Review of Cyberabad Days by Ian McDonald

Ian McDonald’s 2004 River of Gods was a return to writing after a three year break.  Batteries obviously recharged, the novel won the British Science Fiction Award and was nominated for others.  The premise of the book so fertile in fact, 2009 saw the publishing of Cyberabad Days, a collection of short stories and one novella—a spillover of creative effort from the novel.  While a couple of the stories have the feel of a writer in the drawing room, trying out characters and angles for a larger work, most have been polished into more-than-presentable form.  The quality of the collection building to a crescendo, the three final stories are glittering examples of the power of sci-fi in short form.  Each set in the same India of 2047 as River of Gods, the following are my notes: 

A rather standard sci-fi foot on which to start the collection, “Sanjeev and Robotwallah” tells of a poor boy and the stars in his eyes for the war mechs that battle outside his village.  Possessing little of the flare that makes McDonald such a great prose stylist, the narrative is written in straight-forward fashion compared to Riverof Gods, but has a nice ending.

Review of "Life of Pi" by Yann Martell

Not trapped in a zoo, not trapped in a building, not trapped in a cage, but trapped on a lifeboat with a Bengal tiger at sea.  How long would you survive?  Would you be able to overcome your fear and try to assuage the situation?  Would the absurdity begin to make you think it all a dream?  Yann Martel’s 2001 novel Life of Pi is such a story.  Playing with itself intra-textually, Martel’s story raises more questions than it answers, in the process telling a tale of survival at sea like has never been told. 

Piscine Molitor Patel, more happily called Pi, is a young boy growing up in Pondicherry, India.  His parents own a zoo, a facet of life that gives pleasure to an existence that is otherwise filled with taunts about his name.  Deciding to move to Canada to better their prospects, one day Pi’s parents pack the animals in a freighter and head out to sea.  They never arrive on Western shores, however. The ship capsizing, Pi is left afloat with only himself, a lifeboat, and a few animals—a hyena, orangutan, zebra, and Bengal tiger included. His adventure has only begun.

Review of "Shah Jahan: The Rise and Fall of the Mughal Emperor" by Fergus Nicoll

The vast majority of human history is a relatively monotonous affair and does not make for interesting reading for most people.  Hunting and gathering, living in smoky wooden huts, even going to work day-in and day-out at a company simply can’t get antennas buzzing.  There are brief flashes in history, however, which are quite the opposite.  Aflame with drama and social pyrotechnics to the point events seem surreal, the life of Shah Jahan is one such existence.  Fergus Nicoll captures all of its fleeting glory in his 2009 Shah Jahan: The Rise and Fall of the Mughal Emperor.

Existing at a time when bloodline was only the starting point for determining monarchial ascendance, Shah Jahan warred for the throne amongst his brothers like his, and his father’s fathers, before him.  Primogeniture acquired by force, the Mughal era was a constant bloody feud at the top.  It was also an era of unprecedented wealth in Indian history.  Europe’s kings and queens of the time living in poverty by comparison, the amounts of silks, women, jewels, gold, elephants, lands, etc. available to a Mughal lord was lavish to say the least, the limits of mortality seemingly the only thing separating them from gods.  Mix luxurious parades, palaces, and harems with assassination attempts, court intrigue, and a tumultuous political scene, and the flickering flame that was Shah Jahan’s life takes on a dramatic hue few men in history can boast of.

Riding the fence between the dry lands of formal report and the greener lands of infotainment, Fergus Nichol’s biography of the Mughal emperor is approachable by all.  Fully supported by facts and documentation (there is a 18 page ‘works cited’ section), the narrative is nevertheless structured to focus on the less docile aspects of Jahan’s life.   Using the larger social and political context of the time, all of the major events of the Shah’s life are foreshadowed in appropriate detail, followed by active description.  The book only 250 pages, Nichol does not describe the day to day life of the emperor, his family, or his kingdom except when necessary.  Events and story the focus, readers seeking a detailed account of the Mughals should look elsewhere.  With its beautiful packaging, including color imagery, family trees, and textual excerpts from historical documents, the book is intended to be perused for enjoyment, not studied.

Nichol first sets the scene with the history of Jahan’s forefathers and the bloodshed and vice that accompanied their rises to power up to the time of Jahan’s birth.  The young man’s life is then traced from being anointed next-in-line to patricidal outcast.  Eventually taking the throne, the amount of wealth at Jahan’s disposal not only shapes the Taj Mahal and Peacock Throne, but ultimately leads to his downfall, all facts related in appropriate stages by Nichol.  Gaps do exist, but again, the book is intended to be read for pleasure not as a complete survey.

Prince, general, chosen one, outcast, father, rebel, husband, emperor, and prisoner are only some of the titles Kharrum Shah Jahan held in his life.  Wholly human despite the extra-ordinary position he occupied, his virtues and vices are all relayed in an objective tone that leaves the reader with an appropriate measure of empathy reading his fate.  Jahan’s love for his second wife capable of being as warm as his blood was cold toward his brothers, Shah Jahan’s life is markedly human despite the supermarket tabloid surface.

In the end, Fergus Nichol’s Shah Jahan: The Rise and Fall of the Mughal Emperor is an epic-styled biography that covers the important landmarks of Shah Jahan’s life, rebel to the throne to prisoner of the throne.  Given the position Jahan occupied and the social mores of the era regarding royal ascendancy, his story is anything but boring.  The blood and betrayal, honor and love, all set against the backdrop of one of the most gaudy and extravagant dynasties to rule India, makes for imaginative reading not unlike a novel.  Knowing, however, that the story is taken from history and not daytime television only renders the tale all the more powerful; lessons remain to be learned.

Culture Corner: Bollywood

Several times in my life have I heard someone say: “What, you’ve never seen a Bollywood movie? You simply have to! They’re great!” The best of intentions never panning out, being in India seemed like a good time to take up their suggestion. And so, on a 42 degree afternoon (f#%^ hot for the Celsius impaired), a companion and I bought tickets for a blessedly air-conditioned cinema in downtown Varanasi. Jannat 2 our afternoon’s entertainment, my first experience with Bollywood was in a context as it was meant to be. But like the heat and chaos waiting outside, I left in shock.

Want high-school romance? Check. Want Tom Cruise action? Check. Want chase scenes? Check. Want slapstick humor three red balls short of a clown? Check. Want nasal singing? Check. Want choreographed happy people dancing like Jim Carrey? Check. Want choreographed happy people dancing amidst graphic death? Check. Want unending slow-motion glamour shots of Indian stars made to look as Eur-american as possible? Check. Want highly predictable plot outcomes of the wink-wink variety? Check. In short, it’s all like stewing MTV, Lethal Weapon, and any Jennifer Aniston romance into one big pot of ugliness.

Enough said. Here is a rough breakdown of Jannat 2 as proof.

Scene 1 Boy is shown joking with friend at night on bridge. (I say “boy” because of his metrosexuality. He was not a convincing “man”.) Fellow gangsters appear who know boy. Friend runs away. Gangsters threaten boy by holding him over bridge abutment. Gangsters smile. It is a joke. He will live. Gangsters slash boy’s palm.

Scene 2 Boy goes to doctor’s office for hand. Sees beautiful goddess actress and it’s love at first sight. (Viewers become aware of the love thanks to the subtleties of slow-motion hair-flipping on the girl’s part and the “holding-cucumber-in-mouth” look of the boy.) Boy acts shy while girl doctor (only in the movies in India!) tends slashed hand. Saccharine dialogue ensues. Girl refuses boy’s advances, so boy slashes other palm with scalpel. Blood flows. Boy smiles. Girl smiles.

Scene 3 Men sit in bar drinking and smoking. They are off-duty detectives. One man, a real man, drunkenly leaves and attempts to call wife. No luck because she's been dead for a year. Man lurches back into bar. Philosophy ensues over cigarettes.

Scene 4 Boy walks down street in daytime, talking with friend, no bandages. Stops at shop to make a deal. Off-duty detectives from previous scene witness deal and give chase. Charley Chaplin scenes ensue, complete with such tricks as: boy hides behind car only for car to drive away, exposing boy to otherwise hopeless police. Chase continues. Attempting to escape, boy accidentally jumps into same rickshaw as female doctor. Ooh. Dialogue ensues. Boy acquires phone number. Police catch boy and boy loses phone number. Girl drives away.

Scene 5 Boy is convinced by detectives to go undercover and infiltrate a gun smuggling ring. Simple.

Scene 6 Street at night. Boy and group of friends discuss boy’s bad luck at having lost girl’s phone number. Song breaks out. Boys dance in choreographed fashion while boy sings. Images of he and girl wearing beautiful clothes and being beautiful people spliced into song and dance routine. Everyone feels better.

Scene 7 Same night, maybe different street. Obvious bad guy sits at table (later to be revealed as #2). Boy and friend approach. Clever dialogue ensues. Boy dismantles and reassembles pistol in record time, thus passing bad guy’s test. Boy welcomed into gun ring with friend.

Scene 8 Restaurant. Boy and friend eat (with hands, shoveling food into mouth like animals). Girl enters with friends. (What a coincidence in a city of 13 million!) Boy and friend banter about speaking to girl. Boy ultimately talks with girl, convinces her to go on date.

Cut scenes Boy goes on date with girl. Scenery is luxurious and dirt-free, coconut palms, architectural wonders, etc. Song breaks out. Everyone is happy. Many slow-motion glamour shots showing beautiful people. Girl is convinced. There is hand holding at the end. (All the middle schoolers giggle.)

Scene 9 Luxury SUV enters underground storage area with various guns scattered about. Man exits vehicle. Obvious is big boss. #2 introduces boy to boss. Boy afraid because boss’s piercing eye stare seems onto his undercover status.

Scene 10 Boy shown secretly meeting detective to pass info about gun ring. Bro moment occurs.

Scene 11 Boy goes on second date with girl. Love is decided. They go to a civil office and are married the next day. Love scene ensues. No nudity. Only glamour shots of girl wearing 17 different saris.

Cut scenes Boy shown at various stages of dealing and storing weapons, and generally sneaking around. Does good job. Boss approves of boy and friend. Wife waiting at home for boy. Life is good. Manly detective watches from wings, bottle of booze always in hand.

Scene 12 Boy and girl’s new home. Girl welcomes father for a visit. Father turns out to be gun boss. Ooh. Plot twist. Another ooh. Boy scared.

Scene 13 More bro moments occur between manly detective and boy. Boy afraid father-in-law/boss will discover he works for police and kill him.

Scene 14 Boss gathers crew and tells them he knows a rat exists in his crew. Everyone scared except #2.

Scene 15 Detective’s office. A mole exists. Manly detective discusses situation with police chief. Detective instructed by chief to find mole. Leaves to drink.

Scene 16 Newlyweds highly westernized luxury penthouse (no rubbish in sight). Girl prepares candles and spreads roses over whole apartment in 21st century Betty Crocker attentiveness. Boy shown in wife-beater grinning like pervert on bed. Slow motion love scene ensues wherein the only flesh exposed is shoulder and a hint of couple’s backs. Sexual congress is implied amongst many slow motion glamour shots--no pimples, wrinkles, or other imperfections to be seen.

Scene 17 Boss gathers crew again and points to friend as rat. Tense dialogue ensues. When friend’s life is threatened, boy attempts to admit he is rat. However, friend gives life for boy. Blows out brains in graphic detail. Nobody is singing.

Scene 18 Manly detective confronts random co-worker about potential status as mole. Detective destroys conveniently worn cast on right arm to test if any listening devices are located inside. None are. Chief calls detective in for another meeting. Something must be done.

Scene 19 Boy drives with boss and #2 in luxury SUV to big gun deal. Manly detective suddenly appears, stops SUV, and threatens everybody with arrest. Group escapes on legal technicality. #2 eyes boy with look “I know you’re the informant.” Detective drinks as SUV drives away.

Scene 20 Boss instructs boy to leave town for a big deal. Boy breaks news to girl: no honeymoon. I must work. Girl sad. Slow motion tears and sadness ensue.

Scene 21 Boy and detective secretly meet in back alley at night. Boy expresses pains of life. Detective drinks. Bro moment with heartfelt dialogue. #2 suddenly appears and utters the Hindi equivalent of “Ha! Gotcha!” to boy. Chase ensues. #2 caught and tortured by detective. #2 dies.

Scene 22 Grand climax. Boy returns to gun lair. Numerous young men enter cavern behind him. Nobody wants to sing. Or dance. Boss confronts boy as informant. Shooting breaks out. Boy performs various slow-motion rolls and flips returning fire to numerous bad guys, killing all. Boss runs away. Boy chases. Police chief appears and points gun at boss. Boy relaxes, thinks all is well. Chief shoots boy. (Surprise!!) Chief and boss laugh and start to walk away. Manly detective appears and shoots all bad guys. (Surpr—oh wait, that’s not a surprise, those bro moments…). Detective hoists boy on shoulder and drives pell-mell to hospital.

Scene 23 Boy, looking as handsome as ever, lays in hospital bed. Detective leans over, listens to profound words. Boy dies. (About time!) Detective sullen.

Scene 24 Girl, as usual, waits at home for boy. (Her career as a doctor appears to have been abandoned after her marriage as her only role after is to wait at home dressed sexily.) Detective appears. Breaks news. Slow-motion tears. Makeup remains immaculate. Detective leaves.

Scene 25 Smoke filled bar from opening scenes. Manly detective, sober, goes to pay phone to call wife. Lifts receiver but decides better not call a dead woman.

THE END

As can be seen, the producers and directors of Jannat 2 have sold their soul to the devil. There is a less than subliminal message being flashed throughout the film: “We want money, and we want money badly. We want to appease the lowest common denominator. We don’t care about anything else. Thus, our film is crap of the most impure variety.”

Suffice to say, I now understand the appeal of Bollywood: unintentional humor

Review of "The Wisdom of India" ed. by Lin Yutang

Originally coming off the press as The Wisdom of China and India, publishers have since chosen to split the 1,100 pages of fine print into its natural two halves.  For the Indian half, Lin Yutang, editor of the anthology, chooses to focus on the philosophy of Hinduism and Buddhism.  Thus, readers looking for a practical outlay of the day to day ritual and ceremony of Hindu and Buddhist worship should be aware that the book’s focus is the wisdom, mythology, and mysticism of the two Eastern worldviews instead, save ancient words on yoga and meditation.  As a result, perhaps no better introduction to Indian perennial philosophy exists in one book.

The Wisdom of India contains a profound selection of texts from the Indian canon.  Representing Hinduism are the complete Upanishads, Bhagavad-Gita, and Ramayana, as well as selections from the Rigveda and yoga aphorisms of Patanjali.  Representing Buddhism are the Dhammapada, three sermons by Buddha, Edwin Arnold’s Life of Buddha, the Surangama Sutra, and a selection of Buddhist parables and legends.  Topping off the book is a selection of fables from the Panchatantra and the Enchanted Parrot that have a egalitarian feel similar to 1001 Arabian Nights.  Giving free rein to the texts to speak for themselves, Lin acts solely as editor.  His introductions brief (a handful of pages for each text) and his commentary almost non-existent, he forgoes the technical or academic approach and allows the reader to form their own thoughts.

A milestone at its publishing in 1942, The Wisdom of India has since become one of many books attempting to bring the mindset of the East to the West.  Born and raised in China, Lin offers something that most scholars of European descent cannot, however.  His own culture influenced and in turn influencing Indian’s,  the parallels of Chinese and Indian thought run much closer than any of the West’s big three: Judaism, Christianity, and Islam.  Thus Lin’s introductions and commentary to the selections offer nuggets of insight typically not available to the Western mind.  Secondly, that Lin is very selective, using translations of the texts by Indian writers when available, a more in depth view of perennial Indian philosophy is presented.

In the end, the reader would be hard pressed to find a better compilation of the Indian canon in a single volume.  Analysis light, readers should not expect an academic text loaded with footnotes and commentary, nor a look into the daily practices of each religion.  Unfortunately, for reasons of length in the original edition, Lin was unable to include the Mahabharata, which remains the lone blemish on the book.  However, that what remains is considered the most important and sacred of Indian texts should speak for itself.  At turns wise, satirical, philosophical, sacred, spiritual, and funny, the greatest quantity of not only Indian but universal wisdom can be found in the book--bar locating the individual texts themselves.  Anyone looking for an introduction to Indian philosophy or a place where nearly all the most important texts are gathered under one roof should look no further.  (As a side note, the other half, The Wisdom of China, is equally good.)

Culture Corner: The Dirty Left Hand

At heart an optimist, until now I’ve tried to post the nicer side of India and gloss over the omnipresent evils. Fortunately, I’m also a realist, which means intentional ignorance cannot go unheeded for long. The dirt and filth simply must be discussed.

Let it be known, I do not find fault with the lower castes for the terrible situation they find themselves in. I place blame squarely on the shoulders of the upper caste, in particular those who have the ability to invest in their country’s waste water, waste removal, and clean water infrastructures, but don’t. The Louis Vitton and Nike shops I saw in New Delhi’s Connaught Place have no place among the hundreds of millions of poor and destitute. But as it stands, the caste system remains interminably oppressive, leaving the majority of Indians without hope to rise above animal status. Hence, I would like to dedicate this post to the largest facet of India I witnessed: the slap-in-the-face squalor.

India’s lowest caste often defecates openly in public. There is perhaps nothing more revolting than watching another human produce a steaming pile of feces arm’s length from the train you’re passing in. Contrary to popular belief, I witnessed both left and right hands being used to clean themselves after, not a drop of water or soap in sight. Making matters worse, railroad officials do not lock bathroom doors while trains are stopped at stations, thus providing a view of splattered human feces and pools of urine for passengers waiting on the platform, the reek eye-burning. Even the shadowy corners of Agra’s Red Fort, a Unesco World Heritage site, stank of urine, some Indians unwilling to walk twenty steps to the public bathrooms nearby. Open sewage. Every city’s water channels and canals feature a grayish sludge with milky streaks that meanders alongside dwellings and through parks, smelling as foul as anything can. And the cows. How can a place be civilized when cows walk and shit wherever they please? We have health regulations against this in the West for a reason. Sorry, but I’ll take science over religion on the open air feces debate.

With such an intimate connection between untreated waste and disease, one would expect Indian cultural eating habits to distance the less savory from the more savory. Unfortunately, people are using the same hands they clean their anus with to mop sauce and rice into their mouths. Hunched over plates and trays, people wad food in their hands and stuff greasy, filthy fingers into their mouths. It was sometimes like watching pigs at a trough. Yes, we eat with our hands in the west, but it’s objects naturally hand held; gravy and potatoes hold fork and spoon status for us.

If this connection to animality is not deep enough, I also witnessed women picking insects from the hair of others, their squatting posture exactly like National Geographic’s Congo. And drinking water? Well, the only water I dared touch in India was bottled, and even that I was told to be wary of. The Ganges in Varanasi is considered a holy river. But it’s treated as anything but. One person’s water buffalo urinates while a man a pace away takes a deep drink from the river. Upstream a fresh corpse is set adrift in the current, while downstream a mother washes her baby—plastic bottles and bags, rotten unmentionables, and rubbish of all variety floating in the space between. The temples, places of holy worship? No, they are as dirty as the streets. Walking through Kolkata’s most sacred Kali temple, I had to wave clouds of flies away, mounds of rubbish pushed to the sides of the walk. Nothing speaks of reverence and piety like maggots and trash.

Great drifts and piles of refuse blight India. Like snow, people dispose of it everywhere and anywhere they can, the world their landfill. Unbelievable until one sees it, the trash is a playground for children, a bed for dogs, and lunch for cows. Like the emaciated man laying in his own waste outside the Patna train station, nobody seems to care, and India gets dirtier, one empty chip bag and Coke bottle at a time.

Suffice to say, I was blown away by the hygiene standards of India. I expected bad, but the filth and squalor I witnessed was depressing. I lived in China for four years—another country featuring a billion of mostly poor. But like Sisyphus, the Chinese employ street cleaners and place rubbish receptacles in public areas. Toilet paper is a common and cheap commodity and chopsticks, perhaps the world’s most sophisticated eating device (much more refined than the stab and cut of Western knives and forks), is employed at every meal. Yes, the Chinese may not place limitations on the egress of gas from the orifices, but at least this can be spun into a compliment, i.e., the louder the belch, the more delicious the meal.

But I digress. I will let the following photos speak for themselves.

 Sitting on randomly thrown rubbish, no problem!

This man is not in gentle repose, taking in the morning light.  He’s one of hundreds of people I saw shitting in plain view beside our trains.

Said man at the Patna train station.  Pictures are truly worth a thousand words, sometimes.

This is standing on the platform at Agra’s main station, the tracks pooling with urine, rubbish, and gods know what else.  The smell was overpowering.  With 2 million people passing through Agra to visit the Taj Mahal every year, it’s obvious station maintenance is high on the list of local officials' priorities…

Yet one more cow happily munching rubbish.  Such is the price of freedom for the city cow.

The endless slums of New Delhi.  At least these people have a brick “home”, unlike the tarpaulin and rope structures I witnessed on the outskirts of Kolkata.

The less holy—or more holy, depending on perspective—streets of Varanasi.  These cows are ensuring next year’s sidewalk crops are well fertilized.  (People walk barefoot through this!!)

More slums.  I included this photo as I thought it represented the slums well.  There's a little of everything, a stream—I mean, sewage channel—tarpaulin shacks, mound of drying cow paddies, strewn rubbish, concrete, dust, etc., etc..  The Taj Mahal is but the painted pinky toenail of the dog.

These Ganges boatmen must not have wanted their boat getting dirty.  (Sorry, bad joke.)

More slums of New Delhi.  I’m guessing the upper caste does not use the cell phone tower in the background as a means to discuss the state of life for those living below…

A nightmare for a person with allergies, this is an inner city street of New Delhi.  The swirling dust and exhaust fumes only making things worse, how electricians make sense of the overhead wires is beyond me.

The dust and smog rise above, as well. New Delhi’s skyline is a beautiful dirt brown.

While I hope for drastic changes to India's social system, changes that would spell good news for human rights and environmental mitigation, little seems to exist. No matter how bad our lives may be in the West, nothing compares to millions of poor living in India--hand to mouth in more ways than one. How can India have the 10th largest GDP, yet allow 95% of its citizens to live in such deprived conditions?

THE END

Culture Corner: The Architecture of Agra

While the Taj Mahal rightfully hogs Agra’s glory, there are more worthwhile sites in the area to be seen.   The city itself forgettable, Shah Jahan and other moghuls before and after erected not only the Taj, but several other glorious tombs, as well as a huge fort, later converted into a palace.  But I'll let the photos speak for themselves.

Its real name Itimad-ud-Daulah, most people just call it the “Baby Taj”.  The details of its stonework often more intricate than the father’s, this 'little' tomb was blessedly void of tourists and could be examined at leisure.

Some of those details.  Truly sublime.

 A carved marble screen.

Another detail.  The stonework is phenomenal, each little piece having to be hand carved and fit into place.

Yours truly standing in front of the Baby Taj, ready to compare it to the granddaddy.

 

This is a portion of the Red Fort, another Unesco World Heritage site in Agra well worth the distinction.

Called a palace by most, the Red Fort was also a prison for Shah Jahan in the final years of his life.  Though unable to be seen here, his view from the windows was of his home after death: the Taj Mahal.  I suppose his immediate surrounds--the harem, menagerie of exotic animals, dried fruits and nuts, etc.--were enough to ignore that little constant reminder...

Only dreams can be more exotic...

Even the gratuitous postcard view is almost surreal.

The Taj is worth every word of praise heaped upon it.

The colors of women’s saris against the white marble was fantastic--the only place in India such a clean contrast could be made!

Sorry, couldn’t resist one more--the sunset view!

THE END

Culture Corner: The Holy City of Varanasi

Many of the cities we passed through in India were mirror images of each other.  The dust, poverty, filth, and heat of Siliguri, Patna and Kolkata was universally depressing for the simple fact nothing could be done to dispel the lifeless pall permeating each.  Varanasi, while possessing every inch of the crust and grime of these cities—if not more—nevertheless presents a positive side to the world.  And it’s the Hindus who make it possible.  Being one of several holy cities alongside the Ganges River, the people who call the city home and pilgrims come from all around to bathe in the holy water provide a spark of color and life that other places in India we visited simply did't have.  And so despite entropy’s active resolve to dismantle the city, one dusty temple at a time, the reds and yellows of pilgrim robes, beards and exposed ribs of reposed swamis flicker while time grinds the city to ruins.

Varanasi on the Ganges, the holy Hindu city.

Entropy at work on one of the many small and fast deteriorating temples in Varanasi.

A be-all, end-all, the people of Varanasi use the river’s waters for everything.  Swimming, bathing, boating, trash disposal, corpse disposal, animals, religious ceremonies, and dishwater are just some of the uses we saw.

I don’t know exactly what accommodations these cousins of the cow are granted in India, but at least they too can escape the heat and have a swim in the river.

Every evening—and I mean every evening—the Hindus hold sunset ceremonies along the banks of the river.  Crowds gather on shore and in boats to watch the Brahmins wave their candles and censers in rhythm with monotonous bells and drums.

 We were lucky enough to be in the city while the moon was full, here seen rising above the river from our hotel room.

 And, the next morning’s sunrise...

The heat oppressive, one must wake up early to take in the activity of the people along the river in the morning, the afternoons for escape.  Not exactly sure the religious status of this man, I can only pass along the things I witnessed him doing.  After collecting some water from the Ganges in his small silver bowl, he proceeded to incant the stone, splash some water, then arrange these objects--shells, combs, mirrors, rocks, in some particular feng-shui order.  Later, after men of the city finished their morning’s bath, some would approach to borrow a comb and mirror, receive a blessing, and have a fresh dot planted on their forehead.  Barber-sage is the best title I can come up with.  I really need to read more.

 Street food.  (Potential for stomach trouble without meat: 3 out of 10; with meat: 8 out of 10.)

More pilgrims on the waterfront.  These rolled what was either dough or clay into small balls, and after performed a small ceremony.  I really, really need to read more…

 A cow in Varanasi's side streets stopping by to say “Good morning” to a neighbor.

This is one of Varanasi's main burning ghats .  Corpses wrapped in colorful cloth are brought here and readied for cremation.  Wood is weighed and paid for by the surviving family prior to setting the pyre alight.  Afterwards, the ashes are dumped in the Ganges. Kindly note the cows munching rubbish happily on the shore.

It is only in a trance-like state that one can be unaware of the trash, cremated ashes, and bloated bodies of dead cows in the “holy” Ganges.

A pilgrim on his way to who knows where.  I suppose, neither do I...

THE END

Culture Corner: Sikkim

Sikkim a kingdom for centuries, in the 70s their two much larger neighbors to the north and south began pressing for takeover. The king fled and India, falling on the most advantageous side of the Himalayas, took control. Firefights still supposedly occur between India and China deep in the mountains, but we witnessed none of the hostility, and in fact were pleasantly surprised by the multi-cultural and effervescent atmosphere of what is now a province.  Cool climes and steep vistas, the former kingdom is a surprisingly interesting place to spend several days.  At the crossroads of Bhutan, Tibet, China, Nepal, Burma, and of course India, a huge mix of culture can be found.  Noticeably cleaner and possessing verve, Gangtok, Sikkims capitol, has a feel for life that Calcutta and many other cities of India’s heartland simply do not.  Entry at roughly 500m (1,600 ft.), during our time in the former kingdom we ascended to approximately 4,000m (13,100 ft.) in Yumthang Valley and there were able to enjoy the mighty Himalayas.  Here are some photos of this portion of our trip.

Gangtok, one of the word’s most vertical cities, occasionally has a view to the world’s third highest peak.  Unfortunately here it is occluded by clouds.  Despite several opportunities, we saw the peak only for the briefest of moments as we prepared to leave the city early-early our last day.

Bordering Nepal and Tibet, Buddhism is the predominant religion of Sikkim.  (Sikh worship is now centered roughly in the regions north of New Delhi).  Painted in vivid detail, above is one of the door guardians of Rungtek monastery.  Real life Indian soldiers wielding automatic weapons also served as door guardians here.  At impassse, both Indian and Nepali sides claim to have located the most recent reincarnation of the monastery’s karmapa.  We were told by the locals that more than 90% of the people in the region support the Nepali (we saw numerous posters and stickers to support this opinion).  However, as the Indian government wields political power, their 10% is just as valuable, hence the impasse.   Like us, all the door guardian can do is look on while humans be humans pretending to be religious.

 

One of civilization’s guardians… Sorry, couldn’t resist.  This is a poster advertising one of the many retro cinemas that have become retro only because they haven’t stopped operating since the time such entertainment was considered groundbreaking.  Nothing is more congruous with Indian culture than a leather vest, shotgun-wielding action hero with paint splashed on his forehead.  If ever proof of globalization was needed…

At the risk of putting my cultural foot in my mouth, I will say only that this is a girl living in Sikkim, leaving her cultural background for the more erudite.

A portion of the “normal” road temporarily blocked by landslide, our alternative route to Yumthang Valley didn’t inspire any further confidence.

Cutting through the ice and snow of glaciers, the road to the Valley was far from hospitable.  On several occasions our vehicles and others required manual assistance over the rough spots.

And voila, Yumthang Valley!

Prayer flags and a beautiful meadow of mountain wild flowers, the Valley is a very nice place to spend a day.

What goes up, must come down.  Here is part of our return trip to flat land – a better presentation of the extreme hazard posed by our road.  When encountering these obstacles, the vehicles simply drive over the landslides (when possible), in effect compacting and recreating the road as they go.

One wrong turn and, well, you see…

Not for the faint of heart.

Truck drivers in Sikkim loved to paint their trucks a kaleidoscope of colors, religious symbols, and company logos. Looking closely at this truck you will find dolphins (in the Himalayas!), a Puma logo (the driver’s undying love in the company motivating the free advertising), the Buddhist wheel of life, and the eyes of what is probably some Hindu god.

Even the monkeys came to see us out, properly.

 

THE END