After a very long time,
I watch the clouds go by
and like the birds--
they must be only half way there,
but seemingly among them--
I feel a sense of freedom,
wonder I haven't felt for a long time.
The importance of understanding
processes of change historically
is in the theoretical models
such a history will yield.
Without such historical awareness,
no such theoretical understanding
will reveal itself.
27 November 2009
26 November 2009
Intellectual Trends of a Westerner's Indian-historical Perspective
Wow. So it's been a few days, I guess. My schedule is filling up and I am adjusting to new obligations, I suppose. This has thrown my blogging off a bit.
I've joined a nice gym here in Mysore. It's name is Core Power, and the staff and fellow gym-goers are really kind. It's so refreshing to go daily into a community of people that knows I am trying to learn the local language. People really appreciate it. Indian people, as a whole, are the sweetest people around whom to struggle in acquiring a new language. That is, once they get over the shock that a white-assed dude gives a damn. I get a lot of help with my numbers, obviously, as the staff tells me "eenedu asari madari," do this fifteen times, twice; and buff locals laugh with me as I struggle through a challenging workout--both in terms of understanding the directives in a foreign language, and physical exertion. It's a workout for body and mind.
Language practice continues after the workout when I go for fresh-made grape juice from Ananta Rao's Savories and Grape Juice Shop. He speaks to me in a mixture of Kannada and Hindi, and asks that I speak to him in Sanskrit because he wants to learn.
I am walking, writing, and thinking a lot every day. I walk from home to school, and then from school to the Oriental Research Institute, and from there a walk back to my home for an afternoon coffee/Kannada study. All this walking and exercising makes productive synergy of my emotional, intellectual, and creative physical juices just in time for an evening jaunt to gym.
Lately I've been really lazy about sleeping in-- I don't wake up until 7:30 or 8:00, which is very unusual for me. I don't yet know how I feel about it. I think I need to get settled into a place that is more conducive to me somehow... That will happen this Sunday, thankfully.
I am planning to move into the home of the owner of the Dhvanyaloka Institute here in Mysore. I'll post pictures of the area I'll be living in once I settle there. It's about the same distance from The Central Institute of Indian languages where I am studying Kannada, but a distance farther from my Sanskrit teacher's home. My new hostmother, however, is looking into a used bicycle for me. That will eliminate all my troubles, and save me a lot of time in the day! And she is also a really, really cool lady. More to come on Shrimati Jay Shree in the coming posts, for sure.
These days, I am thinking to write a scholarly article about my experience over the past two years living throughout India, and reading all this really old literature. I've become somewhat critical lately of the attitude many Indians adopt toward the study of the ancient and medieval past. To begin with, the study is usually engaged while accompanied by some sort of ideological motivation. The ideological motivation (usually conservative Hindu, or Hindutva) is problematic in a number of ways. Firstly--and this list is not exhaustive of those ways--this particular ideological discourse makes sweeping claims concerning a past about which we know, in all truth, a pitiful dearth considering the surfeit of textual material that exists to substantiate scholarly inquiry.
The utter difficulty of the languages doesn't make this an easy task, however; and the ability to see why the difficulty might pay off in the long run--that is, historically--comes from quality, sound education. Those resources, these days in India, go to the engineers and doctors... Basically, there's nothing simple about the situation, and the only simple thing we could do--if we were to be simpletons--would be to blame British colonialism as a lot of post-colonial theory has done, simply. And I, too, now engage in similar sweeping claims as I critique current scholarship and contemporary political/economic realities here in India. Thus the need for structure and logical argument.
Returning to the ideological motivations I see underpinning Sanskrit studies in India. Secondly, the ideology of Hindutva, literally "Hinduness," stems largely from a colonial encounter. So, for instance, there's this claim of sanatana dharma, "eternal religion." But Sanatana dharma is literally no more eternal than the 20th century. No such conception can be found prior to this time. I suspect, though I admittedly don't know, that this concept originated in the North of India at a time around Independence. Why in the North and not, say, the South like Karnataka? Well, the caste structure of society--a structure I doubt I'll ever really understand in a way similar to a socialized Indian-- was not always so impermeable as it has become: Brahman, Kshatria, Vaishya, Shudra and never the twixt shall breed. That is, today. There's clear mention of intercaste marriage, albeit according to specific formulae, in texts like the Dharmashastra among others. North Indians seem to me to have had a more severe reaction against the colonial encounter than, say, a Kannadiga (thank you, Sudhesh ; ). In the North, that reaction has taken the shape of severe and rigid caste boundaries that are practically worn on the cuff or kameez of the boreals. It happens here in the South, I would have to imagine, as well; but so far, it happens in a way I haven't discerned. Now, for instance, I am sure the trash collectors here in my neighborhood, or the city-employees who sweep dust into the air from the street every day are not brahmans, or kshatriyas, or vaishyas for that matter. But I am rambling now a bit. Basic point: The caste distinctions are weaker-- or more meager-- here in the South. Southern cultures have insulated themselves somehow from the more caustic reaction that typifies Northern cultures.
Now, back to historical perspectives for a moment, and the lack of (unbiased) motivation to study Sanskrit literature in India and its effects. In the West we have highly developed theories of political processes: How we become subjects of political rule, ityadi, etc., etc. Thinkers have developed these theories because there exists a historical frame within which to speak to such important issues and thereby propel society forward. No such elaborate historical understanding of any sort exists for most textual traditions of India. Whereas in the West we can trace historically from ancient Greece through Roman imperial expansion, into medieval Europe, Renaissance, etc. It simply doesn't exist here (and there is, again, a larger question of historiography here). Thinkers, then, that are producing theory in the Academies of the West are able to do this because of a type of (well-imagined, basically) historical continuity that exists for those intellectual traditions. However, these very same intellectual traditions are largely responsible for the denigration of Indian language materials from premodern times. Western philosophical traditions claim as possible only a single, albeit potentially multifarious universal. This is not the case in Indian thought. There can simultaneously (and paradoxically to the Western mind) exist numerous universals. It was the goal of colonial occupation to squelch these autochthonous forms of intelligence in order to advance foreign discourses of power aimed at domination and economic control. Effects of these discourses largely funded the Industrial revolution of Europe, and the subsequent rise to dominance of the West. Their effects are still playing out in India to the sensitive eye, however "post-colonial theory," for what it's worth, isn't doing much in the way of helping us to understand that because it hasn't yet done the "dredge work," as it were, of digging into textual materials from a philological/historical perspective. And that's basically the point I want to make without rambling in an article I hope to author over the coming months...
I am trying to design my long-term intellectual work to address such issues with an eye toward developing theory from a Westerner's Indian-historical perspective.
I've joined a nice gym here in Mysore. It's name is Core Power, and the staff and fellow gym-goers are really kind. It's so refreshing to go daily into a community of people that knows I am trying to learn the local language. People really appreciate it. Indian people, as a whole, are the sweetest people around whom to struggle in acquiring a new language. That is, once they get over the shock that a white-assed dude gives a damn. I get a lot of help with my numbers, obviously, as the staff tells me "eenedu asari madari," do this fifteen times, twice; and buff locals laugh with me as I struggle through a challenging workout--both in terms of understanding the directives in a foreign language, and physical exertion. It's a workout for body and mind.
Language practice continues after the workout when I go for fresh-made grape juice from Ananta Rao's Savories and Grape Juice Shop. He speaks to me in a mixture of Kannada and Hindi, and asks that I speak to him in Sanskrit because he wants to learn.
I am walking, writing, and thinking a lot every day. I walk from home to school, and then from school to the Oriental Research Institute, and from there a walk back to my home for an afternoon coffee/Kannada study. All this walking and exercising makes productive synergy of my emotional, intellectual, and creative physical juices just in time for an evening jaunt to gym.
Lately I've been really lazy about sleeping in-- I don't wake up until 7:30 or 8:00, which is very unusual for me. I don't yet know how I feel about it. I think I need to get settled into a place that is more conducive to me somehow... That will happen this Sunday, thankfully.
I am planning to move into the home of the owner of the Dhvanyaloka Institute here in Mysore. I'll post pictures of the area I'll be living in once I settle there. It's about the same distance from The Central Institute of Indian languages where I am studying Kannada, but a distance farther from my Sanskrit teacher's home. My new hostmother, however, is looking into a used bicycle for me. That will eliminate all my troubles, and save me a lot of time in the day! And she is also a really, really cool lady. More to come on Shrimati Jay Shree in the coming posts, for sure.
These days, I am thinking to write a scholarly article about my experience over the past two years living throughout India, and reading all this really old literature. I've become somewhat critical lately of the attitude many Indians adopt toward the study of the ancient and medieval past. To begin with, the study is usually engaged while accompanied by some sort of ideological motivation. The ideological motivation (usually conservative Hindu, or Hindutva) is problematic in a number of ways. Firstly--and this list is not exhaustive of those ways--this particular ideological discourse makes sweeping claims concerning a past about which we know, in all truth, a pitiful dearth considering the surfeit of textual material that exists to substantiate scholarly inquiry.
The utter difficulty of the languages doesn't make this an easy task, however; and the ability to see why the difficulty might pay off in the long run--that is, historically--comes from quality, sound education. Those resources, these days in India, go to the engineers and doctors... Basically, there's nothing simple about the situation, and the only simple thing we could do--if we were to be simpletons--would be to blame British colonialism as a lot of post-colonial theory has done, simply. And I, too, now engage in similar sweeping claims as I critique current scholarship and contemporary political/economic realities here in India. Thus the need for structure and logical argument.
Returning to the ideological motivations I see underpinning Sanskrit studies in India. Secondly, the ideology of Hindutva, literally "Hinduness," stems largely from a colonial encounter. So, for instance, there's this claim of sanatana dharma, "eternal religion." But Sanatana dharma is literally no more eternal than the 20th century. No such conception can be found prior to this time. I suspect, though I admittedly don't know, that this concept originated in the North of India at a time around Independence. Why in the North and not, say, the South like Karnataka? Well, the caste structure of society--a structure I doubt I'll ever really understand in a way similar to a socialized Indian-- was not always so impermeable as it has become: Brahman, Kshatria, Vaishya, Shudra and never the twixt shall breed. That is, today. There's clear mention of intercaste marriage, albeit according to specific formulae, in texts like the Dharmashastra among others. North Indians seem to me to have had a more severe reaction against the colonial encounter than, say, a Kannadiga (thank you, Sudhesh ; ). In the North, that reaction has taken the shape of severe and rigid caste boundaries that are practically worn on the cuff or kameez of the boreals. It happens here in the South, I would have to imagine, as well; but so far, it happens in a way I haven't discerned. Now, for instance, I am sure the trash collectors here in my neighborhood, or the city-employees who sweep dust into the air from the street every day are not brahmans, or kshatriyas, or vaishyas for that matter. But I am rambling now a bit. Basic point: The caste distinctions are weaker-- or more meager-- here in the South. Southern cultures have insulated themselves somehow from the more caustic reaction that typifies Northern cultures.
Now, back to historical perspectives for a moment, and the lack of (unbiased) motivation to study Sanskrit literature in India and its effects. In the West we have highly developed theories of political processes: How we become subjects of political rule, ityadi, etc., etc. Thinkers have developed these theories because there exists a historical frame within which to speak to such important issues and thereby propel society forward. No such elaborate historical understanding of any sort exists for most textual traditions of India. Whereas in the West we can trace historically from ancient Greece through Roman imperial expansion, into medieval Europe, Renaissance, etc. It simply doesn't exist here (and there is, again, a larger question of historiography here). Thinkers, then, that are producing theory in the Academies of the West are able to do this because of a type of (well-imagined, basically) historical continuity that exists for those intellectual traditions. However, these very same intellectual traditions are largely responsible for the denigration of Indian language materials from premodern times. Western philosophical traditions claim as possible only a single, albeit potentially multifarious universal. This is not the case in Indian thought. There can simultaneously (and paradoxically to the Western mind) exist numerous universals. It was the goal of colonial occupation to squelch these autochthonous forms of intelligence in order to advance foreign discourses of power aimed at domination and economic control. Effects of these discourses largely funded the Industrial revolution of Europe, and the subsequent rise to dominance of the West. Their effects are still playing out in India to the sensitive eye, however "post-colonial theory," for what it's worth, isn't doing much in the way of helping us to understand that because it hasn't yet done the "dredge work," as it were, of digging into textual materials from a philological/historical perspective. And that's basically the point I want to make without rambling in an article I hope to author over the coming months...
I am trying to design my long-term intellectual work to address such issues with an eye toward developing theory from a Westerner's Indian-historical perspective.
20 November 2009
International Pizza Delivery
Tonight. Well, tonight is a pizza night. Dominoes. "Shitty choices make for shitty pizza." There's Papa John's new pan-India advertising slogan. Maybe they can put it to some beautiful tunes and replace my dry wit with some uber sweet and hip Kannada music for their Karnataka ad-campaign?
The Pizza delivery man, however, was the first person to make it to my house without assistance after I tried giving false directions for the first time. If you're a regular reader of nyaagrodhamuule, you might remember my post of several days back about the perplexing proximity of two 12th Main Roads, one belonging to Kuvempunagar and another, less well known, belonging to Sarasvathipuram, where I live. Usually when I tell people my address, I have to walk about seven minutes from my house to the nearest landmark, the Kuvempunagar High School and 9th cross road, stand on the corner, flag the vehicle down (I'm easy to spot), hop in/on said vehicle, and direct them the short distance to my place. Tonight with Dominoes I tried something new. I labeled my house as existing at 192 12th Main Kuvempunagar. Amazing! Not even 15 minutes later there was a super-kind Dominoes delivery man at my door with a smile, garlic cheese sticks (so-so), a pizza, and a bit of info: "You gave me the wrong address, sir. This is Sarasvathipuram."
"Oh, really?" Said the idiot videshi, "I thought this was Kuvempunagar."
"No, this is Sarasvathipuram, sir. It's O.K. I found it."
And find it he did! "This pizza's for you." InBev might be hard-pressed to give up that slogan though.
The Pizza delivery man, however, was the first person to make it to my house without assistance after I tried giving false directions for the first time. If you're a regular reader of nyaagrodhamuule, you might remember my post of several days back about the perplexing proximity of two 12th Main Roads, one belonging to Kuvempunagar and another, less well known, belonging to Sarasvathipuram, where I live. Usually when I tell people my address, I have to walk about seven minutes from my house to the nearest landmark, the Kuvempunagar High School and 9th cross road, stand on the corner, flag the vehicle down (I'm easy to spot), hop in/on said vehicle, and direct them the short distance to my place. Tonight with Dominoes I tried something new. I labeled my house as existing at 192 12th Main Kuvempunagar. Amazing! Not even 15 minutes later there was a super-kind Dominoes delivery man at my door with a smile, garlic cheese sticks (so-so), a pizza, and a bit of info: "You gave me the wrong address, sir. This is Sarasvathipuram."
"Oh, really?" Said the idiot videshi, "I thought this was Kuvempunagar."
"No, this is Sarasvathipuram, sir. It's O.K. I found it."
And find it he did! "This pizza's for you." InBev might be hard-pressed to give up that slogan though.
19 November 2009
Hey, man. Whaddya want, man?
Well. Now this is comfortable. I have finally gotten my internet connection after a lot of haggling and what I think was a bribe. It works out nice that way: I don't think I've ever been fully aware of the bribes I may have given in the past, but afterwards I think, "Hm... That might have just been a 'bribe'."
Does it even work like that? I guess it's more like I am getting ripped off; not bribing anybody. Or maybe the person extorting me is thinking something like, "If you let me rip you off right now, I will get done what you want me to get done." Anyhow. It's done.
My week has been relatively quiet so far. Daily classes in Kannada, and only two Sanskrit classes so far this week. The frequency of Sanskrit will pick up through the weekend probably. I have enough work that keeps me busy anyhow.
I would like to explain my Kannada lessons. First, I'll set the scene of my learning environment. I arrive at the Central Institute of Indian languages daily at 11:00, or thereabout. Two guards greet me; I sign a log book. I ascend a large, marble staircase littered with the corpses of dead bees. Two dogs, not dead, are regularly sleeping on the staircase as well. My class is on the third floor--that's fourth floor to you and me, however, as in India we start counting on two. Three teachers rotate through my hour-long classes throughout the week. Two of them are excellent, and one among them is superb. About the third:
Entering my teacher's office, one notices there is always someone there. Actually, most times I enter there are numerous people in the office; but this 'someone' I am referring to, who is random and varies, seems to just be hanging out.
There is a long conference table covered by green felt with artificial flowers in a wire vase placed at the center. On the desk proper, attached by way of the same green felt sheet, is a basket of stamps, a service bell, a Taj Mahal snow globe, five books on top of stacks and stacks and stacks of papers, another vase (no flowers), no desk space, and old tea cups.
There are truly some amazing moments of both pedagogical breakthroughs, and short attention span getting the better of one or the other of us. One of the 'regulars' in the room, a short, old, worn and grayed man, regularly comes in to use the phone. He only speaks Hindi on the phone, so I can understand what he is saying, and it is always related to things around the house. Instructing what needs to be done and how it is to be done. My teacher looks at him with funny glances, and has started attempting to block him from doing this with questions that I assume are like, "What do you need to do this for now? I have class."
The older gentleman pushes his way past my teacher's belly, and makes for the phone.
Another teacher, who teaches me Kannada script, is incredibly kind and will eventually teach me fantastic Kannada script-- it might take the entire time that I am here though. The elements of Indian languages' alphabets that are foreign to most beginners--like aspirated versus unasperated, or palatal versus dental, etc.--are, to me, now known having studied Sanskrit and Hindi. However, I have a lot of review on these subjects now, despite my informing him that I have studied Sanskrit and Hindi for a number of years.
Shree Vijaylakshmi is my favorite teacher. She is no nonsense, to the point, and highly effective from the time she starts my lesson to the time she finishes.
I have not yet made time to visit sights around Mysore, but I will begin that within the coming week hopefully. I'll be able to read the signboards and understand better what precisely is going on around me at that point as well. The city is becoming slightly more familiar to me; I am developing my circles--milk man, vegetable man, convenience store man. The city is very laid back. There is a big influence from a large yoga crowd that comes here. A lot of the store owner's only English is (and I am not kidding here): "Hey, man. What's up? Whaddya want, man?" And they're so chill when they say it. It's sweet!
I am more fully settled into my flat now, and remain busy with Kannada, Sanskrit, and my applications to graduate studies. They are all coming along very productively.
Does it even work like that? I guess it's more like I am getting ripped off; not bribing anybody. Or maybe the person extorting me is thinking something like, "If you let me rip you off right now, I will get done what you want me to get done." Anyhow. It's done.
My week has been relatively quiet so far. Daily classes in Kannada, and only two Sanskrit classes so far this week. The frequency of Sanskrit will pick up through the weekend probably. I have enough work that keeps me busy anyhow.
I would like to explain my Kannada lessons. First, I'll set the scene of my learning environment. I arrive at the Central Institute of Indian languages daily at 11:00, or thereabout. Two guards greet me; I sign a log book. I ascend a large, marble staircase littered with the corpses of dead bees. Two dogs, not dead, are regularly sleeping on the staircase as well. My class is on the third floor--that's fourth floor to you and me, however, as in India we start counting on two. Three teachers rotate through my hour-long classes throughout the week. Two of them are excellent, and one among them is superb. About the third:
Entering my teacher's office, one notices there is always someone there. Actually, most times I enter there are numerous people in the office; but this 'someone' I am referring to, who is random and varies, seems to just be hanging out.
There is a long conference table covered by green felt with artificial flowers in a wire vase placed at the center. On the desk proper, attached by way of the same green felt sheet, is a basket of stamps, a service bell, a Taj Mahal snow globe, five books on top of stacks and stacks and stacks of papers, another vase (no flowers), no desk space, and old tea cups.
There are truly some amazing moments of both pedagogical breakthroughs, and short attention span getting the better of one or the other of us. One of the 'regulars' in the room, a short, old, worn and grayed man, regularly comes in to use the phone. He only speaks Hindi on the phone, so I can understand what he is saying, and it is always related to things around the house. Instructing what needs to be done and how it is to be done. My teacher looks at him with funny glances, and has started attempting to block him from doing this with questions that I assume are like, "What do you need to do this for now? I have class."
The older gentleman pushes his way past my teacher's belly, and makes for the phone.
Another teacher, who teaches me Kannada script, is incredibly kind and will eventually teach me fantastic Kannada script-- it might take the entire time that I am here though. The elements of Indian languages' alphabets that are foreign to most beginners--like aspirated versus unasperated, or palatal versus dental, etc.--are, to me, now known having studied Sanskrit and Hindi. However, I have a lot of review on these subjects now, despite my informing him that I have studied Sanskrit and Hindi for a number of years.
Shree Vijaylakshmi is my favorite teacher. She is no nonsense, to the point, and highly effective from the time she starts my lesson to the time she finishes.
I have not yet made time to visit sights around Mysore, but I will begin that within the coming week hopefully. I'll be able to read the signboards and understand better what precisely is going on around me at that point as well. The city is becoming slightly more familiar to me; I am developing my circles--milk man, vegetable man, convenience store man. The city is very laid back. There is a big influence from a large yoga crowd that comes here. A lot of the store owner's only English is (and I am not kidding here): "Hey, man. What's up? Whaddya want, man?" And they're so chill when they say it. It's sweet!
I am more fully settled into my flat now, and remain busy with Kannada, Sanskrit, and my applications to graduate studies. They are all coming along very productively.
16 November 2009
Colourful Cows, Loud Horns: My New Settlement
My feet and ankles have become a mine-field erupting every so often with intense itching from countless bug bites; my ankles are even a bit swollen. My nights are less than "comfortable" as I unconsciously battle with the bugs that invade my dreamscape. Weird memories and awkward insecurities that would be better off left in the recesses of the mind--forgotten--are drawn to the surface as if by the mosquito's needle. They are scratched and soothed out over a breakfast of remembrance with coffee, and then fade into background.
My days are full!
Life in Mysore is shaping out just fine. A mosquito net and a bicycle are two remaining items of somewhat urgent need; I will also search for a small refrigerator and hopefully acquire internet connectivity over the coming week.
I am leasing a flat from one Dr. Shivananda, a retired physics professor from the University of Mysore, and his wife. There are three bedrooms, a bathroom, and a kitchen. Two of the three bedrooms are, however, filled entirely with many many copies of books that Dr. Shivananda publishes. This turns the three-bedroom effectively into a single. Uncle-jii must be aboard this "Desktop Publishing" fad that, gauging by the number of shops and advertising around town, seems to have launched in the literary world of Kannada. It's exciting!
In the bathroom an instant gas heater warms the water and fills a bucket; in the kitchen there is a microwave and a magnetic stove top (kind of neat!). I bought a pressure cooker that I use to prepare dal and caaval (rice and lentils), two thalis, or "plates," and two katoris, or "bowls."
My room is painted in a sea-green that glows to almost neon when the fluorescent bulb is switched 'on'. There are two windows providing excellent cross ventilation, and the temperature is ranging from comfortable to chilly throughout the day.
I bought a beautiful desk for 1,500 rupees that I know I'll be sad to part with when the time comes; and I bought bed sheets, towels, and some leisure wear--a lungi.
I have less-than-stellar luck keeping clothes on this trip. On the first night, I lost a pair of jeans, a sweater, and several t-shirts as the cab sped off as soon as I got out of the car. In all honesty, I am lucky it was only some clothes! Next, I took my nice shirts to an old launderer I patronized last year, Sanjay of Jay Sri Ram Laundry on Prabhat Road in Pune. I asked if he could have my clothes ready in four days because I was departing for Mysore, but he failed and he hasn't called me either. Therefore, I am giving his business this plug in my blog space, and I've assigned a friend to go claim my clothes, give him a hard time, and not pay--or at least not full price. Here in Mysore, I've ordered a couple new shirts as I wait for the old ones to make their way back to me.
An interesting note regarding the address of my new flat. My address is 192 12th Main Road, Near Kamakshay Hospital Road, Sarasvathi puram, Mysore. Two blocks away exists another, and more popularly known, 12th Main Road belonging to the neighboring Kuvempurnagar. Needless to say, this has led to a lot of confusion. Only here, only here... I love it!
This will be my first full week of classes. A description of Dr. Talvar's office is on its way...
Brief notes about my walk to the internet cafe: There is this group of 'traditional' guys, I have yet to discover their name, who walk around with random, loud musical instruments--a large drum, a trombone, or a large clarinet-like horn--and a bull dressed with incredibly colorful pieces of fabric that make something of a saddle. These guys post up in front of houses or business establishments or me and begin to make loud, obnoxious sounds until someone gives them an amount of money that seems to make them happy. The large clarinet-like horn lifted toward me and sounded, so I gave over two rupees and tried to have a conversation--he didn't know Hindi though. And then the beggar children saw me handing over money, so they, too, came running. I asked them, "Where is your cow? What instruments do you play?" But they, too, didn't understand. I didn't give them any money.
My days are full!
Life in Mysore is shaping out just fine. A mosquito net and a bicycle are two remaining items of somewhat urgent need; I will also search for a small refrigerator and hopefully acquire internet connectivity over the coming week.
I am leasing a flat from one Dr. Shivananda, a retired physics professor from the University of Mysore, and his wife. There are three bedrooms, a bathroom, and a kitchen. Two of the three bedrooms are, however, filled entirely with many many copies of books that Dr. Shivananda publishes. This turns the three-bedroom effectively into a single. Uncle-jii must be aboard this "Desktop Publishing" fad that, gauging by the number of shops and advertising around town, seems to have launched in the literary world of Kannada. It's exciting!
In the bathroom an instant gas heater warms the water and fills a bucket; in the kitchen there is a microwave and a magnetic stove top (kind of neat!). I bought a pressure cooker that I use to prepare dal and caaval (rice and lentils), two thalis, or "plates," and two katoris, or "bowls."
My room is painted in a sea-green that glows to almost neon when the fluorescent bulb is switched 'on'. There are two windows providing excellent cross ventilation, and the temperature is ranging from comfortable to chilly throughout the day.
I bought a beautiful desk for 1,500 rupees that I know I'll be sad to part with when the time comes; and I bought bed sheets, towels, and some leisure wear--a lungi.
I have less-than-stellar luck keeping clothes on this trip. On the first night, I lost a pair of jeans, a sweater, and several t-shirts as the cab sped off as soon as I got out of the car. In all honesty, I am lucky it was only some clothes! Next, I took my nice shirts to an old launderer I patronized last year, Sanjay of Jay Sri Ram Laundry on Prabhat Road in Pune. I asked if he could have my clothes ready in four days because I was departing for Mysore, but he failed and he hasn't called me either. Therefore, I am giving his business this plug in my blog space, and I've assigned a friend to go claim my clothes, give him a hard time, and not pay--or at least not full price. Here in Mysore, I've ordered a couple new shirts as I wait for the old ones to make their way back to me.
An interesting note regarding the address of my new flat. My address is 192 12th Main Road, Near Kamakshay Hospital Road, Sarasvathi puram, Mysore. Two blocks away exists another, and more popularly known, 12th Main Road belonging to the neighboring Kuvempurnagar. Needless to say, this has led to a lot of confusion. Only here, only here... I love it!
This will be my first full week of classes. A description of Dr. Talvar's office is on its way...
Brief notes about my walk to the internet cafe: There is this group of 'traditional' guys, I have yet to discover their name, who walk around with random, loud musical instruments--a large drum, a trombone, or a large clarinet-like horn--and a bull dressed with incredibly colorful pieces of fabric that make something of a saddle. These guys post up in front of houses or business establishments or me and begin to make loud, obnoxious sounds until someone gives them an amount of money that seems to make them happy. The large clarinet-like horn lifted toward me and sounded, so I gave over two rupees and tried to have a conversation--he didn't know Hindi though. And then the beggar children saw me handing over money, so they, too, came running. I asked them, "Where is your cow? What instruments do you play?" But they, too, didn't understand. I didn't give them any money.
12 November 2009
कृत्स्नं व्याकरणं प्रोक्तं तस्मै पाणिनये नमः
I've just enjoyed a cup of magical black coffee from the dasaprakash hotel, brought to me in my room where I sit at the beautiful desk. A short, scruffy, older gentleman--truly--short a few teeth and perhaps a little wit brought it to me as I read the Times of India.
The immediate work of establishing myself here seems to me to be progressing quite fine. After meeting at the Central Institute of Indian Languages (CIIL) yesterday, I have worked out five hours a week of Kannada instruction with three teachers who will rotate days and focus on different aspects of the language.
"Naanu yaaru?" Who am I?
My brother, Chris, once formulated a similar question on the streets of Varanasi. Questions like this have been posed by intellectual and spiritual greats throughout history, with various answers given and methods prescribed. The most recent installment of the same old question came up in my first Kannada lesson with Shree Vijaylakshmi of the CIIL.
"Naanu yaaru?" I asked.
She replied, "Niivu yaaru? No, I am sorry. What is your name?"
To which I replied, "Naanu Ralph." I am Ralph. And thus began what I am sure will be one of the greatest recent challenges in my life, the Kannada language.
I will report to the CIIL 11 O'clock daily Monday-Friday for about one hour of Kannada instruction with rotating teachers, as I mentioned earlier. Each will stress a particular aspect of the language: Speaking, reading, and writing; one, as well, Dr. Talvar, will slowly expose me to classical Kannada styles as my time here progresses. His specialization is in 13th-16th century Kannada literature.
Over the course of six months, I should develop a solid foundation for further years of Kannada study, which is what I am hopeful for.
Today will be my first day of Sanskrit instruction with Dr. Nagaraja Rao; I admit, however, that I don't know quite how to prepare for the hour I will spend with him studying the aShThadhyayiibhaaShyaprathamaavRttih, or, as I understand the title from the first glance: The first edition/installment/inclination of that which is to be said concerning the Eight Chapters. The "Eight Chapters" here refers to the traditional book of Sanskrit grammar, the Ashtadhyayi, composed by Panini 400-300 years B.C.E.
Is it not incredible that four solid years after beginniong the study of a language I am again like a child in the face of this new intellectual genre of grammar? I shouldn't say a child, I guess, as I do have some sense of Panini--I studied his text for about eight months in Pune, Maharashtra; however, crores of people have spent their lives in an attempt to understand Panini. This book promises easy comprehension of an approach to language very different from our contemporary Western linguistic's approaches. In short, this study, too, promises to be a new beginning.
Dr. Rao and I will meet for five hours a week and we will rotate subject matter between vyakaranam (grammar), kavyashastram (poetic science), and kavya (poetry). Each subject, or text, will reinforce and synergize the contents of the others. This week I'll memorize some 41 or so sutras relating to the 14 sutras of Shiva--a seemingly unintelligible collection of sounds: a-i-u-N. ru-lruk. e-ong. ai-ouch. ha-yavarat. lan. jna-ma-nga-Na-nam. jha-bhang. gha-Dha-dha-Sh... etc. Out of these 14 sutras, the entire grammar of Sanskrit, to this date the most complex and concise the world has ever known, emerges as, traditionally understood, a gift from the god Shiva, who also seems to be providing me with housing in Mysore. I just got off the phone with him.
The immediate work of establishing myself here seems to me to be progressing quite fine. After meeting at the Central Institute of Indian Languages (CIIL) yesterday, I have worked out five hours a week of Kannada instruction with three teachers who will rotate days and focus on different aspects of the language.
"Naanu yaaru?" Who am I?
My brother, Chris, once formulated a similar question on the streets of Varanasi. Questions like this have been posed by intellectual and spiritual greats throughout history, with various answers given and methods prescribed. The most recent installment of the same old question came up in my first Kannada lesson with Shree Vijaylakshmi of the CIIL.
"Naanu yaaru?" I asked.
She replied, "Niivu yaaru? No, I am sorry. What is your name?"
To which I replied, "Naanu Ralph." I am Ralph. And thus began what I am sure will be one of the greatest recent challenges in my life, the Kannada language.
I will report to the CIIL 11 O'clock daily Monday-Friday for about one hour of Kannada instruction with rotating teachers, as I mentioned earlier. Each will stress a particular aspect of the language: Speaking, reading, and writing; one, as well, Dr. Talvar, will slowly expose me to classical Kannada styles as my time here progresses. His specialization is in 13th-16th century Kannada literature.
Over the course of six months, I should develop a solid foundation for further years of Kannada study, which is what I am hopeful for.
Today will be my first day of Sanskrit instruction with Dr. Nagaraja Rao; I admit, however, that I don't know quite how to prepare for the hour I will spend with him studying the aShThadhyayiibhaaShyaprathamaavRttih, or, as I understand the title from the first glance: The first edition/installment/inclination of that which is to be said concerning the Eight Chapters. The "Eight Chapters" here refers to the traditional book of Sanskrit grammar, the Ashtadhyayi, composed by Panini 400-300 years B.C.E.
Is it not incredible that four solid years after beginniong the study of a language I am again like a child in the face of this new intellectual genre of grammar? I shouldn't say a child, I guess, as I do have some sense of Panini--I studied his text for about eight months in Pune, Maharashtra; however, crores of people have spent their lives in an attempt to understand Panini. This book promises easy comprehension of an approach to language very different from our contemporary Western linguistic's approaches. In short, this study, too, promises to be a new beginning.
Dr. Rao and I will meet for five hours a week and we will rotate subject matter between vyakaranam (grammar), kavyashastram (poetic science), and kavya (poetry). Each subject, or text, will reinforce and synergize the contents of the others. This week I'll memorize some 41 or so sutras relating to the 14 sutras of Shiva--a seemingly unintelligible collection of sounds: a-i-u-N. ru-lruk. e-ong. ai-ouch. ha-yavarat. lan. jna-ma-nga-Na-nam. jha-bhang. gha-Dha-dha-Sh... etc. Out of these 14 sutras, the entire grammar of Sanskrit, to this date the most complex and concise the world has ever known, emerges as, traditionally understood, a gift from the god Shiva, who also seems to be providing me with housing in Mysore. I just got off the phone with him.
11 November 2009
Mysore-Bangalore-Mysore 12 November 2009
A quick jaunt to Vedanta bookhouse in Bangalore exhausted me. Luckily, I ate a healthy lunch of pakoda--fried veggies--and South Indian thali: a tray with rice, puri (fried bread), an assortment of lentil-tomato-based soups, veggies, curd, and a sweet.
I arrived back to Mysore (pronounced My-soor) and promptly fell asleep early in the evening last night.
On the return journey from Bangalore, I met a nice young guy, Amit Kumar. He and I shared pleasant conversations during the three hour train ride. He, too, is applying this year to graduate school in the U.S. so we spoke about our processes of writing personal statements and possibilities of where we may end up attending school.
Today, I plan to contact one Mr. Talvar, currently a teacher at the Central Institute of Indian Languages. I'll try to update this later...
I arrived back to Mysore (pronounced My-soor) and promptly fell asleep early in the evening last night.
On the return journey from Bangalore, I met a nice young guy, Amit Kumar. He and I shared pleasant conversations during the three hour train ride. He, too, is applying this year to graduate school in the U.S. so we spoke about our processes of writing personal statements and possibilities of where we may end up attending school.
Today, I plan to contact one Mr. Talvar, currently a teacher at the Central Institute of Indian Languages. I'll try to update this later...
10 November 2009
Mysore, Karnataka 10 November 2009
I arrived in Mysore, Karnataka early this morning via the Ajmer-Mysore Express. The train's name belies its habit of slowly creeping to-and-fro between the North and the South of India. Like the first time I returned from the north to a more southerly Pune, Maharashtra nearly a year ago, already today there is a much greater sense of homey comfort in Mysore.
Early in the morning at 4:15 9 November, the train arrived at platform 2 of Pune Station. I boarded and stowed my luggage. It happened a family of four was to occupy the berth across from my single, and their company over the twenty-eight hour journey south brought many smiles, pleasant exchanges, and an invitation to Madikeri, the source of the holy river Kaveri. Satish, the father, tells me Madikeri is the "Switzerland of India." I'll take this to mean it's hilly or mountainous, green, and breathtaking. Not too different from the description I'd offer the countryside of Karnataka from the views during my long trainride. Similar, in a way, to my first journey south from Delhi to Pune, the terrain just keeps becoming more and more luscious, alive but moistfully demure.
I have received a tip from a Columbia Art History student to stay at the Dasaprakash, the light of the slave, hotel. It's relatively cheap at 315 rupees/day, clean, hospitable, and with a desk and a chair I was sold on my stay. Though how much spare time I'll have to spend in that particular model of desk and chair is yet to be seen. I suppose I'll get a good few hours in tonight after this post.
In a new place, I have a number of things to explore and contacts to be made. My frist two orders of business are to contact the former director of The Central Institute of Indian Languages and meet with him. (Done, details follow) I will begin as soon as possible lessons in Kannada, the language of Karnataka. It's script and grammar are quite different from the dominant Nagari script of Hindi, Marathi, and numerous other North Indian languages, not to mention Sanskrit. However, one finds Sanskrit written in all varieties of script, depending upon the region and time period of a text's composition. Nagari script is historically relatively new; but Kannada's script dates farther back into early medieval Indian history. More than this (and why I am so keen to begin my long study of the language), Kannada literature records an awareness of time from this early date that did not exist in other Indian languages as they came to auto-reflexively understand themselves as constituting a regional place (the exception here may be Tamil, a subject I am not knowledgable in). More on this over the coming months, I am sure.
Today's breakfast consisted of two types of rice--both subtly different and exquisitely tasty--along with black coffee, to whose strength even I have to adjust.
Now, following breakfast I made two phone calls: 1) Dr. Raja Purohit and 2) Dr. Nagaraja Rao; they both graciously agreed to meet me today at their home and The Oriental Research Institute of Mysore, respectively. Having met with them now, it seems I will be studying Sanskrit grammar (vyakaran), poetry (kavya), and poetic science (kavyashastra) with Dr. Rao 4-5 hours a week; Dr. Purohit is kindly assisting me in matters of meeting a teacher of Kannada. Both, fortunately for me, are helping in matters of long-term housing. I may, finally, get that homestay I have been craving... News to come, surely.
The Oriental Research Institute of Mysore, where I am sitting now, is an old, elegant building just beyond the city's center. It took me about one hour's explorative meandering, successively asking directions from different different people to arrive in its library. The manuscript collection seems incredible, but one can't know whether its contents will weather the tropical climate here in the South of India. Years ago--perhaps decades or centuries--it would be incumbent upon young students of language to copy texts and thereby both learning how masters craft the language and preserving the material for future generations. Nowadays, unfortunately, the study of ancient pasts is out of fashion and attracts little attention from serious students in India.
The sky is clearing now and the air smells sweet, the fragrance of some flower meandering as I was not so long ago--it resting in my nose and I in a library--both to give pleasure to the creations of some unknown maker. Taking time to understand what it is they record, our respective reactions, that is--me to the scent and the texts to me--each one, the flower and myself, attempting to understand what it is the object of delight records, and think about how its use in the present might help to propagate its life and beauty.
The bag resting in my lap holds a round-trip ticket to Bangalore for tomorrow morning 6:45. It's a good thing I like bhaaratiiya rail! I am to visit the Vedanta bookstore nearby Uma cinema hall and have a field day amongst my flowers--Sanskrit books. I'll sit and read them, probably in that very O.R.I. library, over the course of months. They'll become for me like the flower for the bee, each one without the other would wander aimlessly about; but with each other our wanderings at least have some complex purpose, the intricate geometries of which I am only now coming to understand.
Early in the morning at 4:15 9 November, the train arrived at platform 2 of Pune Station. I boarded and stowed my luggage. It happened a family of four was to occupy the berth across from my single, and their company over the twenty-eight hour journey south brought many smiles, pleasant exchanges, and an invitation to Madikeri, the source of the holy river Kaveri. Satish, the father, tells me Madikeri is the "Switzerland of India." I'll take this to mean it's hilly or mountainous, green, and breathtaking. Not too different from the description I'd offer the countryside of Karnataka from the views during my long trainride. Similar, in a way, to my first journey south from Delhi to Pune, the terrain just keeps becoming more and more luscious, alive but moistfully demure.
I have received a tip from a Columbia Art History student to stay at the Dasaprakash, the light of the slave, hotel. It's relatively cheap at 315 rupees/day, clean, hospitable, and with a desk and a chair I was sold on my stay. Though how much spare time I'll have to spend in that particular model of desk and chair is yet to be seen. I suppose I'll get a good few hours in tonight after this post.
In a new place, I have a number of things to explore and contacts to be made. My frist two orders of business are to contact the former director of The Central Institute of Indian Languages and meet with him. (Done, details follow) I will begin as soon as possible lessons in Kannada, the language of Karnataka. It's script and grammar are quite different from the dominant Nagari script of Hindi, Marathi, and numerous other North Indian languages, not to mention Sanskrit. However, one finds Sanskrit written in all varieties of script, depending upon the region and time period of a text's composition. Nagari script is historically relatively new; but Kannada's script dates farther back into early medieval Indian history. More than this (and why I am so keen to begin my long study of the language), Kannada literature records an awareness of time from this early date that did not exist in other Indian languages as they came to auto-reflexively understand themselves as constituting a regional place (the exception here may be Tamil, a subject I am not knowledgable in). More on this over the coming months, I am sure.
Today's breakfast consisted of two types of rice--both subtly different and exquisitely tasty--along with black coffee, to whose strength even I have to adjust.
Now, following breakfast I made two phone calls: 1) Dr. Raja Purohit and 2) Dr. Nagaraja Rao; they both graciously agreed to meet me today at their home and The Oriental Research Institute of Mysore, respectively. Having met with them now, it seems I will be studying Sanskrit grammar (vyakaran), poetry (kavya), and poetic science (kavyashastra) with Dr. Rao 4-5 hours a week; Dr. Purohit is kindly assisting me in matters of meeting a teacher of Kannada. Both, fortunately for me, are helping in matters of long-term housing. I may, finally, get that homestay I have been craving... News to come, surely.
The Oriental Research Institute of Mysore, where I am sitting now, is an old, elegant building just beyond the city's center. It took me about one hour's explorative meandering, successively asking directions from different different people to arrive in its library. The manuscript collection seems incredible, but one can't know whether its contents will weather the tropical climate here in the South of India. Years ago--perhaps decades or centuries--it would be incumbent upon young students of language to copy texts and thereby both learning how masters craft the language and preserving the material for future generations. Nowadays, unfortunately, the study of ancient pasts is out of fashion and attracts little attention from serious students in India.
The sky is clearing now and the air smells sweet, the fragrance of some flower meandering as I was not so long ago--it resting in my nose and I in a library--both to give pleasure to the creations of some unknown maker. Taking time to understand what it is they record, our respective reactions, that is--me to the scent and the texts to me--each one, the flower and myself, attempting to understand what it is the object of delight records, and think about how its use in the present might help to propagate its life and beauty.
The bag resting in my lap holds a round-trip ticket to Bangalore for tomorrow morning 6:45. It's a good thing I like bhaaratiiya rail! I am to visit the Vedanta bookstore nearby Uma cinema hall and have a field day amongst my flowers--Sanskrit books. I'll sit and read them, probably in that very O.R.I. library, over the course of months. They'll become for me like the flower for the bee, each one without the other would wander aimlessly about; but with each other our wanderings at least have some complex purpose, the intricate geometries of which I am only now coming to understand.
07 November 2009
Indu Nivas, 8 November 2009
The bhajiwala is crossing in front of Indu Nivas, screaming melodically to potential buyers still tucked into their homes. It is 9:00 A.M.; I've been awake now for three hours. The day starts with the flip of a switch--hot water becomes available within ten, just enough time to once more doze lazily under the fan. This is probably the only time of day that I'll be cold, and I pull a musty blankey over my torso.
A warm shower rinses remaining sleep from my body. Clean, I sit on the terrace singing to the now rising sun. Two eggs--hard-boiled--and toast make a tasty breakfast, and the first extended conversation with home satisfies an appetite of a different sort. It seems 1/4 kilo of coffee is too much for ten days, so I decide to make the cup truly robusto. Twenty minutes later as I speak with dad, the cup is ready and now my focus slightly too perked for much use beyond describing the day so far.
I'll leave early tomorrow at 3:45 in the morning for Pune Station. I've arranged a former, dependently regular autowala to pick me up in front of Indu Nivas. A 4:30 A.M. departure for Mysore promises to begin a new experience with a new experience: I've never boarded a train in the middle of the night.
Having returned to Pune this week, I realized how much I miss it here. Now leaving again, it is only the assuring promises of new friends and helpers, as well as cravings for something new and yet different that incite me to go again. I've wondered in the past week when, if ever again, time might afford me the pleasure of calling this magical place, the house of the moon on morning road, my home.
It seems, now, I will never again be a person with just one, if ever any of us are indeed such persons. Our hearts always residing in multiple places, octalocating our spirit sometimes in obscure, other time in more obvious places.
Lately, again, I feel myself resting in the beauty of a language--that of the gods. It offers a pleasure I enjoy every day as the light and sounds--birds' song, syllables, and the shifting tide of time pulling in, too, more horns--strung together along various colored threads of scent and sound are sewn together by eyes, two hands and feet, pulled by overriding intention to please the goddess of language who does, indeed, support everything. How do we experience, know or create anything but through language?
A large palm tree and a pine frame my view today. Buildings grown dirty, too, as they are allowed--simply allowed--to sink back into the environment from which architects and craftsmen conjured them, enchanting earth with spells. It's one of my favorite aspects of the immediately perceptible Indian aesthetic: Time, decay, mossy-moist life on earth transformed--concrete--become ornaments, not eyesores. Something about this is warming. It lacks presumption that time will not have its way; indeed, just helping time--that most successful of beasts--perform its duty and function, even though time, among all things of the world, needs the least help. Then, too, in offering help to time, perhaps we may get time on our side. Not a bad story of success to have sponsoring one's actions, I suppose.
Orders of business for the day include (hopefully) internet, tiffin, lock and lockbox, vegetables, and packing. In acquiring internet I've so far not met with success: the one thing not as prepared as I would have hoped, it is, among all things to be prepared, of the least order of importance and will keep life just that much more interesting.
It's been too short a time here in the holy city, punyapattanam; but, alas, all good things must, in time, come to an end.
A warm shower rinses remaining sleep from my body. Clean, I sit on the terrace singing to the now rising sun. Two eggs--hard-boiled--and toast make a tasty breakfast, and the first extended conversation with home satisfies an appetite of a different sort. It seems 1/4 kilo of coffee is too much for ten days, so I decide to make the cup truly robusto. Twenty minutes later as I speak with dad, the cup is ready and now my focus slightly too perked for much use beyond describing the day so far.
I'll leave early tomorrow at 3:45 in the morning for Pune Station. I've arranged a former, dependently regular autowala to pick me up in front of Indu Nivas. A 4:30 A.M. departure for Mysore promises to begin a new experience with a new experience: I've never boarded a train in the middle of the night.
Having returned to Pune this week, I realized how much I miss it here. Now leaving again, it is only the assuring promises of new friends and helpers, as well as cravings for something new and yet different that incite me to go again. I've wondered in the past week when, if ever again, time might afford me the pleasure of calling this magical place, the house of the moon on morning road, my home.
It seems, now, I will never again be a person with just one, if ever any of us are indeed such persons. Our hearts always residing in multiple places, octalocating our spirit sometimes in obscure, other time in more obvious places.
Lately, again, I feel myself resting in the beauty of a language--that of the gods. It offers a pleasure I enjoy every day as the light and sounds--birds' song, syllables, and the shifting tide of time pulling in, too, more horns--strung together along various colored threads of scent and sound are sewn together by eyes, two hands and feet, pulled by overriding intention to please the goddess of language who does, indeed, support everything. How do we experience, know or create anything but through language?
A large palm tree and a pine frame my view today. Buildings grown dirty, too, as they are allowed--simply allowed--to sink back into the environment from which architects and craftsmen conjured them, enchanting earth with spells. It's one of my favorite aspects of the immediately perceptible Indian aesthetic: Time, decay, mossy-moist life on earth transformed--concrete--become ornaments, not eyesores. Something about this is warming. It lacks presumption that time will not have its way; indeed, just helping time--that most successful of beasts--perform its duty and function, even though time, among all things of the world, needs the least help. Then, too, in offering help to time, perhaps we may get time on our side. Not a bad story of success to have sponsoring one's actions, I suppose.
Orders of business for the day include (hopefully) internet, tiffin, lock and lockbox, vegetables, and packing. In acquiring internet I've so far not met with success: the one thing not as prepared as I would have hoped, it is, among all things to be prepared, of the least order of importance and will keep life just that much more interesting.
It's been too short a time here in the holy city, punyapattanam; but, alas, all good things must, in time, come to an end.
06 November 2009
The Goose King and a Gaggle of Gays
In the mirror of Rajhams, my dadhi katnevala [beard trimmer] on Prabhat road, I see a flamboyant clap of hands raised above a shadowed face. Parmesh, the hair dresser, had seen them coming; I wondered about the pause in my shave as he fumbled through his pockets for change.
"mujhe pamch de de! (give me five [rupees])" Parmesh was demanded with another clap and a scream. His two rupees weren't quite enough. I gave ten, and another friend entered the store.
"I'm a gay!" shouted the rose-cheeked, shadow-faced hijra wearing rectangular frames.
"ham meim aisa dekh sakta hum [I can see that]," I replied. "kaham se haim?[Where are you from?]"
"You know Hindi?!" they screamed, as if this was a bigger surprise than having a relaxing shave interrupted by a flamboyant display of ascetic devotion, two (wo)men in drag.
Parmesh, I could see, wanted them out of his store; but seriously, how often does this happen in life? Not nearly enough in my estimation.
(S)he asked me for my phone number, "aap ka cell number aahe ka?" in a nice mixture of Marathi and Hindi. I've had similar experiences with Indian men--never a woman--before, and have learned the high value of secrecy in such matters as a cell phone number, often the only thing remotely resembling what people in the U.S. value and know as 'personal space'.
After some time spent correcting make-up in the mirror, adjusting their hair, and rearranging the dupatas they've yet to have nearly enough practice wearing, they left. But not without first giving me a sweet pinch on the cheek, "I like you," I was told. Smiling, I took my blessing and waved them both goodbye.
"mujhe pamch de de! (give me five [rupees])" Parmesh was demanded with another clap and a scream. His two rupees weren't quite enough. I gave ten, and another friend entered the store.
"I'm a gay!" shouted the rose-cheeked, shadow-faced hijra wearing rectangular frames.
"ham meim aisa dekh sakta hum [I can see that]," I replied. "kaham se haim?[Where are you from?]"
"You know Hindi?!" they screamed, as if this was a bigger surprise than having a relaxing shave interrupted by a flamboyant display of ascetic devotion, two (wo)men in drag.
Parmesh, I could see, wanted them out of his store; but seriously, how often does this happen in life? Not nearly enough in my estimation.
(S)he asked me for my phone number, "aap ka cell number aahe ka?" in a nice mixture of Marathi and Hindi. I've had similar experiences with Indian men--never a woman--before, and have learned the high value of secrecy in such matters as a cell phone number, often the only thing remotely resembling what people in the U.S. value and know as 'personal space'.
After some time spent correcting make-up in the mirror, adjusting their hair, and rearranging the dupatas they've yet to have nearly enough practice wearing, they left. But not without first giving me a sweet pinch on the cheek, "I like you," I was told. Smiling, I took my blessing and waved them both goodbye.
04 November 2009
Bureaucracy: Matters of the Spirit. Please, take a number.
25! Token number 25!
There'll be more to come on this one, but suffice it to say that a day spent amidst the chaos of Indian bureaucracy is, well, practical in matters of the spirit. Patience, that all-too-often-forgotten virtue, becomes strong like bear; soulpower exhausted like salmon.
Swimming up a multi-directional, quasi-fourth-dimensional stream of directives (or lack thereof) reminds one of the biopolitik: legal impartiality, blindness, din, and sadomasochism.
There'll be more to come on this one, but suffice it to say that a day spent amidst the chaos of Indian bureaucracy is, well, practical in matters of the spirit. Patience, that all-too-often-forgotten virtue, becomes strong like bear; soulpower exhausted like salmon.
Swimming up a multi-directional, quasi-fourth-dimensional stream of directives (or lack thereof) reminds one of the biopolitik: legal impartiality, blindness, din, and sadomasochism.
03 November 2009
#5 Indu Nivas (The Moon's home), Prabhat (morning) Road, opp. Hotel Laxman 3 November
I returned early this morning to my flat in the Deccan Gymkhana area of Pune, Maharashtra. I will live here for about one week before taking the Mysore Express train to Mysore, Karnataka. The same 'bai', or maidservant, Devashalabai will work for me cooking food, cleaning clothes, and making her best effort to keep the flat somewhat clean. It's kind of hopeless at this point, though--the place is so dirty, but it's familiar, and it's in a beautiful location. Devashalabai, whose name means "abode of the gods," was excited to see me and I am excited to be seeing her again. The flat is large for one person.
The bureaucratic process of registering as an alien is underway; I hope my travels to Mysore will not be delayed due to the complicated process of police registration, but chances are they will because that's just the way things roll here in India. I have plenty of work that needs to be done, and now I have a very comfortable place to do it. Tomorrow, I'll be able to pick up a country-wide, mobile broadband connection so I can make more regular blog updates from my laptop wherever I am!
I have been greatly helped by my friend, Jon, who has given me contacts of a potential host family in Mysore; the family apparently has a wonderfully nice home to share, but their rent seems a bit steep to me at 12,500 rupees. It's possible I could find someone to share the place with, as I also learned there will be two American scholars of Art History in Mysore whom I plan to meet. Mysore is known for sandalwood and its yoga schools that attract a fair international crowd of yogis. Perhaps I, too, might one day become one through instruction offered by a flatmate at a flat rate.
After I complete this blog entry, I'll do some shopping for vegetables and pohe, a flattened, dehydrated rice flake that I enjoy preparing for breakfast. I'll invest in some doodh, "milk," and possibly some flour and rice for Shalabai to prepare meals for me. Baingan bartha is top on the list...
I've been returning to old stores and restaurants I once frequented, and enjoy the responses I receive. Today I returned to a tailor whom I asked to hem some pants for me: As I walked into the shop he said "You're late," and he pulled my khaki pants out from the cupboard they'd been hanging in for about five months. Thankfully he still had them, because I was down to one pair of pants after my taxi driver sped off immediately after dropping me at a hotel upon my arrival in Pune. In the car was a free bag of my jeans and some t-shirts. Luckily, that was all. For a first loss of a trip, it's not bad. And now I have a handsome pair of khakis to boot!
01 November 2009
Lunar landings, aerial view, late-night Bombay 30 Oct. '09
Aluminum-amber
glow of moon butters wing.
Melting liquid, light drops
splattering numbers increasing
of lights below.
Bombay approaches.
glow of moon butters wing.
Melting liquid, light drops
splattering numbers increasing
of lights below.
Bombay approaches.
Pune, Maharashtra 1 November F.C. Road
Only in Maharashtra have I seen the men and boys of potraj beggar families whip themselves for money, absolving donors of their पाप, 'pop', or "sinful misdeeds." Members of these families travel together, usually in three or four. The lady--wife apparent--holds a baby swaddled close to her chest by cloth, like those that have become a hip, new accessory of modern moms. Medieval as this may sound, these men, their boys and family are born into this walk of life. You can always be sure this type of family is nearby when the low lull of a particular, constant drumbeat is heard with loud, intermittent cracks of a whip--they're coming back for another round I can hear--but this is business as usual.
I'm sipping a cold drink in the company of five hundred most proximate, middle-class देशीs, 'deshis', Indians, those--literally--"endowed with direction" or "of a country" in this land where I am विदेशी, 'videshi', "without direction" an "expat." The proximal deshis are marrying themselves off at a "parichay," or "introduction" of particular caste members to one another. Well, at least I know some people know they're not headed into a career of self-flagellation.
The potraj men and boys of are adorned by a colorful skirt-like waistband comprised of blue, purple, red, or various other bright colored strips of fabric dulled by dust worn over patterned, baggy pants. Their rhythmic step is highlighted by bells that add to the clamor of drum and air-piercing crack of the whip. On the men's and boys' forehead, shoulders, and gaunt, concave chests red powder, tilak, is smeared marking them of their god. The women wear a sari, and usually carry what I assume to be the family possessions on their head. I've never given them money, but maybe someday now I will, as describing them in words, adorning them and their vocation with language, reveals them to a self beyond the immediacy of judgment, yielding a chuckle and a smile.
Back Street Boys' "I want it that way" begins to be piped out of the speakers; the beggar family drums away--mere meters constantly separate insurmountable distance between all walks of life, everywhere.
I'm sipping a cold drink in the company of five hundred most proximate, middle-class देशीs, 'deshis', Indians, those--literally--"endowed with direction" or "of a country" in this land where I am विदेशी, 'videshi', "without direction" an "expat." The proximal deshis are marrying themselves off at a "parichay," or "introduction" of particular caste members to one another. Well, at least I know some people know they're not headed into a career of self-flagellation.
The potraj men and boys of are adorned by a colorful skirt-like waistband comprised of blue, purple, red, or various other bright colored strips of fabric dulled by dust worn over patterned, baggy pants. Their rhythmic step is highlighted by bells that add to the clamor of drum and air-piercing crack of the whip. On the men's and boys' forehead, shoulders, and gaunt, concave chests red powder, tilak, is smeared marking them of their god. The women wear a sari, and usually carry what I assume to be the family possessions on their head. I've never given them money, but maybe someday now I will, as describing them in words, adorning them and their vocation with language, reveals them to a self beyond the immediacy of judgment, yielding a chuckle and a smile.
Back Street Boys' "I want it that way" begins to be piped out of the speakers; the beggar family drums away--mere meters constantly separate insurmountable distance between all walks of life, everywhere.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
