THE ROAD TO CHANDIGARH

      Navneet plans my days…and full days they are.  That particular day she had planned a road trip to the city of Chandigarh. I really didn't know what was in store but eagerly anticipated the experience, whatever it was.

      Remember the “nightmare in the making” drive from the airport I said I’d talk about in a later writing?  Well, this trip was about to give it a new and even more exciting dimension

       In India if it honks, bellows, snorts, neighs, moos, heehaws, oinks, barks, trumpets or speaks (in any tongue) it can be found on the road. Four legged transportation independent of a driver absolutely owns the road.  There is one rule on Indian roads and that is THERE ARE NO RULES!  Praise heaven for economy size cars. 

Why?  Because a two lane becomes a four lane, a four lane becomes an eight, and so on.  However, there are the trucks…lots and lots of them; outside of the elephant, transport trucks are boss.     

      Imagine, if you can, one truck passing another truck on a two lane road with a motor cycle on the shoulder carrying a husband, wife and two children, an oxen driven cart piled high with hay taking up his lane and the rest of the shoulder on the opposite side, and several cars coming from the opposite direction passing one another and gaining fast.  What happens then? 

       The passing truck honks at the truck he’s about to overtake, at the motor scooter --whose driver yields as best he can without running into a tree or toppling over the embankment--and at the driver of the oxen-driven cart who’s trying to get out of the way of an oncoming car that’s just passed the truck in front of it.  A car behind the truck that wants to pass the passing truck honks at both trucks and whatever else is in his path and attempts to get around the passing truck.  In the meantime, the driver of the motor scooter we just left behind is honking at the motor scooter in front of him so that he can pass but another approaching truck honks at both scooters and the overtaken truck. Who knows…by now the oxen-driven cart could be laying on its side in a ditch.  The oncoming car that is just barely squeezing into the lane before hitting the passing truck coming from the opposite direction that is being overtaken by the car are all honking at each other and….. IF YOU DIDN’T GET ALL THAT, YOU’VE JUST EXPERIENCED DRIVING IN INDIA.  Mind you, through it all, yours truly is completely relaxed and splitting her sides with laughter in the back seat.  Baljit, who is honking and overtaking the car in front of him, is making sure he adds more humor. “LOOK!  There are five people on a motorcycle.”  

     

The women, by the way, do not straddle the passenger seat of the motorcycle or  scooter…oh, no; they have no choice because they’re wonderfully attired in their ladies’ colorful suits with long scarves that blow free in the wind, so their only option is to sit side saddle.  Now, if a truck being passed gets too close to a scooter and the driver hits a bump, this fair maiden might be catapulted onto the back of one of the bulls in the passing truck.

       After complimenting me on the fact that I was so “relaxed” about it all, Navneet, added even more humor to my side-splitting experience:  “Unlike you, most of our American friends are so terrified the first time they ride on our roads that they never want to come back.” 

       I could just visualize the scene as the tears of laughter rolled down my cheeks and I caught a glimpse of the car barely squeezing in before taking a piece of our fender…or so it appeared.

       

         I asked Baljit how many different modes of transportation occupied Indian roads.  He started the count and with Navneet’s help, came up with a total of twenty to include the elephant.

      “LOOK! The man has pieces of rebar strapped on his bicycle.” 

     My reply: “Maybe he’s planning to instant skewer one of the pigs along the side of the road for the evening barbecue.”

      “No.  He doesn’t eat pig. He’ll use it to build his house.”

      Says Navneet: “It’s really boring driving in America.  All you do is put your hands on the wheel and go.”

      Sounds like a pretty good concept to me.

     Says Baljit: “You never use the horn, either.  Car is not car without using horn.  In India, all you need is wheel and horn….no brakes.” 

     Of course you have no brakes…they’re worn out!

      

      Necessity is the mother of invention, and with 1.7 billion people to provide for, you use whatever mode of transportation is available; that includes carts, rickshaws, donkeys, camels, elephants 

 and the human head.   

Regardless of their size or shape, weight permitting, goods are often carried on a bicycle or motorcycle. I saw 6 to 8 stacked plastic lawn chairs tied to the back of a motorcycle appearing as a tall seat on wheels moving down a four lane highway.  Had, Baljit, been present he would have said, “LOOK, a chair without a driver,” and added another number to his list. 

      The most incredible part of all that I have just described is that it works and no one ever seems to get ruffled; in the end, isn’t that all that matters?  What's more I can not ignore the fact that I thoroughly enjoyed the emotional release all that laughter brought. 

      “I guess I should be frightened, but I’m smiling,” I finally said to my master of comedy. “ 

      “That’s good,” Baljit, replied, dryly. “Better to die with a smile on your face.”

~~

        Although Chandigarh is worth the visit alone--owing to the fact that it is the best-planned city in India and said to be the cleanest--- that was not the purpose of our visit.  When, Baljit, informed me at the entrance that we were going to see a rock garden, I assumed the obvious.  Inside the gate, however, I could not believe the wonder that was unfolding before my eyes, nor the story surrounding the rock garden’s creator.

       

      An Indian government official by the name of, Nek Chand, a self-taught artist and a man of great vision, secretly created an illegal garden on a land conservancy that was not supposed to be built on.  

In his spare time, he began collecting materials from demolition sites around the city.  From bottles, glasses, bangles, tiles, ceramic pots, sinks, rags and broken ceramics he created ceramic covered concrete sculptures of dancers, musicians and animals. He kept his creation secret for eighteen years--that alone is mind boggling owing to the fact that he had utilized 12 acres of the forbidden ground for his work. One day he was found out and his dream was nearly lost to the die hard bureaucrats.  Favorable public opinion won out, however, and this wonder of wonders was officially inaugurated in 1976.  The park is a series of intricate paths of man made waterfalls, trees and sculptures.  You have to see it to believe it, but Ill try and take you on a journey Cannon style.

And to think...the world nearly lost out on a great work of art borne out of the mind of a creative visionary. 

        

FESTIVALS IN PUNJAB

      When asked what I wanted to do while I was in India, I emphatically stated: “Immerse myself in the Indian culture.”  That’s not a difficult thing to do when you are the invited guest of  Navneet and Baljit who have introduced me to their large circle of friends and family members, all of whom are eager to share all aspects of their culture.

       To my Indian and Hindu friends who may read my interpretation of the festival, I beg your indulgence if I make an error. I attempt only to present the facts as I best understand them.

~~

        

      The state of Punjab, where I am staying, is a region in the northern part of India, and home of the Sikh religion…the fifth largest in the world.  The Sikh Gurus are highly revered in Punjab and are easily recognized by their turbans, long beards and the  knives hanging from a black belt slung over their shoulders.

I find the most impressive Sikh costume to be that which was originally worn by the soldiers of the first Guru Nanak in the sixteenth century.  It is deep royal blue in color with a turban to match; an orange cloth is worn around the neck as well as being an added accent to the turban.  Although many followers of the Sikh religion are bearded and do not cut their hair, some have liberated themselves from this custom, wearing the silver colored bracelet on the left wrist to identify them as Sikhs.

     Upon my arrival, Punjab was honoring the first guru, Guru Nanak’s, birthday, April 14, 1469, in a celebration known as a gurupurab.  Nanak, was the founder of the Sikh religion which incorporates a “spiritual, social, and political system of beliefs that considers spiritual life and secular life to be intertwined.” Sikh temples all over the world offer a langar (free kitchen) twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year, to anyone in need, regardless of race, color, creed or cast. People with maladies come to the Sikh temple at Patiala to pray.  By offering a handful of salt and a small hand-held broom to the Gods you are asking with your prayers to be healed.  Baljit’s brother was plagued with painful growths on the bottom of his feet.  His offering left him completely healed.

      Early in the morning I can hear male voices chanting their hymns from the temple  that rises beside the wall of Shangri La. It is in that same temple that I was an invited guest the second night of my arrival.  

      Shoes must be removed and left outside the temple, heads covered, and all must squat or sit cross-legged on the floor during prayer.

      With that ceremony I wintnessed Hindu worshipers make offerings to one of their many Gods (Baljit informs me that Hindus worship more than a thousand Gods depending upon the occasion) and dance to music accompanied by a man beating on a drum. I was encouraged to participate in all aspects of the ceremony and made to feel a welcomed part even though I was not of their religion. At its conclusion we were served a sweet grainy ball by the priest.  It had a peanut buttery flavor. After that, we sat on the floor where we were fed a meal from a traditional silver metal plate.

       The third day found me an invited guest in the Hindu neighbor’s home.  There, I witnessed a ceremony celebrating the return of Sita, the wife of King Rama who was abducted by the Sri Lankan King but later returned after a bloody battle was fought and the Sri Lankan king’s head was cut off as a punish ment for his ill deed.  Whether historical or mythological, to the Hindu woman, Sita, is considered to be the “esteemed standard-setter for wifely and womanly virtues.”

      I am asked to sit in a chair while the Hindu woman sits cross-legged on the floor beside me. There is a table nearby, covered with silver plates of assorted foods. It is not irreverent to speak during the ceremony so I ask questions. I’m told that the figure of a man drawn with wheat flower is the King Rama, Sita’s husband.  The ten rolled wheat balls placed within the figure represent the ten gurus. The woman’s two sons enter the room and all three engage in silent prayer to the figure of a God placed in front of the offerings. The son produces a box filled with freshly green sprouts grown especially for the occasion. 

The woman plucks small clumps from the box and places one over each of the foods now displayed around the figure of Ram.  The purpose of the grass she says is to purify the offered foods. A bowl of red dye is uncovered and each forehead, to include mine, is smeared with a small red circle…also a sign of purity.   

The same red dye is used by the son to finger paint a swastika-- the symbol of peace in the Hindu religion—in a log book  Also recorded in this log are the names and dates, past and present, of those in attendance, to include mine.   

I am honored by the fact that each year when the book is revisited, I will be remembered. Afterwards, I sit with the family for a traditional meal of lentils, fresh yogurt, chapatti and garbanzos which settle quite nicely on my empty stomach. Before taking my leave, the woman presents me with a book written in English telling the story of the battle fought by the King Ram.

       The festival comes to its startling conclusion a week later.  I’m not sure what to expect as the descriptions are coming at me fast and furious, and some things do get lost in the translation, but I have the general idea that the story of King Ram and Sita will be reenacted on an outdoor stage in town. 

What I’m not prepared for are the throngs of people that gather to witness the event. 

        It’s a short walk to the park from Shangri La and I must watch my back as the horn-honking vehicles come within a breath of me.  

We enter the park and

as usual all eyes are on me while I move through the crowd with Navneet and Baljit to a stage where four giant effigies symbolizing the four evil heads of the Sri Lankan king rise above the crowd.  The visit is short because Baljit has arranged for us to avoid the crowds and see the fireworks and the burning of the effigies from the rooftop of a friend’s home directly across the street. 

       The daughter of the owners swings open the heavy, ornate, iron gate, allowing us entrance onto the property. I’m introduced to the host and hostess who are busy serving their other guests absorbed in a program on the wall-mounted large screen television. They stop to give me a very warm welcome and I compliment them on the design of their gorgeous home. 

It is a stunning piece of Indian architecture supporting curves and angles in every aspect of its design. I simply can not resist taking a shot of the staircase which is the center piece of the room. 

       On the rooftop night sets in and I meet Kuljit and Kipu, the well-matched, close friends of Navneet and Baljit.  Kipu is a cricket coach for a college; his son, a celebrity cricket player, whom, Navneet had pointed out one evening during one of his television interviews. I will later spend many wonderful evenings in the company of this fine couple. The women are off to one side engaged in endless chatter, the men, off to another, drinks in hand.  I am standing at the wall, camera ready, staring at the brightly lit effigies and watching the park fill to overflowing.  I see the figure of a bull passing under a street lamp of clamoring insects, then disappearing around a corner. 

A loudspeaker is sounding the voices engaged in the reenactment…”Ah Ha Ha Ha Ha,” a gruff male voice finally says.  The crowd is cheering.  Fireworks begin to light the sky, popping, cracking and whistling against the night.  The audience moves from one stage to the other where the effigies are ignited into a fiery inferno lighting the darkness around them, forming a tall screen of sparks that cascade into a pile of burning embers. The king is dead.  The festival has come to its conclusion.  There’s a mass exodus as thousands rush to the street and the bull makes one more loop. 

        It’s late, but not too late for an Indian to eat the tastefully seasoned and irresistible curries, noodles and vegetables that are arriving at the table. I am answering a slew of questions in between bites to an audience that seems to hang on every word.   My plate is never empty, even when my hand goes up.  Indian’s don’t take no for an answer, especially when it comes to food.  Everyone is complimented by my obvious appreciation of the fare and pile my bowl full of the noodles that light my face with every bite. I make it a point to let them know how much I enjoy each and every one of their dishes. Now, I must blame King Ram for the added inch on my waistline.                

         

SHANGRI LA AND PATIALA

        It takes a lot of time to have fun, leaving little time in between to write.  But in all truthfulness, borrowing that extra time to reflect on what I've seen enables me to reach inside and pull out the essence of my experiences, and in turn, deliver the truth as I see it. Today, I’ve come up for air.  So here goes!

 ~~

        

       

       Before I dazzle you with the unbelievable events that have gobbled up my time and filled me with a sense of belonging these last weeks, I’d like to introduce my Indian host and hostess, Navneet, and her husband, Baljit Singh Johal, who have made me a part of their family, and made it possible for me to have the ongoing and rich experience I'm about to share with you, my fellow travelers.

       Baljit owns a travel agency in Patiala. There are not enough words to describe the man so I’ll sum it up by saying he's devilishly witty and uncommonly knowledgeable about a whole host of subjects, most especially (and lucky for me) Indian history.  Navneet epitomizes class, style and grace.  Above all, she is pure of heart and kind beyond words.  As, Baljit’s, cousin so affectionately stated: “Navneet spoils her guests. None can match her hospitality and unselfish desire to please, therefore making it impossible for any future hostess to match up.” I, a very lucky recipient, can attest to the truthfulness of those words.

         

Their home--which I've named Shangri La for reasons you will later understand--with its lovely garden of tropical foliage and brightly painted clay pots, is only a few city blocks from the main market of Patiala.  

       They have in their employ two gardeners, a young man who cleans the house every day and a barefoot, Nepalese cook named, Danny, who is never seen without his baseball cap, and who generally sits on a stool behind a three burner stove where he carefully prepares his delicious Indian dishes and fresh chapati (wheat bread) which --at the expense of my waistline--I relish in eating three times a day. 

       Outside the protective walls of this haven there exists another class.  It is a class so stark in contrast, that nothing could have prepared me for what met my eyes and jarred my senses that day I ventured out on my own. 

  

         

       ~~

       I am picked up by a rickshaw that morning.  The man is bone thin and labors under the weight as he peddles his way through the old gate into the market place. A maze of interconnecting narrow streets belong to every moving thing, including my rickshaw and the driver who is fighting his way through the crowd, unruffled by the vehicle hugging his rickshaw from behind, and the insistent horn attempting to honk him out of the way.  

He reaches our destination and I step down onto the dusty street and out of the path of a manned cart stacked with green chili peppers.  I am startled by the rushing crowd and vehicles converging from every direction.  I think. Beware!  Cross the narrow street at your own risk lest you be mowed down in your attempt.  Shops tempt me with their wares, but I step cautiously from their steps back onto the street because the driver of the motor scooter charging toward me is counting on me getting out of his way.  I am deafened by the uninterrupted sound of honking horns reverberating off the buildings while dizzily watching cars, scooters, and pedestrians elbowing for space, compete with one another for a tiny piece of the rutted lanes.

      A resting calf in a surround of flies claims its piece of ground, sleeping its way through the madness, while the street dogs rummage for food, weaving their way in and out of the crowd. 
         

In the center of the town I find myself in awe of it all...on one hand shocked, on the other, entertained by the utterly astounding manner in which it all seems to work.  Before long, I’m hooked, caught up in the ambiance, soaking up each and every street scene and feeling the rapid heartbeat of a thriving Indian town. My eyes no longer see the grime; my ears unaffected by the noise.   Every street is a photo waiting to be taken; 

the architecture looking like it belongs to a movie set featuring an exotic scene from Casablanca or the like.  But there's no director on this real life set, and only one camera person...me.

I am dazzled by the electric colors of the women’s attire. 

Amused by
a salesman buried in a mountain of fabric.

I'm waving my camera at the man with the basket of flowers balanced atop his head in the hope he won't resist my overtures. He turns back.        There’s a riot of color wherever I look. Heads turn to watch my frenzied picture taking, if not at my western clothes, wide-brimmed hat and the camera suspended from my neck.  Navneet forewarned;  "You will be the talk of the town as some have never seen light-skinned Westerners walking the streets of their town."  There are admiring smiles, looks of curiosity, a few expressions I can’t read.  I don’t mind.  I smile at everyone because I understand.  

I come to an intersection where a row of weathered rickshaws sit idle, the drivers competing for my attention;  “Rickshaw, lady?”  Two young males sharing a scooter make kissing sounds and shout as they pass.  “Hey baby!” I chuckle under my breath.  

 Everyone that sees me “clicking” (as Navneet puts it) wants to get in on the act, to include the two young woman that stop dead in their tracks and boldly position themselves in a tight pose. “Click us.”  

It seems that Indians are not camera shy as evidenced by the three boys who are watching from the sidelines and finally work up the courage to come over and practice their English on me, looking to each other for help and laughing between questions.  "Where your place?  You like India?  How long you stay? I love U.S.A.! You make our picture, too."  
      I pass a group of overweight, male cross dressers outfitted in saris cranking out loud music. One, who is very flamboyant in his actions, spots me and dashes across the street flailing his arms.  “Come, dance he says in his giveaway male voice.”  I try to resist but am helpless to the lightening speed and bullish strength with which he pulls me into his arms. My hat flies off my head. We’re so close that I can easily count the pores on his thickly made up face. The owners of the neighboring shops are looking on in amusement now at these dual curiosities.  I have to pry myself from his grip, still fighting as he holds tight to my fingertips.  Finally, I’m free to move on.  But I’m stuck momentarily in the crowd.  A young woman gives me an inviting smile as she speaks in perfect English. “Where are you from?”  I reply, “America.”  The old woman with her looks at me with wonder.  “I just live around the corner.  Will you come home with us?”  I’m moved by the girl's warm invitation and reminded of a book about India I’d read before leaving.  During his travels throughout India, the author had experienced similar invitations.  It’s endemic to these people, I think to myself.

The crowd thins and a shiver of excitement runs down my spine when I spot my first Sikh guru.  Despite his advanced years his step is lively and he's quickly hidden in the crowd keeping me from getting the shot. I’m not sure Sikhs will be comfortable with their photos being taken but I must at least try so I chase after him, grateful to find him paused in front of a shop.  I show him the camera. “Photo?”  He adjusts the scarf wrapped around  his neck, brings forward the knife and sheath hidden from view, then without hesitation, proudly poses, the light shining off his snow white turban. 

         Hours have passed since the rickshaw driver left me alone on the streets of Patiala. I have been richly rewarded. But I begin to feel the life drain from me as a scorching afternoon sun and the accompanying humidity cause my clothes to cling to my sticky flesh.  I’m badly in need of the quiet of Shangri La, longing for a cool shower in the luxury of the tiled bathroom that is larger than many of the shops lining the streets.

       Yes, Shangri La and Patialia are two different worlds, but as a wise, male Sikh recently said to me: “Those people may be poor on the outside, but they are rich on the inside.”  Seeing it firsthand, I understand only too well the powerful message behind those words.