A single country with a billion inhabitants is an awesome thought. How do you get your head around such a colossal number?
I once devised a method of quantifying a million people. When I was young, the capacity of Cardiff Arms Park was around fifty thousand spectators. So, to imagine a million, I tried to picture 20 huge crowds each the size of the Arms Park rugby followers.
It sort of worked; at least I had a picture in my head of what a crowd of a million people might look like. But a billion! Where does one start? Well the answer is obvious. One goes to Delhi as a first step: Delhi, the National Capital of India, land of a billion people.
When the boss asked me to go to India for a few weeks to assist the Indian coal industry in safe and healthy mining practices you could have knocked me down with a feather.
I have been blessed by having worked in mines in Canada, Central Africa, New Guinea and Australia, but the prospect of going to India had never crossed my mind. In fact, I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to go. The stories of people suffering ill health, particularly ailments of the lavatory kind did not appeal much to me.
But I thought about it and read a host of travel books and histories of the sub-continent and decided to go. How would I feel if I said no? I am sure I would forever regret it; and what would I tell my grandchildren?
So, determined not to catch so much as the common cold on my adventure, I went straight to a doctor specialising in travel health. We discussed everything from cholera to dysentery to swine flu and rabies – and more, much more. I had that many injections my arms looked like pin cushions! But you can’t be too careful.
Apparently catching rabies is a very real possibility, not so much from dogs as from monkeys, especially when visiting temples. Now there’s another wondrous thing. Why do monkeys hang around temples? I remember as a boy seeing the monkeys at Bristol Zoo kept penned in an artificial temple.
Shame-faced, I asked Ray at the club if he knew the answer. “Of course, Chris,” he chortled, “Everyone knows that, it’s because of the food offerings that are left in temples.” Doh!
The travel doctor also gave (or rather sold) me a comprehensive medical kit containing everything from Panadol to syringes and even condoms. Included is a neat little book with great tips for travellers to India and elsewhere. For instance, don’t eat salads, don’t have ice in your gin and tonic and only eat well cooked food.
If you want to check the atlas, my route takes me into Delhi, then the holy city on the Ganges, Varanasi. My final destination is the coal rich District of Singrauli in the province of Madhya Pradesh.
Wish me luck and I’ll keep you posted of my experiences. If you don’t hear from me, then fear the worst – Delhi Belly!
Chris Skelding 2009
Friday, March 12, 2010
2 ON THE STREETS OF BENARES
The Thai Airline’s landings at Bangkok and New Delhi were like doves’ feathers settling on fine Belfast linen, which was in contrast to the thumping belly flop we experienced at Varanasi in the late afternoon of the second day. The pilgrims on the Spice Jet 737 took it all very casually, though.
The baggage hall consisted of a small square hole in the wall which allowed most of the luggage to pass through, some of the larger bags, however, got caught in a sort of log jam which was freed periodically by a man employed to do just that. Unlike most baggage carousels, this one didn’t go round and round until all the bags had been collected, this one ended abruptly at a point 8 metres away where all the suitcases where dumped in a heap on the floor.
Eventually with our host Govind’s guidance in the local art of pushing and shoving, we retrieved our precious luggage.
Outside in the car park our driver found us and led us through the melee to our station wagon. Every car seemed to be intent on running every pedestrian over as they moved forward and back in a strange erratic dance. Each car eventually reached the exit but not before almost, but never quite, making positive contact with several other vehicles. Our driver threw himself into this scrum as a willing and eager competitor.
We lurched out of the car park and onto the open road with 20 km to travel to the centre of Varanasi (this holiest city was once known as Benares). The next half hour was like a visit to a bizarre fairground. It was as if we were on the Ghost Train where hazards and scary things popped out from every bend and corner: a bicycle here with 2 or 3 passengers, an auto-rickshaw there with cracked and broken mirrors. Cows, goats and children also played this wild game of Dodgems.
Cows may be sacred animals but they still get a full blast of the horn when they are in the middle of the road.
Our driver raced along the road narrowly missing each bike and car by the finest of margins. He mostly hugged the centre of the road until an approaching vehicle sent him diving back to the left causing mayhem with more bikes, cars and rickshaws.
All this activity would seem to be the height of danger, but not so. There is so much traffic and so little space that none of this movement takes place at any great speed. There are collisions occasionally but they are always low speed and thus rarely cause much harm.
Every now and then a roundabout appears. At least, we would consider it a roundabout and would negotiate it in a clockwise direction. Here, vehicles encounter the roundabout from four converging roads and split up in apparently random directions, some clockwise, some not. A policeman is often stationed on a platform in the middle and helpfully waves his baton in time to an imaginary tune in his head. No one takes the slightest notice of him or of his referee’s whistle.
Frightening though all this activity was, I was more impressed with the colours and the bustle of the people and the various animals that were part of the montage.
Everyone was doing something or going somewhere. Streets and streets of trading stores or stalls lined the road selling everything from milk, silk, vegetables and clothes to motor cars, toys and Hero Honda bicycles.
Those who weren’t buying or selling were part of a never ending river of people heading from somewhere to somewhere else. The auto-rickshaw is a very special vehicle and I’ve seen them elsewhere in Asia. Imagine a Vespa or Lambretta motor scooter of the sort that featured in the Italian Job movie. Then turn it into a three wheeler with a seat for the driver and a row of seats behind for two passengers and you have an auto-rickshaw. Add another ten or twelve passengers and a cargo of chickens, boxes and grain sacks and you have an Indian auto-rickshaw.
Although their safety performance as public transport comes into question, they are powered by natural gas and hence make a valued contribution to reducing India’s carbon footprint.
Riding along these bustling, crowded streets one is confronted with the apparent age and dilapidated state of the buildings. They are usually 2 to 3 storeys high, made of red brick and are on the verge of falling down. Though they seem in the final stages of existence, all of the buildings are used by someone for something.
In many cases the front yard which meets the road is used as a cycle or rickshaw repair garage. Whilst behind a fruit and vegetable store trades beautifully displayed vegetables on a sack laid neatly on the dirt floor or on a rudimentary bench.
The constant hooting traffic continually invades the trading space as one car veers onto the walkway to miss another road user. The buildings are also home to many, many families apparently related to the traders.
Mangy dogs prowl the street seeking scraps of food. Some of them looked so thin and wizened that it occurred to me that it may be kinder to allow them to be run over and despatched to canine Nirvana.
In all this fracas, a lone child of 7 or 8 years of age is weaving her way through the honking vehicles with a bucket. Well, two buckets actually: the one bucket has a hole in it, the other has no handle. Employed together, they make a perfect whole!
She is collecting cow dung which she will dry and burn on the home fire; for it is cold in Varanasi at the moment and the night time temperatures fall to 5°C.
This incredible display of activity, colour and noise came to an abrupt end as our driver guided the wagon through the guarded entrance of the Varanasi Gateway Hotel to an avenue of palm lined peace.
We pulled up at the hotel portico and were helped out of the car shaking and trembling by a concierge dressed as the Maharaja of Ranjipore.
Whatever would happen next?
Chris Skelding 2010
The baggage hall consisted of a small square hole in the wall which allowed most of the luggage to pass through, some of the larger bags, however, got caught in a sort of log jam which was freed periodically by a man employed to do just that. Unlike most baggage carousels, this one didn’t go round and round until all the bags had been collected, this one ended abruptly at a point 8 metres away where all the suitcases where dumped in a heap on the floor.
Eventually with our host Govind’s guidance in the local art of pushing and shoving, we retrieved our precious luggage.
Outside in the car park our driver found us and led us through the melee to our station wagon. Every car seemed to be intent on running every pedestrian over as they moved forward and back in a strange erratic dance. Each car eventually reached the exit but not before almost, but never quite, making positive contact with several other vehicles. Our driver threw himself into this scrum as a willing and eager competitor.
We lurched out of the car park and onto the open road with 20 km to travel to the centre of Varanasi (this holiest city was once known as Benares). The next half hour was like a visit to a bizarre fairground. It was as if we were on the Ghost Train where hazards and scary things popped out from every bend and corner: a bicycle here with 2 or 3 passengers, an auto-rickshaw there with cracked and broken mirrors. Cows, goats and children also played this wild game of Dodgems.
Cows may be sacred animals but they still get a full blast of the horn when they are in the middle of the road.
Our driver raced along the road narrowly missing each bike and car by the finest of margins. He mostly hugged the centre of the road until an approaching vehicle sent him diving back to the left causing mayhem with more bikes, cars and rickshaws.
All this activity would seem to be the height of danger, but not so. There is so much traffic and so little space that none of this movement takes place at any great speed. There are collisions occasionally but they are always low speed and thus rarely cause much harm.
Every now and then a roundabout appears. At least, we would consider it a roundabout and would negotiate it in a clockwise direction. Here, vehicles encounter the roundabout from four converging roads and split up in apparently random directions, some clockwise, some not. A policeman is often stationed on a platform in the middle and helpfully waves his baton in time to an imaginary tune in his head. No one takes the slightest notice of him or of his referee’s whistle.
Frightening though all this activity was, I was more impressed with the colours and the bustle of the people and the various animals that were part of the montage.
Everyone was doing something or going somewhere. Streets and streets of trading stores or stalls lined the road selling everything from milk, silk, vegetables and clothes to motor cars, toys and Hero Honda bicycles.
Those who weren’t buying or selling were part of a never ending river of people heading from somewhere to somewhere else. The auto-rickshaw is a very special vehicle and I’ve seen them elsewhere in Asia. Imagine a Vespa or Lambretta motor scooter of the sort that featured in the Italian Job movie. Then turn it into a three wheeler with a seat for the driver and a row of seats behind for two passengers and you have an auto-rickshaw. Add another ten or twelve passengers and a cargo of chickens, boxes and grain sacks and you have an Indian auto-rickshaw.
Although their safety performance as public transport comes into question, they are powered by natural gas and hence make a valued contribution to reducing India’s carbon footprint.
Riding along these bustling, crowded streets one is confronted with the apparent age and dilapidated state of the buildings. They are usually 2 to 3 storeys high, made of red brick and are on the verge of falling down. Though they seem in the final stages of existence, all of the buildings are used by someone for something.
In many cases the front yard which meets the road is used as a cycle or rickshaw repair garage. Whilst behind a fruit and vegetable store trades beautifully displayed vegetables on a sack laid neatly on the dirt floor or on a rudimentary bench.
The constant hooting traffic continually invades the trading space as one car veers onto the walkway to miss another road user. The buildings are also home to many, many families apparently related to the traders.
Mangy dogs prowl the street seeking scraps of food. Some of them looked so thin and wizened that it occurred to me that it may be kinder to allow them to be run over and despatched to canine Nirvana.
In all this fracas, a lone child of 7 or 8 years of age is weaving her way through the honking vehicles with a bucket. Well, two buckets actually: the one bucket has a hole in it, the other has no handle. Employed together, they make a perfect whole!
She is collecting cow dung which she will dry and burn on the home fire; for it is cold in Varanasi at the moment and the night time temperatures fall to 5°C.
This incredible display of activity, colour and noise came to an abrupt end as our driver guided the wagon through the guarded entrance of the Varanasi Gateway Hotel to an avenue of palm lined peace.
We pulled up at the hotel portico and were helped out of the car shaking and trembling by a concierge dressed as the Maharaja of Ranjipore.
Whatever would happen next?
Chris Skelding 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
3 LIFE ALONG THE HOLY RIVER - MA GANGA
The Holy River, Ma Ganga is sacred all along its length from its source in the glaciers of Mount Kalais in the Himalayas to the river mouth in the Bay of Bengal east of Calcutta. But of all its 2,560 kms length it is here at Varanasi that it is considered even more holy.
Stretching for almost ten kms along the western bank is a series of ghats, wide steps or terraces, where the Hindu pilgrims come to worship and immerse themselves in the muddy, languid stream. It is languid, slow moving and muddy because it is the natural drainage for a very wide and flat flood plain. Once an important trading route, irrigation has robbed the river of much of its water and is only commercially navigable on its lower stretches.
I happened to be in Varanasi on 13 and 14 January when the holy festival of Makar Sankrant is held. It is one of the most important festivals of the Hindu calendar and celebrates the sun's journey into the northern hemisphere.
On the evening of the 13th a ceremony takes place on stages at two of the main ghats. On each stage the ceremony takes place simultaneously with seven young men performing dances and making a wonderful light show with fire torches. The whole show was viewed on location by thousands and by millions on a live nation-wide telecast.
I was fortunate to watch most of the ceremony from a boat on the Ganges, where bats, large and small flitted past along with mosquitoes which mercifully did not bite.
Further along the river, the sights that affected me most profoundly were the two cremation sites. They are simply located on the banks of the river and are not hidden in any way. Death is openly and in some cases eagerly welcomed in Hinduism. Death is just another stage of life. I went there at night, landing from the boat and climbing gingerly up the steps of the ghat lit only by a few fire torches and the cremation fires themselves.
There was no crying or wailing yet the scene could not have been more dramatic. Women mourners are not allowed at the cremation for fear that they would show too much outward emotion.
Some bodies, beautifully prepared in lovely saris or dhotis, lay waiting for their turn while shadowy figures lit new fires or stirred the remains of dying fires. These shadowy men are members of the Untouchable caste. It is their job to do the burning. They are very skilled at ensuring the job is done cleanly, efficiently and respectfully.
At the larger of the two sites up to 25 bodies are cremated at any given time. In some cases the family of the deceased transport the body many hundreds of miles to the riverside for the privilege of cremation at Ma Ganga. Over 40,000 cremations take place at the two sites every year.
There is even an adjacent house where aged persons with no family are cared for until it is their turn to be bathed, wrapped in white cotton, garlanded in lovely flowers and farewelled from this world. They ask that you take no photographs of the cremations and I obeyed that wish.
Hinduism is in some ways a very relaxed religion with many, many gods and a complete freedom of choice as to which god you wish to worship (if any). There is also a huge adherence to the religion. No one is apathetic, no one opts out. Everyone takes part and as far as I can see, enjoys it immensely. Every festival and ceremony is a joyous family affair.
It is also acceptable to have fun with your God. For instance, when I entered my hotel room in Varanasi, the bath mat, towel and face flannel had been folded into an origami version of Ganesha the elephant God, the remover of obstacles.
.jpg)
Next morning at 5.30 I rose and was taken back through miles of milling crowds to the banks of the great river. There at the ghats I watched hundreds of thousands stripping down to the minimum that modesty allows and immersing themselves in Ma Ganga, Mother Ganges.
Most of the buildings that front the river are two centuries old and look faded and poorly maintained. Some of them were palaces or guest houses of the Maharajas but are destined to crumble if conservation work is not undertaken. Although Varanasi (or Benares as it was once known) has been a centre of culture and religion for at least three millennia, Muslim rulers destroyed many of the earlier buildings.
Perhaps the only hope is that some enterprising business chain takes some action and develops a few of them as five star hotels. They would surely make a profit on the banks of Hindu’s most sacred river in its most sacred city.
Perhaps no account of a Hindu festival on the Ganges is complete without a mention of beggars - there are many. On the main ghat they made orderly, straight lines stretching from the street above right down to the very bank of the Ganges, a distance of some 200 metres. I don’t know how many lines or how many beggars, there were lots.
There were women in rags with babies at their breast and ragged children at their skirts. There were lone women and men with various limbs missing. It was a pitiful sight, made the more so by the knowledge that there is nothing that one person can do to help.
.jpg)
It is a tradition to hand out alms to these poor souls at this sacred place, especially on holy days. My colleagues and I had brought notes of small denominations to pass around to the most deserving cases. But how can one judge? Who am I to judge the most deserving?
We chose a different line each and began to slip paltry amounts into as many tin cups as was possible. Predictably the beggars rushed forward and engulfed each of us. Until then I hadn’t noticed the police officers who were standing nearby. They entered the fray and began beating back the poor beggars with heavy sticks. I cast the last few rupees into the air and fled back up to the town.
On my way back to the car I saw three men with no legs, one propelled himself in the oldest wheelchair I have ever seen; another moved along on a flat wooden board with castors, the third slid along in the filth of the road on a metal tea tray. What could I do?
What can anyone do?
Chris Skelding 2010
Stretching for almost ten kms along the western bank is a series of ghats, wide steps or terraces, where the Hindu pilgrims come to worship and immerse themselves in the muddy, languid stream. It is languid, slow moving and muddy because it is the natural drainage for a very wide and flat flood plain. Once an important trading route, irrigation has robbed the river of much of its water and is only commercially navigable on its lower stretches.
I happened to be in Varanasi on 13 and 14 January when the holy festival of Makar Sankrant is held. It is one of the most important festivals of the Hindu calendar and celebrates the sun's journey into the northern hemisphere.
On the evening of the 13th a ceremony takes place on stages at two of the main ghats. On each stage the ceremony takes place simultaneously with seven young men performing dances and making a wonderful light show with fire torches. The whole show was viewed on location by thousands and by millions on a live nation-wide telecast.
I was fortunate to watch most of the ceremony from a boat on the Ganges, where bats, large and small flitted past along with mosquitoes which mercifully did not bite.
Further along the river, the sights that affected me most profoundly were the two cremation sites. They are simply located on the banks of the river and are not hidden in any way. Death is openly and in some cases eagerly welcomed in Hinduism. Death is just another stage of life. I went there at night, landing from the boat and climbing gingerly up the steps of the ghat lit only by a few fire torches and the cremation fires themselves.
There was no crying or wailing yet the scene could not have been more dramatic. Women mourners are not allowed at the cremation for fear that they would show too much outward emotion.
Some bodies, beautifully prepared in lovely saris or dhotis, lay waiting for their turn while shadowy figures lit new fires or stirred the remains of dying fires. These shadowy men are members of the Untouchable caste. It is their job to do the burning. They are very skilled at ensuring the job is done cleanly, efficiently and respectfully.
At the larger of the two sites up to 25 bodies are cremated at any given time. In some cases the family of the deceased transport the body many hundreds of miles to the riverside for the privilege of cremation at Ma Ganga. Over 40,000 cremations take place at the two sites every year.
There is even an adjacent house where aged persons with no family are cared for until it is their turn to be bathed, wrapped in white cotton, garlanded in lovely flowers and farewelled from this world. They ask that you take no photographs of the cremations and I obeyed that wish.
Hinduism is in some ways a very relaxed religion with many, many gods and a complete freedom of choice as to which god you wish to worship (if any). There is also a huge adherence to the religion. No one is apathetic, no one opts out. Everyone takes part and as far as I can see, enjoys it immensely. Every festival and ceremony is a joyous family affair.
It is also acceptable to have fun with your God. For instance, when I entered my hotel room in Varanasi, the bath mat, towel and face flannel had been folded into an origami version of Ganesha the elephant God, the remover of obstacles.
.jpg)
Ganesha, the elephant God in towel origami.
Next morning at 5.30 I rose and was taken back through miles of milling crowds to the banks of the great river. There at the ghats I watched hundreds of thousands stripping down to the minimum that modesty allows and immersing themselves in Ma Ganga, Mother Ganges.
Most of the buildings that front the river are two centuries old and look faded and poorly maintained. Some of them were palaces or guest houses of the Maharajas but are destined to crumble if conservation work is not undertaken. Although Varanasi (or Benares as it was once known) has been a centre of culture and religion for at least three millennia, Muslim rulers destroyed many of the earlier buildings.
Perhaps the only hope is that some enterprising business chain takes some action and develops a few of them as five star hotels. They would surely make a profit on the banks of Hindu’s most sacred river in its most sacred city.
Perhaps no account of a Hindu festival on the Ganges is complete without a mention of beggars - there are many. On the main ghat they made orderly, straight lines stretching from the street above right down to the very bank of the Ganges, a distance of some 200 metres. I don’t know how many lines or how many beggars, there were lots.
There were women in rags with babies at their breast and ragged children at their skirts. There were lone women and men with various limbs missing. It was a pitiful sight, made the more so by the knowledge that there is nothing that one person can do to help.
.jpg)
Poor Beggars
It is a tradition to hand out alms to these poor souls at this sacred place, especially on holy days. My colleagues and I had brought notes of small denominations to pass around to the most deserving cases. But how can one judge? Who am I to judge the most deserving?
We chose a different line each and began to slip paltry amounts into as many tin cups as was possible. Predictably the beggars rushed forward and engulfed each of us. Until then I hadn’t noticed the police officers who were standing nearby. They entered the fray and began beating back the poor beggars with heavy sticks. I cast the last few rupees into the air and fled back up to the town.
On my way back to the car I saw three men with no legs, one propelled himself in the oldest wheelchair I have ever seen; another moved along on a flat wooden board with castors, the third slid along in the filth of the road on a metal tea tray. What could I do?
What can anyone do?
Chris Skelding 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
4 DEER PARK AND THE BHODI TREE
Just as I was leaving the ghats of Varanasi, I was hailed by a pretty young girl carrying a basket of marigolds that I had photographed the night before. She said, “You took a photo of me, why didn’t you buy my flowers?”
Flower Seller at Ma Ganga
I bought some of her flowers.
Do you recall that when I set out on this Indian adventure I was wondering what a billion people might look like? Well, I haven’t had that definitively answered but one day at a coal mine in Singrauli I was asked a question that put the question of population in perspective.
“What is the population of Australia,” Mr Choudhary asked me.
“About 20 million,” I said, “Why do you ask?”
“That’s about the number of people that travel on India Railways every day!” he very proudly announced.
We drove about 10 kilometres from the bathing ghats of Varanasi to the northern suburbs of the Holy City. In the throng of traffic and traders the most noticeable thing was that peoples’ appearances were changing. They were different.
We approached the northern suburb of Sarnath. The residents of this area appeared to be more Asian, more Chinese looking. They are Tibetans who are in exile and they are mostly Buddhist.
It is here in the temple complex of Sarnath’s Deer Park that you will find the Bodhi Tree where Gautama the Buddha found Enlightenment. It was beneath this tree that he preached his early sermons on the Four Noble Truths,
Life means suffering.
The origin of suffering is attachment.
The cessation of suffering is attainable.
The path to the cessation of suffering.
This place is filled with candles, bells and figures around the Bodhi Tree. The tree still stands after more than 2,500 years, although it has been replaced many times by cuttings taken from successive parent trees.
Here Buddhist monks in saffron garb and other true believers join to pray while tourists stand in awe and gaze at the opulence, beauty and intricacies of the temples.
Inside the Buddhist Temple at Sarnath
Amid the hubbub is a full scale model of devotees seated in a circle in prayer. The feeling of the calm and peace so interwoven with Buddhist belief is palpable even in this throng of people and cacophony of bells
.
In an earlier piece I wrote about the destruction of much of Varanasi 300 years ago; and so it is with Sarnath. Some of the old buildings remain but many are more recent replicas.
It is very fitting that so many Tibetans have settled here within the crucible of their faith.
I left the religious enclave wondering if Buddhism is for me. I like the idea of a faith which depends so much on introspection and respect for others. So far on this journey I have seen Hindus and Buddhists at prayer and at play. It is a fascinating experience and has deeply moved me. We miss a lot in the West by not taking enough time to reflect and contemplate.
We returned to the Gateway Hotel behind which is the Nadesar Palace. This remarkable building was constructed in the by the East India Company in 1795 to house officers stationed in Varanasi. It was bought by the Maharaja Prabhu Narayan Singh in the late 19th century to offer splendid accommodation to visiting dignitaries.
It has recently been refurbished as a magnificent hotel.
The current Maharajah insisted that palace retain the original 10 guest rooms whereas the development company could easily have doubled or tripled that number.
As a consequence the rooms are as huge and palatial as when King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra stayed here more than a century ago as the Maharajah’s guests.
We were given a gratis ride around the grounds in a 200 year old horse and buggy driven by an ancient man named Neesam. Neesam, his father and grandfather have driven the same buggy (though not the same horse!) in these grounds since the 1920s.
Being obsessed by family customs I asked Neesam if his son would continue the family tradition. In a mixture of Hindi and English he said, “My son is going to school and will make his own decision, the rest of the family had no such choice.”
Neesam with his Horse and Buggy
The day ended with a grand dinner of several spicy vegetarian dishes, dhal, four kinds of bread, two types of goats’ cheese, chutneys and a modest amount of Kingfisher beer.
If this isn’t Nirvana, at least you can see it from here!
Flower Seller at Ma Ganga
I bought some of her flowers.
Do you recall that when I set out on this Indian adventure I was wondering what a billion people might look like? Well, I haven’t had that definitively answered but one day at a coal mine in Singrauli I was asked a question that put the question of population in perspective.
“What is the population of Australia,” Mr Choudhary asked me.
“About 20 million,” I said, “Why do you ask?”
“That’s about the number of people that travel on India Railways every day!” he very proudly announced.
We drove about 10 kilometres from the bathing ghats of Varanasi to the northern suburbs of the Holy City. In the throng of traffic and traders the most noticeable thing was that peoples’ appearances were changing. They were different.
We approached the northern suburb of Sarnath. The residents of this area appeared to be more Asian, more Chinese looking. They are Tibetans who are in exile and they are mostly Buddhist.
It is here in the temple complex of Sarnath’s Deer Park that you will find the Bodhi Tree where Gautama the Buddha found Enlightenment. It was beneath this tree that he preached his early sermons on the Four Noble Truths,
Life means suffering.
The origin of suffering is attachment.
The cessation of suffering is attainable.
The path to the cessation of suffering.
This place is filled with candles, bells and figures around the Bodhi Tree. The tree still stands after more than 2,500 years, although it has been replaced many times by cuttings taken from successive parent trees.
Here Buddhist monks in saffron garb and other true believers join to pray while tourists stand in awe and gaze at the opulence, beauty and intricacies of the temples.
Inside the Buddhist Temple at Sarnath
Amid the hubbub is a full scale model of devotees seated in a circle in prayer. The feeling of the calm and peace so interwoven with Buddhist belief is palpable even in this throng of people and cacophony of bells
.
In an earlier piece I wrote about the destruction of much of Varanasi 300 years ago; and so it is with Sarnath. Some of the old buildings remain but many are more recent replicas.
It is very fitting that so many Tibetans have settled here within the crucible of their faith.
I left the religious enclave wondering if Buddhism is for me. I like the idea of a faith which depends so much on introspection and respect for others. So far on this journey I have seen Hindus and Buddhists at prayer and at play. It is a fascinating experience and has deeply moved me. We miss a lot in the West by not taking enough time to reflect and contemplate.
We returned to the Gateway Hotel behind which is the Nadesar Palace. This remarkable building was constructed in the by the East India Company in 1795 to house officers stationed in Varanasi. It was bought by the Maharaja Prabhu Narayan Singh in the late 19th century to offer splendid accommodation to visiting dignitaries.
It has recently been refurbished as a magnificent hotel.
The current Maharajah insisted that palace retain the original 10 guest rooms whereas the development company could easily have doubled or tripled that number.
As a consequence the rooms are as huge and palatial as when King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra stayed here more than a century ago as the Maharajah’s guests.
We were given a gratis ride around the grounds in a 200 year old horse and buggy driven by an ancient man named Neesam. Neesam, his father and grandfather have driven the same buggy (though not the same horse!) in these grounds since the 1920s.
Being obsessed by family customs I asked Neesam if his son would continue the family tradition. In a mixture of Hindi and English he said, “My son is going to school and will make his own decision, the rest of the family had no such choice.”
Neesam with his Horse and Buggy
The day ended with a grand dinner of several spicy vegetarian dishes, dhal, four kinds of bread, two types of goats’ cheese, chutneys and a modest amount of Kingfisher beer.
If this isn’t Nirvana, at least you can see it from here!
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
5 TO SINGRAULI
You might remember that the reason I came to India was to provide safety training for a group of Indian coal mining managers and safety officers.
The 25 students were from all seven divisions of Coal India which has its headquarters in Calcutta.
My colleague and I were to deliver the six day course in the Singrauli District on the border of the states of Uttar Pradesh and Madhya Pradesh. Singrauli is about 210 kms from Varanasi which by Australian calculating should take around two hours or so.
It took six hours of bone crunching, back-jarring agony to negotiate the 200 kms of difficult driving. Even though we were in a very rural area where mud and straw huts were common, there were people and traffic in profusion.
Bullock carts and fifty year old trucks interspersed with bicycles and pedestrians. All along the roadside was a wide range of artisans who were there to service this massive array of mobility. There were mechanics, welders, men who would return distorted wheels to circularity (almost). Some sold tyres in various stages of wear from near new to smooth and shiny.
There were many broken down and disabled trucks strewn along the highway. Some were loaded with twice or three times their designated capacity. They carried livestock, straw, cotton bales, rocks, coal; anything you can think of really.
Road Haulage
One huge truck had entered a pothole some time before, never, I imagine, to return to service. The pothole stretched almost across the entire width of the road and was in places four feet deep. I think it was the truck’s last resting place.
After half a day’s drive we reached Singrauli where we were given a cleanish single room each in the mine’s guest house where we would be looked after for the next week by Head Cook and Bottle Washer, Jashwal and his five trusty helpers. They would meet our every need and cook our daily breakfast and dinner.
One of these gentlemen also washed my shirts and other laundry down at the nearby stream. When the clothes were returned at the end of the afternoon they were crisply pressed and folded with pins and card just as they were when new.
That first night we met senior mine management from Duhdichua mine and we were introduced to our 25 students. Each student spoke and told us about himself and why he wanted to be on the course.
The best ten of the whole class would be rewarded with a six week trip to Queensland for more in-depth mine safety training later in the year.
They were an eager group and keen to learn in the well equipped training classroom. I found it difficult to understand the varied accents at first but soon became more familiar with them. No doubt they had the same problem with my Welsh dialect.
The open cast coal mines of Singrauli are owned and managed by Northern Coalfields Limited. Their ten mines produced more than 60 Million tonnes last year. They also have some interesting safety signage.
Safety Sign at Dudichua Mine
The six days soon passed and we were treated to some parting gifts and many kind words of gratitude from each student.
The food at the Guest House was regular north Indian fare, mostly vegetarian, although Jashwal did serve roast chicken once or twice – I wish he hadn’t, the spicy vegetables were much better. It was excellent food but after a while I was crying out for toast and jam!
“Why didn’t you say so, Sahib?” said Jashwal and we had toast and jam with omelette breakfast for the rest of our stay.
The road back to Varanasi was just as trying and just as long as our outward journey. The next step was a Spice Jet flight back to New Delhi and the magnificent Imperial Hotel for a few days marking the assessment papers.
Delhi is split into two parts, Old and New. Old Delhi forms the northern part of the conurbation and there you can find the massive Red Fort which alas was closed for India National Day celebrations when Tilman and I went there.
Old Delhi was the capital of Moslem India between the 12th and 19th centuries. The streets and alleyways of the Chandni Chowk bazaar are narrow and colourful and typify old India.
New Delhi became the new capital of India in 1911 the same year as the coronation of King George V and Queen Mary. In December of that year a Durbar (an ancient Mughal term for celebration or ceremony) was held in Delhi attended by the imperial couple.
New Delhi is exactly that – a new city. It was built in the 1920s and 1930s. The government buildings are grand and sit beside roads that are 50 metres wide in some cases. It is London’s Whitehall or Canberra’s government precinct on a bigger scale.
The road works and metro construction for the 2010 Commonwealth Games exacerbates the perpetual Delhi traffic jam. Sitting one morning in the car waiting to get moving I heard several young voices shouting “Pleased to meet you, sir”. I looked up to see eight schoolboys in a rickshaw heading to school. How they managed to look so clean and well dressed in the midst of all those fumes and muddy streets is a miracle.
School Bus!
Back at the Imperial before dinner Tilman and I ordered gin and tonic. I had been advised to avoid ice in my drinks when in India on account of possibly contaminated water. I asked the waiter (who was dressed like a South Wales Borderer in a red tunic with bright brass buttons) whether the ice was safe to consume.
Offended, he looked at me as if I were something nasty he had trodden in. “This, sir, is the Imperial Hotel!” I had ice and lemon with the gin.
If you would like to read the whole series of articles again, you will find them on http://chrisskeldingtalesofindia.blogspot.com/
Photographs by Chris Skelding and Tilman Rasche.
The 25 students were from all seven divisions of Coal India which has its headquarters in Calcutta.
My colleague and I were to deliver the six day course in the Singrauli District on the border of the states of Uttar Pradesh and Madhya Pradesh. Singrauli is about 210 kms from Varanasi which by Australian calculating should take around two hours or so.
It took six hours of bone crunching, back-jarring agony to negotiate the 200 kms of difficult driving. Even though we were in a very rural area where mud and straw huts were common, there were people and traffic in profusion.
Bullock carts and fifty year old trucks interspersed with bicycles and pedestrians. All along the roadside was a wide range of artisans who were there to service this massive array of mobility. There were mechanics, welders, men who would return distorted wheels to circularity (almost). Some sold tyres in various stages of wear from near new to smooth and shiny.
There were many broken down and disabled trucks strewn along the highway. Some were loaded with twice or three times their designated capacity. They carried livestock, straw, cotton bales, rocks, coal; anything you can think of really.
Road Haulage
One huge truck had entered a pothole some time before, never, I imagine, to return to service. The pothole stretched almost across the entire width of the road and was in places four feet deep. I think it was the truck’s last resting place.
After half a day’s drive we reached Singrauli where we were given a cleanish single room each in the mine’s guest house where we would be looked after for the next week by Head Cook and Bottle Washer, Jashwal and his five trusty helpers. They would meet our every need and cook our daily breakfast and dinner.
One of these gentlemen also washed my shirts and other laundry down at the nearby stream. When the clothes were returned at the end of the afternoon they were crisply pressed and folded with pins and card just as they were when new.
That first night we met senior mine management from Duhdichua mine and we were introduced to our 25 students. Each student spoke and told us about himself and why he wanted to be on the course.
The best ten of the whole class would be rewarded with a six week trip to Queensland for more in-depth mine safety training later in the year.
They were an eager group and keen to learn in the well equipped training classroom. I found it difficult to understand the varied accents at first but soon became more familiar with them. No doubt they had the same problem with my Welsh dialect.
The open cast coal mines of Singrauli are owned and managed by Northern Coalfields Limited. Their ten mines produced more than 60 Million tonnes last year. They also have some interesting safety signage.
Safety Sign at Dudichua Mine
The six days soon passed and we were treated to some parting gifts and many kind words of gratitude from each student.
The food at the Guest House was regular north Indian fare, mostly vegetarian, although Jashwal did serve roast chicken once or twice – I wish he hadn’t, the spicy vegetables were much better. It was excellent food but after a while I was crying out for toast and jam!
“Why didn’t you say so, Sahib?” said Jashwal and we had toast and jam with omelette breakfast for the rest of our stay.
The road back to Varanasi was just as trying and just as long as our outward journey. The next step was a Spice Jet flight back to New Delhi and the magnificent Imperial Hotel for a few days marking the assessment papers.
Delhi is split into two parts, Old and New. Old Delhi forms the northern part of the conurbation and there you can find the massive Red Fort which alas was closed for India National Day celebrations when Tilman and I went there.
Old Delhi was the capital of Moslem India between the 12th and 19th centuries. The streets and alleyways of the Chandni Chowk bazaar are narrow and colourful and typify old India.
New Delhi became the new capital of India in 1911 the same year as the coronation of King George V and Queen Mary. In December of that year a Durbar (an ancient Mughal term for celebration or ceremony) was held in Delhi attended by the imperial couple.
New Delhi is exactly that – a new city. It was built in the 1920s and 1930s. The government buildings are grand and sit beside roads that are 50 metres wide in some cases. It is London’s Whitehall or Canberra’s government precinct on a bigger scale.
The road works and metro construction for the 2010 Commonwealth Games exacerbates the perpetual Delhi traffic jam. Sitting one morning in the car waiting to get moving I heard several young voices shouting “Pleased to meet you, sir”. I looked up to see eight schoolboys in a rickshaw heading to school. How they managed to look so clean and well dressed in the midst of all those fumes and muddy streets is a miracle.
School Bus!
Back at the Imperial before dinner Tilman and I ordered gin and tonic. I had been advised to avoid ice in my drinks when in India on account of possibly contaminated water. I asked the waiter (who was dressed like a South Wales Borderer in a red tunic with bright brass buttons) whether the ice was safe to consume.
Offended, he looked at me as if I were something nasty he had trodden in. “This, sir, is the Imperial Hotel!” I had ice and lemon with the gin.
If you would like to read the whole series of articles again, you will find them on http://chrisskeldingtalesofindia.blogspot.com/
Photographs by Chris Skelding and Tilman Rasche.
Monday, March 8, 2010
6 TAJ MAHAL
We fly home tomorrow, weary from the training we have delivered, the papers we have marked, the travelling we have done and the strange, magical experiences of India. And we still haven’t seen an elephant!
Tilman and I decided to make one more trip, one more pilgrimage. In our time in India we have visited the centres of Hindu worship at Benares, gave alms to the beggars at the ghats, saw the corpses on the cremation pyres on Ma Ganga and went to the birthplace of Buddhism at Parnath. Now on our last day we would go to Agra to see one of the pinnacles of Islamic architecture, the Taj Mahal.
The distance along the good divided road from Delhi to Agra is about 250 kms but in the deep blanketing fog took at least five hours.
No matter how many books one has read about the Taj Mahal, or how many histrionic documentary shows one has watched, or how many raving tourists one has listened to, nothing can prepare you for the sight of this place.
It is everything: palace, mausoleum, place of worship, tranquil garden, it’s whatever you want it to be. Before you see the great building itself, you walk along a rising road with rickshaws and souvenir shops all around (cars are banned). Soldiers check visitors for weapons (they confiscated Tilman’s reserve of muesli bars – maybe they were hungry).
But then you see the Great Gateway or Darwaza, a 30 metre tall red sandstone archway inlaid with marble that is inscribed with Koranic writings. Outside the gateway all is hustle and bustle, inside, peace and tranquillity.
The Great Gateway or Darwaza
I passed through the Darwaza, neck craned marvelling at the domed interior and the regularity of its construction. At that moment I had my first view of the Taj Mahal. Gasping and a little emotional, I could see the palace perfectly framed in the silhouette of the Great Gateway.
It is quite breathtaking to see such a familiar building in reality. It is much bigger than I supposed, very much bigger.
.jpg)
View of the Taj Mahal through the Great Gateway
The great structure stands at the end of a long rectangular water pool and is so perfect geometrically and so grand in scale that it is hair-raising and spine-tingling.
It also has many surprises. I hadn’t realised that the central structure is flanked by two slightly smaller sandstone buildings mirror images of each other, both of which are marvels in their own right.
The one on the left is the mosque or Masjid, and that on the right, the rest house or Naqqar Khana. Though they are not as big as the Taj itself these are substantial buildings that are rarely included in the usual photographs of the site.
Together with the main mausoleum, the Rauza, they form a perfectly symmetrical whole. This symmetry is further enhanced by the layout of the water gardens sweeping along the approach to the Taj from the Great Gateway.
The huge marble plinth on which the Taj Mahal stands is exactly as wide as the main building is high. The architect must have known that this precise symmetry is very pleasing to the beholder.
In accordance with Islamic tradition no human or Godly images are permitted; only writings from the Koran or geometrical symbols and patterns are allowed.
At each corner of the main Taj, four tall minarets guard the mausoleum. They each lean outwards at a barely perceptible angle. In this way did the architect ensure that the main building would not be damaged should the minarets fall during an earthquake.
One of the Four Leaning Minarets
At the rear of the Taj one can peer over a wall and see the Yamuna River winding through Agra. On the other side is a huge red fort, yet another surprise that escapes most tourists’ cameras.
The Mughal emperor, Shah Jahan built the Taj Mahal between 1632 and 1647 as a last repose for his favourite wife who died in childbirth (not surprising, it was her 14th). Now both she and the emperor lay side by side deep in the building. One can view the tomb through a screen of crenulated marble (it once was made of solid gold but that was too much of a temptation for even the most pious of visitors). Today it is rather like peeping through lace curtains that are made of stone.
Yet another surprise, this is not the true tomb, just an exact replica. The real resting place for the imperial pair lies deeper yet within the crypt where infidels such as I may not venture.
And so, after a return trip to Delhi and a delayed flight departure for Bangkok because of fog, this journey is at an end.
A Photo Opportunity for the Author
I enjoyed making the trip immensely, I learned so much. I also had such fun writing about it – I hope you enjoyed reading it.
If I ever get the chance, I will return to the mystical country of India if only to seek out an elephant or two!
Tilman and I decided to make one more trip, one more pilgrimage. In our time in India we have visited the centres of Hindu worship at Benares, gave alms to the beggars at the ghats, saw the corpses on the cremation pyres on Ma Ganga and went to the birthplace of Buddhism at Parnath. Now on our last day we would go to Agra to see one of the pinnacles of Islamic architecture, the Taj Mahal.
The distance along the good divided road from Delhi to Agra is about 250 kms but in the deep blanketing fog took at least five hours.
No matter how many books one has read about the Taj Mahal, or how many histrionic documentary shows one has watched, or how many raving tourists one has listened to, nothing can prepare you for the sight of this place.
It is everything: palace, mausoleum, place of worship, tranquil garden, it’s whatever you want it to be. Before you see the great building itself, you walk along a rising road with rickshaws and souvenir shops all around (cars are banned). Soldiers check visitors for weapons (they confiscated Tilman’s reserve of muesli bars – maybe they were hungry).
But then you see the Great Gateway or Darwaza, a 30 metre tall red sandstone archway inlaid with marble that is inscribed with Koranic writings. Outside the gateway all is hustle and bustle, inside, peace and tranquillity.
The Great Gateway or Darwaza
I passed through the Darwaza, neck craned marvelling at the domed interior and the regularity of its construction. At that moment I had my first view of the Taj Mahal. Gasping and a little emotional, I could see the palace perfectly framed in the silhouette of the Great Gateway.
It is quite breathtaking to see such a familiar building in reality. It is much bigger than I supposed, very much bigger.
.jpg)
View of the Taj Mahal through the Great Gateway
The great structure stands at the end of a long rectangular water pool and is so perfect geometrically and so grand in scale that it is hair-raising and spine-tingling.
It also has many surprises. I hadn’t realised that the central structure is flanked by two slightly smaller sandstone buildings mirror images of each other, both of which are marvels in their own right.
The one on the left is the mosque or Masjid, and that on the right, the rest house or Naqqar Khana. Though they are not as big as the Taj itself these are substantial buildings that are rarely included in the usual photographs of the site.
Together with the main mausoleum, the Rauza, they form a perfectly symmetrical whole. This symmetry is further enhanced by the layout of the water gardens sweeping along the approach to the Taj from the Great Gateway.
The huge marble plinth on which the Taj Mahal stands is exactly as wide as the main building is high. The architect must have known that this precise symmetry is very pleasing to the beholder.
In accordance with Islamic tradition no human or Godly images are permitted; only writings from the Koran or geometrical symbols and patterns are allowed.
At each corner of the main Taj, four tall minarets guard the mausoleum. They each lean outwards at a barely perceptible angle. In this way did the architect ensure that the main building would not be damaged should the minarets fall during an earthquake.
One of the Four Leaning Minarets
At the rear of the Taj one can peer over a wall and see the Yamuna River winding through Agra. On the other side is a huge red fort, yet another surprise that escapes most tourists’ cameras.
The Mughal emperor, Shah Jahan built the Taj Mahal between 1632 and 1647 as a last repose for his favourite wife who died in childbirth (not surprising, it was her 14th). Now both she and the emperor lay side by side deep in the building. One can view the tomb through a screen of crenulated marble (it once was made of solid gold but that was too much of a temptation for even the most pious of visitors). Today it is rather like peeping through lace curtains that are made of stone.
Yet another surprise, this is not the true tomb, just an exact replica. The real resting place for the imperial pair lies deeper yet within the crypt where infidels such as I may not venture.
And so, after a return trip to Delhi and a delayed flight departure for Bangkok because of fog, this journey is at an end.
A Photo Opportunity for the Author
I enjoyed making the trip immensely, I learned so much. I also had such fun writing about it – I hope you enjoyed reading it.
If I ever get the chance, I will return to the mystical country of India if only to seek out an elephant or two!
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