Tuesday, 9 March 2010
Thursday, 17 May 2007
In London, they need rain too
To London: 1st June 2003
I arrived back in London today. It’s a pleasant 28 degrees. SARS is still worrying the countries of the Far East. The Monsoon I suppose is busy watering a parched India. That empty feeling when coming back from India has arrived; India, provoker of thoughts, stoker of emotions and harbinger of doom for my digestive tract. Pushing open my front door, a barricade of junk mail tried to stop me entering. Gathering them all up like autumn leaves I placed them in the dustbin outside where my next-door neighbour said, “It’s been hot here mate, we could do with some rain...”
I knew the feeling and just smiled.
I arrived back in London today. It’s a pleasant 28 degrees. SARS is still worrying the countries of the Far East. The Monsoon I suppose is busy watering a parched India. That empty feeling when coming back from India has arrived; India, provoker of thoughts, stoker of emotions and harbinger of doom for my digestive tract. Pushing open my front door, a barricade of junk mail tried to stop me entering. Gathering them all up like autumn leaves I placed them in the dustbin outside where my next-door neighbour said, “It’s been hot here mate, we could do with some rain...”
I knew the feeling and just smiled.
Chennai? You mean Madras.
To Chennai. 30th May
Remembering the new name of India’s fourth largest city and capital of the state of Tamil Nadu, I asked a bus driver today at the station, “Bus for Chennai?”. He wobbled his head and replied, “Yessss. Madraaaassssss.” How old habits diehard.
My trip back to Chennai was uneventful, except for the heat. As we arrived at lunchtime passing through wide streets lined with huge hand-painted billboard, the temperature hit 50 degrees, the hottest day there since 1910. Only once before have I experienced this heat, in the Valley of the Kings in Egypt, but that heat was a dry heat devoid of the humidity of Madras. There was no doubt about where I was heading - straight for the air-conditioning of the airport.
Remembering the new name of India’s fourth largest city and capital of the state of Tamil Nadu, I asked a bus driver today at the station, “Bus for Chennai?”. He wobbled his head and replied, “Yessss. Madraaaassssss.” How old habits diehard.
My trip back to Chennai was uneventful, except for the heat. As we arrived at lunchtime passing through wide streets lined with huge hand-painted billboard, the temperature hit 50 degrees, the hottest day there since 1910. Only once before have I experienced this heat, in the Valley of the Kings in Egypt, but that heat was a dry heat devoid of the humidity of Madras. There was no doubt about where I was heading - straight for the air-conditioning of the airport.
the places in the Life of Pi
Pondicherry: 29th May
Today, my last day at Pondicherry, I walked the length of Goubert Salai, the esplanade where Mr Martell’s fictitious protagonist Pi Patel has a charming inter-faith dialogue with the three wise men, one Hindu, one Muslim and one Christian. Families stroll down here every evening, and buy ice creams and roasted nuts, and their children grip pink fuzzes of candy floss and helium-filled balloons. There is a imposing statue of Mahatma Gandhi donated by the French, where in the book the Pi Patel envisioned that he heard his conversation that all religions are true in his debate with the three wise men.
From the esplanade I rode to the Botanical Gardens, which have a large collection of trees and plants, an aquarium and a toy train. Pi lived in the zoo in the botanical gardens where his father was the zookeeper, but today it is no longer there. Perhaps it never was. I went down to the Indian Coffee House in Nehru Street, where a waiter served me an excellent frothy Nilgiri Hills coffee for 3 rupees. It’s a simple room with high ceilings and green walls, that serves cheap, good food. The atmosphere is abuzz with chatter, and patrons chat on red plastic chairs under fast-moving ceiling fans. It was here Mr Martell mentions in his author’s note at the start of the book, that he met a certain Francis Adirubasamy who told him the story of Pi Patel, a story that would make you believe in God, a story of the boy who survived a shipwreck stranded with an adult male Royal Bengal Tiger. One of the waiters there remembers Mr Martell who would sit there and write, and claims to even know Mr Adirubasamy. Now I was confused, fiction and fact became strangely blurred.
Today, my last day at Pondicherry, I walked the length of Goubert Salai, the esplanade where Mr Martell’s fictitious protagonist Pi Patel has a charming inter-faith dialogue with the three wise men, one Hindu, one Muslim and one Christian. Families stroll down here every evening, and buy ice creams and roasted nuts, and their children grip pink fuzzes of candy floss and helium-filled balloons. There is a imposing statue of Mahatma Gandhi donated by the French, where in the book the Pi Patel envisioned that he heard his conversation that all religions are true in his debate with the three wise men.
From the esplanade I rode to the Botanical Gardens, which have a large collection of trees and plants, an aquarium and a toy train. Pi lived in the zoo in the botanical gardens where his father was the zookeeper, but today it is no longer there. Perhaps it never was. I went down to the Indian Coffee House in Nehru Street, where a waiter served me an excellent frothy Nilgiri Hills coffee for 3 rupees. It’s a simple room with high ceilings and green walls, that serves cheap, good food. The atmosphere is abuzz with chatter, and patrons chat on red plastic chairs under fast-moving ceiling fans. It was here Mr Martell mentions in his author’s note at the start of the book, that he met a certain Francis Adirubasamy who told him the story of Pi Patel, a story that would make you believe in God, a story of the boy who survived a shipwreck stranded with an adult male Royal Bengal Tiger. One of the waiters there remembers Mr Martell who would sit there and write, and claims to even know Mr Adirubasamy. Now I was confused, fiction and fact became strangely blurred.
Pondicherry... the ashram... and finally the monsoon
Chidambaram to Pondicherry:26th May
By lunchtime I had arrived at the ashram guest house (Park Guest House) in Pondicherry; in Tamil it’s called Pudducherry, or affectionately just “Pondy”. The guest house must be one of the loveliest places I have ever stayed in. Not because of its comfort but because of the tranquil location. Every room is named after a virtue, joy, peace, compassion etc. and has a balcony facing the sea. There is a meditation garden where all you can hear are the sound of lapping waves. The large windows of the vegetarian canteen are yards from the shore and give the semblance of being on a boat far out at sea.
There is an unmistakable French feel to Pondicherry. There are Alliance Francais, restaurants that serve Bordeaux and cigars, and the police wear red kepis like Gendarmes. The well-planned streets, all arranged in right angles have French names like Goubert Avenue and Dumas Street and are lined with trees that provide shade from the unbearable 45 degrees lunchtime blaze. The houses are whitewashed, with old wooden doors and well-watered blooming gardens. Today the Frenchness is but a hint alluding to bye-gone days of a colonial past. Pondicherry became Indian in 1954 and there is the unmistakable busy feel of a typical Indian city in the more inland parts of Pondicherry, dusty streets, hooting vehicles and people scurrying around.
The ashram in the city was founded by Shri Aurobindo in 1926, and after he died the Mother took over as spiritual guide till she died in 1973 aged 97. Their bodies are laid to rest in tombs of the courtyard of the main ashram building on Marine Street. Auroville is the ashram community 10 kilometres north of Pondicherry in Tamil Nadu (Pondicherry itself is a Union territory); it was started by the Mother as an experimental place where people could live in a higher spiritual awareness, and harmony. It has 80 settlements over an area of 20 kilometres each devoted to projects ranging from alternative technology, agriculture, tree planting and handicrafts, education and health; the many buildings are spread out connected by roads winding their way through newly-planted trees. The centre of the settlement is the imposing Matrimandir with a huge bronze-coloured dome. Inside most of it is still under construction but the white marble meditation chamber at the top is complete – it has a hazy light coming from a mirror on the roof which is refracted through a solid crystal 70cms wide. The room is cool and has strong calming feeling about it; a steward advised me that at 4.30pm some people would be allowed in to meditate there, once the crowds had gone home.
While I queued the rumble of thunder resounded and electric-blue lightning flashes cracked the sky. Rain fell in torrents and the air cooled as people sheltered under a large banyan tree, leaning on its vertical roots. The red-earth path to the Matrimandir turned in to a mud-track and the meditation session was cancelled. I rode my motorbike back to Pondicherry through paths of mud, round puddles and past fallen branches, soaked to the skin. The rain felt strangely pleasant, the heat and humidity was gone. The Monsoon had eventually arrived in full measure, loud, spectacular and very wet.
By lunchtime I had arrived at the ashram guest house (Park Guest House) in Pondicherry; in Tamil it’s called Pudducherry, or affectionately just “Pondy”. The guest house must be one of the loveliest places I have ever stayed in. Not because of its comfort but because of the tranquil location. Every room is named after a virtue, joy, peace, compassion etc. and has a balcony facing the sea. There is a meditation garden where all you can hear are the sound of lapping waves. The large windows of the vegetarian canteen are yards from the shore and give the semblance of being on a boat far out at sea.
There is an unmistakable French feel to Pondicherry. There are Alliance Francais, restaurants that serve Bordeaux and cigars, and the police wear red kepis like Gendarmes. The well-planned streets, all arranged in right angles have French names like Goubert Avenue and Dumas Street and are lined with trees that provide shade from the unbearable 45 degrees lunchtime blaze. The houses are whitewashed, with old wooden doors and well-watered blooming gardens. Today the Frenchness is but a hint alluding to bye-gone days of a colonial past. Pondicherry became Indian in 1954 and there is the unmistakable busy feel of a typical Indian city in the more inland parts of Pondicherry, dusty streets, hooting vehicles and people scurrying around.
The ashram in the city was founded by Shri Aurobindo in 1926, and after he died the Mother took over as spiritual guide till she died in 1973 aged 97. Their bodies are laid to rest in tombs of the courtyard of the main ashram building on Marine Street. Auroville is the ashram community 10 kilometres north of Pondicherry in Tamil Nadu (Pondicherry itself is a Union territory); it was started by the Mother as an experimental place where people could live in a higher spiritual awareness, and harmony. It has 80 settlements over an area of 20 kilometres each devoted to projects ranging from alternative technology, agriculture, tree planting and handicrafts, education and health; the many buildings are spread out connected by roads winding their way through newly-planted trees. The centre of the settlement is the imposing Matrimandir with a huge bronze-coloured dome. Inside most of it is still under construction but the white marble meditation chamber at the top is complete – it has a hazy light coming from a mirror on the roof which is refracted through a solid crystal 70cms wide. The room is cool and has strong calming feeling about it; a steward advised me that at 4.30pm some people would be allowed in to meditate there, once the crowds had gone home.
While I queued the rumble of thunder resounded and electric-blue lightning flashes cracked the sky. Rain fell in torrents and the air cooled as people sheltered under a large banyan tree, leaning on its vertical roots. The red-earth path to the Matrimandir turned in to a mud-track and the meditation session was cancelled. I rode my motorbike back to Pondicherry through paths of mud, round puddles and past fallen branches, soaked to the skin. The rain felt strangely pleasant, the heat and humidity was gone. The Monsoon had eventually arrived in full measure, loud, spectacular and very wet.
Chidambaram - the Lord of the Dance
Madurai to Chidambaram: 25th May
This morning I said goodbye to Pete. We exchanged presents, I gave him an orange powder drink and he gave me a cloth bag with Tamil writing on the side. He took a bus up to Kodaikanal, the only hill station in India set up by Americans. The hawkers have got on his nerves, and he wants the relative quiet of the hills. I later learned from him that Kodaikanal was just as busy and he ended up getting on the next bus out. He ended up in Rameshwaram and stayed in a shoreline hut with a fisherman who every morning would pour a cold bucket of water over him. From there he went north to Orissa , Calcutta which he loved, along the Ganges to Varanasi. He wants to be in Dharamsala for His Holiness the Dalai Lama’s birthday in July.
I got off the bus at Chidambaramam, a small town famous for the great temple site of Natarajah, Shiva as Lord of the Dance. The temple complex occupies 22 hectares and is about 700 years old. It has a large courtyard with many shrines, and lines of people stared wide-eyed as the doors to the inner sanctum were opened. There are huge gaupurams around the courtyard, and as the sun set, a cloud appeared in the west.
This morning I said goodbye to Pete. We exchanged presents, I gave him an orange powder drink and he gave me a cloth bag with Tamil writing on the side. He took a bus up to Kodaikanal, the only hill station in India set up by Americans. The hawkers have got on his nerves, and he wants the relative quiet of the hills. I later learned from him that Kodaikanal was just as busy and he ended up getting on the next bus out. He ended up in Rameshwaram and stayed in a shoreline hut with a fisherman who every morning would pour a cold bucket of water over him. From there he went north to Orissa , Calcutta which he loved, along the Ganges to Varanasi. He wants to be in Dharamsala for His Holiness the Dalai Lama’s birthday in July.
I got off the bus at Chidambaramam, a small town famous for the great temple site of Natarajah, Shiva as Lord of the Dance. The temple complex occupies 22 hectares and is about 700 years old. It has a large courtyard with many shrines, and lines of people stared wide-eyed as the doors to the inner sanctum were opened. There are huge gaupurams around the courtyard, and as the sun set, a cloud appeared in the west.
I finally get that dhoti... but why is our Guide arrested?
Kanyiakumari to Madurai: 23rd May
The hotel man knocked at my door this morning. “Sar, sunrise 10 minutes,”. I woke Pete and we ran to the bobbing wooden boats of the harbour close to the jetty, the sky was pink and gradually the sun appeared over the horizon and the crowd that lined the shore stood up and made their sun salutations. A ferry leaves for the Vivekananda Rock every half hour, to visit the mandapam built in 1970 an ornate stone building dedicated to Swami Vivekananda who merged the tenets of Hinduism and the concept of social justice. We spent an hour on the rock reading about him and Pete seemed to enjoy his newfound celebrity status as Indian tourists wanted to have a photo taken with a westerner. Back on the mainland of India we visited the temple dedicated to the Devi Kanya, the virgin consort of Lord Shiva, an incarnation of Parvati. In its dark, stone interiors we walked barefoot through the light of earthenware lamps and saw the idol at its central altar.
It’s still extremely hot, no clouds in the sky that may herald the monsoon. It’s fashionably late this year, spinning around in a circular weather pattern in the ocean, like a whirling dervish, playing hard to get with India.
We took a minibus north to Madurai, the scenery changed to scrubland in sharp contrast to the lush and greenery of Kerala. Beside the road power-generating windmills with 3 sails spun fast. By 8pm we were in the packed street markets of Madurai, one of the oldest cities in south India, ancient centre for learning and pilgrimage.
At the Sree Devi Hotel, the bell-boy took us to the rooftop where we saw an amazing sight – the imposing silhouettes of 50 metre high gateways of the Shri Meenakshi temple, they stood like silent sentinels of the night, their presence belittling the lights and buildings below. In the morning we got a better view of the temple and its gateways, called Gaupurams. They are adorned with many colourful statues of Gods and Deities from Hindu mythology. The temple design goes back to 1560, but there has been a temple here for 2,000 years. Inside the temple complex, which occupies 6 hectares, drums and pipes played a fast catchy tune; worshippers mingled, some lay prostrate before idols, others offering prashad, their faces shiny, illuminated by the light of thousands of earthenware butter lamps; inside the dark interior of the inner sanctum where only Hindus are allowed, were idols of deities, Nandi the bull, Lord Shiva, and curvaceous, seductive women blackened by time. In the halls of carved stone pillars, bats flew amongst shards of yellow sunset light, revealing plumes of rising incense smoke. A decorated elephant with shiny brown eyes blessed worshippers by tapping their heads with its trunk. Quite an atmosphere for a religious place, vibrant and thriving. Alive.
We hired a guide, an old lady in a simple cotton sari. She was a retired English teacher who spoke perfect English and used the word “somewhat” in practically every sentence she spoke. Ten minutes into our tour, lathi wielding policemen in khaki uniforms came and evicted her from the complex for not being an official guide. I got incessantly harangued by hawkers and money cheats in Madurai. People claimed to be a tailors from the temple market who could sew Nehru-collar jackets, shirts, and kurta pyjama. On collecting my sandals from the booth outside the temple the man wanted to charge me 16 times more than the proper price for looking after them. When asked how he could justify the price, his answer was, “I love money” and he was irate when I paid him the proper price of 50 paise. A vendor of water bottles upped his prices well above the recommended price due to a cooling charge. I decided with my Nikes, cargo pants, cameras and map I looked far too much like a tourist so for 90 rupees I got a dhoti. It’s cool to wear and easy to walk in. I’m practically a local now, as long as I don’t open my mouth.
The hotel man knocked at my door this morning. “Sar, sunrise 10 minutes,”. I woke Pete and we ran to the bobbing wooden boats of the harbour close to the jetty, the sky was pink and gradually the sun appeared over the horizon and the crowd that lined the shore stood up and made their sun salutations. A ferry leaves for the Vivekananda Rock every half hour, to visit the mandapam built in 1970 an ornate stone building dedicated to Swami Vivekananda who merged the tenets of Hinduism and the concept of social justice. We spent an hour on the rock reading about him and Pete seemed to enjoy his newfound celebrity status as Indian tourists wanted to have a photo taken with a westerner. Back on the mainland of India we visited the temple dedicated to the Devi Kanya, the virgin consort of Lord Shiva, an incarnation of Parvati. In its dark, stone interiors we walked barefoot through the light of earthenware lamps and saw the idol at its central altar.
It’s still extremely hot, no clouds in the sky that may herald the monsoon. It’s fashionably late this year, spinning around in a circular weather pattern in the ocean, like a whirling dervish, playing hard to get with India.
We took a minibus north to Madurai, the scenery changed to scrubland in sharp contrast to the lush and greenery of Kerala. Beside the road power-generating windmills with 3 sails spun fast. By 8pm we were in the packed street markets of Madurai, one of the oldest cities in south India, ancient centre for learning and pilgrimage.
At the Sree Devi Hotel, the bell-boy took us to the rooftop where we saw an amazing sight – the imposing silhouettes of 50 metre high gateways of the Shri Meenakshi temple, they stood like silent sentinels of the night, their presence belittling the lights and buildings below. In the morning we got a better view of the temple and its gateways, called Gaupurams. They are adorned with many colourful statues of Gods and Deities from Hindu mythology. The temple design goes back to 1560, but there has been a temple here for 2,000 years. Inside the temple complex, which occupies 6 hectares, drums and pipes played a fast catchy tune; worshippers mingled, some lay prostrate before idols, others offering prashad, their faces shiny, illuminated by the light of thousands of earthenware butter lamps; inside the dark interior of the inner sanctum where only Hindus are allowed, were idols of deities, Nandi the bull, Lord Shiva, and curvaceous, seductive women blackened by time. In the halls of carved stone pillars, bats flew amongst shards of yellow sunset light, revealing plumes of rising incense smoke. A decorated elephant with shiny brown eyes blessed worshippers by tapping their heads with its trunk. Quite an atmosphere for a religious place, vibrant and thriving. Alive.
We hired a guide, an old lady in a simple cotton sari. She was a retired English teacher who spoke perfect English and used the word “somewhat” in practically every sentence she spoke. Ten minutes into our tour, lathi wielding policemen in khaki uniforms came and evicted her from the complex for not being an official guide. I got incessantly harangued by hawkers and money cheats in Madurai. People claimed to be a tailors from the temple market who could sew Nehru-collar jackets, shirts, and kurta pyjama. On collecting my sandals from the booth outside the temple the man wanted to charge me 16 times more than the proper price for looking after them. When asked how he could justify the price, his answer was, “I love money” and he was irate when I paid him the proper price of 50 paise. A vendor of water bottles upped his prices well above the recommended price due to a cooling charge. I decided with my Nikes, cargo pants, cameras and map I looked far too much like a tourist so for 90 rupees I got a dhoti. It’s cool to wear and easy to walk in. I’m practically a local now, as long as I don’t open my mouth.
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