A man, a beggar to many, happily waves the stump that was his right leg at me to attract compassion and generosity. His ‘hellos’ give no explanation of amputation, but echo across the valleys.

The movement of clouds in submission below the peak of Mt. Khanchendzonga, the ravines that pour of the face of the range into stretches of valleys, the visibility of my breath in the cold winter air, reduce my concerns to pieces of broken snowflakes – perfectly formed and intricate, but ultimately transient. Worries, thoughts, ideas, and feelings tumble as I sit on the rooftop of Hotel Aliment (I think a spelling mistake of ‘Ailment’) and are caught by the wind as the prayer flags snap.

In Chowrasta, the public space of Darjeeling, a child delights in disturbing a flock of pigeons grazing, dispersing them momentarily only to reform for the child to continue his pursuit of happiness. The Clock Tower chimes it discordant, mournful tone of dings and dongs, announcing that time does not wait nor care for the arrogance of Mt. Khangchendzonga.

Two trains leave Kolkata for Siliguri/NJP (from where we would travel to Darjeeling by jeep). One at 7:30pm the other at 10:05pm. The distance is about 550km, and both trains travel at an average of 50km/h. Which train arrives first?

Three train accidents (which we were not involved in ) and 17 hours later the 10:05pm train arrives first at 2:30pm at NJP  and the 7:30pm train arrives at 2:30pm at Siliguri. Ollie and I were on the former and reached Darjeeling by 6pm. Marie, our newly-acquainted friend from Ireland, on the latter, arrived in Darjeeling at 6:30pm.

Darjeeling is just coming off a two-week strike, which forced most travelers out of the region as all shops and forms of transportation cease to operate. The West Bengali government were scheduled to grant the formation of the Gorkhaland state (residents of this area are mainly the Nepali speaking Gorkhas. who want to improve their socio-economic conditions through autonomous statehood. The money brought in by tourism in this region does not translate into improvements in education and health services or infrastructure, as the suspension of the cars will attest) by December 14, 2009. In protest, the people of this region have stopped paying taxes and have enacted prohibition laws. The negotiators for both sides are scheduled to meet again in February to decide the overdue fate of the Gorkhas quest for statehood. Thus, it was only fitting that our train was running late.

As this is my second time here in Darjeeling, the familiarity of the place is hard to overcome. As we arrived in the cover of darkness, I powered through and up the ascending paths and stairs with GPS-like  ease. Although blinded by the blackout, I waked the familiar paths of a blind man, knowing the feel of the ground beneath my feet as it changes direction, inclination and surface. After nearly 24 hours of travel since we departed Kolkata on the 1st January, we arrived at Hotel Aliment, a Nepali-run family guesthouse that towers intimately over Darjeeling.

Familiarity struck again like deja vu, but not in the strange sense. It felt more like reincarnation, in the sense that I had already lived these experiences, and was acutely aware of it, but was reliving them: the hospitality; the Tibetan Thukpa (noodle soup) and bread; the hot water bottle tucked tightly against my chest in bed hiding under three layers of blankets;  the sunrise on soaking Himalayas and pushing back the long shadows of geological time; and the reassuring pot of Darjeeling black tea, which eases one into contemplative silences and murmurs of superlatives.

Although we had a wait-listed ticket from Delhi to Kolata (1500kms and 17 hours) by train at 5pm that same day, we only found out at 4pm that we were given one berth between the two of us. Ollie and I have shared a double bed (twice to date), but not a single bed (let alone a single berth on a train, which measure 1.6m in length and 1m in width [generous]). So, we discussed with the official ITDC (insert acronym menaing here…) about our options, which were threefold:

1) Fly to Kolata that night for $200 (8300Rs)
2) Take a train the next morning for 24 hours and $100 (3700 Rs)
3) Fly to Kashmir and spend a week exploring the disputed state of Pakistan/India

Turns out the travel agents at the ITDC were all from Kashmir.

We decided to fly to Kolata, despite the fact that we has just arrived in Delhi and had spent money and time coming into Delhi from the airport. We caught the 8:05pm flight from Indira Gandhi airport to Kolkata. A sign from the heavans (Mt. Kalish in Hinduism) was receievd on our way to the airport. In the traffic log, a non-descript man on a motorcycle was spotted sporting a Minnesota Vikings jacket!!! (I am a committed Vikings fan) I shouted my approval and despite his obliviousness to the team’s recent losing record (3 losses from 4 games, but we are in ther playoffs), he offered to give me the jacket! I would have worn it with pride but asked him to keep it because of the cold. This even was equidistant between surreal and surriptious.

arie, an Irish traveller, whom we shared a ride into town with. The three of us arrive in the city centre at 11:15pm on NYE and checked in at the Paragon Hotel at 11:30pm. NYE was spent outside one of the few bars in Kolkata negotiating the prospect of standing up (only seated patrons were allowed). Consequently we were caught between dry land and the endless sea, much like Kevin Costner. Although NYE was anticlimatic, our new year’s day was eventful, if not repetitive for myself, as I played tour guide to my traveling companions.

Darjeeling is the next destination: former British hill station, tera captial and site for Gorkhaland.

The half-constructed state of the retreat only adds to its appeal and charm, knowing that you are some of its very first guests. New car smell. The windowless communal room, with kitchen attached, is where our meals are generously served (dahl bhat). The library contains literary classics such as ‘Some basic rights of Soviet citizens’, and empty Barcardi Breezer bottles are recycled as candle holders. Trickling into the pond is a stream cum garden, resembling the moguls of a ski field. The construction-site vibe does not spoil the quiet, flapping whisper of OM MANI PADME HUM on the wind of the prayer flags. I contemplate my own presence there, thinking to myself  ‘is it the prayer flag that moves? Or is it the wind?’ The sixth patriarch of Ch’an Buddhism, Hui Neng replied, ‘Neither. It is your mind.’ There is an almost perceptible stillness in the countryside. Amongst the bleating of the goats, the doddle-do of the rooster, the mooing of the cow. The attraction of such places, of the countryside, away from our hurried, time-constrained lives, lies in the fleeting feeling of the now, of the present, that I can almost realise as I sit here. Relaxing. Peaceful. It goes by many names, descriptions. It is a brief re-discovery of our true nature. Gone is the armour of our self-consciousness, our business card, yoga classes, detox diet, gym membership, Friday night drinks, favourite TV show. All the distractions, intrusions, worries that trouble our life. My life.  Fear of the future sneaking up from behind and then nostalgic trap of the past in front. Both by-products of our imagination. Such ‘countrysides’ represent a temporary release from fear, from our attachments.

The retreat itself is an experiment in eco-tourism, in which, according to Manoj Chettri (of the Tourism Department of Sikkim. Friend. Singer. Entrepreneur), aims to implement home-style accommodation that is ‘clean in bed, clean in bathroom, clean in hygiene.’ The hygienic difference between Sikkim and India is very noticeable and appreciated. Not only are plastic bags extinct, but each squat toilet is ultra clean and washed after every use. Although street trash is ever-present and everywhere, it is after all India, it is not as widespread in its quantity and awareness has been generated among the state’s people as to the value of of keeping green clean. The senses delight in, including our sense of environmental moralising, such government policy implementation. I am made acutely aware of my otherness in Darap, as every child can and will call out ‘hello tourist!’, in a very charming and non-ironic way. ‘Hello nani!’ I reply with an ever-present smile now. Giggles and little voices repeating my greeting follow in my wake. The fields are fallow, with the exception of a single man and his two bovine companions ploughing, preparing for spring. Every public building in Darap, and in Sikkim for that matter, has an official commemorative stone tablet, recording the name of the construction, its cost, the start and finish date (or rather, a back date for its construction). An empty building designated  as a pharmacy stands empty. Its cost = 200,000 Rs. I can only but laugh.

Cottages, with bamboo picket-fences, pot plants of such quantity that they give the illusion of being one of four walls to the home, accompany the road as it snakes along the mountain towards Jorenthang and the border of Sikkim. However, such idyllic countryside is betrayed by the collection of small and large Tata TV satellite dishes clumped together, bringing such remoteness into digital face-to-face contact with our modern notion of civilisation: Indian Idol, advertisements for luxurious soap, car batteries, cricket, 24-hour news reports, and soap dramas. Such technology eliminates ‘remoteness’ and rodes the relativity of time, creating schedules, time slots and 30 minutes episodes of our life. Although I am not surprised, I am at once disappointed and reassured.

The mountains soon cast off their cloak of mist to reveal their geological history in the form of gullies, ravines, and valleys created by the sharp, slow and powerful nature of water. A state of constant change is occurring here, of infinite change, not visible in seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks or even years. What we define as the past, and future, is all present here and now – in a constant flux of change cause by people, irrigation, erosion, pollution, geological activity, etc. It is beautiful and sobering.

Kids in New York Yankees baseball beanies dash up the road, oblivious to the declining fortunes of the MLB team, the firing of Joe Torre, their poor 2008 season, happy just to keep their head warm, unconcerned with their implicit support and representation of such a storied and hated franchise in ‘America’s favourite past-time’. Our unceremonial entry into Sikkim was that of crossing an international boundary. Tea gives way to terraced rice fields, maize, corn and haystacks that, given the right light, would even leave an impression on Monet. Signs on Sikkim’s well-paved roads (a by-product of the diplomatic tension between China and India in this region) indicate ‘Damage bridge ahead, drive slow’, ‘Leprosy is curable’, and ‘Save our environment’. You are then told ‘Thanks’ for driving through such a stretch of road and for considering whether you should see your GP about leprosy. Although the signs do not instill the greatest of initial confidence, such is restored by the state’s eco-tourism policy and village-by-village campaign for sanitation and education: the best we have encountered in India so far.

Kalimpong, famed for its majestic Buddhist monastries, is a melting pot of different cultures - and  the gompas are no exception. Once belonging to the chogyals of Sikkim, the area fell into the hands of the Bhutanese in the 18th century and later passed to the British, before being annexed by the newly independent India. Like the rest of north-east India there is a large Tibetan populution – hence the prominence of Tibetan Buddhism. Thongsa Gompa is a 300 year old Bhutanese Monastry that demonstrates what we seem to keep witnessing in India – the ability of different religions to aborb other religious practices and make them their own. The colourful prayer wheels and flags that makes Tibetan Buddhism so distinctive are actually remnents of the ancient animistic Bon religion practiced in Tibet.  The different sects around Kalimpong have differing proportions of pure Buddhism and Bon spirituality and practice which boasts a wealth of demons and erotic portrayals of deities.

In the midst of gazing in awe at the two metre high prayer wheels outside the gompa, a gong is sounded and monks from about five years old to those in their mid-twenties mill towards the monastry. The same elderly women motion us to enter and so we make our way to the prayer hall upstairs.  By the time we get there most of the monks are seated on the floor in four rows, not unlike a class room. An older monk, Deva invites me to sit next to him and join in the daily evening prayers.

The repetitive murmuring of mantras begins and is broken only by the the playing of drums and two trumpet and flute like instruments. There is no order to the praying and the music sounds like an unrehearsed orchestra. As our hotel owner said to us, the monastries have a school-like atmosphere. Most  of the scarlet robed monks are deep in prayer but some boys chew gum, check their mobile phones, and chat to each other.  In essence, their prayers call  for the well being of all sentient beings. This ritual is carried every morning and evening.  Although Deva tells me that once during the year they pray for seven days straight, taking three hour shifts at night so that the mantras are continuous. 

The atmosphere is relaxed and carefree as they have just  finished exams  and have three months of free time.  Typically,  their days involve lessons in Buddhist history and philosophy, Bhutanese, Tibetan, and Pali and a little bit of English. Like all the monks that enter the monastry, Deva has taken a vow to leave behind his former life and family. The monks who come from Bhutan, Sikkim, and Kalimpong enter for different reasons.  Some enter due to economic imperatives whilst others come voluntarily.  It seems like those who do not enter voluntarily will relax this rule and return to their homes on vacations.  One serious boy I met at a different monastry, however, said that he will never go back to Bhutan despite the pleadings of his mother. Apparently, she wanted him to be an engineer or a doctor and she spoke to him only the day before, crying, and asking him to return home.  If he was emotional about it he did not show it – he was resolute when he told me that their paths were different now. When he passed away he would not go to the next world with his family – he  would leave with the other monks.

I became kind of emotional listening to him talk about leaving behind his family forever.  Certainly, in Australia (from my knowledge at least)  entering religious life does not mean never returning home for Christmas! It was amazing to witness such unquestioning acceptance of what appears to be quite an austere requirement, but I suppose it enables cultivation of discipline and devotion to spiritual discovery?  We definately left the monastry with more questions than answers.

Release the darkness within

Spring will soon follow

Illuminating, eliminating

The long shadows in the forest.

The mall itself was divided into ‘Blocks’, from ‘Block A’ to ‘Block G’, much like that of a high-security prison, its confusing and spacious desgin leaving me wandering in circles in the hope of escaping what I thought was three separate KFCs in a 50m radius.  Kolkata’s gateway to modernity was quiet, clean and horn-free. Although the purpose of any travel experience is to submerge oneself in the depths of a nation’s history, cutural identity, spirituality,  souvenirs, and tourist attractions, this adventure to the wilderness of City Centre was as valuable to me as a traveller as any historical monument. Iindeed, it is a monument to India’s ongoing transformation. India’s first KFC, opened in Bangalore in the 90′s, was literally trashed by the Farmer’s Association of Karnataka as a response to the country’s welcoming of foreign companies. I was surprised then by the large numbers of customers seated inside City Centre’s KFC eating ‘vegetable thali’, and even more surprised by the orderly queue forming outside the outlet’s entrance. Such a phenomenon (and tribute to the global marketing of Pepisco) can also be found outside Pizza Hut, and in the same restaurants in many cities in China. Such disgust at the intrusion of these American multinational companies did not deter us from ordering a very cheesy, very oily, and very comforting pizza at Pizza Hut (having beforehand watched Jim Carrey’s ‘Yes Man’ at the Inox cinema for $2).

Visitors to India, which now include myself, often comment on the disparity between rich/poor, simplistically reducing millions of people to a imagined dichotomy/duality, which does little to reflect their lives. The wealth of India, whose economy has been steadily growing between 6-8% GDP per annum, is not that visible and has not translated into stable infrastructure (among other things – healthcare, education, utilities, etc.). I think visitors subconsciously compare the ‘poor’ that is so visible in India, with the ‘wealth’ of their own homes, cities, countries. It was not until reaching City Centre that I first witnessed the wealth of India.  Ignorant of those who are classified as living in ‘absolute poverty’. Yet, I was overcome not with disgust at such greed, but with fascination, home-sickness, and relief at finding such a place. The giant TV screen in the mall’s courtyard flashed a montage of images of Kolkata’s pollution-choked streets in soft and generous lighting, proudly and naively claiming ‘My Kolkata’. I doubt many of the young Tommy Hilfiger urbanites have ever really seen Kolkata except from behind the tinted and protective windows of their family’s Nissan.

This edifice to the growing cult of things is a future archaeological site, where the Colonel will be interpreted to be a global deity, worshipped by millions of people in the past. Future archaeologists many also extrapolate from the surviving evidence of the development of a highly urban society, who abandoned existing traditions in the name of ‘progress’. Change. A fast, efficient and bright change. Gandhi stated that ‘should India ever resolve to imitate England, it will be the ruin of the nation’. If he were not cremated, Gandhi would be turning in his grave. This cult of materialism, of brand names, of Tag, the keeper of time; of LG, the perveyor of White Goods; Panasonic, the god of HD, light and sound; and McDonald’s, the god of the harvest. A Pan-American cult. Its influence infectious and visible, replacing that which seeks for an inner truth, with the falsehoods of style, the cool. Whose pantheon of divinities include actors, and their avatars on the silver screen; whose texts worship and idolise beauty as slim (a distinct move away from the traditional fertility goddesses with wide hips). Status is not accorded with how much you sacrifice, but with how much you spend, acquire, own. This building presupposes that we live in a ‘permanent situtation of scarcity’, that we always need to want, to have, to buy. Are our lives the sum of the things we possess, own or strive to acquire? India maintains a spell over foreigners, who come here seeking the mystical, the spiritual, even the divine: a personal truth. The spiritualism that India permeates is clearly perceptable from our travels here, through Nasik, the Ellora and Ajanta caves, Kalimpong, Kalighat, and our random encounters with strangers. However, India is also undergoing an incredible shift in it’s own perception of the spiritual, especially in the urban areas, which are exposed to the global market. From my own, limited experience of this fascinating country so far, I am not sure what will be more beneficial to the people of India. The desire for inner peace, truth and salvation, or the desire for happiness, vanity and white goods?

The smell of dried/fresh blood is inhaled on one’s first entry into Kalighat, the sight of which soon follows. The other senses reel back in a mixture of disgust, revulsion and self-preservation, allowing only sight and smell to be affected by Kali’s seemingly unquenchable thirst.

Intense incense inside the temporal presinct of Kali’s temple in Kolkata is inhaled simultaneously with the blood, filling one’s nose with a peculiar mixture of sandalwood and iron. Sight is captivated by the devotional fervour rising up from those prostrating themselves to Kali, making the unbeliever hesitant. On all sides you are surrounded by the throng of devotees waiting to catch a glimpse of the divine idol that is Kali from the bell room (otherwise, there is a line to join if a more personal encounter is required. The unique thing about Hindu architecture is its exclusiveness.  There is no area for communal congregation or for some lower-caste Hindus). In the bell room, the moment when the crush of people under the plethora of bells is about to reach breaking-point, the priests forcibly clear a line of sight to Kali. The goddess is represented unlike any other Hindu deity, with a broad, flat face, slights for eyes, bearing more of a resemblance to Polynesian Tiki divinities. Satisfied with the barest of eye contact, the devotees recede to be replaced by the next wave. Coconuts are crushed on an altar in sacrifice and their contents spilled, a much more censored sacrifice than those taking place outside where the cracking and spilling of a goat’s head and blood can be witnessed. Kali has been slowly weened off a diet of human blood since 1835: a divine detox.

According to Vedic texts, sacrifices are required and necessary to regulate the order of the universe, otherwise, all would fall into chaos. It was also historically a way for the so-called ‘Aryans’ mentioned in these texts, to use their surplus as a means of gaining prestige/merit in the tribe. This tradition is still alive today amongst the citizens of Kolkata, who look to Kali as a child looks for a mother’s love.

“My child, you need not know much in order to please Me.
Only Love Me dearly.
Speak to me, as you would talk to your mother,
if she had taken you in her arms.”

The implications, effects and historicity of the Mumbai attacks, and the death of 173 people, has been reduced to four digits and a date on the calender – 26/11. Invoking America’s own classification of a tragedy and legitimising date of 9/11., the two events also share the important and over-looked aspect of historical context. The ‘Three Days of Terror’ became a product of the 24-hour news channels, sifting through endless site footage, interviews, dedications of bravery, elevation of individuals to ‘heroes’, and expert analysis. However, within such in-depth coverage, the historical context of such was over-looked, or rather not admitted to by Indian media. This was only the most recent of attacks in India in 2008, indeed, since 1947. Understanding cannot be found in emotive eyewitness accounts of the victims, in the over-analysis of experts pointingthere nuclear-clad fingers at nuclear-clad Pakistan, nor the the post pictures of the dead terrorists. Context is key. And, India need only look within, rather than without, for an explanation.

• 1947- After Partition, and the migration of 12 million people, at least one million hindus and muslims are thought to have been killed in the violence that followed.
• 1992 – destruction of Babri mosque in Ayodhya incited by politicians of the BJP and RSS parties. An estimated 3000 Muslims were killed up to and following the destruction of the mosque.
• 2002- Gujarat genocide, where politician Babu Bajrangi publicaly said, ‘we believe in setting them on fire because these bastards don’t want to be cremated…at least 25,000 to 50,000 should die.’ An estimated 2000 Muslims were killed, many by immolation. However, the most disturbing ‘feature of the riots was the treatment meted our to Muslim women and children’ (Luce, 2006: p.160), who were raped, their children dosed in petrol and burned. Hundreds stood by and cheered, including the police who, as independent reports have indicated, were under instructions not to interfere.
• 2008 – attacks in Delhi, Ahmedabad, Hyderabad, Mumbai…

In 1948, the Indian Army invaded Hyderabad, the kingdom of the last Nizam. A Congress Party report commissioned by Nehru following the 4-day defeat and taking of Hyderabad, and never publicly released, states that at least 200,000 Muslims were killed, and numerous incidents of rape and looting by the Indian Army. A cursory look at the historical context appears to offer any number of reasons, if a little simplistic, as to why such attacks are frequently occurring within India. However, correctly or incorrectly, fingers are increasingly being pointed across the Radcliffe line and at the Pak government’s failure to stop the growth of terrorists. India’s own bloody, genocidal and discriminatory history of its treatment of India Muslims is ignored by politicians and media alike. ‘The advantage of going to war is that its the best way for India to avoid facing up to the serious trouble building on our home front’ (Arundhati Roy).

Roy could be referring to any number of troubles plaguing the country. Maoists, corruption (not in the system, but a system itself. The Nobel Prize winning economist Amartya Sen calls the stealing of government subsidies and such ‘friendly fire’), lawlessness, caste-warfare, home-grown terrorists, poverty, etc. The pillars of democracy, like those of Hyderabad’s once-glorious palaces, are being toppled in the name of Democratic principles: freedom of speech, of action, of political parties. Corruption functions as a governing system, that those who suffer from it, the majority of India’s population who live in rural villages, want their children to get government jobs so they themselves can be corrupted and have a future.  In the state of Bihar, as of 1998, two-thirds of the State’s Assembly has serious and outstanding criminal records. Criminals and politicians are virtually interchangeable.

The amount of money ear-marked for development that is constantly stolen by bureaucrats at every administrative level (with noteable exceptions in the states of Tamil Nadu and Kerala) is indicative of the value of human life. The ordinary people who died in Mumbai, at the CST and Cafe Leopold, were ignored by the TV cameras. And their welfare and security is still ignored. At train stations, bus stations, airports, there are large police presence at each, but relatively little security. Metal detectors go off every second or are largely ignored. Train tickets and baggage are not checked. Oxford Bookstore in Kolkata, a shopping mall in Nagpur, the haunts of the middle-upper class of India, have tighter security than Mumbai CST. In such places where ‘the right of admission is reserved’, it is evident that human life has a value, a false currency based on what  one has acquired, what one owns, and the salary of this ‘one’. The currency of the value of human life appears to be the same in the Indian goverment’s and the terrorist’s eyes. That is some people’s lives are worth more than others, and herein lies the root of the dilemma.

Value. Placing value on life. Everything needs to have a value, as the value of what you are surrounded by is percieved to reflect the value of your life, of your social status. When you see a homeless person on the street, unkept hair, torn clothes that resemble rags, no shoes or any visible belongings hidden in those garbage bags, you evaluate  their life to be worth less than yours, than other people’s lives. A response is formed – pity, charity, ignore, empathise, forget. Their’s is devalued by this illusion that human life can be valued. Security, TV anchors, and the media places a value on the lives of the victims of the Mumbai attacks, dehumanising those in the ‘ordinary’ places, where the ‘ordinary’ people were killed.  And, what of the media’s, and government’s, response to the 2002 genocidal acts in Gujarat?

The caste system is a currency trader in this respect, having created a hierarchy of the value of human life based on archaic Sanskrit texts, sacrifices, priests and ritual cleanliness.  In 2002, five Dalit men were lynched by a crowd of upper-caste Hindus near Delhi in response for the alleged killing of a cow. The majority of Indians were mortified by such barbarity (in reference to the lynching), but according to Kishore, the VHP (the youth and more militant wing of the RSS), ‘the life of a cow is very important’. The U.S army’s death toll of over 4,000 in Iraq and Afghanistan are considered to be of a higher reason to abandon Iraq than the odd 600,00 civilian deaths the war has caused. Then there is Africa, the basket case of the world.

‘The only way to contain terrorism is to look at the monster in the mirror’.