sound indicates work is being done. I hear water running and a bucket being filled. And filled. And filled. After a few minutes I wonder what the heck is going on and glance down the hall.

The maid has a monster bucket that probably holds 10 to 20 gallons if not more. It’s partially filled and she has a large rag that is so old and filthy I figure it was last used during the Moghul Empire. She moves back into the bathroom so I sneak a peak into the bucket. It is filled with filthy water that would make Ravi wretch. Where did she get it? Clean water flows from the tap. It looked like she’d gone outside down to one of the gutters by the roadside to get her water. She must have wrung out that rag into the water, and now she was going to use that water and rag to clean. Not a sign of soap anywhere. The illogic of the situation was alarming.

Then like a hammer it dawned on me, horror of horrors, she’s going to clean my bathroom with this. How the heck am I going to stop her? I can’t speak a word of Hindi. If I’m going to stop her, I’d better have another plan, but I don’t have a backup plan. How long has she been doing this in her life? Did nobody ever yell at her? She’s the maid? Or is she part of some nefarious plot to kill me? Gopi has done this on purpose. It is his revenge for me telling his employees to ignore his rantings sometimes.

So she drags the bucket into the bathroom and I go back to the living room to wait. I don’t want to stand there looking over her shoulder at what I knew would only upset me more.

After a few minutes I see her dragging the bucket into the hallway. What the heck? Is she cleaning the whole floor with that water? Sure enough she’d finished the bathroom and had then cleaned my bedroom floor with the same water, and now she was moving into the livingroom.

She indicated I should check the bathroom. I did so with my shoes leaving large muddy prints in the wet floor. The bathroom looked okay. Pieces of the rag had broken off and were lying in the corners, but I’m not going to complain. There were four drains in the floor but for some reason they were placed at the high points in the floor in order to allow the water to form large puddles. I guess Indian plumbers work differently. No problem, in this heat they’ll dry quickly.

I moved out to the back porch and pondered my next move. The best I can hope for in this situation is that she leave quickly and quietly. Don’t ask her to dust the table as
Gopi requested. Just usher her out once the floor is done.

She looked like she was finished and asked, “Tika?”

“Tika”, I responded. I have no idea what it means, but in these situations it is just best to smile stupidly and repeat what is spoken.

This seemed to satisfy her, she put her hands together in the Namaste position and left. Finally somebody had Namaste’d me, the maid.

I examined the house and mused about the floor. The pigeon poop now was a thin film covering the entire floor of the condo. I guess that’s a cleaning in India.

The Giant Pothole

We’ll be taking a short break from the Journey to the Golden Temple to bring you this important announcement…

It’s raining today, apparently not part of the monsoons, it is very unusual. The streets are a mess. We’re sitting in the office and realize at the parking lot entrance they’ve dug a small trench about a foot wide across it. Who is they? Goodness only knows. All we know is nobody’s there now and they’ve not put up any sort of warning signs at all. The far right side the trench has washed out and has become a monster rain filled pothole. Some poor guy has driven his car into that pothole and it has swallowed his left front wheel. The water disguised the hole. He’s now doing something by the wheel, we know not what. In the mean time, even though there’s enough room for two cars side by side to bypass him, the Indian drivers have decided the better course of action is to jam themselves up behind and in front of him and honk their horns in frustration.. It is a true clusterfuck out there, poor guy.

Of course nobody is going to help him, there’s no AAA, and I can’t speak the language or I would. Oh, and I’m in white pants, I only have one pair of shoes that if they get wet I’m screwed, there’s nothing but mud everywhere, and I have no way to get home to change. So as you can see, I have my excuses well thought out.

In order to ensure the worst possible outcome for things like this, the buildings in this complex are owned by private owners but the parking lot is owned by the government. So there’s no use getting mad at the government for a pothole eating your car.

I’ve come to realize that India is governed by a ‘Somebody Else’s Problem Field’. For those who’ve never read ‘Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’, a Somebody Else’s Problem Field is an invisibility field almost anyone can employ. Look like a homeless person, or a slightly mentally ill person, or a general weirdo, and everybody out of embarrassment ignores you. You become invisible.

In India this field covers the entire country. A guy came out to put a licence plate on our car, all of the packaging he just left on the ground and walked away when he was finished. This is outside his own shop! The trash was somebody else’s problem. Rich people build these beautiful buildings and houses and then just dump the left over construction materials out back, it’s cheaper than having it hauled away (and to where anyway). The rubbish is now somebody else’s problem.

I tell Assim that we had similar problems in America, I still remember the trash on the sides of the road in the 60’s. Slowly over the years it has been reduced as people have become more aware and responsible. But countries like India and China are growing and industrializing so fast they haven’t had the time America had to discover the problems with pollution and trash and consumer protection, and to solve them.

Plus the older generation only sees that before they had a hut and a mule and now they have a house and a car; pollution, poisons, and safety be damned. To be blunt, they have to die and the younger generation needs to be educated in healthy living before solutions begin to take hold. It takes a generation On the other hand, India has a long tradition of Somebody Else’s Problem Field with the vast disparities of rich and poor, so who knows how long this will take.

Oh my God, they got the first car out and in the time it took me to write that, another car got stuck in the pothole with both wheels, and they’re attempting to pull it out with an ambulance. Nobody thought to put a cone out there or a pile of bricks to prevent it from happening again. Certainly the government isn’t doing anything. It’s somebody else’s problem.

We ended up leaving and one of the employees, Shika, sat and watched five more cars get stuck over then next couple of hours, and one girl on a bicycle get hurt. Those who object to people suing the government in the U.S. should see what happens when you can’t.

The Gurdwara

I’m beginning to love this Sikh stuff. I had no idea half the people I’d meet were Sikhs. Just before coming here I shaved off all my hair since it was going to be so hot, plus I hate getting hassled by security because when I grow a beard I look like a smuggler, without it I look like the All American kid. So now I look like some sort of heretic when I walk the streets here.

I’m thinking that converting to Sikhism would be a good option for me. I can grow a really good beard, don the turban, and nobody’s the wiser that I’m bald.

At the Governor’s (Assistant District Commisioner’s) house I woke up early on the roof to the sound of chanting coming from the local Sikh temple. Apparently these are readings from their holy book. It was about five thirty in the morning and beautiful. I walked the streets of the village while everyone stopped and stared at the pale, bald, shaved man. I must have been quite a sight to them.

Hungry dogs roamed the place looking for breakfast. A lot of people were up transporting things and generally starting their day.

Amun and Assim joined me and we decided to get some breakfast at the Sikh gurdwara (i.e. Temple or Church). Everyone is welcome, but I don’t know their policy on gay rights. We checked out the large pond and some fish came up to us with their mouths agape ready to eat, they were well trained. In the Sikh tradition the meals at the gurdwara are free and served two or three times a day. I was given a bright red piece of cloth with gold trim and told to put it over my head as everyone has to keep their head covered. We also had to check our shoes with the shoe check guy who gave us a piece of metal with a number on it. I was relieved that there was some sort of security for my shoes. At the Dome of the Rock mosque in Jerusalem you just left your shoes outside. I wasn’t worried about my shoes per se, it was my orthodics, those things are expensive and make my feet feel oh so good.

We entered a large empty room about 120 feet long and the same width with super long mats rolled out on the floor. As people wandered in they were ushered to the next open spot on the mat just like parking at a Giants game. We sat cross legged on the mats and guys came by throwing round steel trays on the marble floor in front of us. Then another guy comes by and throws three small bowls into the tray. Then the food guys come by and slop stuff from a large pot into the bowls, followed by the guy with nan, a round flat bread.

It was kind of neat, a real community kitchen. I think the whole village comes here to eat. Assim kept insisting I understand everybody there was a volunteer. I guess volunteering is unusual in India, I presumed everybody was a volunteer.

More people followed in behind us as the place began to full up. We were talking about what I could eat and shouldn’t eat as I’m trying to avoid anything made with water that wasn’t boiled and the guy next to me tapped me on the leg and motioned for me to be quiet. That’s when I noticed that even though the place seemed noisy, it was just the food preparation and the banging of pots, nobody was talking except to give instructions. But when a guy with a beard and a turban carrying a dagger (they carry a ceremonial dagger at all times) tells me to be quiet, I obey.

I was told I had to eat everything on my plate because the food was from God, but there was no way I was going to eat some of that stuff. I had a choice, martyrdom or gastrointestinal disease. Luckily somebody allowed me to give them my excess and I avoided both.

After that we took our trays and bowls over to the cleaning stations and washed things down, leaving the final cleanup to the volunteers. I was happy I had participated in a traditional Sikh breakfast thanks to my friends, there’s no way I would have wandered in on my own. Now I’m a pro. Outside I ran into a couple of kids and this 7 year old girl had the same eyes as that famous picture of the Afghani girl in National Geographic so I took her photo. We wandered back to the Governor’s house.

The Governor explained that the construction we saw of a large building was for a Sikh University. It seems that half of Punjab’s GDP was due to people in America coming back and donating huge sums of money to build gurdwaras and things like the University.

Few Americans know that Sikhs came to America in significant numbers about a century ago, ostensibly to work on the railroads. They settled in the northern central valley of California because they are by nature farmers and the area reminded them of the Punjab, flat, hot, and miserable.

G.B. explained that the Sikh religion teaches that there is no separation of church and state, they should be one. He clamped his hands together for emphasis and smiled. Yeah buddy, we got too much of that in America for my taste. These Christian nut jobs already think they’re in a holy war with the likes of me, I don’t need you on their side. Don’t get me wrong, G.B. is a great fun guy, but as far as I’m concerned Marx was right, religion is the opium of the masses.

It turns out that a few years ago this area right on the border with Pakistan was a hotbed of terrorism and/or patriotism depending if you support a Sikh homeland or not. I was told that as visitors we would have been marked for kidnapping or worse. The Punjab has a fairly sad recent history. When India and Pakistan were partitioned in 1947 they ended up splitting the Punjab as well where a huge population of Sikhs live.

The theory was that Pakistan with a majority of Muslims could not live within a country like India that was majority Hindu. Fair enough. But at the end of the day Ghandi’s tolerant India allows many different religions to co-exist somewhat peaceably (not without occasional outbreaks of violence, but at least they try) while Pakistan successfully killed or drove out all but 1% of the Hindus and 2% of the Sikh’s. Christians are almost unheard of.

My bias is totally with India on their problems with Pakistan so keep that in mind. As far as I’m concerned Pakistan was one of the great enablers of 9/11. Ahmed Rashid, a Pakistani journalist wrote a book called ‘The Taliban’ before 9/11where he documented that the Saudis are providing money to the Pakistani Intelligence Service (ISI) who then pass the money and intelligence on the Taliban and Al-Quaida. These then act as terrorist proxies for Pakistan’s objectives of destabilizing India.

He noted that this is going to backfire as they cannot control these guys. Sure enough nine years later he’s been proven right, and the Taliban is moving down into greater Pakistan. Pakistan pretends they are the only ones who can defeat the Taliban so the U.S. gives them billions of dollars to fight them and Al-Quaida and we have nothing to show for it but a resurgent Taliban killing Americans troops daily. Meanwhile our tax dollars are funneled into Pakistani pockets and their nuclear program. It’s brilliant if you really think about it. Can you blame Indians for being baffled by our stupidity?

I had a Hindu fundamentalist friend, Harish, who years ago told me, “I want a war with Pakistan”.

“You’re both nuclear countries”, I responded, a bit shocked, “You’ll kill 100 million people”.

“Who’s going to miss 100 million people over there?” he answered. Life is cheap in South Asia.

So back in the 80’s and 90’s Pakistan did the same thing with the Sikhs. A Sikh separatist movement had arisen and was fanned by India’s attack on the Golden Temple (I’ll talk about that later). Pakistan supported them with arms and intelligence to destabilize the Punjab and create a new country called Khalistan as a buffer.

One of the big problems though is that even with a large Sikh population, the Punjab is still only 50% Sikh. So if they became an independent country ruled by Sikhs, they will either have to put up with a Hindu terrorists funded by India, or kill and drive out all the Hindus. There’s no really good solution.

However things can’t be too bad, India’s current Prime Minister, Manmohan Singh is a Sikh.

In India it’s hard to get people moving. We were dependent on G.B. to drive us to Amritsar, but understandably he seemed inclined to sit around and talk with his cousin. Due to the power cut there was no water either. Somehow one of the servants went out and got two buckets of water so we could take a shower. I was quite proud of myself for only using 1/3 of a bucket. I’m becoming a native.

They asked us if we wanted breakfast. As the meal at the gurdwara was now hours ago this was more like lunch. So yes, we responded, we would. I ordered boiled eggs.

Now it takes 7 minutes to boil an egg. In America usually once someone asks what you want for breakfast they immediately start cooking it. But nothing seemed to happen. Later I went into the kitchen to find the trash and was told in no uncertain terms it was a breach of protocol to enter someone’s kitchen. I’d been in all the bedrooms and bathrooms, but the kitchen is sacred?

After about 90 minutes I was all packed up and ready to go when everybody asked what I was doing, breakfast would be served soon. Gee, how could I have ever doubted breakfast would soon be served?

We ate again and then G.B. and his cousin spread out his turban and began folding it. I’d never seen an unwrapped turban, I forget how long it is, but I think they said it was a 7 meter turban. It was just a long flat black sheet.

I of course was fascinated by this, I’d never seen it done before, plus I might have to learn. G.B.’s hair was up in a knot on his head. He then put on an under turban (yes, just like underwear), and proceeded to wrap his turban around his head in five minutes flat. He was quite meticulous about it. He made sure it was tight and without wrinkles with that steel bar I mentioned earlier. I was told some guys spend an hour at it.

I saw a pre-wrapped turban by my bed and asked if I could try it on. I did, but without the beard I look like my mother in her beehive hairdo wig.

I asked the Governor why it was so quiet. There were no people calling on him to demand roads be fixed or the power restored. Assim answered for him that in India it works the other way around, the people don’t tell the Governor what they want and demand he supply it, he tells them what they should do and demands they supply it.

We then had the obligatory India photo session (Indian’s are crazy for pictures) and made our way to Amritsar. On to the Golden Temple!

The Mosquito Trap

I’ve named the cockroach Ravi and adopted him as a pet. It turned out I hadn’t shaken him out of the suitcase and found him in my underwear when I opened my suitcase this morning. He scuttled under the bed.

“Listen Ravi, I’m going away for a couple of days. There’s bread sitting on the counter in the kitchen. It will spoil before I get back in this heat. Help yourself and enjoy the place until I get back”.

We drove to Ludhiana for some meetings. Driving in India is nowhere near as bad as I expected, people are pretty good at avoiding accidents. Contrast that with South America where I heard two cabs blaring their horns at each other for what seemed like ages, basically playing chicken and ended up in a really good smash up. Indians gently nudge each other aside.

I’m really living India like an Indian instead of a tourist. I haven’t seen any non-Indians since I left the airport. But as well I haven’t seen the beggars as I haven’t gone to the tourist sites. That finally changed as we stood in a parking lot. A seven year old girl, dirty and dressed in rags came up to me with her hand out. I pulled out a 100 rupee note (approx $2) and gave it to her. Everybody reacted with shock and alarm.

“What are you doing! Don’t do that! In five minutes we will have five hundred people around us begging for money!”

I was a little smug as I knew it would upset them, but I watched the girl walk over to a vacant lot and tell everyone else what happened. Like a sleeping pride of lions at a waterhole they began to stir. A big fat water buffalo with only three legs had arrived to drink. Sure it’s hot and a lot of work, but it’s an easy kill. We quickly got back in the car and beat a hasty retreat.

That night we drove to Amritsar, home of the Golden Temple, the holiest site for Sikhs. For those who don’t know, the Sikhs are the guys who wear the turbans. They are not Moslems however and hate to be confused with them (i.e. just because Al-Quaida and the Taliban dress similarly doesn’t mean they are in any way similar). Their religion does not allow them to cut their hair, thus the turban.

They’re kind of a warrior class and despite all my reading and Sikhs explaining their religion to me, I still don’t quite understand it. There are some beautiful aspects of Sikhism but to me it is a paradox with being a warrior. I was raised Christian with that whole, “The meek shall inherit the Earth” nonsense, so being a fighter and holy doesn’t register with me.

I’ll never forget the first Sikh I had explain her religion to me about 20 years ago. She was so beautiful and had this sing-song voice that captivated me. But as she explained how you had to fight and be prepared to kill for your religion, and they carry daggers, I couldn’t come to terms with the contrast of her gentleness and her fierce desire to defend her religion with violence.

I still don’t quite get it. The vast majority of Sikhs I meet look mean and tough, but are pussycats. I’ll never forget walking down the hall at work the first time I saw two coming my way. Sikhs tend to be big anyway and to this day one of them is still the biggest Sikh I’d ever seen. With the turban on top of his head he was easily seven feet tall and 250 pounds. I was terrified that my last breath was seconds away, but they smiled and let me pass. I would live another day, but only because they allowed it. They turned out to be the nicest guys.

Ironically, one of my best high school buddies was a Sikh. Vikramjit Sidhu was his name. He came to America when he was two years old, his father was a doctor, and his mother died when he was young. He was basically raised by a couple of Americans while his father worked. He was as American as apple pie as far as I was concerned.

But when I first saw him right around the October War (1973) in the middle east, I thought he was Egyptian and I was scared to ask him where he was from for fear he’d cut off our oil again. When we became friends I asked him if he was Hindu. He said he didn’t know what he was, he just knew it had something to do with ten guys. There are ten gurus in the Sikh religion. We put two and two together after a few years.

Rajeev Singh (the vast majority of people named Singh are Sikhs, it means ‘lion’) drove us to his cousin’s house which was a government house. We drove at night and hit a massive dust storm followed by a downpour. The downpour was easier to drive through than the dust storm, at least you could use your windshield wipers. Somewhere along the way we took a left turn off of the main highway and drove into the night. We were getting worried after a while that we might accidentally cross the Pakistan border. Gopi and his brother joked that Rajeev and I would be in trouble because he is Sikh and I’m obviously American, while they could just pretend to be Moslems.

It turns out his cousin is the Assistant Director to the Commisioner of Punjab and thus like a Governor of a county in Punjab. He welcomed us and brought out some red wine especially for me because he knew an American was coming. In the Punjab it’s really difficult to get red wine, let alone good red wine. This was some French rot gut that I could tell was made especially for export to areas of the world which aren’t familiar with wine.

Sikhs generally don’t drink alcohol either so there was no wine bottle opener. Somebody pulled out this four inch small steel implement they use to adjust their turbans and was able to poke a hole in the cork. This then allowed us to push the cork into the bottle and get the wine, but not without spilling some all over the table.

I drank a small glass along with one of the guards. I tried to be as pleasant as possible, but I don’t like to drink late at night as it keeps me up and I was already having trouble with jet lag, so I had very little. I don’t think I was as polite as I should have been with the Governor. They fed us well and gave us our room.

Unfortunately there was a power cut and we were running on batteries. Everybody in India has a back up battery or generator. For a nuclear nation they have trouble keeping the lights on, kind of reminds me of Britain.

I woke up at two A.M. in a large puddle of my own sweat and mosquitoes buzzing in my ear. The battery had run out and our only relief from the oppressive heat was an overhead fan that had stopped. There was no electricity for light either. Gopi and his brother Kovi also woke up as we tried to figure out what to do in the darkness.

It was obvious that the mosquitoes had lulled me into complacency. They had hidden themselves until I had taken my shirt off to sleep in the heat, then pounced like tigers.

“It’s so hot! I can’t sleep. The mosquitoes are terrible”, Gopi whined.

“Dude, I’m a weak American but I haven’t complained once about the heat since I got here. You never stop complaining about it”, I said.

“Oh, I love America. The electricity rarely stops. I love the efficiency of America”, he remarked wistfully. He pulled out his iPhone and used it as a flashlight to lead us outside.

“Look at this”, he said, “This brilliant American invention is the only thing that works in this house. What do I mean this house, this entire village!”

Outside it was much cooler. Some of the staff had also woken up and stood outside with us. One guy said, “This never happens. You are so unlucky. It’s too bad you have run across this”. I was told later this is a common refrain in India. Bad things never happen here, it’s just bad luck you happen to be here when it did.

We hatched a plot to steal Rajeev’s keys and drive the car back to Chandrigarh with the air conditioning on, we’d make the four hour journey back in the morning. Rajeev was still sleeping soundly and we were resentful.

We ended up sleeping on the roof with the staff. Gopi was complaining the whole time and crying out for his beloved America. I had to dig the knife in.

“You know Gopi you have left your home in Palo Alto to build your dream of owning your own company. You suffer the heat, indignities, and inefficiencies of India to live your dream. Yet years ago somebody here in Punjab left for America, and is presently living illegally in Sacramento, collecting welfare, and is sleeping soundly in an air conditioned room. You’re an idiot.”

“You’re right”, he responded, and we laughed until we cried.