| Editor's note: This is the second installment of Crow Johnson Evan's 1997 trip to India. |
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(The background image on these pages is that of a sari,
Crow brought back
for her mother.) |
| Bombay is India's largest city.
She sits on the western coast and looks into the Arabian Sea. The night before I took a flight from Bombay (Mumbai) south to Trivandrum, I took to the beach at sunset. From upstairs in the hotel room, I could see families wading in the ocean, silk saris swirling patterns in the waves, couples walking the wide crescent of Juhu beach. A strong breeze swept away the heat of the day and with it the small threads still attaching my everyday reality to the country I left behind. After the long, long, long plane ride exactly half way around the world from my Arkansas home, a couple of nights rest in the state of Maharashtra was a chance to let my body figure out which way was up. My mind would have weeks (perhaps years) to mull it over. The beach morphed in less than one hour. It transformed in stages from a smooth clean strip of sand to a carnival. Ingenuity in action. Games of chance were set up by digging troughs and piling sand for low walls. Fancy two-wheeled pony carts painted in bright colors and trailing ribbons, carried couples and sometimes whole families on rides along the beach at breakneck speed. The more daring could pay to ride a saddled pony. The handlers would hold the reins and run beside the pony. A few food booths were permanent, but, People of all ages enjoyed the
beach. Single girls bedecked in gold jewelry and perfectly wrapped saris
flirted with an aloof, captivating confidence. American girls now sport
facial piercings, so nose rings and studs were not shocking to me. Young
marrieds put toddlers in airplane seats suspended on chains attached to
a horizontal wheel, 4 feet above the ground. They'd grab the wheel, push
and send the squealing or crying kiddos round and round. That rhythmic
squeak was drowned out by a metal to metal scrape from the next ride over.
Also man powered rather than electric or motor powered, the ferris wheel was the star ride of the beach in my eyes. The wheel was all metal construction painted white, approximately 14 feet high. Ladders extended up either side. Only one adult or two small children could fit in each seat. It was a miniature of the motorized models we see on mall parking lots in America. The speed achieved by this human powered beach version was breath taking. Two young and agile men would alternately climb the ladders grab the top of the metal ferris wheel rim and fling their bodies as far a possible laterally in the direction of the spin. . . then ride the wheel down. .. . and climb again. The sound and sight will be with me forever. Tears spilled from my eyes and slid to my cheeks to see this joyous, multi-generational "family entertainment" I stood like a space traveler feeling the sea breeze soft and warm on my skin, touching my hair. In my homeland kids require pagers, Nintendos, cable TV, transformers, skateboards, and computers. And everyone requires electricity as a basic creature comfort. Here with a few torches, lanterns, and some muscle power, the family of man frolicked. But understand me, these people were not "simple" or ignorant. How could I have forgotten that happiness has nothing to do with "things?" This was the first of many reminders I would have in India.
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The next day I climbed onto
an Air India plane and watched in curious horror as we climbed above Mumbai
airport and banked. My arriving flight had been at night. Now I would see
this monstrous city of over 12 million from above. A shanty town, yes just
like the news films have shown us, crowded nearly up to the runway's concrete
margin. The expression "marginal" gained a new meaning. The zone of obvious
poverty spread out for about one block, then ended abruptly. Fine stone
walls marked the perimeter, beyond which lovely upper middle class homes
and grounds appeared. I remember feeling that I could have easily been
born on the wrong side of those walls.
 in
a bundle or a vessel on my head watching the plane I was in taking
off, rattling the air and my chest. I turn back toward the rusting
corrugated iron scrap structures and walk barefooted up the narrow
paths of my community. That airplane might as well be a hawk or a
spaceship, no one I know has ever flown or ever had the chance.
The following weeks would be so wonderful that it was easy to put inner city airport runway poverty way back in my mind, "on hold." But those memories don't go away. It's the woman carrying an infant standing in dangerous traffic at 10 p.m., tapping on the taxi window. "Madam, Please Madam. One Rupee? Please Madam. Madam?" (It took 34 rupees to equal one dollar. She was risking her life in traffic at night to ask for 3 cents.) Those images remain. She rested her forehead on the window while the taxi froze, mired in traffic. Her cheek was inches away, closer than that of a good friend at lunch. That's not a TV news reel. That's not a movie or novel. That moment was mine and only mine. . . and hers.
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| Prearranged, a taxi waited in
Trivandrum to carry me inland and North toward the small village I'd been
invited to. The taxi had tinted windows; it was air-conditioned. A cocoon.
There the luxury ended.
The ride was death defying. For three hours we hurtled down narrow lanes sprinkled with oxen, bicycles, children, old men carrying huge loads on their heads, motorized rickshaws, trucks, buses, chickens, and cows. Right of way consisted of honking the horn -- and playing "chicken". I have never been that scared or nauseous green in my life. After decades of doing crazy things, it occurred to me in a flash "This is the craziest damn thing I have ever done!!! These people believe in reincarnation. They don't care if they die and their driving proves it!" At times I wondered if "the force" was the only thing keeping us from precipices and head-ons.
Up among hibiscus and in view of jack fruit, crows, and fruit bats. There was no mesh screening! The first night I awakened to discover that I was sharing my bed with a lizard and one fuzzy spider. With a degree in Zoology, I don't have jitters about critters, but I remembered that the more snakebite deaths than any place else on the planet happen not 100 miles south of where I slept. Kraits and cobras take their toll. My true love cautioned me to not go "padding around barefoot in the dark without a flashlight." After the first night I kept 2 flashlights by the bed. Overhead fans stirred the air, keeping the tropical heat and mosquitoes at bay. A probably unhealthy dose of insect repellent was recommended, malaria pills each Sunday, and only filtered bottled water to drink. An ear dropper with vinegar and rubbing alcohol was used to chase river water out of my ears. Before going into holy places, believers must bathe or plunge into a holy river or reservoir first. Hindu temples are restricted. (One is born Hindu; sorry no converts.) Yet, what I experienced was neither alienation nor exclusion. Somehow I felt genuinely embraced by India. Hey, what's one more in the home of over 700 million multi-cultural citizens? Bombs were exploded on trains while I was in the south. Hindus and Muslims are gripped in political struggle, which goes back thousands of years and was exacerbated by the partition of India and Pakistan at the time the British left India. At times this explodes in violence, although at other times people of both religions live peaceably side by side though there is little, if any, intermarriage. The country is a patchwork of languages, peoples, and faiths. The early spiritual writings from the Indus valley date back to 1200 B.C. From those sage poetic verses grew philosophies known to the west as Buddhism, Hinduism, Jainism, Vedanta, Yoga -- Christians, Catholics and Jews have made strong inroads and they have become an accepted part of the national mosaic. There is even a small congregation of Jews in the southern port city of Cochin with its own spectacular synagogue. |
| As Jehovah's Witnesses in America
go door-to-door to share earnestly their spiritual beliefs with with strangers;
the opposite is normal in ancient Indian philosophy. A seeker must prove
himself or herself to be earnestly in pursuit of the Truth (for the sake
of himself only) and that Truth must be experienced rather than recounted
or studied abstractly. You have to hear it directly from a living
teacher. The underlying impression is that sooner or later, but only when
they want it deeply enough, everyone gets There. The Buddhists
say one is never off the path, but one's path may meander. It may take
a few lifetimes, a number of spins on the wheel of life and death.
There is no pressure to get it right, right now.
I didn't see them. 
My limited exposure was positive. Why would otherwise intelligent people go to an ashram?
Anxious to explore all of India that I could, I ate idlis each morning (steamed or grilled sourdough dumplings made of ground rice and lentils, very high in protein and served with a spicy hot coconut sauce) tasted young coconut, and humbled myself before an ever expanding view of the world. On feast offering days periodic cannon blasts were set to scare off the pesky crows. Some believe that the crows are the spirits of the ancestors. I flinched every time a canon blast went off; however, in America those crows might have been shot or poisoned. "No, I don't think we're in Arkansas any more. . . and it is amazing." click here for the final chapter click here to return to the top of the page return to Crow's Home Page ©Copyright 1998 by Crow Johnson Evans |
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Our appreciation and thanks to New Works Review
for this reprint.
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suddenly
there were carts and even mobile tables that some carried with a strap
around their shoulders. The portable mini kitchens had enough room for
a small charcoal burner and all supplies. Chat (chickpeas roasted and
served with chopped onions, tomato, and cilantro) and roasted corn on
the cob rubbed with lime and red pepper... yum... delicious.