rain thru soft sunlight
shone thru the gold-struck greens of
palms and potted ferns
an empty residential lane curved and curled off into silence and separation, rain falling like a mist, a transparent curtain drawn between the tumble jumble of the city and this house of solitude and seclusion. thunder rumbles in the distance, the birds cheep and chirp and chatter. in the gentle pitter patter of this place there is no talk. the fan above whirrs and sends a spin and a shiver through the air. empty tea cups sit on the corners of tables haphazardly while shoes lie at the entrance in a neat row be they leather plastic open closed disintegrating or shiny like a happy puppy’s nose. this gravel driveway, these big old metal gates, this place out of sight. this hideaway, peace and quiet hidden down a few lanes, a few anonymous streets.
it’s like i’m always saying, you spend so much time with the ugly, you forget and are surprised to be reminded about just how beautiful bengal can be...
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Sunday, June 24, 2007
kolkata quiet
after that first bombast of water and dark, lightning that ruptured the sky into pieces, violent fissures opening up in the dark of clouds, we have entered into some kind of period of uncertain calm. the sky has become unsettled, a canvas across which blues grays and whites drift, roving and ranging about like lost sheep. there is none of this intensity, none of the fireworks of those earlier rains. there is blue peeping thru white-grays and pale grays sweeping into blue, the scorching of an unbridled sun through a clear sky and the sudden cold of an unexpected and almost unnoticed rain shower only coming to leave, a momentary mood of this temperamental sky. the cool and the hot always in flux, the air in mute ripples of transition over a city alternately damp and arid.
nighttime
the phone is silent
and so are the streets
overhead, the fan is furious
my mind works itself into knots
the spaces across
oceans, forests, mountains, deserts—
at such distances
in such silences
fears expand like madmen
and so are the streets
overhead, the fan is furious
my mind works itself into knots
the spaces across
oceans, forests, mountains, deserts—
at such distances
in such silences
fears expand like madmen
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
holy place? shocking scam-o-rama?
kalighat temple. notorious for its bloody goat sacrifices and cramming crowds, i had been avoiding it for a while. but yesterday i finally got around to visiting this most important of kolkata temples, the supposed basis for kolkata’s name (of course, no one really knows for sure). it’s just down a lane off of s.p. mukherjee road, lined by stalls selling all the typical wares one might wish for, outside of a temple. in particular, flowers, coconuts, sweets, other paraphernalia of prayer. me and laura went on in, to the narrow footpath between many more of these stalls, and emerged before the temple. small but pretty from what could be seen, mostly because of the painted tiles that covered a good bit of the exterior, in soft natural hues. we are debating whether to join the line winding out of the entrance when we are approached by a brahmin, who offers us a tour which includes the perk of skipping this line altogether. i am not sure, i have heard enough bad about these priests and their schemes to rip off foreigners. but then, a guide is better than no guide, and laura seemed willing, so we went for it.
he pulled us around the line of people waiting to the entrance, going up a narrow second stair case, squeezing in past all the eager visitors. inside, more tiles, a narrow passageway only really, with a few steps up to a low gate over which kali herself could be seen, offerings left, priests talked to. the squishing and squashing at this point were so much, i scarcely got a moment to look at the figure, black stone with red eyes, bigger than i had imagined from all the reproductions i had seen round town (where it is as ubiquitous as images of ramakrishna, vivekananda, and sarada devi, the holy trinity of the ramakrishna mission). no opportunity to dilly dally, i could not compete with the fervence and ferocity of the crowd pressed up against the gate, and so i came out and the priest led us down the steps onto the mud spattered floor outside.
from here we were led to a pavilion where prayers and offerings were made, coconuts sacrificed there within that space and animals, goats, just outside of it. a goat had just been beheaded, blood was everywhere out there, and its body was still moving a little, a jerk wrenching through its body every couple seconds. it was one of those cute little ones, the black ones with the delicate feet, prone to trotting about the scenery in rural bengal. of course i couldn’t look, focusing instead on the people who sat there, with their offerings and their prayers, so calm after all the jostling and jockeying for space inside.
and now came the fun part. this guy, i mean priest, led us out of the temple and down the lane from which we entered, past all these stalls selling their wares, and beggar women with their hands up and and reaching, out to a pool of water meant for cleaning before puja (prayer). and here, one by one (they would not let us do it together), this priest had us do puja randomly to a statue of shiva, right there by the pool. no one else was praying there. there were only a bunch of boys jumping about naked in the water. this was no place of prayer. then, he demanded money, hundreds of rupees, from each of us. of course, he separated us first so that there could be no consultation or anything. i had no money with me anyway, i hadn’t thought we’d get one of these guys, so laura paid for both of us. five hundred. we had been talking earlier about how one hundred should definitely be enough, but laura later said, "i couldn’t say no to a priest!"
i was too in shock and confused to even put up a fight to all this anyway. i kept thinking, did this just happen? did he just make a joke and a mockery out of his own religion to cheat some foreigners? i mean, i have heard stories about the corruption of hindu priests, but going to the extent of inventing entire ceremonies for the sole purpose of fleecing the ignorant? i couldn’t believe it, to see someone treating their own religion this way, not to mention while other co-religionists looked on. did this not offend hindus? it sure offended me.
and when i went home, i discovered numerous other foreigners at the mission had had the same experience, been put through the same rigmarole. it wasn’t just me being the sucker, it was all of us. the same silly shiva statue as bathers look on, the same separation of people to prevent communication or conferencing, everything. slowly my anger melted away into plain incredulity at the ridiculousness of the thing. me and a friend laughed that all these lifetimes of good behavior that have added up to make him a proud brahmin, he is just wasting them away. and if i know my hinduism (which i don’t at all but i like to think he will get this punishment) i think it is pretty well assured he will be born next as an insect. a creepy crawly smushy one. hmph!
he pulled us around the line of people waiting to the entrance, going up a narrow second stair case, squeezing in past all the eager visitors. inside, more tiles, a narrow passageway only really, with a few steps up to a low gate over which kali herself could be seen, offerings left, priests talked to. the squishing and squashing at this point were so much, i scarcely got a moment to look at the figure, black stone with red eyes, bigger than i had imagined from all the reproductions i had seen round town (where it is as ubiquitous as images of ramakrishna, vivekananda, and sarada devi, the holy trinity of the ramakrishna mission). no opportunity to dilly dally, i could not compete with the fervence and ferocity of the crowd pressed up against the gate, and so i came out and the priest led us down the steps onto the mud spattered floor outside.
from here we were led to a pavilion where prayers and offerings were made, coconuts sacrificed there within that space and animals, goats, just outside of it. a goat had just been beheaded, blood was everywhere out there, and its body was still moving a little, a jerk wrenching through its body every couple seconds. it was one of those cute little ones, the black ones with the delicate feet, prone to trotting about the scenery in rural bengal. of course i couldn’t look, focusing instead on the people who sat there, with their offerings and their prayers, so calm after all the jostling and jockeying for space inside.
and now came the fun part. this guy, i mean priest, led us out of the temple and down the lane from which we entered, past all these stalls selling their wares, and beggar women with their hands up and and reaching, out to a pool of water meant for cleaning before puja (prayer). and here, one by one (they would not let us do it together), this priest had us do puja randomly to a statue of shiva, right there by the pool. no one else was praying there. there were only a bunch of boys jumping about naked in the water. this was no place of prayer. then, he demanded money, hundreds of rupees, from each of us. of course, he separated us first so that there could be no consultation or anything. i had no money with me anyway, i hadn’t thought we’d get one of these guys, so laura paid for both of us. five hundred. we had been talking earlier about how one hundred should definitely be enough, but laura later said, "i couldn’t say no to a priest!"
i was too in shock and confused to even put up a fight to all this anyway. i kept thinking, did this just happen? did he just make a joke and a mockery out of his own religion to cheat some foreigners? i mean, i have heard stories about the corruption of hindu priests, but going to the extent of inventing entire ceremonies for the sole purpose of fleecing the ignorant? i couldn’t believe it, to see someone treating their own religion this way, not to mention while other co-religionists looked on. did this not offend hindus? it sure offended me.
and when i went home, i discovered numerous other foreigners at the mission had had the same experience, been put through the same rigmarole. it wasn’t just me being the sucker, it was all of us. the same silly shiva statue as bathers look on, the same separation of people to prevent communication or conferencing, everything. slowly my anger melted away into plain incredulity at the ridiculousness of the thing. me and a friend laughed that all these lifetimes of good behavior that have added up to make him a proud brahmin, he is just wasting them away. and if i know my hinduism (which i don’t at all but i like to think he will get this punishment) i think it is pretty well assured he will be born next as an insect. a creepy crawly smushy one. hmph!
sunny days
today i wake up to coolness and quiet, the air soft in its undulations over a greened garden. all so sweet. just as storming and flooding spelled out a bad day in the offing, this perfect peacefulness sets me thinking all optimistic and sunny. on the horizon if only i could see it, must be looming all kinds of good, i think, deep breathing and letting loose the tangle of my hair to be ruffled and fluttered about in the breeze.
morning is tea and newspapers and mangoes out overlooking the garden. the tea cart rattles around from room to room, a man crouches on his haunches as he sweeps the floor outside the room with a rough hand-broom, and in the garden an old couple takes a turn around the flowers. since i had arrived, on fridays (fresh linen day) i had sometimes come back to my bed made mysteriously for me, not just a pile of sheets left waiting on a bare mattress like it was for the other long-term residents. i had wondered at this, worried that it was that one dada with the looks that made me nervous. but today i found out the identity of the bed-maker—one of the older of the dadas, soft-faced and white-haired with crinkles at the corner of his eyes. i catch him at it on the way back from breakfast. he doesn’t say a word, just finishes up my bed cheerfully and tips his head to me, smiling, good day. a little kindness that needs no explanation.
at 9 30, i am supposed to leave for class. but in a panic i am unready, i have been too engrossed in my books, my hair is unbrushed my clothing unironed and all the stuff i need is scattered to the four corners of my room. in a tumble i pull it all together, i get out the door. i am running late, by fifteen minutes. and as if by magic the moment i arrive at the bus stop i see my bus is arriving too, the conductor waving for me to get on. my bus never comes when i need it. ever ever ever. i scramble on and the vehicle sweeps off towards my destination.
in dance class chordi is teaching a bol that is all floating and gentleness, all the little graces, the softnesses and curves of the moments, the delicate adjustments of angles and speed. and today also i do not bungle it all up, somehow i fumble n fudge my way thru it not half so bad. i leave feeling, for once in a long while, that i am actually really moving forward in this, in a way i can feel, not just muddling and bumbling about in it. there is a reminder in this bol of the reasons i am here, the reasons that i am always getting confused about or forgetting. one of those bols that makes you remember again why u fell in love with this art, why you came all this way crossing such great spaces leaving so many people you love behind for the life of strange loneliness in the face of crowds, unexpected companions, and occasional friendships.
on the way home i am reminded of one of my favorite kolkata courtesies. often i find myself expecting a certain lack of the courtesies towards strangers (the inadvertent pessimist i swear!) in my daily observations on these buses of the way people can be so ruthless about getting seats, or even a good corner, the way the pregnant and the elderly are made to stand cuz people won’t bother to give up their own seats for a stranger. there have been moments when i have felt enraged to see women bearing little babies in their arms, precariously standing and swinging with the bus that can toss as bad as a small boat in any storm, being left to manage as best she can while the entire bus just sits there staring at her predicament, mute and even worse action-less spectators. but then there are those other moments, moments when my hope for the human race is revived. for instance, i am always carrying around these huge heavy bags of clothing and water bottles for dance class, and whenever i get on a crowded bus a seated person will reach out and offer to hold it for me, so that i might stand more comfortably. i don’t think i have ever seen this custom in the USA. maybe there is something about private property, people not wanting others to touch their shit or whatever. maybe it is just a difference that exists for its own sake, that refuses an easy explanation. but anyway, today not on one not on two but on three separate occassions my burdens were lifted out of my hands by seated strangers. i was taken care of, and with two arms free, i could properly get my grip. so as the bus sailed over the potholes and between other perils-on-wheels, i could be carefree, swift and secure and flying on to my destinations.
although there is a foreboding cockroach in the hall outside of my room, on its back and waving its legs in the air frantically, i try not to take that as another one of nature’s foreshadowings. i’ve had too sweet a day to declare it all over yet. i know it is only a matter of time before kolkata is again getting to me in its little ways, in its little peculiarities n subtle pressures. but until then, i will enjoy these moments for all they are worth.
morning is tea and newspapers and mangoes out overlooking the garden. the tea cart rattles around from room to room, a man crouches on his haunches as he sweeps the floor outside the room with a rough hand-broom, and in the garden an old couple takes a turn around the flowers. since i had arrived, on fridays (fresh linen day) i had sometimes come back to my bed made mysteriously for me, not just a pile of sheets left waiting on a bare mattress like it was for the other long-term residents. i had wondered at this, worried that it was that one dada with the looks that made me nervous. but today i found out the identity of the bed-maker—one of the older of the dadas, soft-faced and white-haired with crinkles at the corner of his eyes. i catch him at it on the way back from breakfast. he doesn’t say a word, just finishes up my bed cheerfully and tips his head to me, smiling, good day. a little kindness that needs no explanation.
at 9 30, i am supposed to leave for class. but in a panic i am unready, i have been too engrossed in my books, my hair is unbrushed my clothing unironed and all the stuff i need is scattered to the four corners of my room. in a tumble i pull it all together, i get out the door. i am running late, by fifteen minutes. and as if by magic the moment i arrive at the bus stop i see my bus is arriving too, the conductor waving for me to get on. my bus never comes when i need it. ever ever ever. i scramble on and the vehicle sweeps off towards my destination.
in dance class chordi is teaching a bol that is all floating and gentleness, all the little graces, the softnesses and curves of the moments, the delicate adjustments of angles and speed. and today also i do not bungle it all up, somehow i fumble n fudge my way thru it not half so bad. i leave feeling, for once in a long while, that i am actually really moving forward in this, in a way i can feel, not just muddling and bumbling about in it. there is a reminder in this bol of the reasons i am here, the reasons that i am always getting confused about or forgetting. one of those bols that makes you remember again why u fell in love with this art, why you came all this way crossing such great spaces leaving so many people you love behind for the life of strange loneliness in the face of crowds, unexpected companions, and occasional friendships.
on the way home i am reminded of one of my favorite kolkata courtesies. often i find myself expecting a certain lack of the courtesies towards strangers (the inadvertent pessimist i swear!) in my daily observations on these buses of the way people can be so ruthless about getting seats, or even a good corner, the way the pregnant and the elderly are made to stand cuz people won’t bother to give up their own seats for a stranger. there have been moments when i have felt enraged to see women bearing little babies in their arms, precariously standing and swinging with the bus that can toss as bad as a small boat in any storm, being left to manage as best she can while the entire bus just sits there staring at her predicament, mute and even worse action-less spectators. but then there are those other moments, moments when my hope for the human race is revived. for instance, i am always carrying around these huge heavy bags of clothing and water bottles for dance class, and whenever i get on a crowded bus a seated person will reach out and offer to hold it for me, so that i might stand more comfortably. i don’t think i have ever seen this custom in the USA. maybe there is something about private property, people not wanting others to touch their shit or whatever. maybe it is just a difference that exists for its own sake, that refuses an easy explanation. but anyway, today not on one not on two but on three separate occassions my burdens were lifted out of my hands by seated strangers. i was taken care of, and with two arms free, i could properly get my grip. so as the bus sailed over the potholes and between other perils-on-wheels, i could be carefree, swift and secure and flying on to my destinations.
although there is a foreboding cockroach in the hall outside of my room, on its back and waving its legs in the air frantically, i try not to take that as another one of nature’s foreshadowings. i’ve had too sweet a day to declare it all over yet. i know it is only a matter of time before kolkata is again getting to me in its little ways, in its little peculiarities n subtle pressures. but until then, i will enjoy these moments for all they are worth.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
rainy drainy day
it had been pouring the evening before, raining softly thru the night, and now at six am the rain had stopped for a moment, and above us the clouds were knitted so tight and dark that it looked like doom had come. it was still, shushed, and outside cars trucks drove thru black. then there was a clatter and a snap and in a moment the whole of heaven’s water was tumbling down on us below. the thunder rumbled and shouted and shrieked, lightning flashed thru the firmament, and down here in the streets of kolkata water began to run out of places to go.
i don’t know much about rainwater drainage systems but what followed seemed like it might just be a prime example of such a system’s failure. it started with a puddle here, a puddle there. and soon half the streets outside my window were foot-deep in water. in the courtyard beyond my door the lawn and the flower-beds were all submerged, a little sea under the benevolent gaze of swami vivekananda, who stood at the far corner of the garden looking purposeful with his arms crossed. in other parts of the city it was worse—entire roads below water, water up to the waist, or even the shoulders. men on rashbehari avenue wading thru it best as they could, the swirling dark and dirty waters of these kolkata streets lapping around their ankles, calves, thighs. buses splashing on thru it all as best as they could, while women looked hopelessly around themselves like caged puppies for a way off of what little islands of concrete and mud they had taken refuge on. the hand-drawn rickshaws were doing good business off of such ladies, that favorite rainy season mode of transport.
in my room i debated. flooding had hemmed in the ramakrishna mission, where i stay, on all sides. i was on an island. should i go to dance class? at least make the attempt? should i join the men outside pulling up their pants to their knees as they walked thru waterlogged streets? was the whole thing hopeless? should i just give up? after much battling with my inner guilty laziness (or maybe, instinct? prescience?) and my sense of responsibility, against my own better judgment, i decided to go. with so little time i shouldn’t be taking any and all excuses to skip classes. and anyway, if this was to be how rainy season went then i better get used to it. right?
i set off, and reached the bus stop with only a little bit of trouble. there, people huddled under the makeshift shelters as buses coasted thru the water, sending up waves in our direction. between the sidewalk and the un-submerged street was five or six feet of puddle. buses would either stop on the far side of the puddle, and wait as the passengers forded these murky expanses, or else would swerve right thru the water up close to the sidewalk, splashing half of the people waiting there. three times my bus came, and as i ran out towards it, my salwar pants hiked up to my knees and a crowd of concerned passerbys staring at my pale and unshaven legs, three times my bus passed me by, without even a bit of reduction in speed. the conductor of the last one just looked out of the bus at my frantic figure like i was some creature he could not recognize, place, something with no relation to his life, his job, his universe. i was crazy and almost in tears, spattered in mud and rainwater and lord knows what kinds of filth, when finally a bus stopped and i clawed into it, clawed my way into a seat, and clasped my bags to my chest. it had only took an hour, but finally i was on my way to dance class.
looking out the window i got a mini-tour of rain-logged kolkata, the patches of open street, the floods that consumed entire major throughways like rashbehari avenue and j nehru road, submerged sidewalks, soaked and spattered pedestrians. the bus wheeled on thru all this like a ship at sea, stopping for nothing and no one, the water under its wheels thrown upwards into the sky, as well as a little bit into the window and onto me. despite all the water in the way, it was the fastest trip (minus waiting time) i had ever made from home to dance school. and so i arrived bedraggled and forty five minutes late.
but of course, i should have known. the dance school was empty. and i had to wait another forty five minutes until people started showing up. pishi was mysteriously missing, and chordi came in her stead. ok, i thought, yes now maybe some dancing will be happening? but no, there would be no dancing today. instead, for an hour and a half one of the ladies that had come, an unsatisfied housewife, made a litany of her complaints against her husband. he does not appreciate me. he has no romance. when we go to the cinema he pretends that he is not there with me. and when i start crying at his cringing at my touch he starts asking me what is wrong have i become ill? i ask him what is this relationship and he says oh but you are my best friend. friend?! where is friendship here? what do you give me? i do and i do and i do for you, i am like a maid even tho i am also a working woman, not even a housewife. and what do you do? you bring some money, and then that is it. friend!
she went on like this in her unusually fast-paced and rough bengali, like a dam had been released and her whole inner world was pouring out for the first time in years. maybe it was, i had a feeling she did not have many other willing listeners to her woes. but chordi and kajal listened attentively to the soliloquy, chordi interrupting only to complain about husbands being unappreciative and leaving all of the troubles of the house to their wives—here me n america got honorable mention for our fifty-fifty (well, sort of except maybe probably not really) ways. and when this lady had a moment alone with me she started telling me also that story i have heard too many times, about the in-laws forbidding her dance after marriage, even tho her precondition to finding a match had been that the family was willing to allow her to continue. she said, i turned down many matches because they said they would not allow the daughter in law to dance. but his family said it was ok, no problem. then a year into marriage they put an end to it, telling me now, i would be a mother. that was twenty years ago, and i have only this year begun dancing again. this reminded me of another (married) girl’s comment, that it is only after we have become gray and ugly that they again let us out, for dancing. it is only then that we get our freedom.
for the first half hour or so all this talk was interesting... as well as a good practice for my bengali. but soon soon my eyes began to glaze over, i began to look from moment to moment at my watch, i started wondering what was this i was doing with my day? thinking back to how i had almost decided not to come, how i had made myself get into that salwar kameez, plait that hair, get out the door, out into the street with all its puddles and mud. here i was three hours later, sitting, just sitting, this woman rattling on and on and on and nothing to do but pick at the fried starchy snack that they had bought but that parched my throat and really, was not at all appetizing. why are the constantly feeding me things like chips, bhujia, biscuits? why won’t they let me say no?
i was on the verge of crying, really, for the second time that day as i sat there thinking about how my day was slowly being taken from me, when chordi said to me, you are thinking about something? you are looking over there all this time, why? part of me just wanted snap under all these emotions and frustrations and let out the anger, that they kept me here doing nothing taking my time from me when they knew i don’t know bengali well enough to understand what was going on and don’t they see this as disrespectful to just keep me there like that useless and mute? but no, i know such responses are not possible, i smoothed my nerves, i was like ummm yeah i have to leave i actually have an appointment at the american center. i let them believe that i had been absorbed in thought by the fears and anticipations of this meeting, and made my escape. it was done raining, but water was still in the streets. determined to make something of my day, i set off uptown for the british council, having with me a pile of books to return there.
but, water! i had scarcely gone a couple minutes when i was having to walk out in the road itself for all the waterlogging and mud. i tried going down elgin road, but it was reduced to a lake. turning back up chowringhee i found the same there, it was impassable. frustrated but determined, i got a cab, and directed it to camac street, where stands the british council. all to no use, as camac street was under water road and sidewalk both. we drove thru street after street of waist-deep water, spraying outward from the taxi like a fan. i was not ready to go home, i was angry about taking so much effort to get to a place that was unreachable, so i went to park street, safe zone, where i knew it could never be too waterlogged. the people there are just to fancy to allow such things, to suffer wet trousers. i hid up inside oxford bookstore, drinking darjeeling tea and reading silly little intro books about religion and watching the other customers especially the funny foreigners with their puffy patchy pants and watching watching the pools of water the rivers and rivulets in the street for signs of them receding.
two hours later i was ready to give it another try. i would make at least one success in this day! the streets were still flooded to the brim but some sidewalks were walkable, and soon i arrived across from the british council, only the stretch of river that was once a street between us. it was too late to give up, and when there was a lull in traffic i set off under the amused gaze of a number of rickshaw-wallahs. i pulled my salwar again above my knees and took the plunge. most of it was ok going. but towards the middle suddenly i stepped into a pothole and was above my knee in the mucky water, soaking thru and thru much of my salwar and also my sad little kameez that i had forgotten to pull up also. i scrambled out across and up onto the sidewalk, tugging down my clothing so that i was at least fully covered if not properly clean and dry. i had arrived. and the british council was open! (my lingering fear that i was making all this effort to get to a place that would be shut down because of the rains, relieved) there i took a shiver-y shivering refuge in their air-conditioned and clean cafe, with a pile of new books and ginger tea. i dried off, and from a distance u couldn’t see the mud splatters on my top. i looked pretty good, really, considering my odyssey.
getting home was another nightmare, buses flying past and crammed full, and then i had more problems at the internet cafe, which was really that straw that broke the camel’s back. the service was slow, expensive, and even after half an hour of trying the computers would not recognize the existence of my thumb drive that i had only come there at all to transfer information from. any other day maybe i would have taken this, dealt with it, been ok waiting another day to find a properly working computer. not today, not after hours of useless sitting and waiting, not after getting soaked and dirtied and exhausted with running about in circles. it was all i could do to not turn on this internet guy and savage him in my sad but mostly understandable bengali in front of the other customers. i restricted myself to a recommendation that he think about replacing his USB connectors, and got out of there. i gave in. today was failures, and only the single success of finally reaching the british council, even if that took hours. i felt like a mad person somehow and decided i should have known from the look of that rain that today was not a day to go out. all this effort and so little reward. i hurried on home, desperate to avert any further frustrations because i knew i just might snap and scream.
back in the safety of the mission i comforted myself with milky tea and the first season of desperate housewives, into the early hours of morning. resolving to know better than to mess ever again with waterlogged kolkata.
i don’t know much about rainwater drainage systems but what followed seemed like it might just be a prime example of such a system’s failure. it started with a puddle here, a puddle there. and soon half the streets outside my window were foot-deep in water. in the courtyard beyond my door the lawn and the flower-beds were all submerged, a little sea under the benevolent gaze of swami vivekananda, who stood at the far corner of the garden looking purposeful with his arms crossed. in other parts of the city it was worse—entire roads below water, water up to the waist, or even the shoulders. men on rashbehari avenue wading thru it best as they could, the swirling dark and dirty waters of these kolkata streets lapping around their ankles, calves, thighs. buses splashing on thru it all as best as they could, while women looked hopelessly around themselves like caged puppies for a way off of what little islands of concrete and mud they had taken refuge on. the hand-drawn rickshaws were doing good business off of such ladies, that favorite rainy season mode of transport.
in my room i debated. flooding had hemmed in the ramakrishna mission, where i stay, on all sides. i was on an island. should i go to dance class? at least make the attempt? should i join the men outside pulling up their pants to their knees as they walked thru waterlogged streets? was the whole thing hopeless? should i just give up? after much battling with my inner guilty laziness (or maybe, instinct? prescience?) and my sense of responsibility, against my own better judgment, i decided to go. with so little time i shouldn’t be taking any and all excuses to skip classes. and anyway, if this was to be how rainy season went then i better get used to it. right?
i set off, and reached the bus stop with only a little bit of trouble. there, people huddled under the makeshift shelters as buses coasted thru the water, sending up waves in our direction. between the sidewalk and the un-submerged street was five or six feet of puddle. buses would either stop on the far side of the puddle, and wait as the passengers forded these murky expanses, or else would swerve right thru the water up close to the sidewalk, splashing half of the people waiting there. three times my bus came, and as i ran out towards it, my salwar pants hiked up to my knees and a crowd of concerned passerbys staring at my pale and unshaven legs, three times my bus passed me by, without even a bit of reduction in speed. the conductor of the last one just looked out of the bus at my frantic figure like i was some creature he could not recognize, place, something with no relation to his life, his job, his universe. i was crazy and almost in tears, spattered in mud and rainwater and lord knows what kinds of filth, when finally a bus stopped and i clawed into it, clawed my way into a seat, and clasped my bags to my chest. it had only took an hour, but finally i was on my way to dance class.
looking out the window i got a mini-tour of rain-logged kolkata, the patches of open street, the floods that consumed entire major throughways like rashbehari avenue and j nehru road, submerged sidewalks, soaked and spattered pedestrians. the bus wheeled on thru all this like a ship at sea, stopping for nothing and no one, the water under its wheels thrown upwards into the sky, as well as a little bit into the window and onto me. despite all the water in the way, it was the fastest trip (minus waiting time) i had ever made from home to dance school. and so i arrived bedraggled and forty five minutes late.
but of course, i should have known. the dance school was empty. and i had to wait another forty five minutes until people started showing up. pishi was mysteriously missing, and chordi came in her stead. ok, i thought, yes now maybe some dancing will be happening? but no, there would be no dancing today. instead, for an hour and a half one of the ladies that had come, an unsatisfied housewife, made a litany of her complaints against her husband. he does not appreciate me. he has no romance. when we go to the cinema he pretends that he is not there with me. and when i start crying at his cringing at my touch he starts asking me what is wrong have i become ill? i ask him what is this relationship and he says oh but you are my best friend. friend?! where is friendship here? what do you give me? i do and i do and i do for you, i am like a maid even tho i am also a working woman, not even a housewife. and what do you do? you bring some money, and then that is it. friend!
she went on like this in her unusually fast-paced and rough bengali, like a dam had been released and her whole inner world was pouring out for the first time in years. maybe it was, i had a feeling she did not have many other willing listeners to her woes. but chordi and kajal listened attentively to the soliloquy, chordi interrupting only to complain about husbands being unappreciative and leaving all of the troubles of the house to their wives—here me n america got honorable mention for our fifty-fifty (well, sort of except maybe probably not really) ways. and when this lady had a moment alone with me she started telling me also that story i have heard too many times, about the in-laws forbidding her dance after marriage, even tho her precondition to finding a match had been that the family was willing to allow her to continue. she said, i turned down many matches because they said they would not allow the daughter in law to dance. but his family said it was ok, no problem. then a year into marriage they put an end to it, telling me now, i would be a mother. that was twenty years ago, and i have only this year begun dancing again. this reminded me of another (married) girl’s comment, that it is only after we have become gray and ugly that they again let us out, for dancing. it is only then that we get our freedom.
for the first half hour or so all this talk was interesting... as well as a good practice for my bengali. but soon soon my eyes began to glaze over, i began to look from moment to moment at my watch, i started wondering what was this i was doing with my day? thinking back to how i had almost decided not to come, how i had made myself get into that salwar kameez, plait that hair, get out the door, out into the street with all its puddles and mud. here i was three hours later, sitting, just sitting, this woman rattling on and on and on and nothing to do but pick at the fried starchy snack that they had bought but that parched my throat and really, was not at all appetizing. why are the constantly feeding me things like chips, bhujia, biscuits? why won’t they let me say no?
i was on the verge of crying, really, for the second time that day as i sat there thinking about how my day was slowly being taken from me, when chordi said to me, you are thinking about something? you are looking over there all this time, why? part of me just wanted snap under all these emotions and frustrations and let out the anger, that they kept me here doing nothing taking my time from me when they knew i don’t know bengali well enough to understand what was going on and don’t they see this as disrespectful to just keep me there like that useless and mute? but no, i know such responses are not possible, i smoothed my nerves, i was like ummm yeah i have to leave i actually have an appointment at the american center. i let them believe that i had been absorbed in thought by the fears and anticipations of this meeting, and made my escape. it was done raining, but water was still in the streets. determined to make something of my day, i set off uptown for the british council, having with me a pile of books to return there.
but, water! i had scarcely gone a couple minutes when i was having to walk out in the road itself for all the waterlogging and mud. i tried going down elgin road, but it was reduced to a lake. turning back up chowringhee i found the same there, it was impassable. frustrated but determined, i got a cab, and directed it to camac street, where stands the british council. all to no use, as camac street was under water road and sidewalk both. we drove thru street after street of waist-deep water, spraying outward from the taxi like a fan. i was not ready to go home, i was angry about taking so much effort to get to a place that was unreachable, so i went to park street, safe zone, where i knew it could never be too waterlogged. the people there are just to fancy to allow such things, to suffer wet trousers. i hid up inside oxford bookstore, drinking darjeeling tea and reading silly little intro books about religion and watching the other customers especially the funny foreigners with their puffy patchy pants and watching watching the pools of water the rivers and rivulets in the street for signs of them receding.
two hours later i was ready to give it another try. i would make at least one success in this day! the streets were still flooded to the brim but some sidewalks were walkable, and soon i arrived across from the british council, only the stretch of river that was once a street between us. it was too late to give up, and when there was a lull in traffic i set off under the amused gaze of a number of rickshaw-wallahs. i pulled my salwar again above my knees and took the plunge. most of it was ok going. but towards the middle suddenly i stepped into a pothole and was above my knee in the mucky water, soaking thru and thru much of my salwar and also my sad little kameez that i had forgotten to pull up also. i scrambled out across and up onto the sidewalk, tugging down my clothing so that i was at least fully covered if not properly clean and dry. i had arrived. and the british council was open! (my lingering fear that i was making all this effort to get to a place that would be shut down because of the rains, relieved) there i took a shiver-y shivering refuge in their air-conditioned and clean cafe, with a pile of new books and ginger tea. i dried off, and from a distance u couldn’t see the mud splatters on my top. i looked pretty good, really, considering my odyssey.
getting home was another nightmare, buses flying past and crammed full, and then i had more problems at the internet cafe, which was really that straw that broke the camel’s back. the service was slow, expensive, and even after half an hour of trying the computers would not recognize the existence of my thumb drive that i had only come there at all to transfer information from. any other day maybe i would have taken this, dealt with it, been ok waiting another day to find a properly working computer. not today, not after hours of useless sitting and waiting, not after getting soaked and dirtied and exhausted with running about in circles. it was all i could do to not turn on this internet guy and savage him in my sad but mostly understandable bengali in front of the other customers. i restricted myself to a recommendation that he think about replacing his USB connectors, and got out of there. i gave in. today was failures, and only the single success of finally reaching the british council, even if that took hours. i felt like a mad person somehow and decided i should have known from the look of that rain that today was not a day to go out. all this effort and so little reward. i hurried on home, desperate to avert any further frustrations because i knew i just might snap and scream.
back in the safety of the mission i comforted myself with milky tea and the first season of desperate housewives, into the early hours of morning. resolving to know better than to mess ever again with waterlogged kolkata.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
drippy days
today was a drippy drippy day. drippy when u wake up cotton sheet pasted on your skin, drippy when u in dance class, drippy when u on the bus, drippy when u sit so still still as you can as still can be, drippy after the fourth shower of this drippy old day. arms dripping with sweat faster than i can wipe away. clothes dripping and drooping out of shape no matter how much care and starch you take. folks looking my way out of they drippy faces with drippy eyes.
i know, i know, i should just find some other pants to wear. every time i wear these jeans with the tear at the knee, these perfect comfortable jeans, everyone is looking at it like, what is with that? the ladies in dance class all a-staring in confusion, tho pishi hastened to explain that no no no, in USA the tear makes it cost more, more valuable, i saw it at the Old Navy, this is true. or this man in the bus today who was staring at the itsy bit of exposed flesh at my knee as if it were the whole of my legs were exposed, as if one could extrapolate from this hint-less innocuous island of pale skin what the rest looked like. regions scandalous and unknown. i had to hide it behind a bag.
with no rain in sight and all these proscriptions on clothing, i am reaching a potential crisis point. if either 1. light short skirts to let in the breeze sweet summer dresses and low-coverage shirts don’t become abruptly and unexpectedly socially acceptable, or 2. the monsoons don’t come soooooon, i might just melt away like the wicked witch of the west.
cooking away in humidity and heat. so steamy that coming out of an air-conditioned shop into the (it-should-have-been-cooler-but-wasn’t) early evening air my glasses fogged up so thick i couldn’t see thru them and almost got hit by a car. uff.
i know, i know, i should just find some other pants to wear. every time i wear these jeans with the tear at the knee, these perfect comfortable jeans, everyone is looking at it like, what is with that? the ladies in dance class all a-staring in confusion, tho pishi hastened to explain that no no no, in USA the tear makes it cost more, more valuable, i saw it at the Old Navy, this is true. or this man in the bus today who was staring at the itsy bit of exposed flesh at my knee as if it were the whole of my legs were exposed, as if one could extrapolate from this hint-less innocuous island of pale skin what the rest looked like. regions scandalous and unknown. i had to hide it behind a bag.
with no rain in sight and all these proscriptions on clothing, i am reaching a potential crisis point. if either 1. light short skirts to let in the breeze sweet summer dresses and low-coverage shirts don’t become abruptly and unexpectedly socially acceptable, or 2. the monsoons don’t come soooooon, i might just melt away like the wicked witch of the west.
cooking away in humidity and heat. so steamy that coming out of an air-conditioned shop into the (it-should-have-been-cooler-but-wasn’t) early evening air my glasses fogged up so thick i couldn’t see thru them and almost got hit by a car. uff.
jaipur, rajasthan
set nesting between rough mountains, in a landscape of sandy hills and scruffy little trees, gazed down upon by dusty old fortifications, cut thru by a dry heat. jaipur, the pink city, the dream of maharaja sawai jai singh II, the marvel of generations of visitors both foreign and native, the epicenter of a flourishing tourism industry. the entry point to rajasthan coming from delhi, five hours away by road or train. a well-preserved example of a later era of rajput architecture and city-planning, not hiding up in the mountains like its predecessor at amber but set out instead against the parched flatlands.
the first day i see none of this old stuff, arriving in the train station and descending into the arid air outside to be picked up by friends in an AC car. driving thru the newer stretches of the city that first day i saw only an affluent suburbia, the slums screened off by strategically placed rusty pink walls to hide any distressing sights from the tourist’s gaze, walls enlivened by happy drawings of camels and elephants, kings and courtesans, other images evocative of that rajasthan of romance, of fantasy. shopping malls, art emporiums, gift shops, craft centers appeared here and there along the wide avenues of the outer city, even so far from tourist central. lazy avenues, walled-off enclosures, broad roundabouts, quiet. from inside the AC car i felt like i had entered some dream world. where were the streets all chaos and crammed and erupting?
as my friend meena showed me into the home where i was staying, her aunt and uncle’s grand house of marble and upholstery that was impressive and formal with imitation western classics hanging the walls, faux greek statues, a grand staircase and outside a lush green lawn a gazebo and a driveway clogged with cars, i thought, this is the india that had been hiding from me, with its mercedes and swimming pools and slinky dresses. and here i had come with a suitcase loaded with salwar kameez for a state i had been warned off of as dangerously conservative, where BJP ruled and as recently as the 90s there were riots and controversies over satis n such. should i have come with my tight jeans and halter tops? sitting in some hip-grungy-cool hookah bar with a crowd of kids dressed just like the kids back home, jalapeno pizzas and coronas on the table, college-esque posters pasted across the walls, even dressed in the most western of my clothing i felt more than a little frumpy and funny.
the first day i see none of this old stuff, arriving in the train station and descending into the arid air outside to be picked up by friends in an AC car. driving thru the newer stretches of the city that first day i saw only an affluent suburbia, the slums screened off by strategically placed rusty pink walls to hide any distressing sights from the tourist’s gaze, walls enlivened by happy drawings of camels and elephants, kings and courtesans, other images evocative of that rajasthan of romance, of fantasy. shopping malls, art emporiums, gift shops, craft centers appeared here and there along the wide avenues of the outer city, even so far from tourist central. lazy avenues, walled-off enclosures, broad roundabouts, quiet. from inside the AC car i felt like i had entered some dream world. where were the streets all chaos and crammed and erupting?
as my friend meena showed me into the home where i was staying, her aunt and uncle’s grand house of marble and upholstery that was impressive and formal with imitation western classics hanging the walls, faux greek statues, a grand staircase and outside a lush green lawn a gazebo and a driveway clogged with cars, i thought, this is the india that had been hiding from me, with its mercedes and swimming pools and slinky dresses. and here i had come with a suitcase loaded with salwar kameez for a state i had been warned off of as dangerously conservative, where BJP ruled and as recently as the 90s there were riots and controversies over satis n such. should i have come with my tight jeans and halter tops? sitting in some hip-grungy-cool hookah bar with a crowd of kids dressed just like the kids back home, jalapeno pizzas and coronas on the table, college-esque posters pasted across the walls, even dressed in the most western of my clothing i felt more than a little frumpy and funny.
(some traffic)
but of course the jaipur of most people was completely different from this, and going into old city i felt i was once again in an india i knew. the clatter of traffic, the clutter of venders and vehicles on the streets, the choked air, the busy-ness of everything. contrasted with kolkata’s rush of buses, private cars and taxis, in jaipur it was the bikes, the motorcycles, the autorickshaws rattling along the streets that ruled the streets, along with some cars, the occasional tour bus, and notably of course a number of horses, donkeys, cows, and camels.
(donkeys!)
but what was most striking on entering the old city was the rusty pink of all the buildings, synthesizing all the buildings new and old together into a single impressive whole. made all the more impressive by grand architecture surprising u with its beauty as well as its continued existence, and by the grid layout for which jaipur is famous, a city centered on a few long wide boulevards filled with the usual rattle of traffic and lined in arcades in which one finds the bazaars selling juti, bandej-decorated cloth formed into scarves saris bedspreads salwar kameez, lehengas, bangles, other local crafts, in the more tourist-oriented bazaars, and on those made more for the common man the basics like dried fruits spices pulses grains and whatever other wares might be necessary.
on the outside of the arcade painted the traditional white on pink are the names of these shops, in compulsory hindi designed to be more authentic or appealing or i don’t know what for the foreign tourist (formerly many of these signs were in english)... who can now admire the beauty, the wonder and mystical mystery of the devanagiri script, which unknown to them spells out such words as "gupta giftorium" or "rajasthan craft center". but i guess they have no need to find these signs readable, as they have guides and autorickshaw-wallahs to guide them, sometimes forcibly, to these places, not to mention the shopkeepers themselves in tourist epicenters like hawa mahal who are shameless in their attempts to have u into their shops, that stock in addition to the rajasthani specialties an assortment of the classic indian wares geared for the hippie (the slung bags in a patchwork of colors, t-shirts emblazoned with OMs, for example) or other tourists... for instance the pervasive selling of cozy kashmiri shawls an awful long way from the mountains.
(entrance to city palace)
at the center of the city, the city palace. the entrance gate is gorgeous, grand, but within it is somewhat less exciting than the gateway had gotten me expecting. some very pretty structures, but it felt more like a series of photo ops somehow than a historical place. the fresh coat of that jaipur pink with white highlights did not do any good either in making you feel like this place is actually as old as it really is.
(city palace)
one excitement tho was a kathak class being held in the diwan-i-am, the public audience hall, an open-air pavilion where the maharaja once received visitors of consequence as well as his own subjects. there, among the marble pillars and below some glorious chandeliers, some little girls struggling along with the jaipur-style kathak as entertained tourists looked on and snapped photographs. later on the kathak students would disperse and be replaced with the less-likely (as in, not so historically accurate, i don’t think) folk dancers whirling in circles around the floor, some intrepid foreign tourists joining in.
(kathak dancers)
some of the parts of the palace have been converted into very nice galleries, showcasing weapons, miniatures and manuscripts, and textiles. but most of the rest of the palace felt empty, unadorned. except for the gates in one courtyard painted lushly with peacocks, flowers, and ladies and gents of the court. there with these old images of human beings, creatures, plants, something colorful and alive.
(painting inside city palace)
(more painting from city palace, this from peacock gate)
another day we went museum hunting. the albert hall museum was closed for renovation, but we stood outside it for a few minutes admiring this creation. then we set off for the museum of indology, the project of the son of one artist and avid art collector, a dusty and incredible assembly of objects. located down some random side-street, the rickshaw-wallah had no idea what we were talking about when we wanted to go to this museum, as people only really seemed to know abt THE museum, albert hall.
(outside albert hall)
but we spied a sign to the spot behind some bushes, and shortly thereafter arrived. with my foreigner ticket price came also a tour by the keeper of the collection himself. he led us first into a room of manuscripts, including an 11th century one that was up high on some shelf, he pointed at it but all we could see of it was the binding. there were also some samples of calligraphy, paper cut-outs, and old newspapers including one that he said was the oldest remaining sample of an indian newspaper, a copy of a rajasthani newspaper in hindi from the year of 1856. there was also a copy of the koran written by aurangzeb, an english translation of ain-i-akbari that had been presented to warren hastings, and letters with such writers and recipients as wajid ali shah, the last of the mughals shah bahadur zafar II, akbar himself... i asked what these letter were about and aside from the one to that last of the mughals (it was a marriage contract for his son) the guide did not know... proclaimed it a matter for research, for scholars who would come. he made this assertion numerous times, i just wonder when this team of knowledgeable folk will be arriving, and how long these resources will just sit around there in that dusty room waiting for attention. then he took us downstairs, where there was a collection of foreign-produced objects, owned formerly by the wealthy indians of jaipur. lamps, vases, boxes, statues, all higgledy-piggledy arrayed behind glass. in the center of the room was a collection of old paper currencies, from all over the world, from all times. then was the stamp collection. then he led us upstairs where there was a collection of folk paintings, jewellry, stone-age implements, architectural plans of palaces of rajasthan, religious statues (small, of stone), shoes, and tantra art. such a mass of objects that my eyes glazed over, my brain didn’t know how to absorb it all.
but we spied a sign to the spot behind some bushes, and shortly thereafter arrived. with my foreigner ticket price came also a tour by the keeper of the collection himself. he led us first into a room of manuscripts, including an 11th century one that was up high on some shelf, he pointed at it but all we could see of it was the binding. there were also some samples of calligraphy, paper cut-outs, and old newspapers including one that he said was the oldest remaining sample of an indian newspaper, a copy of a rajasthani newspaper in hindi from the year of 1856. there was also a copy of the koran written by aurangzeb, an english translation of ain-i-akbari that had been presented to warren hastings, and letters with such writers and recipients as wajid ali shah, the last of the mughals shah bahadur zafar II, akbar himself... i asked what these letter were about and aside from the one to that last of the mughals (it was a marriage contract for his son) the guide did not know... proclaimed it a matter for research, for scholars who would come. he made this assertion numerous times, i just wonder when this team of knowledgeable folk will be arriving, and how long these resources will just sit around there in that dusty room waiting for attention. then he took us downstairs, where there was a collection of foreign-produced objects, owned formerly by the wealthy indians of jaipur. lamps, vases, boxes, statues, all higgledy-piggledy arrayed behind glass. in the center of the room was a collection of old paper currencies, from all over the world, from all times. then was the stamp collection. then he led us upstairs where there was a collection of folk paintings, jewellry, stone-age implements, architectural plans of palaces of rajasthan, religious statues (small, of stone), shoes, and tantra art. such a mass of objects that my eyes glazed over, my brain didn’t know how to absorb it all.
but the overwhelming-ness of that collection was far outdone by that of the museum of shri sanjay sharma, located in the old city down some little lanes behind the bazaars. here again, it was the son of the founders of this institute, bereaved of their other son in whose name the museum was dedicated, who gave us a tour. three floors of the building were covered ceiling to floor with miniatures and manuscripts and other object of art, from playing cards to board games to glass paintings. image after image, visually overwhelming. but most impressive of all was the top floor, where contained in steel almirah after steel almirah were thousands and thousands of manuscripts, which our guide’s daughter showed to us, throwing open door after door to expose to us endless of stacks of writings on everything from palm leaf to paper. waiting to be opened analyzed rediscovered... but so many untouched, unexamined, left to lie in these tall metal lockers. somehow seeing these left me both sad and stirred, for this material untouched, waiting.
(at jantar mantar, pointing at my sign)
we did go also to jantar mantar, an impressive astronomical observatory dating from the reign of sawai jai singh II, founder of jaipur and passionate watcher of the stars. sundials of all sizes, big medium small, and other clever devices for analyzing the travel of both star and planet across the sky. i wasn’t crazy about it tho.
(radioactive sheng in cafe kooba)
what else? afternoon teas and evening drinks at hotels like rambagh palace (run by the taj group) where jasmine floated in pools of water, perfuming the air, and waiters serve in polo uniforms at the polo bar. and at raj mahal palace, another hotel, less fine but more cozy, less calculated and clean. lunches at kooba cafe with that mmm jalapeno pizza the smell of hookah smoke and lounging couches. evenings at techno-luvin clubs followed by three am picnics on the hoods of cars and long drives into the sunrise, gray and gold over the burnt landscape. and in the midst of political violence and rioting in jaipur and its environs, including a one-day bandh that shut down the businesses of jaipur, a retreat into my hosts’ house, many a less-than-satisfying hollywood movie, many a slice of pizza, and an enforced rest from the chaotic busy-ness of my kolkata life. stranded as i was in a jaipur disconnected, its roads closed and trains cancelled, escapable only by plane, i had no choice but, for once, to chill.
amer fort, rajasthan
we approached it in silence over a scrubby terrain in the quiet of early morning. a few miles outside of jaipur, and the seat of the older of a line of rajput kings. construction of this palace began at the end of the 16th century, and took over a hundred years to complete. unlike jaipur, a newer creation built out in the open, a commercial city, the elder is set back on a properly defensible location, a fort as well as a royal residence. amer palace sits atop a hill, where everyday gangs n gaggles of tourists ascend the slope by elephant, pursued across the arrival courtyard by touts hawking gimmicky mementos of all kinds.
(elephants arriving)
our guide was a serious-looking PhD student in Indian history. he led us up past the silver doors of the kali temple, inside covered in fine carved marble and containing a kali statue taken from bengal, and into the courtyard of the diwan-i-am, the hall of public audience. across the courtyard from us stood ganesh pol (a grand gate, pictured below) from the top of which the queen showered flowers on her king at his homecoming. covered in detailed decorative painting, delicate sweet colors on white. this drew attention first. the diwan-i-am was also quite a production of expensive stones, the pillars decorated by carvings whose style according to the guide reflected influences both hindu and muslim, or put otherwise rajput and mughal, this synthesis of styles indicated by the use of both a (hindu) animal motif (the elephant) and (islamic) floral designs.
(ganesh pol)
(sheesh mahal from afar)
we passed out of this courtyard through ganesh pol into the passageway which circled the garden beyond which, across a field of green, stands the sheesh mahal.
(a palace window)
led down this a hall marked by elaborate stone carving and elegant archways, we took a sharp turn and arrived in a dark, crude passageway with small windows and alcoves for the placement of lamps. this was the way to the women’s quarters, solely for the use of the king. through a clever network of such passageways, he could gain access to each and every one of his wives’ rooms without any of the other wives knowing. (oh, the troubles, the trials, the politics of polygamy!)
(ladies' quarters)
from here we ascended (rather than descending into the quarters themselves) and emerged above, beside a balcony from which was visible the ruins of the wives’ quarters circling about a central courtyard at the center of which stood a pavilion in which the wives might congregate. it was from this vantage point that the female guards gazed out on the women’s quarters. or at least so our guide said, asserting that the rajputs did not use eunuchs, as they have some ego problems (yes he stated that one in the present tense, mr u know who u are) and could not deal with such proximity of men, ‘unmanned’ or otherwise.
(view from upstairs)
we ascended another staircase, saw the view of the surrounding landscape which he said in rainy season looks like switzerland. now it mostly looked dry, tho nevertheless beautiful, the hills cutting up from the landscape, covered in their brushy trees and bushes.
(sohag mandir)
in this upper level of the palace was also a beautifully painted pavilion, sahog mandir, which stood at the top of the ganesh pol, on the inner side, and is in fact the place from which the queen would rain her flowers upon her king. that is mr. guide himself, snuck into my picture.
(sheesh mahal, interior)
then we descended from this height down to the sheesh mahal that we had before seen beyond the garden. it glittered and shone vibrantly, a mix of reflective bits of mirror, marble carving and painting covering the entire surface. at night in candlelight it must have sparkled, danced, and here, our guide said, the king had his evening entertainments, his dancers and musicians. it stood there luminous, more than any other part of this palace drawing me in, allowing me to envision that world of wealth, beauty and power which might have once breathed through these pavilions and courtyards.
(detail, sheesh mahal)
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