Sunday, November 23, 2008
Monday, June 30, 2008
hiatus maximus
For those who don't know, the reason I haven't been writing lately is that I've been hard at work in rehearsals for Songs for a New World. Which runs July 11-20th at Grandstreet Theatre in Helena. It's already been a very rewarding musical experience for me, reaching levels I hadn't thought possible in only a week so far. This is one show not to be missed!
I will try to keep processing in the little free time I have, and get back to the blog. In the meantime, come see me in Helena if you're around, and we'll catch up.
I will try to keep processing in the little free time I have, and get back to the blog. In the meantime, come see me in Helena if you're around, and we'll catch up.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Great Conversations
I've just finished reading William Dalrymple’s memoir of living in Delhi, “City of Djinns.” I have many thoughts about the book, and take some issue with his attitudes to portraying India’s (in particular, Delhi’s) history as just a succession of rulers with their own architectural styles. I only want to mention one reaction, however, which is that I generally sympathize with his approach to India. He’s British, but comes from a background relatively similar to mine, in terms of education and attraction to India. He spent a year in Delhi, and he creates his memoir of experience out of three main components – 1) research he pursues on his own in the form of written texts and treatises, 2) subjective reactions to living and moving in daily Indian life (as with me, the most entertaining and bizarre category), and 3) incredibly insightful conversations with English-speaking Indians that link the first two categories together.
It is this last category, the conversations, which I want to write a little about today. It’s impossible to overstate the enlightening effect these single conversations have in the context of India. I felt myself straddling an ever-widening gulf, reading about the long and great histories of culture and music in North India, and then going out every day into the chaos, the frustrating back-and-forth, the material-craving attitudes of the street and the temples. Between the two, I was losing grip of any knowledge or understanding I might have gained up to that point – then, over the course of a single sit-down with a scholar or friend, all of that would suddenly smash together into a cohesive picture (perhaps still illogical, but that’s India). I would rush off after these encounters, racing against time while my eyes were still open, and try to transcribe as many of the things that made sense to me. This is maybe the power with which Indians view their own country, holding the jigsaw puzzle together whereas a Westerner is undone by the fact that the lines don’t actually meet up.
Here I’ll summarize what I scribbled down after a lunch with my friend Dhruv at a café in S. Delhi. By way of introduction, he is a very accomplished singer who makes his living giving concerts and making recordings. He has performed internationally, most recently in Berlin, and has numerous engagements and talent representation in N. India. He knows Indian classical music very well, having studied from an early age, but most often refers to himself as a “sufi singer” since he personally studied under perhaps the most famous South Asian singer of all time, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan.
Dhruv talked about times that he’s collaborated with Western musicians, and said that he can tell when they have preconceived notions about him. In these instances, they think that their music (based on Western harmony and polyphony) is more complicated and advanced than Indian music, and that their training was undoubtedly better because they have been to top-name conservatories. He joked that the feels they initially view him as some kind of Barbarian, an emissary of a primitive age and culture.
Of course, the upshot, as he (not too modestly) tells it, is that once they are confronted with the fact that he has a technical skill, they are taken aback. To hear Dhruv tell it, the musical training he has is more useful than a Western conservatory. “Indians are the best copycats in the World”, he said repeatedly, “why else do you think they, along with the Chinese, are surging ahead now?” Though I've heard this sentiment most often applied in finance, manufacturing, and marketing, here means it through musical collaboration. In other words, because the whole progression of his learning has been by ear and through repetition, instead of notation, he can imitate complicated figures that Western musicians play, but when he rips off a long taan (improvisation) they’re left wondering, ‘How’d he do that?’
I appreciate hearing all this, and frankly agree for the most part. A part of me can sympathize with the engrained notion that Western music is superior, more complex, and that because of my top-rate education I would expect to ‘know more’ about music writ-large than an Indian musician. But at times, like speaking to Dhruv, that notion was turned on its head. With him, I see the usefulness, more fundamental even than understanding Bach’s tonality and Hanon’s exercises, of merging one’s ear and skills in imitation. It seems truer to the Source, the reason of why we make music - the fact that we hear, distinguish, and react to sounds. Moving on from the comparison that is not too favorable to the West (although he admits that the greatest Western musicians do ‘get it’), he gave me a neat demonstration of incorporating Arab-style modes into particular Sufi songs. My ear was open enough that I could hear what he was doing, and it was another minor revelation about how aware performers and audiences of North Indian music are to the saturation of their culture from Arab and Persian influence.
The other big area we discussed, of great interest to me, was the all-encompassing process of learning Indian music. Since we are both vocalists, I thought we would have a lot of notes to compare (no pun intended). I mentioned something that had dawned on me, that being in the right state of mind and body seemed absolutely crucial to singing Indian music – I think I get away with practicing other music whether or not I’m really feeling focused on it. My friend agreed completely, saying both that singing ragas makes you reflect more readily on what your state is, but on the flip side, that all the complex vibrato and three-octave improvisations of ragas just don’t happen unless you are truly concentrating. Hence, this idea I always like to think of from a rational perspective, saying that I prefer ‘thinking musicians’, Dhruv put simply as, “Music is transmitting to the outside what is on the inside.” One thing about Indian philosophy and arts that is refreshing is the willingness to put things directly, avoiding the flowery, intellectual language we sometimes deem necessary in order to sound ‘intelligent’ or ‘cultured’.
And finally, we briefly tackled the guru-shisya relationship, which translates as master-disciple. This is still the true, accepted way of learning Indian music, despite the fact that there now exist many conservatories and private schools in the Western mold. The guru-shisya doesn’t just pertain to music, of course, the same thing is held as the ideal whether one is learning yoga, classical dance, etc. One fundamental of this relationship, as referenced above, is the methodology of imitation. The guru does, the shishya imitates. This is, essentially what I had with my ragi. The other thing that must be present, Dhruv says, is often more difficult for Westerners (again I include myself) to swallow, “the teather is always right, the student is always wrong.” While I didn’t launch into any personal example with Dhruv, I do find this absolute mentality to be distasteful. Not only were there many times that I knew my teacher had misspoken and wanted to correct him, but giving that kind of absolute power, history has shown us again and again, can be ruinous to all parties. As a defense of it, though, Dhruv said that what Westerners misunderstand the relationship in thinking it’s just another thing that 'Indians do because it’s expected', whereas he understands it as each artist choosing to humble him or herself by submitting to that relationship, which is very spiritually healthy.
It is this last category, the conversations, which I want to write a little about today. It’s impossible to overstate the enlightening effect these single conversations have in the context of India. I felt myself straddling an ever-widening gulf, reading about the long and great histories of culture and music in North India, and then going out every day into the chaos, the frustrating back-and-forth, the material-craving attitudes of the street and the temples. Between the two, I was losing grip of any knowledge or understanding I might have gained up to that point – then, over the course of a single sit-down with a scholar or friend, all of that would suddenly smash together into a cohesive picture (perhaps still illogical, but that’s India). I would rush off after these encounters, racing against time while my eyes were still open, and try to transcribe as many of the things that made sense to me. This is maybe the power with which Indians view their own country, holding the jigsaw puzzle together whereas a Westerner is undone by the fact that the lines don’t actually meet up.
Here I’ll summarize what I scribbled down after a lunch with my friend Dhruv at a café in S. Delhi. By way of introduction, he is a very accomplished singer who makes his living giving concerts and making recordings. He has performed internationally, most recently in Berlin, and has numerous engagements and talent representation in N. India. He knows Indian classical music very well, having studied from an early age, but most often refers to himself as a “sufi singer” since he personally studied under perhaps the most famous South Asian singer of all time, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan.
Dhruv talked about times that he’s collaborated with Western musicians, and said that he can tell when they have preconceived notions about him. In these instances, they think that their music (based on Western harmony and polyphony) is more complicated and advanced than Indian music, and that their training was undoubtedly better because they have been to top-name conservatories. He joked that the feels they initially view him as some kind of Barbarian, an emissary of a primitive age and culture.
Of course, the upshot, as he (not too modestly) tells it, is that once they are confronted with the fact that he has a technical skill, they are taken aback. To hear Dhruv tell it, the musical training he has is more useful than a Western conservatory. “Indians are the best copycats in the World”, he said repeatedly, “why else do you think they, along with the Chinese, are surging ahead now?” Though I've heard this sentiment most often applied in finance, manufacturing, and marketing, here means it through musical collaboration. In other words, because the whole progression of his learning has been by ear and through repetition, instead of notation, he can imitate complicated figures that Western musicians play, but when he rips off a long taan (improvisation) they’re left wondering, ‘How’d he do that?’
I appreciate hearing all this, and frankly agree for the most part. A part of me can sympathize with the engrained notion that Western music is superior, more complex, and that because of my top-rate education I would expect to ‘know more’ about music writ-large than an Indian musician. But at times, like speaking to Dhruv, that notion was turned on its head. With him, I see the usefulness, more fundamental even than understanding Bach’s tonality and Hanon’s exercises, of merging one’s ear and skills in imitation. It seems truer to the Source, the reason of why we make music - the fact that we hear, distinguish, and react to sounds. Moving on from the comparison that is not too favorable to the West (although he admits that the greatest Western musicians do ‘get it’), he gave me a neat demonstration of incorporating Arab-style modes into particular Sufi songs. My ear was open enough that I could hear what he was doing, and it was another minor revelation about how aware performers and audiences of North Indian music are to the saturation of their culture from Arab and Persian influence.
The other big area we discussed, of great interest to me, was the all-encompassing process of learning Indian music. Since we are both vocalists, I thought we would have a lot of notes to compare (no pun intended). I mentioned something that had dawned on me, that being in the right state of mind and body seemed absolutely crucial to singing Indian music – I think I get away with practicing other music whether or not I’m really feeling focused on it. My friend agreed completely, saying both that singing ragas makes you reflect more readily on what your state is, but on the flip side, that all the complex vibrato and three-octave improvisations of ragas just don’t happen unless you are truly concentrating. Hence, this idea I always like to think of from a rational perspective, saying that I prefer ‘thinking musicians’, Dhruv put simply as, “Music is transmitting to the outside what is on the inside.” One thing about Indian philosophy and arts that is refreshing is the willingness to put things directly, avoiding the flowery, intellectual language we sometimes deem necessary in order to sound ‘intelligent’ or ‘cultured’.
And finally, we briefly tackled the guru-shisya relationship, which translates as master-disciple. This is still the true, accepted way of learning Indian music, despite the fact that there now exist many conservatories and private schools in the Western mold. The guru-shisya doesn’t just pertain to music, of course, the same thing is held as the ideal whether one is learning yoga, classical dance, etc. One fundamental of this relationship, as referenced above, is the methodology of imitation. The guru does, the shishya imitates. This is, essentially what I had with my ragi. The other thing that must be present, Dhruv says, is often more difficult for Westerners (again I include myself) to swallow, “the teather is always right, the student is always wrong.” While I didn’t launch into any personal example with Dhruv, I do find this absolute mentality to be distasteful. Not only were there many times that I knew my teacher had misspoken and wanted to correct him, but giving that kind of absolute power, history has shown us again and again, can be ruinous to all parties. As a defense of it, though, Dhruv said that what Westerners misunderstand the relationship in thinking it’s just another thing that 'Indians do because it’s expected', whereas he understands it as each artist choosing to humble him or herself by submitting to that relationship, which is very spiritually healthy.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Bhakti Utsav Revelation
Slightly on a different line, this blog ‘post’ is actually going to be a transcription of some field notes. Obviously I’ll fix grammatical shorthands that I used, and probably have to improvise a bit where I can’t read my scribble. In the course of my traveling the length of India in the second half of my trip, I left my laptop back in Amritsar, rendering me without any note-taking device more efficient than found pens and bazaar-purchased notebooks. It was one of these notebooks that I scribbled a few pages called “Bhakti Utsav revelation”.
Bhakti Utsav was a concert I attended at the beginning of April in Delhi. Christi and Kirsten had just left, but I stayed a few extra days in Delhi in order to go to this concert. The setting was pretty spectacular, outside in Nehru Park just after sunset.
You can see the amazing display of marigolds and hanging candles, adorning a tree, which served as the stage. It was billed as “A 3-day festival celebrating the diverse ways of reaching out and beyond through music”. Although I attended only the first day, it was shortly after that that I scribbled down these notes about the “revelation”, because I sensed how big an effect it had on me:
*****
Hard to know if ‘revelation’ is the right word exactly, but it did feel like that. It was perhaps more a crystallization, or a ‘SNAP’ of my whole awareness catching up with what I had read and been told, joining with something that seemed to be al around me as I sat there listening.
The realization is something in the direction of ‘music is a means to spiritual realization’ (because it has the freeing effect of calming inner disturbances). I was aware, because I spent so much time tracking down music while there, that music in India isn’t always practically treated as a ‘means’ – the emphasis on gharanas (schools of technique), style, on needing to know pure musical technique before performing or listening in a temple.
This revelation was accumulating throughout the concert. The first pieces were by no means calming or clarifying, but had a very direct style with interesting timbres that held my attention. In them I perceived a singular structure that starkly alternated musical textures – all these songs have a simple structure and proportion, but here it was as though the skeleton was on the outside.
Then the young man’s singing, which was remarkable not for its beauty (his voice was a little hoarse and light) but for the intention that was so palpable. In his songs I heard interesting play with the ragas, lines that were varied and well-shaped, clear and interesting taans (improvisations).
The third group, Qawwali brothers from Pakistan brought the fun and joy into it. Not only did the brothers seem affable individuals, they were clearly having fun – they threw taans back and forth, competing to extend the farthest (the rapid imitation of ‘bol’ taan with ‘aah’ taan). At one point between before starting a new refrain, I think the older brother told a joke (in Hindi or Urdu), the punchline of which was the first sung line.
The fourth performance did the heavy lifting of deepening me to that Mystery place. Taking the stage in the third continuous hour of the concert, this singer was accompanied on tanpura, tabla, pakhawaj and flute. Her bhajans were shorter (~5 mins) than songs the others had done, allowing her to fit more songs into her segment and therefore display a wider range. The first ones were lively, her voice and the flute intertwining right on top of eachother in the improvisations. Her ragas at first were pretty straightforward (as had the previous group’s been), but later she sang more thorny ragas, which seemed to bridge a gulf from my understanding of Indian classical music to another place.
I noticed a growing tendency in my listening to forget the superficial analysis I usually did in my head while listening to Indian singers – such as ‘which named note is she on?’ or ‘what is a characteristic leap in this raga?’ At some point, I was only catching the endings of her phrases, where sometimes there was a familiar pattern. Everything in between, though, seemed at a distance, or through a haze, from my brain. Of course, I was still seated on the grass, and not on any altering substances, it’s just that I can only describe the music as wandering through territories I couldn’t follow. I also remember that the flute player was silent more often as her improvisations progressed, seemingly sympathetic to my notion that the singer was off in uncharted territory.
This obscurity, though, is what enabled Bombay Jayeshri to hit me with full force. There was a long pause before she came on as the fifth and final singer (I think the violin player was re-tuning both of the tanpuras). In addition to the violin, two young female singers backed up Bombayji, and there was a tabla player and (S. Indian) clay-pot player. By the time this group came to the stage, we were in the fourth hour of the concert, and I was thinking about being tired, about how I was going to get back to my hotel on the other side of the city at this late hour, about the mosquito bites, etc. She began, and I made mental notes of a few details as I tried to make myself listen with attention:
The whole emanation of their music was very calm. The tabla and pot players were silent, except for playing finger cymbals on regular beats. The violin player stayed under the three voices in dynamics, but played hushed, wheeling figures, like some kind of consonant cadenza. The secondary singers would pick up and repeat a line that Bombayji sang (all one-word names of God – some I recognized, like Shiv, but others not), and his enabled Bombayji’s voice to create harmonic lines against the rocking repetitions.
All of sudden, as they were reaching the end of this lilting introductory section, something clicked and I realized, like waking abruptly from a dream, that I hadn’t ever been truly listening. Immediately all my trying to understand simple fell away from my body. Though I was, strictly speaking, analytically aware of what transpired in the music, it didn’t dominate my other reactions. With this realization, suddenly every part of me was listening and overwhelmed at the immensity (which was immense because I seemed surrounded by it) of the calm bliss in what Bombayji and the other musicians were creating (a better word is probably emanating, it truly felt distinct from the live creation of an artist). Tears welled up in my eyes, and I felt bigger beyond my bounds than in a long while.
I put this transcription up here first, but next I would like to deal with my post-Revelation experience of hearing devotional music. Even compare, if I can, listening to Sikh kirtan or qawwali before and after this moment in time. I also want to use a little bit of Alduous Huxley to talk about the opening of these ‘doors of perception’. And finally, I want to remind myself and you, just so the record is straight, that this did occur in a ‘concert’ setting – something intentionally advocated as devotional music, and an evening that drew from at least four distinct traditions – and that Bombay Jayeshri, and the others, are truly world-class performers. As I continue to reflect on that fact, it is possible that my experience at the moment was because of me ‘opening the doors’, but it is also possible that it was not an accident, and not totally of my doing. Maybe someone of Bombayji’s caliber has the control (power? devotion?) to be able to do that.
Bhakti Utsav was a concert I attended at the beginning of April in Delhi. Christi and Kirsten had just left, but I stayed a few extra days in Delhi in order to go to this concert. The setting was pretty spectacular, outside in Nehru Park just after sunset.
You can see the amazing display of marigolds and hanging candles, adorning a tree, which served as the stage. It was billed as “A 3-day festival celebrating the diverse ways of reaching out and beyond through music”. Although I attended only the first day, it was shortly after that that I scribbled down these notes about the “revelation”, because I sensed how big an effect it had on me:
*****
Hard to know if ‘revelation’ is the right word exactly, but it did feel like that. It was perhaps more a crystallization, or a ‘SNAP’ of my whole awareness catching up with what I had read and been told, joining with something that seemed to be al around me as I sat there listening.
The realization is something in the direction of ‘music is a means to spiritual realization’ (because it has the freeing effect of calming inner disturbances). I was aware, because I spent so much time tracking down music while there, that music in India isn’t always practically treated as a ‘means’ – the emphasis on gharanas (schools of technique), style, on needing to know pure musical technique before performing or listening in a temple.
This revelation was accumulating throughout the concert. The first pieces were by no means calming or clarifying, but had a very direct style with interesting timbres that held my attention. In them I perceived a singular structure that starkly alternated musical textures – all these songs have a simple structure and proportion, but here it was as though the skeleton was on the outside.
Then the young man’s singing, which was remarkable not for its beauty (his voice was a little hoarse and light) but for the intention that was so palpable. In his songs I heard interesting play with the ragas, lines that were varied and well-shaped, clear and interesting taans (improvisations).
The third group, Qawwali brothers from Pakistan brought the fun and joy into it. Not only did the brothers seem affable individuals, they were clearly having fun – they threw taans back and forth, competing to extend the farthest (the rapid imitation of ‘bol’ taan with ‘aah’ taan). At one point between before starting a new refrain, I think the older brother told a joke (in Hindi or Urdu), the punchline of which was the first sung line.
The fourth performance did the heavy lifting of deepening me to that Mystery place. Taking the stage in the third continuous hour of the concert, this singer was accompanied on tanpura, tabla, pakhawaj and flute. Her bhajans were shorter (~5 mins) than songs the others had done, allowing her to fit more songs into her segment and therefore display a wider range. The first ones were lively, her voice and the flute intertwining right on top of eachother in the improvisations. Her ragas at first were pretty straightforward (as had the previous group’s been), but later she sang more thorny ragas, which seemed to bridge a gulf from my understanding of Indian classical music to another place.
I noticed a growing tendency in my listening to forget the superficial analysis I usually did in my head while listening to Indian singers – such as ‘which named note is she on?’ or ‘what is a characteristic leap in this raga?’ At some point, I was only catching the endings of her phrases, where sometimes there was a familiar pattern. Everything in between, though, seemed at a distance, or through a haze, from my brain. Of course, I was still seated on the grass, and not on any altering substances, it’s just that I can only describe the music as wandering through territories I couldn’t follow. I also remember that the flute player was silent more often as her improvisations progressed, seemingly sympathetic to my notion that the singer was off in uncharted territory.
This obscurity, though, is what enabled Bombay Jayeshri to hit me with full force. There was a long pause before she came on as the fifth and final singer (I think the violin player was re-tuning both of the tanpuras). In addition to the violin, two young female singers backed up Bombayji, and there was a tabla player and (S. Indian) clay-pot player. By the time this group came to the stage, we were in the fourth hour of the concert, and I was thinking about being tired, about how I was going to get back to my hotel on the other side of the city at this late hour, about the mosquito bites, etc. She began, and I made mental notes of a few details as I tried to make myself listen with attention:
The whole emanation of their music was very calm. The tabla and pot players were silent, except for playing finger cymbals on regular beats. The violin player stayed under the three voices in dynamics, but played hushed, wheeling figures, like some kind of consonant cadenza. The secondary singers would pick up and repeat a line that Bombayji sang (all one-word names of God – some I recognized, like Shiv, but others not), and his enabled Bombayji’s voice to create harmonic lines against the rocking repetitions.
All of sudden, as they were reaching the end of this lilting introductory section, something clicked and I realized, like waking abruptly from a dream, that I hadn’t ever been truly listening. Immediately all my trying to understand simple fell away from my body. Though I was, strictly speaking, analytically aware of what transpired in the music, it didn’t dominate my other reactions. With this realization, suddenly every part of me was listening and overwhelmed at the immensity (which was immense because I seemed surrounded by it) of the calm bliss in what Bombayji and the other musicians were creating (a better word is probably emanating, it truly felt distinct from the live creation of an artist). Tears welled up in my eyes, and I felt bigger beyond my bounds than in a long while.
I put this transcription up here first, but next I would like to deal with my post-Revelation experience of hearing devotional music. Even compare, if I can, listening to Sikh kirtan or qawwali before and after this moment in time. I also want to use a little bit of Alduous Huxley to talk about the opening of these ‘doors of perception’. And finally, I want to remind myself and you, just so the record is straight, that this did occur in a ‘concert’ setting – something intentionally advocated as devotional music, and an evening that drew from at least four distinct traditions – and that Bombay Jayeshri, and the others, are truly world-class performers. As I continue to reflect on that fact, it is possible that my experience at the moment was because of me ‘opening the doors’, but it is also possible that it was not an accident, and not totally of my doing. Maybe someone of Bombayji’s caliber has the control (power? devotion?) to be able to do that.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Anaskati Ashram
Pressing on in my quest to write up these experiences, I'll return to a singularly moving and concise one that occurred while Christi and Kirsten were visiting. We had taken a series of buses and taxis to a mountain town called Kausani, which amounted to little more than a crossroads on top of a ridge with a few bazaar stands and hotels boasting views of the Himalayas. We opted for lodging in what lonely planet referred to as "hobbit huts" a few miles down the ridge and we soon came to refer to as "heaven". The lush green surroundings (unfortunately made more lush by the downpour that accompanied our arrival and first day) led down through tea fields to a steep valley. Under clear conditions, we were supposed to have a magnificent vantage of the Himalayas, but at first we had only partially-obscured glimpses like this:
We had three days to wait for the weather to clear, and were determined to do so because, after all, we came at least 14 hours out of our way to get to this point and see the view. To kill time, we followed one of Lonely Planet's recommendations and walked a few miles uphill to the Anaskati Ashram. This modest, but well-situated, ashram is more famously nicknamed the Gandhi Ashram because the Mahatma came and stayed here while he was working on a translation of the Bhagavad Gita. We arrived just in time for a prayer service in Gandhi's honor, held daily at 7pm - which, because it was Spring and very cloudy, had us scrambling the last half-mile in near-dark and mist, drawn only to the right building by the ringing of a ceremonial bell.
As we entered, there were a few men, wrapped in thick grey shawls, seated on the floor against a long wall. The walls were crowded with many black and white photos of Gandhiji throughout his life. One man, who we would call the 'manager' but who called himself only a 'servant', handed us laminated sheets containing the prayers in Hindi. As an afterthought, he asked if we spoke Hindi and I proudly said "tora tora" ("a little bit"). Though we were the first ones in, a few other people braved the rain and cold, removing their shoes (as we had) and stepping into the room: two pilgrims from Bengal, a family from South India, an older gentleman from California, and another Bengali stationed in the Air Force at Jodhpur, whose wife and one-year-old were asleep in a guestroom of the ashram (they were staying in Kausani because of his wife's dissertation research on hunter/naturalist Jim Corbett).
On some unknown cue, the 'servants' of the temple started intoning the prayers. There was no graspable musical pattern to the chant, so we mainly listened. I tried to follow along in the Hindi for me and the girls, and noticed that on the two pages there seemed to be several prayers in different meters in sections, containing repetitions of the last line as a refrain. Though I could only follow phonetically because I didn't know most of the words, it seemed that the prayers were multi-religious; I heard references of Allah, masjid (mosque), and Guru Gobind Singh (10th Sikh Guru).
After the last prayer finished, the man who had led the prayers gently addressed the rest of us, saying something like "now you will please sing a song from your home that praises God." We all were a little surprised or tentative, but he seemed content to leave the request hanging in the silence. Before too long, I decided to seize the floor before someone else did and started singing Amazing Grace acapella. Christi and Kirsten joined in, as did the Californian after a time. We stopped after just one verse (I wasn't sure the others would come readily in such a different context), but it felt really good and the others voiced admiration.
Once I had started off, the other American sang a simple, melodic "Ram" bhajan (Hindu), of the variety I had heard in the ashram at Kullu. The Bengali seated next to him struck into a popular-sounding Bhajan that involved clapping, which some of us obliged by joining. There followed an episode of trying to convince the little girl of the family to sing something. Her mother was saying in Hindi that she had studied classical singing, but despite all the encouraging "chalo" ("let's go") and "kujh gaao" ("sing something") from others, she put her head down and refused.
All the talk of classical music got me singing about kirtan though, so before I really new what I was doing my mind was searching for a shabad I could do. For some reason, the only one that was coming into my head was "Bhaj Ramo Manu Ram" in Raag Darbari. I confess I was a little worried for some reason about doing something that was 'too Sikh' for this crowd, but after the ecumenical flavor of the prayers, this one seemed neutral enough. So I waited while the Californian did another lite rendition of "Anand Gopal", and began the piece. Of course there was no drone, as in classical music (we were all acapella), but I think it was clear from the ornaments and pacing that I was doing classical style. My nerves at doing that out of the blue (and away from the safety of just me and my ragi) were eased by closing my eyes. I pictured my notebooks that contained the notation, and imagined how my teacher had sung it, trying to reach that place of satisfaction I had felt doing the raga with him.
I'm sure it was a little unexpected for an American to break out a shabad in Punjabi, but the Bengalis lauded me by saying "excellent". When I said I studied classical ragas in Punjab, they assumed Punjab University in Patiala. I explained a little about my project studying Sikh music, and they raved about another ashram they'd visited for the previous 10 days on a glacial trek in the Himalayas. Meanwhile, Christi and Kirsten asked the Californian how long he planned to stay in Kausani and he unnerved them by responding, 'until I die.'
And, shortly, the crowd dispersed, we back to our hobbit huts. It was a remarkable interaction, but partly so far how unremarkably short it seemed amid the necessities of daily life like finding food and getting back down the mountain in the dark (which worked out well, our hotel manager had guessed where we'd gone and was waiting for us). This was one hallmark of India. In the moments where I was frustrated by bus trips, long Punjabi parties, or just waiting for some ritual or music to take place in a temple, those times felt like they would never end. Yet the parts that were most magical, that made me light up with fascination and interest in the country and people, were always over too soon. Maybe this is something that changes with experience, or maybe it is why Louis Malle chose the title he did for his epic documentaries on the Sub-Continent. For as big and dense a place as it is, it can truly seem Phantom India.
We had three days to wait for the weather to clear, and were determined to do so because, after all, we came at least 14 hours out of our way to get to this point and see the view. To kill time, we followed one of Lonely Planet's recommendations and walked a few miles uphill to the Anaskati Ashram. This modest, but well-situated, ashram is more famously nicknamed the Gandhi Ashram because the Mahatma came and stayed here while he was working on a translation of the Bhagavad Gita. We arrived just in time for a prayer service in Gandhi's honor, held daily at 7pm - which, because it was Spring and very cloudy, had us scrambling the last half-mile in near-dark and mist, drawn only to the right building by the ringing of a ceremonial bell.
As we entered, there were a few men, wrapped in thick grey shawls, seated on the floor against a long wall. The walls were crowded with many black and white photos of Gandhiji throughout his life. One man, who we would call the 'manager' but who called himself only a 'servant', handed us laminated sheets containing the prayers in Hindi. As an afterthought, he asked if we spoke Hindi and I proudly said "tora tora" ("a little bit"). Though we were the first ones in, a few other people braved the rain and cold, removing their shoes (as we had) and stepping into the room: two pilgrims from Bengal, a family from South India, an older gentleman from California, and another Bengali stationed in the Air Force at Jodhpur, whose wife and one-year-old were asleep in a guestroom of the ashram (they were staying in Kausani because of his wife's dissertation research on hunter/naturalist Jim Corbett).
On some unknown cue, the 'servants' of the temple started intoning the prayers. There was no graspable musical pattern to the chant, so we mainly listened. I tried to follow along in the Hindi for me and the girls, and noticed that on the two pages there seemed to be several prayers in different meters in sections, containing repetitions of the last line as a refrain. Though I could only follow phonetically because I didn't know most of the words, it seemed that the prayers were multi-religious; I heard references of Allah, masjid (mosque), and Guru Gobind Singh (10th Sikh Guru).
After the last prayer finished, the man who had led the prayers gently addressed the rest of us, saying something like "now you will please sing a song from your home that praises God." We all were a little surprised or tentative, but he seemed content to leave the request hanging in the silence. Before too long, I decided to seize the floor before someone else did and started singing Amazing Grace acapella. Christi and Kirsten joined in, as did the Californian after a time. We stopped after just one verse (I wasn't sure the others would come readily in such a different context), but it felt really good and the others voiced admiration.
Once I had started off, the other American sang a simple, melodic "Ram" bhajan (Hindu), of the variety I had heard in the ashram at Kullu. The Bengali seated next to him struck into a popular-sounding Bhajan that involved clapping, which some of us obliged by joining. There followed an episode of trying to convince the little girl of the family to sing something. Her mother was saying in Hindi that she had studied classical singing, but despite all the encouraging "chalo" ("let's go") and "kujh gaao" ("sing something") from others, she put her head down and refused.
All the talk of classical music got me singing about kirtan though, so before I really new what I was doing my mind was searching for a shabad I could do. For some reason, the only one that was coming into my head was "Bhaj Ramo Manu Ram" in Raag Darbari. I confess I was a little worried for some reason about doing something that was 'too Sikh' for this crowd, but after the ecumenical flavor of the prayers, this one seemed neutral enough. So I waited while the Californian did another lite rendition of "Anand Gopal", and began the piece. Of course there was no drone, as in classical music (we were all acapella), but I think it was clear from the ornaments and pacing that I was doing classical style. My nerves at doing that out of the blue (and away from the safety of just me and my ragi) were eased by closing my eyes. I pictured my notebooks that contained the notation, and imagined how my teacher had sung it, trying to reach that place of satisfaction I had felt doing the raga with him.
I'm sure it was a little unexpected for an American to break out a shabad in Punjabi, but the Bengalis lauded me by saying "excellent". When I said I studied classical ragas in Punjab, they assumed Punjab University in Patiala. I explained a little about my project studying Sikh music, and they raved about another ashram they'd visited for the previous 10 days on a glacial trek in the Himalayas. Meanwhile, Christi and Kirsten asked the Californian how long he planned to stay in Kausani and he unnerved them by responding, 'until I die.'
And, shortly, the crowd dispersed, we back to our hobbit huts. It was a remarkable interaction, but partly so far how unremarkably short it seemed amid the necessities of daily life like finding food and getting back down the mountain in the dark (which worked out well, our hotel manager had guessed where we'd gone and was waiting for us). This was one hallmark of India. In the moments where I was frustrated by bus trips, long Punjabi parties, or just waiting for some ritual or music to take place in a temple, those times felt like they would never end. Yet the parts that were most magical, that made me light up with fascination and interest in the country and people, were always over too soon. Maybe this is something that changes with experience, or maybe it is why Louis Malle chose the title he did for his epic documentaries on the Sub-Continent. For as big and dense a place as it is, it can truly seem Phantom India.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Classical v. Devotional music, take one
The intersection of classical music and devotional music in North India can be described many ways. It is certainly a mutually-beneficial relationship. In the main strains of devotional music, particularly Hindu bhajan, Sikh kirtan, and Sufi qawwali, there are educated performers and enthusiastic listeners for whom the presence of classical ragas and talas heightens the spiritual experience. The overlap is small, and the vast majority of devotional music is in a simple style that does not conform to the rules of ragas. Even so-called “light classical” music demands a higher level of apprehension for the listener, and so is not much more prevalent than strict classical style. But Hindustani classical music definitely exists in pockets in these traditions.
In fact, in Sikhism, although the 'classical' elements are strictly and adeptly applied by only a tiny minority of musicians, even those devotees who do not understand classical music pay lip-service to the idea that classical ragas are the ideal for the Gurus’ kirtan. In fact, it may be that they are much more enraptured with the idea that classical music represents the standard of Sikh music than actually listening to it. I had heard about this phenomenon from Sarbpreet, my contact in the States, as well as my music teacher in Punjab. Even though the Sikh scripture contains a prescription of a particular raga along with the text of every hymn, kirtaniyas in village gurdwaras, and even many who have major CD contracts, sing in a style that is not raga-based (i.e. theirs uses only 3-4 notes) or lift tunes from the world of popular Punjabi and Bollywood songs.
This came home to me when I was at a CD stand just outside the entrance of the Golden Temple. I was looking for a CD by the accomplished ragi Amrik Singh Zakhmi, who we had discussed in my lesson. Although there were many glossy CD’s of turbaned and bearded men doing kirtan, I couldn’t find this artist, who my ragi had described as a major contemporary figure in kirtan. When the shopkeeper finally understood who I was looking for, he said dismissively “Oh, you want classical.” He then reached underneath the counter to take out a small stack of CD’s. This is precisely the phenomenon of devotees publicly acknowledging the importance of their music’s classical roots, but privately supporting the accessible, non-classical artists and leaving the purists to languish under the counter.
Returning to the comparison of mutual benefits, a typical classical concert is never absent devotional content, whether explicit or implicit. In the West we like to see ‘absolute’ music (as opposed to program music or sacred music) in a secular, intellectual context. Of course, it’s not fair to say all Western academic music is secular – composers like Bruckner, Messaien, Arvo Part (to name a few) saw their music and compositional process as deeply devotional – but we can say a major difference is in a narrative of music and its supposed effects on people. In a Hindustani classical vocal concert, the artist will at some point sing through a short composition, a few lines long and of a devotional nature to one of the Hindu gods. Though this is explicit, the importance should not be overstated. This might only be a few minutes out of an hour-long piece, and the rest of the time the artist is singing solfeggio or nonsense syllables, or merely vocalizations.
Thus, the more direct contribution of spirituality to the ‘classical’ setting is implicit in the accounts some listeners and performers give to classical music. My ragi used to talk about how a raga like ‘kalyan’ would give you a peaceful feeling. Indians and non-Indians musicians with whom I talked in India referenced the fact that the drone of a perfect fifth and octave show the “unstruck sound”, or the true reality of the universe in Indian philosophy. In that sense, listening to a modal music that explores intervals around that unstruck sound is a means to perceiving the ultimate reality. This is not really that different from the way saints and theoreticians have long described devotional music in the Sikh, Sufi and Hindu traditions.
Still, this narrative is only a small part of the interactions with classical music. With my teacher, more often our entire discussions would revolve around the mechanics of particular ragas, how to differentiate them from other ragas, or particular techniques of singing or composition. The philosophical side is also minimal in the selective audiences of classical music I saw in Delhi. Critics and astute listeners liked to fixate on the particular strengths of a performer, and program notes usually discussed only the gharana (pedigree of music teaching) and the various awards garnered. Additionally, the audience for classical music is not strictly Hindu devotees, or people who are there for the spiritual saturation – it cut across secular elites, Sikhs, Muslims and others. In fact, while all surface observations would lead me to conclude that it was a secular, artistic tradition, it was really only when I pressed that audience members would switch gears from technique and talk about the importance of spirituality in listening – as though it was simply understood, and therefore nobody thinks about it!
The picture is further complicated by the history of Indian Classical music (though by ‘history’ I should acknowledge that a lot of this is oral history, which tends to be heavily subject to the later narratives imposed upon it). However, one prevalent idea about the lineage of what is now called Hindustani classical music is that was more devotional in its (very distant) origins, and the current image as a sophisticated, mostly secular music is fairly recent. The Mughal emperors reigned in North India for a period of several hundred years – actually until they were fully displaced by the British in the 19th century. These were Muslim rulers, mainly of Persian blood and cultural heritage. They realized, however, that they were governing an area that, despite the presence of many Muslims, had its own ancient civilization and arts. The Mughals, then, essentially adopted Hindustani raga-based music as its court music, subsequently muting the more overtly devotional parts and infusing Persian modes into many of the ragas.
This history is worth considering because, as I realize it, this whole post begs the question of what is actually the distinction between devotional and classical music. In order for them to have an ‘intersection’, they surely must be separate entities. In my descriptions of my experiences, though, this distinction is blurred considerably. For instance, most devotional music (by volume) is not in classical ragas, and much of the audience of classical music talks about it in secular terms; on the other hand, classical style is held up as the ideal of devotional practice, and spiritual benefits are touted as historic roots of the Hindustani classical tradition. Hence, it is a complex relationship, and I may never be able to draw a line around each tradition to say ‘here is where they are distinct’ and ‘here is where they mix.’ In subsequent posts, though, I hope to turn to more specifics of the traditions as I saw them, to flesh out the picture somewhat.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Shear Madness
Forgive the slow start to my “writing every day” on the blog. In thinking about it, I believe that I have ‘psyched myself out’ by thinking: “Now I’m in the processing phase, not just recording, so every conclusion has to be brilliant and lead towards this masterwork of scholarship.” Needless to say, this is incorrect but still potentially paralyzing. So I’ve freed myself by downgrading that to a minor concern and reassuring myself that whoever’s reading this already knows I’m a big dork and therefore is not expecting anything concise and brilliant. No offense to any of you, but that’s what I need to tell myself to keep from putting off this project.
So, back underway, I’ve remember the other problem, that there’s just too many darn things to write about (another possible source of paralysis, but making lists always helps with this one). Today I thought I’d start with the most far-fetched thing on my list, in hopes that it further frees up my creative juices. So, [drumroll] I give you: ‘Religion and Hair’.
Hair in religion might seem a ridiculous thing to fixate on, but there was a particular instance that drove home its importance in India. On February 27th, I traveled by bus from Amritsar to Dharamsala in the mountains. The place I left, of course, is the holy city of the Sikhs, who are under injunction by the 10th guru from cutting any of their hair…ever. Consequently, Punjabi Sikh men in their prime (at least the ones I saw without a head-tie on) have thick hair that goes down at least to their waist, as well as a full-grown beard in varying lengths and styles. Women generally have very long hair, but it is often either in a braid and underneath a covering that’s part of the traditional outfit. Some women had very noticeable facial hair, of course, and particularly noticeable are the braids that very young boys wear or the wound-up bun that teenage boys sport before they have started wearing a turban.
In addition, there are many levels and layers to the Sikh practice of growing one’s hair. For historical reference, by the way, this injunction is called “kes” in Punjabi, and is one of the five kakkars that mark a mature Sikh (men and women) as part of the Sikh Khalsa (martial and spiritual community). All of the kakkars start with K and are ‘visible’ signs of one’s Sikhism, though the hair is the most obvious.
Obviously, there exist Sikhs, even in Amritsar, who shave their beards and cut their hair. This does not mean that they are banned from any of the Sikh sanctuaries or activities, but there exists another level of distinction in addition to the word for baptized Sikhs (“amritdhari” meaning baptized with nectar) which is known as “kesdhari” (my translation: baptized by hair?) Thus, while there is not active discrimination against those who cut their hair, all of the musicians who were ragis or people that actively supported me in learning kirtan belonged to the kesdhari crowd.
There are many shades in between, too.; such as men that wear the turban but trim their beards. There is also a style where the beard is not trimmed, but instead tied-up in varying styles so it lies flush with the chin. Even of those who grow their beard long, there are many different lengths and therefore styles. A final ‘formal’ style available to older men is the piece of cloth that hangs from the turban like a chinstrap and makes the beard look more kempt. While one man tried to ascribe this to a ‘British’ formal style, another said that it actually represented ‘laziness.’ All of this debate and strong feelings about hair within a single religion! It gets more complex when you move between religions, which is almost impossible to avoid in India.
Upon arriving in the Dharamsala, the seat of Tibetan Buddhism’s most esteemed spiritual leader and home to the Tibetan government-in-exile, I immediately was overwhelmed by the sight of the many thousands of crimson-robe-wearing Tibetan monks (more than normal because of the teachings). Although I had seen groups of monks throughout my education, and even walking around Boston in groups, it was never so apparent to me that all their heads were shaved – men, women (and, I should add, non-Tibetans of both sexes). Certainly it was because I was coming from a place where hair was so prized for showing one’s orthodoxy and that’s why it struck me that the act of devotion here was in shaving.
Comically, the point was driven home to me even more when I encountered, in a hilltop restaurant, a girl who had graduated from college with me and lived in the same residential dorm. At first we didn’t recognize eachother, and then later commented with a laugh that it was because I had grown a beard (living among the Sikhs) and she had shaved her head (traveling in Tibet on a fellowship).
Though this contrast was perhaps the most extreme, many other examples exist. When I was in Ajmer I heard someone draw the distinction between a ‘khadim’ (caretaker of the shrine) and a ‘true sufi’. Interestingly, this informant referred to the man pictured in the previous post about Ajmer as a ‘true sufi’, because he grew his hair long but kept a trimmed beard. By contrast, most other middle-aged to older men in Ajmer kept the trimmed beard favored by the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) in the hadith, but at least half of these had their grey or charcoal hair colored by orangish streaks from dye and henna. It’s even more confusing because, as I remember later, men are supposed to shave their heads when they are on the Hajj (pilgrimage) to Mecca, but here, at the most important shrine of South Asia, I didn’t see a single head-shaved among thousands of men.
Moreover, any time you are near a Hindu bathing place or temple – and, lets face it, when in India you are always near one of these – one of the most common sights along the street are the impromptu barber-shops. These include a chair (mandatory but of varying qualities), a mirror (usually propped up on a fence rail), and about four men sitting around watching. There are physical shops, of course, but my understanding of the purpose these fill is that 1)few men shave at home (either for lack of resources or time); 2)it is important to have one’s hair freshly trimmed, and beard shorn (most Hindu men wear a mustache) before appearing in front of the deity; 3)the cost is incredibly low and also provides a social interaction with the other men sitting around. Hence, the vast numbers of mustachioed Hindu men with a fresh shave.
So this is just a taste of the many interactions of hair and religion, lest people argue for the impracticality of religion. Though you may argue with how I’m defining practical here, the fact is that many people have to get up and think about their hair vis a vis their religion, and then interact, or at least see, other people all day who are following different prescriptions. For my part, I tried to maintain as neutral a look as I could – which amounted to short hair that I never cut (I had buzzed it before I left the US so I wouldn’t have worry about cutting) and beard that never looked neatly trimmed but also was never as grown in as my Sikh hosts.
So, back underway, I’ve remember the other problem, that there’s just too many darn things to write about (another possible source of paralysis, but making lists always helps with this one). Today I thought I’d start with the most far-fetched thing on my list, in hopes that it further frees up my creative juices. So, [drumroll] I give you: ‘Religion and Hair’.
Hair in religion might seem a ridiculous thing to fixate on, but there was a particular instance that drove home its importance in India. On February 27th, I traveled by bus from Amritsar to Dharamsala in the mountains. The place I left, of course, is the holy city of the Sikhs, who are under injunction by the 10th guru from cutting any of their hair…ever. Consequently, Punjabi Sikh men in their prime (at least the ones I saw without a head-tie on) have thick hair that goes down at least to their waist, as well as a full-grown beard in varying lengths and styles. Women generally have very long hair, but it is often either in a braid and underneath a covering that’s part of the traditional outfit. Some women had very noticeable facial hair, of course, and particularly noticeable are the braids that very young boys wear or the wound-up bun that teenage boys sport before they have started wearing a turban.
In addition, there are many levels and layers to the Sikh practice of growing one’s hair. For historical reference, by the way, this injunction is called “kes” in Punjabi, and is one of the five kakkars that mark a mature Sikh (men and women) as part of the Sikh Khalsa (martial and spiritual community). All of the kakkars start with K and are ‘visible’ signs of one’s Sikhism, though the hair is the most obvious.
Obviously, there exist Sikhs, even in Amritsar, who shave their beards and cut their hair. This does not mean that they are banned from any of the Sikh sanctuaries or activities, but there exists another level of distinction in addition to the word for baptized Sikhs (“amritdhari” meaning baptized with nectar) which is known as “kesdhari” (my translation: baptized by hair?) Thus, while there is not active discrimination against those who cut their hair, all of the musicians who were ragis or people that actively supported me in learning kirtan belonged to the kesdhari crowd.
There are many shades in between, too.; such as men that wear the turban but trim their beards. There is also a style where the beard is not trimmed, but instead tied-up in varying styles so it lies flush with the chin. Even of those who grow their beard long, there are many different lengths and therefore styles. A final ‘formal’ style available to older men is the piece of cloth that hangs from the turban like a chinstrap and makes the beard look more kempt. While one man tried to ascribe this to a ‘British’ formal style, another said that it actually represented ‘laziness.’ All of this debate and strong feelings about hair within a single religion! It gets more complex when you move between religions, which is almost impossible to avoid in India.
Upon arriving in the Dharamsala, the seat of Tibetan Buddhism’s most esteemed spiritual leader and home to the Tibetan government-in-exile, I immediately was overwhelmed by the sight of the many thousands of crimson-robe-wearing Tibetan monks (more than normal because of the teachings). Although I had seen groups of monks throughout my education, and even walking around Boston in groups, it was never so apparent to me that all their heads were shaved – men, women (and, I should add, non-Tibetans of both sexes). Certainly it was because I was coming from a place where hair was so prized for showing one’s orthodoxy and that’s why it struck me that the act of devotion here was in shaving.
Comically, the point was driven home to me even more when I encountered, in a hilltop restaurant, a girl who had graduated from college with me and lived in the same residential dorm. At first we didn’t recognize eachother, and then later commented with a laugh that it was because I had grown a beard (living among the Sikhs) and she had shaved her head (traveling in Tibet on a fellowship).
Though this contrast was perhaps the most extreme, many other examples exist. When I was in Ajmer I heard someone draw the distinction between a ‘khadim’ (caretaker of the shrine) and a ‘true sufi’. Interestingly, this informant referred to the man pictured in the previous post about Ajmer as a ‘true sufi’, because he grew his hair long but kept a trimmed beard. By contrast, most other middle-aged to older men in Ajmer kept the trimmed beard favored by the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) in the hadith, but at least half of these had their grey or charcoal hair colored by orangish streaks from dye and henna. It’s even more confusing because, as I remember later, men are supposed to shave their heads when they are on the Hajj (pilgrimage) to Mecca, but here, at the most important shrine of South Asia, I didn’t see a single head-shaved among thousands of men.
Moreover, any time you are near a Hindu bathing place or temple – and, lets face it, when in India you are always near one of these – one of the most common sights along the street are the impromptu barber-shops. These include a chair (mandatory but of varying qualities), a mirror (usually propped up on a fence rail), and about four men sitting around watching. There are physical shops, of course, but my understanding of the purpose these fill is that 1)few men shave at home (either for lack of resources or time); 2)it is important to have one’s hair freshly trimmed, and beard shorn (most Hindu men wear a mustache) before appearing in front of the deity; 3)the cost is incredibly low and also provides a social interaction with the other men sitting around. Hence, the vast numbers of mustachioed Hindu men with a fresh shave.
So this is just a taste of the many interactions of hair and religion, lest people argue for the impracticality of religion. Though you may argue with how I’m defining practical here, the fact is that many people have to get up and think about their hair vis a vis their religion, and then interact, or at least see, other people all day who are following different prescriptions. For my part, I tried to maintain as neutral a look as I could – which amounted to short hair that I never cut (I had buzzed it before I left the US so I wouldn’t have worry about cutting) and beard that never looked neatly trimmed but also was never as grown in as my Sikh hosts.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Introduction to Ajmer
This is going to be a short post that's all about context. While you heard a fair amount while I was in Punjab of all the Sikh historical gurdwaras and holy places I visited, my research of devotional and classical music also had a multi-religious aspect. My visit to the Tibetan buddhist capital of Dharamsala was documented on here, as well as several un-affiliated or multi-affiliated ashrams. Christi, Kirsten and I witnessed the evening arti ceremony on the Ganges at Haridwar and visited hilltop Hindu temples there (where it was impossible to get away from hearing all the Hindu bhajans, songs, that too-closely resembled Bollywood heartthrob soundtracks). I also was in Pushkar, which contains a lake that is a major pilgrimage place for Hindus, on the festival of Holi.
But one place that struck me as much as any other, even with all the time I spent at the Golden Temple and witnessed the major Vaisakhi festival, was the "dargah sharif" at Ajmer. Ajmer, and the dargah, are located in the middle of the state of Rajasthan, which is primarily arid with spiny hills. The famed palaces of Udaipur and Jaipur are a few hours on either side of Ajmer, and it is a major transit point, largely because of the dargah and the close proximity to Pushkar. In case you don't know, a dargah refers to the shrine around the tomb of a Sufi saint. I say complex because most of them have grown to include, in addition to the main tomb, the tombs of many (many, many, many...) followers and descendants of the main saint, as well as usually several mosques, stalls selling flowers for offering at the shrine, a langgar kitchen, and large marble courtyards in which people can gather. These are just the more noticeable features of a dargah, though, and I have found them to be endlessly intriguing and evolving places, containing many different spaces for different people within, like a whole city to itself.
What drew me to the Sufi shrines is the practice of Qawwali singing (more on that later), but what particularly drew me to Ajmer was the contact information of this gentleman. He is one of the khadims, the name for the ONE family who was held the keys to the shrine for the last, oh let's see...800 years! Now there are several thousand of them, of course, and they pursue other interests besides just the opening of the door. Many study abroad, or are interested in business or scholarship. My contact, in particular, has studied Sufi art and music. He has written about the so-called "sama'" debate in Islam and Sufism (more on that later, also).I hardly knew anything about dargahs to begin with, however. I visited an associated shrine, much smaller, in Delhi during my first week. I posted some videos of that Qawwali, which I had also studied a little at Harvard in my courses, but after that I was absorbed into the world of the Sikhs in Punjab for some weeks. So, thinking I only needed a change of atmosphere (and religious fashion and hairstyle) I sent an email to my contact and departed south from Amritsar, via Jaipur, to arrive in Ajmer. Only later did I learn what people in many circles say about Ajmer: that one should only go when she or he has been 'called'. As I continue to talk about it in other posts, you can try to discern whether I had been truly 'called' or whether I went in defiance of this adage.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Conversation with Bibi Jaswant Kaur, 22nd April, 2008
(photo courtesy of www.gurmatsangeetproject.com)On my last day in India, after a harrowing trip with too much luggage (another story) from Amritsar to Delhi, to Ajmer, and back to Delhi, I visited a place called Guru Gobind Sadan (www.gobindsadan.org). This multi-faith retreat in the suburbs of Delhi is rooted in Sikhism, but includes a mosque, several Hindu temples, a Buddha pavilion, a sanctuary bearing the Sh’ma Yisroel and yes, even a 7-foot high Jesus wearing Indian-style robes in whose hands the devotees could bury their heads. I was guided by a wonderful New England-raised woman named Mary, but I was there to meet and speak with Bibi Jaswant Kaur.
The actual environment of the interview was difficult. First, there was the presence of a Russian lady, another guest at the ashram doing a translation of the Sikh scripture, Sri Guru Granth Sahib, from English into Russian while studying the Indian classical dance bharatnatyam. Since the Russian gal had lived there several years, this led Bibiji to speak more than half the time in Punjabi. I had difficulty following, and even when I could follow the outline of what she was saying by context, the details I was grappling for, from someone of her stature, eluded me. Moreover, it would not have been possible even to record the conversation for later translation because the giant cooling fan/apparatus was droning on so loudly (it had been 105 that day in Delhi) that we all had to lean in even to hear eachother.
Sidenote: at the end of the conversation I put into practice my theory that “Indian music is just like when you harmonize with the vacuum cleaner” by taking the drone of the fan and singing a raga around it – Bibiji was pleasantly surprised!
Earlier, I had listened to Bibiji sing her kirtan at a 5:30pm session before Rehras Sahib (the evening prayer in Sikhism). In addition to the other complexes at Guru Gobind Sadan, there was a main gurdwara with an outside langgar hall, etc. Bibiji’s voice came over the loudspeaker with another man who repeated her lines in the same octave (her voice is so low, I could have sung in the same octave as well). This fair-skinned Punjabi, who they called simply Bhagatji, accompanied on dhol with very simple beats, not classical taals.
I was a little disappointed once we had first settled into listen to this kirtan. However, I do credit Bibiji that I could understand the words of the shabads she sang perhaps better than in any setting with other singers, including my ragi in lessons with me. It’s hard to articulate how often during my research I was listening to kirtan and had no idea even the general shape of the words that were being sung; those that weren’t deformed by the singer were swallowed by the empty spaces of the hall. Gobind Sadan did have a good sound system, which made it feel more intimate than in many gurdwaras - these ashrams tend to have wealthy contributors overseas that can outfit them with luxuries they take for granted but are not common in the rest of India. I also acknowledge that, since it was the end of my time in India, my improved ability for listening to words in Punjabi, combined with her pronunciation, enabled me to differentiate the words.
In spite of this, the kirtan did not satisfy what I knew to be classical style. There was no tabla (drum), and Bhagatji was not playing in taals (classical meters). Also, in spite of my initial excitement that Bibji was a “classical singer’s singer”, since I knew she had learned ragas from the most famous family of singers in the history or Sikhism (more on that later), after some time I began to doubt whether she was really singing in ragas at all. There seemed to be no improvisation - she repeated each asthai and antra the same, with no alaap or taan - and her accompaniment on the harmonium was square. Still, despite lacking musical interest, I resigned myself to the fact that perhaps the impact of her kirtan lay in something else, for example the clarity of the words (what my ragi called “shabad ang”). This was somewhat highlighted when Mary turned to me to ask, ‘do you understand the words’, and translated for me the refrain “with every breath I remember your name, o God”. She seemed to be very moved by the kirtan, and once I knew the translation I appreciated that the ‘breathing’ of the musical line had a mesmerizing quality, even though it was not in the high-classical style I expected.
At the conclusion of the twenty minutes of kirtan, I was introduced to Bibiji and Bhagatji, and we fixed an appointment for after Rehras at 7pm. I was left at the gurdwara, and there followed a confusing sequence of rites, similar to what would happen in a gurdwara, but much more opaque to me as an outsider to this community – how quickly people in these closed-in ashram settings must internalize the timings of a daily rite and forget that the proportions might feel unfamiliar to an outsider, even one who had observed Rehras in the Golden Temple on many occasions. Some hukamnama was taken (reading from a random page of the scripture), but it struck me as much longer than normal, and at times the reader left the page and went from memory. Rehras Sahib wasn’t chanted in the usual tones, and instead it led into a long aarti prayer, where volunteers gathered in front of all the shrines in the complex waving elaborate candelabras – not just in front of Sri Guru Granth Sahib but also at a well devoted to Guru Nanak’s son and a brick chimney bearing many plaques.
Just before seven, when the Russian was supposed to take me to Bibi’s residence, Bhagatji came over to me in the gurdwara hall and asked if I still wanted to meet Bibiji. He then assigned one of the volunteers (clearly not a resident of the place, I knew in that way that I began to distinguish these things without any specific observations) to take me. He walked me over to her condo in the ashram, where it was somewhat impressive she lived on her own at 88 years old. She had put together a little plate of biscuits and when the Russian arrived a few minutes later she offered us some coca-cola.
Despite the difficulties mentioned above, I learned many interested facts through the course of the conversation with Bibiji. Since the Russian girl didn’t know much (anything) about kirtan history, I persuaded Bibiji to talk a little about the rababis who had trained her. I have to interject a little history here, much of it gleamed due to the work of my friend Sarbpreet at www.gurmatsangeetproject.com. The whole tradition of Sikh kirtan goes back to the first Guru of Sikhism, Guru Nanak, in the late 15th century. Kirtan itself, or devotional singing to God, was nothing new, and in fact had swept back into style in the preceding centuries by a massive Hindu revival movement called ‘bhakti’. However, Nanak’s kirtan was distinct enough to launch his own movement, which became Sikhism, because he had a strong reformist message and a folk-friendly style that appealed to non-learned Hindus and Muslims alike. As he traveled and sang his messages, so the stories go, his companion Mardana went with him, accompanying his poetry and songs on an instrument called the rabab. Mardana belonged to a lineage (caste) called ‘mirasis’, who are traditionally Muslims and to this day noted for their inherent artistic ability (such that I would hear people in conversation laud their vocal quality). Mardana passed down to his mirasi descendants the playing of the rabab and the association with the Sikh gurus and shabad kirtan. Thus, all the way through the centuries and up to the time of Partition, the hazuri ragis (main singers) at the Golden Temple have been descendants of Mardana, and remained Muslim! At the time of Partition, which was especially violent in Punjab, these ragis moved to Pakistan with most other Muslims, leaving open their preeminent posts at the Golden Temple. The irony, of course, is that most Sikhs moved out of Pakistan, abandoning even the historical gurdwaras there, leaving these trained Rababis (as they came to be called, as identifying caste such as ‘mirasi’ became un-PC in India) with nowhere to sing. This over-simplified history is important because Bibi Jaswant Kaur, as a young girl growing up in Amritsar, learned Sikh kirtan from these same musicians, and is now one of the only remaining links to, and repositories of, their compositions and style.
(rabab, from Rabab Revival Program)Bibiji didn’t go into detail about names, but from Sarbpreetji I understand her teachers to have been Bhai Lal and Bhai Taba. She was born in Amritsar and grew up there (at that time a fairly major city of Punjab, but overshadowed somewhat by the capital in Lahore). She said that her first performance in the Sri Akal Takht Sahib (in the Golden Temple complex across from the main sanctuary) was at the age of eight (80 years ago!) when she sang a shabad there. She continued studying with the rababis for the next 18 years until Partition.
When I pressed for specifics about performing with the Rababis, she said there were no traditional instruments used in the Golden Temple (though it may be an overstatement to presume this means ‘never’). Thus, despite the name ‘rababi’ (a player of Mardana’s traditional instrument), by and large the group was only two harmoniums and a tabla player. On that score, the Golden Temple today employs a fourth musician in most kirtan on a traditional stringed instrument like dilruba or sarinda (I never saw a rabab in action). So, in certain respects, the current official version of ‘traditional’ kirtan is different than what the rababis were practicing in the 20th century…but I digress. In fact, Bibiji still has on her shelf the first harmonium she ever purchased, in 1956 at a shop in Delhi for 250 rupees (today it’s more like 5,000). As she continued telling her life story, I heard about how after Partition she had moved around with her husband, who worked as an engineer for the government. She continued singing kirtan, but because of the moving, and other expectations for a woman, she never acquired any serious students of her own to whom she could pass on the rababi compositions.
Interestingly, when I mentioned that I had enjoyed her kirtan from earlier in the evening, she dismissed it, saying that it was not at all in serious ragas. I was a bit taken aback by this candor, but she recognized that I knew something about classical style, and bemoaned the fact that she could not do that style at Gobind Sadan. For one, there was no experienced tabla player to accompany her (though she was surely appreciative of Bhagatji’s energy, I guess she didn’t have the energy to teach him). Further, she feels too old to practice all the storied compositions (even that night she had to cut off some of the verses of the shabad because her voice got too tired), and so she forgets them even after 80 years of living with them. Finally, she gave the reason that people just don’t understand the ragas and they would rather hear her sing the simple stuff. I heard this line before from ragis, and it always seems somewhat insufficient as reason to me, but I didn’t want to push her and that’s a subject for another post.
To jog her memory I mentioned a few specific ragas, asking which compositions she knew. For a while until her memory faltered, she obliged me, singing a few lines in a voice that, despite its grating, sounded much more agile than on first impression. I didn’t know the particular shabads, so it was hard for me to appreciate in the moment how these compositions were special, but she tried to impress it upon me in statements that were part determination, part desperation: “Now, [some] ragis come to me and want to learn these compositions, but I am too old to teach them. So I say,” reaching into a bag on the table to pull out a tape, “listen to these cassettes…and you must learn.” I was touched that Bibiji gave me a cassette, entrusting me with the same imperative to learn the compositions and propagate them, despite the fact that I don’t even own a tape player. She said that she is hoping to get them put on CD’s soon, and maybe that’s something with which Sarbpreet or I can help.
In the end, I realized how happy and lucky I was to have met her. It was strange, upon reflection, to visualize an entire history of music with violent political disruption embodied in a sweet old lady who offered me cookies and spent more than half the time talking about her grandchildren. I’m glad to have been taught the lesson that sometimes history speaks like that. To someone like Sarbpreet, she and her music rest on a fine line between present and past. He strongly feels that this is his heritage poised on the brink of murky obscurity. For me, the experience a glimpse of the passion in her faded voice - the long life lived at the height of her artistic powers - and then a heartfelt thank you and a walk out into the sweltering evening…towards my bags, towards the airport, and back to a place where most have never known she existed.
Blogging from the First World
Hello All,
I just wanted to put a post to introduce the next chapter in this blog - that's right, you don't get to stop reading just because I'm home. However, this next part, I must admit, will be as much for me as for you. Not that that means it'll be boring! In fact, I hope the blog posts will actually stay interesting to read, due to the fact that I have more time and focus to devote to crystallizing my thoughts and notes, and less to the fact that you're living vicariously through me.
Essentially, I'm going to try to write one or two short essays a day on very specific places/contexts/issues. I'll try to give a little background to locate each one, but essentially it'll be away for me to articulate and put thoughts down about each vignette (again, as much for me as for you). To keep the exciting spirit alive, I'm going to try to persuade Christi and Kirsten to do little posts about our travels together which, in addition to their witty commentary, will be a vehicle to show our best pictures to those of you that can't attend the Portland-based India festivities this weekend!
With much love and hope for the continuation of the blog~
Kurt
I just wanted to put a post to introduce the next chapter in this blog - that's right, you don't get to stop reading just because I'm home. However, this next part, I must admit, will be as much for me as for you. Not that that means it'll be boring! In fact, I hope the blog posts will actually stay interesting to read, due to the fact that I have more time and focus to devote to crystallizing my thoughts and notes, and less to the fact that you're living vicariously through me.
Essentially, I'm going to try to write one or two short essays a day on very specific places/contexts/issues. I'll try to give a little background to locate each one, but essentially it'll be away for me to articulate and put thoughts down about each vignette (again, as much for me as for you). To keep the exciting spirit alive, I'm going to try to persuade Christi and Kirsten to do little posts about our travels together which, in addition to their witty commentary, will be a vehicle to show our best pictures to those of you that can't attend the Portland-based India festivities this weekend!
With much love and hope for the continuation of the blog~
Kurt
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Phew!
First things first: I'm in the home stretch. According to schedule (remember this is India, so that is really only a guideline), I depart New Delhi Airport to fly back to the states in a frighteningly short twelve days! Of course, knowing me, I'm going to try to cram as many things as possible into those remaining days, including the biggest Sikh festival of the year (Baisakhi) this weekend, with many concerts, interviews with several of the venerable ragis whose contact info was provided to me by my friend Sarbpreet, reviewing all the ragas I've learned, and working on one more as a crowning achievement that I can perorm in gurdwaras when I return to the States, shipping my harmonium, giving parting gifts and saying my thanks in the homes and villages I've been hosted, taking in a few more concerts in Delhi, and possibly a quick trip back to Ajmer, to the Chisti shrine there, to experience the qawwali first hand with a wonderful scholar to whom I was introduced. Oh yeah, and also trying to fit all my stuff in the pack-up.
With that busy a schedule, you might think I'm trying to compensate for something. You know, a last minute rush when I feel that time is running out and I haven't done anything. To be honest there is a little of that, but it's also generated by the insanity of how big and complex and infinitely diverse and interesting this country feels. The truth is, I have been taking in a lot. Christi, Kirsten and I logged over 80 hours of domestic travel in 20 days (that doesn't count their international flights) to see places as diverse as the beaches of Goa, an elephant and tiger preserve, Himalayan mountain villages, the Taj, the sacred ghats of the Ganges, and more. It was a great experience, marked by lots of shared joys and frustrations (which was nice for me to share them in my own language). We didn't sleep very much, and I think it left us all with a bit of a headache/ear/sinus infection.
Initially, I was a little depressed to be left 'all alone' again in this big country. But within a day, I began to rediscover all the fascinating aspects of life here - this time in Delhi, with an exhibition on Sufi calligraphy, a long conversation with my friend Dhruv about music and society, a fascinating lecture on the sociology of Sikhism, and tomorrow a visit with Sarbpreet (who happens to be in India) to the man who was instrumental in introducing notation to kirtan and saved a lot of the older traditions from dying out around Partition. Of course, I will be glad to get back - my hopes also rose as Christi and Kirsten described their anticipation for a sandwich, salad, glass of wine (things hard to come by, even in Delhi), and the sense of being truly clean which is lost each time you walk out on the dusty street here. I can't yet do the post about "what was INdia like?" or "How has it changed you" or "what are you going to do now", so don't hold your breath. However, I will probably see many of you in the coming weeks and months, and look forward to sharing the experience, as it is possible and you are interested.
Onwards into the home stretch!
Kurt
With that busy a schedule, you might think I'm trying to compensate for something. You know, a last minute rush when I feel that time is running out and I haven't done anything. To be honest there is a little of that, but it's also generated by the insanity of how big and complex and infinitely diverse and interesting this country feels. The truth is, I have been taking in a lot. Christi, Kirsten and I logged over 80 hours of domestic travel in 20 days (that doesn't count their international flights) to see places as diverse as the beaches of Goa, an elephant and tiger preserve, Himalayan mountain villages, the Taj, the sacred ghats of the Ganges, and more. It was a great experience, marked by lots of shared joys and frustrations (which was nice for me to share them in my own language). We didn't sleep very much, and I think it left us all with a bit of a headache/ear/sinus infection.
Initially, I was a little depressed to be left 'all alone' again in this big country. But within a day, I began to rediscover all the fascinating aspects of life here - this time in Delhi, with an exhibition on Sufi calligraphy, a long conversation with my friend Dhruv about music and society, a fascinating lecture on the sociology of Sikhism, and tomorrow a visit with Sarbpreet (who happens to be in India) to the man who was instrumental in introducing notation to kirtan and saved a lot of the older traditions from dying out around Partition. Of course, I will be glad to get back - my hopes also rose as Christi and Kirsten described their anticipation for a sandwich, salad, glass of wine (things hard to come by, even in Delhi), and the sense of being truly clean which is lost each time you walk out on the dusty street here. I can't yet do the post about "what was INdia like?" or "How has it changed you" or "what are you going to do now", so don't hold your breath. However, I will probably see many of you in the coming weeks and months, and look forward to sharing the experience, as it is possible and you are interested.
Onwards into the home stretch!
Kurt
Saturday, March 29, 2008
We're Alive...
And enjoying the heck out of India. Currently writing (a VERY brief post) from an internet cafe in Kumily, near the Lake Periyer Wildlife Refuge in Eastern Kerala. We came up the twisting roads into these mountains today, stopping by tea, rubber and spice plantations. This afternoon we each enjoyed an Ayurvedic massage. Tomorrow is a trek through the refuge, then a boat ride, and the next day we fly to Delhi to begin our Northern Adventure. Sorry for the spotty coverage but I promise lots of pics from me, Christi and Kirsten after we finish the trip - for now, we're too busy taking them to plop down at this interweb-bloggy-thingy. Best to all.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Post St. Patrick's Day Stretch
Well, this is the last I'll be posting for a while from my computer, folks. I'm about to start a three week trip South from the Punjab. In fact, if you're looking at a globe, I'm pretty much going to cross the country of India from North to South by train in the next ten days, then fly back up to the North. The exciting news is that I'm meeting up with my sister Christi in Mumbai, as well as her friends Kath and Kirsten. It'll be so nice to have some travel buddies with whom to share my experiences, good and bad. Just that moment of being able to turn to someone who understands and say, "See, that's what I've been talking about".
Oh, and the number of things that stick out to me about Indian culture grow as the days pass, both good and bad lists growing longer. Of course, it's too simplistic to say things are good and bad - to be a true scholar or sensitive human being, I must break down the gradations further. There are things which, objectively, make no sense whatsoever! There are those that, subjectively, are far outside my comfort zone, things which I wish I understood better, and basic human acts and feelings that either attract or repulse me. All of which is rather vague to you, I'm sure, reader of my blog.
What I'm trying to say is that getting ready to leave on this trip has been a good point to check-in on my experience so far. First, to the music. This has been the most rewarding part of being here by far. Though I could have actually seen quite a bit of Indian classical music between Portland, Seattle, San Francisco, Boston, and there certainly are people who teach the music in the States, Indians and Non-Indians, I feel justified in saying that there's just no way I would have absorbed the amount that I do being here. As I wrote before, music is quite literally in the air here - and getting away from the saturation of Western music in our culture, as well as in my life by design, has actually provided a nice respite to open up to this new cultural avenue.
It would be next to impossible to describe how this music has affected me in prose, and in the short-form of a blog post, but luckily I won't have to. I'm bringing it back with me! In the form of a sizable, and growing, CD library of Indian music (how nice when CD's are only $5), and in my harmonium, of which I took delivery only yesterday through my ragi. I doubt that Indian music will have replaced all other music in my life on return to the US, in fact that's simply not possible, but it will have made a home for itself in me, and perhaps precisely in the nexus of spirituality and musical interest that first drew me here. This is not to say I will become a Sikh kirtaniya, or regale you all constantly with bhajans of your favorite deity. It seems to be much more personal than that, and in some ways has linked up (at least in my morning routine) with the meditation and sitting practice I picked up in Kullu.
Now to the other things that, I recognize, are equally part of India, but have proven thus far unable to compute with my version of the world I live in. One is simply the crowds. Someone said, You are never alone in India. If you've been here, you have to laugh at this for how true it is. Any scene, no matter how rustic, will have some person in it. Any line at a shop, bathroom, corner, you simply cannot escape the fact of people. Sometimes it is infuriating and overwhelming, like any train station, but other times it can even have an awesome majesty, like the way the langar hall at the Golden Temple feeds twice the population of Helena everyday for free.
Another is the West meets East divide that occurs everytime I walk down the street. My friend Matt, who is currently in Indonesia, had a post I found very amusing and accurate on this point. He wrote an open letter to the people of Indonesia inviting them to stop laughing/spying on him anytime he sat down somewhere. I applaud him, and reading his post was almost enough to pacify me completely. But I would add, to the people at large who see me in India, that there's no reason to assume I'm eager to talk to you when I go to every effort of body language to indicate that I'm busy or otherwise occupied - yes, I mean you, who pulled my earphones off and stuck your face around the shield of my writing notebook chirping out the ubiquitous "hello? what country?" If I am interested in talking with you, I'm sure I can take my pick from any number of thousands of people who pass by in a minute. Please wait your turn.
So that's all I have for now - have to head off to the train station. Look for text updates from me and the girls starting at the end of the week!
Oh, and the number of things that stick out to me about Indian culture grow as the days pass, both good and bad lists growing longer. Of course, it's too simplistic to say things are good and bad - to be a true scholar or sensitive human being, I must break down the gradations further. There are things which, objectively, make no sense whatsoever! There are those that, subjectively, are far outside my comfort zone, things which I wish I understood better, and basic human acts and feelings that either attract or repulse me. All of which is rather vague to you, I'm sure, reader of my blog.
What I'm trying to say is that getting ready to leave on this trip has been a good point to check-in on my experience so far. First, to the music. This has been the most rewarding part of being here by far. Though I could have actually seen quite a bit of Indian classical music between Portland, Seattle, San Francisco, Boston, and there certainly are people who teach the music in the States, Indians and Non-Indians, I feel justified in saying that there's just no way I would have absorbed the amount that I do being here. As I wrote before, music is quite literally in the air here - and getting away from the saturation of Western music in our culture, as well as in my life by design, has actually provided a nice respite to open up to this new cultural avenue.
It would be next to impossible to describe how this music has affected me in prose, and in the short-form of a blog post, but luckily I won't have to. I'm bringing it back with me! In the form of a sizable, and growing, CD library of Indian music (how nice when CD's are only $5), and in my harmonium, of which I took delivery only yesterday through my ragi. I doubt that Indian music will have replaced all other music in my life on return to the US, in fact that's simply not possible, but it will have made a home for itself in me, and perhaps precisely in the nexus of spirituality and musical interest that first drew me here. This is not to say I will become a Sikh kirtaniya, or regale you all constantly with bhajans of your favorite deity. It seems to be much more personal than that, and in some ways has linked up (at least in my morning routine) with the meditation and sitting practice I picked up in Kullu.
Now to the other things that, I recognize, are equally part of India, but have proven thus far unable to compute with my version of the world I live in. One is simply the crowds. Someone said, You are never alone in India. If you've been here, you have to laugh at this for how true it is. Any scene, no matter how rustic, will have some person in it. Any line at a shop, bathroom, corner, you simply cannot escape the fact of people. Sometimes it is infuriating and overwhelming, like any train station, but other times it can even have an awesome majesty, like the way the langar hall at the Golden Temple feeds twice the population of Helena everyday for free.
Another is the West meets East divide that occurs everytime I walk down the street. My friend Matt, who is currently in Indonesia, had a post I found very amusing and accurate on this point. He wrote an open letter to the people of Indonesia inviting them to stop laughing/spying on him anytime he sat down somewhere. I applaud him, and reading his post was almost enough to pacify me completely. But I would add, to the people at large who see me in India, that there's no reason to assume I'm eager to talk to you when I go to every effort of body language to indicate that I'm busy or otherwise occupied - yes, I mean you, who pulled my earphones off and stuck your face around the shield of my writing notebook chirping out the ubiquitous "hello? what country?" If I am interested in talking with you, I'm sure I can take my pick from any number of thousands of people who pass by in a minute. Please wait your turn.
So that's all I have for now - have to head off to the train station. Look for text updates from me and the girls starting at the end of the week!
Monday, March 17, 2008
More Video links, new format (hope it works)
Turban tying, part 1 from Kurt on Vimeo.
Turban tying, part 2 from Kurt on Vimeo.
Elephants do make the rally from Kurt on Vimeo.
Advertising? from Kurt on Vimeo.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
More pics from Anandpur
The Kesgarh Sahib, second most important shrine in Sikhism - brilliantly lit up in the dry evening air of the mountain town.
Guru ka Lahore gurdwara, where the 10th guru celebrated his marriage. Not a bad setting, really...
The ubiquitous monkeys - this one at Bhibaur gurdwara overlooking a huge hydroelectric dam.
Amanpreet Kaur, the niece-in-law of my music teacher, who we stayed with.
Inside another historical gurdwara pertaining to the birth of the 8th guru - this is one of the nicest interiors, as it is all lined with reflecting panels. Most gurdwaras are a plain white interior, draped only with colorful cloths.
Guru ka Lahore gurdwara, where the 10th guru celebrated his marriage. Not a bad setting, really...
The ubiquitous monkeys - this one at Bhibaur gurdwara overlooking a huge hydroelectric dam.
Amanpreet Kaur, the niece-in-law of my music teacher, who we stayed with.
Inside another historical gurdwara pertaining to the birth of the 8th guru - this is one of the nicest interiors, as it is all lined with reflecting panels. Most gurdwaras are a plain white interior, draped only with colorful cloths.
Strange Picture of the Day
Because my connection is super slow today, you only get this picture, but it has a twist. This is the river canal behind Patalpuri gurdwara in Kirtapur Sahib, district Anandpur. It is a historical gurdwara associated with the cremation of one of the Sikh gurus. Supposedly, the bones of his that were not turned to ash in the fire were placed here in the river. Thus, the scene when I arrived was that of pilgrims carrying shopping bags full of, you guessed it, bones. They walk out to the edge of this above-water dock, and empty the plastic bag of bones into the pile in the water (most actually just throw the bag in the water, which is plain wrong, even if not sacrilegious). It's still a very peaceful scene, and of course, my host reminded me, Sikhism does not support superstitions like this one.
Note the pile of bones you can make out in the murky water...
Note the pile of bones you can make out in the murky water...
Monday, March 10, 2008
acronyms
Just FYI, I might be MIA for a few days because me schedule has hit some SNAFUs. I've just come back from Delhi which was A-OK, but then, WTF, I'm heading off tomorrow early morning from Anandpur Sahib with my ragi for a few days. NE-Ways, that's the deal - so look for more pics L8R!
Sangeet Sammelan
I’m posting this now as I’ve just returned from two days in New Delhi. First, I should just say briefly that getting a second look at the Capital city (and this one not fresh off the plane and intimidated by everything) I’ve discovered a lot to like about it. Maybe it helps that Spring is fully in bloom, and long patches of budding trees and landscaped flowers line avenues between Embassies, government buildings from the British days, and tons of performing arts halls and theatres. More than that, though, I was struck by how metropolitan it seems, now that I’ve only been in the cities and villages of the Punjab, and the relatively isolated mountain towns of Himachal. It really seemed more befitting of a major world capital this time, though it still depends where you look – the train station, and all touristed areas in North Delhi, are overwhelming for the more predictable reasons – crowd, chaos, poverty, staggering monuments in decay.
My purpose for going this weekend was the two-day Sangeet Sammelan (classical music festival) taking place at the Kamani Auditorium. There are many such festivals in Delhi throughout the year, but when I saw that this one fit my calendar, I decided it was too good an opportunity to miss (how often in my life will I be able to go to Delhi for a weekend of great Hindustani artists?); and the express train is only 5-6 hours from Amritsar, so it works to go for just a couple days.
I also had a somewhat dramatic arrival at the concerts. Someone warned me a few days before that these types of events in Delhi usually required expensive passes to be purchased in advance. This gave me reason to fret as I was hoping to go essentially right from the train to the concert. Luckily, in defiance of other types of Indian bureaucracy, there was a contact number listed. I called the number, asking for a pass and explaining I was coming in that day. The nice gentleman, Mr. Bawa, said that was no problem, and I should come at the time after my train arrived. When I came in the rickshaw, the security guard informed me that there were no passes at that time, I should come back around 4pm. Even though I overheard him tell the woman behind me in Hindi to come at 5pm (which cast some suspicions on his reliability) I went away and came back at 4pm. The same guard then informed me that, actually, the passes were all “finished.” Fortunately for my quick thinking, I whipped out my phone, dialed the nice Mr. Bawa, who came out from inside and, in front of the guard, handed me a free pass to come inside for the concert!
Another detail is that the first night was devoted to honoring the singer Pandit Jasraj who, amazingly, was the first Indian classical singer I had ever heard in person, in the fall of my senior year at Harvard, just as this music was beginning to capture my interest. So it was somewhat fitting that he be there on hand the first time I experienced a concert with a competent understanding of the music. There was a terribly awkward award ceremony for him, when the auditorium had barely thirty people in it, and the MC paused for applause every time he said Panditji’s name, but after that we proceeded to the good stuff.
The concerts were absolutely mesmerizing. I sort of surprised myself with endurance, attending over ten hours of music in two days (divided between North Indian vocal, sitar, violin, and South Indian vocal and vina). There were times when my mind wandered a little bit, but by and large I was tuned in to listening to the ragas, making mental notes and questions, which I wrote down, later in the hotel. It probably won’t do me much good to go into technical observations or even wax poetical about the experience, since I don’t have any recording of it to be able to take you there, but I’ll try a little using a specific example.
The first vocalist was a female singer who was introduced as having a singing style “as grand as the monuments in the city from which she hails”, meaning Agra, the home of the Taj Mahal. There indeed was something grand and sculpted about the way she unfolded the raga (which, fortunately, was one I actually knew so I could follow it much better!). In contrast, the singer who began the program on the second evening was a large man who had a very different style.
At first, it rubbed me the wrong way and I resigned myself to enduring the performance without enjoying it. Whereas the female singer had a very open-throated sound on the unmetered opening section, this guy struck me as very nasal, producing the sound almost out of the side of his mouth. His presentation of the raga was very close to boring – he only added one note at a time, holding each for a very long time, and barely adding any ornamentation to the approach or ending.
As this introduction part went on for another twenty minutes, though (did I mention these performances are long?), I became aware that I was hearing things I didn’t even know to listen for. His ‘nasal’ way of singing, I realized was actually producing incredibly rich overtones that resonated with the tanpura (drone) and even the tabla (pitched drum). Further, it was only by holding the notes for such a long time, and not obscuring them with complicated slides, that you could truly get inside this sound, as if you were hearing the note for the first time. It also made much more explicit, somehow over this long time-format, the distance between the notes. Even neighboring ones, which can be quickly jumped over in the fast taans, felt like separate planets arranged in the solar system.
The real kicker is that, back in the hotel, I went back to the section I had been reading about the different gharanas, schools or guilds, of vocal training. Though each has its own style, it didn’t mean much to me when I read it out of context – but I skipped back to the section on the kirana gharana, which this male singer represented, and I saw in print exactly the things I had thought! This gharana, it said, was ‘note-oriented’ and less concerned about the text or meter, instead adding one note at a time, each with its own inflection, to convey the totality of the raga through its notes. I feel like this is one of those life-learning experiences that educators always tell their kids about. If only the above would fit into a hallmark card I could send it to my teachers to know that their efforts were worthwhile…
**PS. Nick - you have to know that I wrote this post before I had read your email asking me to explain the Kirana Gharana...creepy
My purpose for going this weekend was the two-day Sangeet Sammelan (classical music festival) taking place at the Kamani Auditorium. There are many such festivals in Delhi throughout the year, but when I saw that this one fit my calendar, I decided it was too good an opportunity to miss (how often in my life will I be able to go to Delhi for a weekend of great Hindustani artists?); and the express train is only 5-6 hours from Amritsar, so it works to go for just a couple days.
I also had a somewhat dramatic arrival at the concerts. Someone warned me a few days before that these types of events in Delhi usually required expensive passes to be purchased in advance. This gave me reason to fret as I was hoping to go essentially right from the train to the concert. Luckily, in defiance of other types of Indian bureaucracy, there was a contact number listed. I called the number, asking for a pass and explaining I was coming in that day. The nice gentleman, Mr. Bawa, said that was no problem, and I should come at the time after my train arrived. When I came in the rickshaw, the security guard informed me that there were no passes at that time, I should come back around 4pm. Even though I overheard him tell the woman behind me in Hindi to come at 5pm (which cast some suspicions on his reliability) I went away and came back at 4pm. The same guard then informed me that, actually, the passes were all “finished.” Fortunately for my quick thinking, I whipped out my phone, dialed the nice Mr. Bawa, who came out from inside and, in front of the guard, handed me a free pass to come inside for the concert!
Another detail is that the first night was devoted to honoring the singer Pandit Jasraj who, amazingly, was the first Indian classical singer I had ever heard in person, in the fall of my senior year at Harvard, just as this music was beginning to capture my interest. So it was somewhat fitting that he be there on hand the first time I experienced a concert with a competent understanding of the music. There was a terribly awkward award ceremony for him, when the auditorium had barely thirty people in it, and the MC paused for applause every time he said Panditji’s name, but after that we proceeded to the good stuff.
The concerts were absolutely mesmerizing. I sort of surprised myself with endurance, attending over ten hours of music in two days (divided between North Indian vocal, sitar, violin, and South Indian vocal and vina). There were times when my mind wandered a little bit, but by and large I was tuned in to listening to the ragas, making mental notes and questions, which I wrote down, later in the hotel. It probably won’t do me much good to go into technical observations or even wax poetical about the experience, since I don’t have any recording of it to be able to take you there, but I’ll try a little using a specific example.
The first vocalist was a female singer who was introduced as having a singing style “as grand as the monuments in the city from which she hails”, meaning Agra, the home of the Taj Mahal. There indeed was something grand and sculpted about the way she unfolded the raga (which, fortunately, was one I actually knew so I could follow it much better!). In contrast, the singer who began the program on the second evening was a large man who had a very different style.
At first, it rubbed me the wrong way and I resigned myself to enduring the performance without enjoying it. Whereas the female singer had a very open-throated sound on the unmetered opening section, this guy struck me as very nasal, producing the sound almost out of the side of his mouth. His presentation of the raga was very close to boring – he only added one note at a time, holding each for a very long time, and barely adding any ornamentation to the approach or ending.
As this introduction part went on for another twenty minutes, though (did I mention these performances are long?), I became aware that I was hearing things I didn’t even know to listen for. His ‘nasal’ way of singing, I realized was actually producing incredibly rich overtones that resonated with the tanpura (drone) and even the tabla (pitched drum). Further, it was only by holding the notes for such a long time, and not obscuring them with complicated slides, that you could truly get inside this sound, as if you were hearing the note for the first time. It also made much more explicit, somehow over this long time-format, the distance between the notes. Even neighboring ones, which can be quickly jumped over in the fast taans, felt like separate planets arranged in the solar system.
The real kicker is that, back in the hotel, I went back to the section I had been reading about the different gharanas, schools or guilds, of vocal training. Though each has its own style, it didn’t mean much to me when I read it out of context – but I skipped back to the section on the kirana gharana, which this male singer represented, and I saw in print exactly the things I had thought! This gharana, it said, was ‘note-oriented’ and less concerned about the text or meter, instead adding one note at a time, each with its own inflection, to convey the totality of the raga through its notes. I feel like this is one of those life-learning experiences that educators always tell their kids about. If only the above would fit into a hallmark card I could send it to my teachers to know that their efforts were worthwhile…
**PS. Nick - you have to know that I wrote this post before I had read your email asking me to explain the Kirana Gharana...creepy
Friday, March 7, 2008
Images from Himachal
I loved this picture with all the distances, in the main square of Dharamsala.
How Very Tibetan. A view over Mcleod Ganj when I awoke in the morning feeling refreshed and off to hear HH speak.
This goes with the video about Tibetan Opera.
I mean...what more can you say?
My wonderful host in Kullu, Sneh (Linzee).
View from the Royal Castle in Nagar over the Kullu-Manali valley. Yes, I was having a cup of tea while taking this picture.
A Kashmiri gentleman who, we believe, was transplanting apple trees from the fertile valley here up to Kashmir. The scenery was just too stunning for words, so it didn't matter that we didn't really understand eachother.
In Manikaran, the building to the left is the main gurdwara, and the spaceship-shaped one is a Shiv Temple. Both are fed with the hot springs and have baths as well as other functions that use the heat (like the langar kitchen, for one!)
Still life with blizzard in the Himalayas, from a distance.
How Very Tibetan. A view over Mcleod Ganj when I awoke in the morning feeling refreshed and off to hear HH speak.
This goes with the video about Tibetan Opera.
I mean...what more can you say?
My wonderful host in Kullu, Sneh (Linzee).
View from the Royal Castle in Nagar over the Kullu-Manali valley. Yes, I was having a cup of tea while taking this picture.
A Kashmiri gentleman who, we believe, was transplanting apple trees from the fertile valley here up to Kashmir. The scenery was just too stunning for words, so it didn't matter that we didn't really understand eachother.
In Manikaran, the building to the left is the main gurdwara, and the spaceship-shaped one is a Shiv Temple. Both are fed with the hot springs and have baths as well as other functions that use the heat (like the langar kitchen, for one!)
Still life with blizzard in the Himalayas, from a distance.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
There's a series of wires and satellites...
that could connect me to you! I've posted my local India mobile phone before on this blog, and if you are desperate to hear my voice in real time but can't be bothered to Skype, etc, my friend Pam found and recommended the following link:
http://www.nobelcom.com/phone-card-details/hello-india-10374-1-129.html
Apparently it's a great deal, and we had a lovely chat this morning. Just please be aware of the time difference if/when you're going to call!
http://www.nobelcom.com/phone
Apparently it's a great deal, and we had a lovely chat this morning. Just please be aware of the time difference if/when you're going to call!
Trip to Himachal Pradesh (Long post)
The last week I spent traveling outside of the Punjab in the neighboring state of Himachal Pradesh. I should explain perhaps my impetus for traveling at all, though it may become clear that at the beginning I felt I had to justify it to myself more than was necessary. Though the purpose of my grant was to come to the Punjab to study Sikh sacred music in the context of North Indian classical music, I made no secret of the fact that I was not going to spend three plus months in India without seeing a good deal of the country. Mind you, I knew it would be different than ‘traveling’ for three months in India, in which time I could see a great deal of the country (but would be several times more expensive), but I assumed that I would be very engaged in my research the rest of the time.
Well, after one month or so, I felt like I was getting a little stuck in the mud. Yes, I was learning music at a rapid pace, absorbing quite a bit of the Sikh culture of the Punjab through people I met, learning the language, and forming some pretty amazing memories in the idyllic farming villages and their gurdwaras. However, the days began to blend into one another, and I felt myself stagnating. I had become enough part of the culture that I had some friends and contacts, but I was not so comfortable (as I would be at home or in, say, Western Europe) that I could move about easily and independently. I felt that I had become a little dependent on my subjects here, and they on me.
With all this in mind, I knew from my friend Stefanie in Portland that the Dalai Lama was scheduled to give his spring teachings in Dharamsala, HP at the end of February – only a hundred miles or so as the crow flies (note, though, that in India the crow instead perches on the roof of the local bus, which takes at least seven hours and makes innumerable stops along the way) – so I decided to go. As an aside I should say that even at this juncture I encountered some resistance from my contacts here, who seem to feel empowered to set my schedule as they would like. I ultimately followed Christi’s advice of writing “Dharamsala” in pen in my schedule book, then opening it and pointing to the dates with shrug of resignation; people seem to understand that in the West our schedules function as brutal overlords whose edicts have a binding power.
To skip ahead a bit: given the part above about how I had to justify to myself and the locals about why I was traveling to Himachal, I could never have predicted how profound and important an impact it would have on me. I have returned now to Punjab full or more clarity, energy, self-confidence and, to some extent, greater appreciation for what I am doing here.
I arrived in Dharamsala after the long, bumpy bus trip, having made friend with two Russians on the bus (virtually the first Westerners I’d spoken to in person since arriving). She was from Siberia, and he a student from Belarus who had come from music school in Cologne. I played them some Hindustani classical music on my iPod and we split an orange while finding a hotel once we arrived in Mcleod Ganj. Unfortunately, I lost track of them after the first night – I lay down with a splitting headache from dehydration, and they decided the room was too expensive and moved on to another hotel. I realized I was in a bad way, tried drinking tons of water and found two aspirin in my first aid kit, but it was that level of headache where you feel drunk with pain and can only lie down in misery.
The plus side is that, because of this episode, I awoke around 7am the next morning feeling 100% better and very refreshed. I walked out of the hotel in time for sunrise over the Himalayas, cool evergreen air of the morning, and crowds of saffron-clad Tibetan monks bustling by (boy, sounds like I’m writing one of those travel books, but it was true). On the walk to the temple I spoke with an American woman who gave me the low-down about the Teachings, and it turned out the mobile phone I intended to use to hear English translation (HH the Dalai Lama teaches in Tibetan) was not allowed into the premises.
Then we ran into some other Americans, who said the morning session had been cancelled, so I seized the chance to go for a hike – again the first serious exercise I had seen since arriving here. In my enthusiasm, I may have been overambitious – turned into a ten-mile hike gaining almost three thousand feet over wet snow – but it was worth it. I had a giddy smile on my face the whole time, including the relaxing stop at a tea stall clinging to the side of the mountain at 8000 feet. On the way up, I made the acquaintance of an elderly Austrian gentleman. Other than that, the lower part of the trip was filled with Australian hippies and Israeli druggies, not to mention the French alpiners or the monkeys who were always digging through the trash and waving their bottoms as people (the monkeys were pretty bad, too).
After the ecstasy of that climb, I experienced the scene of the Teachings. Since the schedule was not at all clear to me on the second day, I ended up sitting in the same position for about seven hours. I knew there would be very full crowd who had reserved seats, and wanted to grab one of the open spots while I still could. After an hour of sitting, though, while the temple was still mostly empty except for Tibetans and monks, HH himself came out to do some chanting. People lined the sides of the pathway, and other lamas waving incense surrounded him. A hush of anticipation fell over those assembled as for a rock-star, but he never missed a step in his kind, grandfatherly gait, alternatively waving his blessings, and humorously guessing the nationality of someone kneeling at the railing: “Korea? China? Taiwan, ah yes!”
I loved the chanting, as when I’d heard it before, which involves that incredibly-low tone, if you’ve ever heard it. Also, when several monks are together on this low part, one point is to create staggeringly present overtones like someone whistling in your ear. The teachings themselves I had resolved to hear without translation – as someone else agreed, you can read his teachings in English anytime, how often do you get to hear him speak in his native tongue in person? Luckily, I think this led me to pick up more on the total ambience. The Teachings, at least the ones I attended, were less like a lecture, and more like a pep talk. He essentially was taking up passages from old Buddhist texts and explaining them with an emphasis on practice. HH alternated sections of animated speaking with the fast patter of mantras, and another call-and-response chanting style with those who were following the original text.
It was a very remarkable affair, and arresting in how the environment of the Teachings, as well as the presence of HH himself, communicated to me so immediately a tradition that is similarly ancient, colorful, and erudite, and yet so simply about peace and understanding.
The unpredictable and enriching part of my experience was only beginning. Although I had told my friends in Amritsar I would return after a few days in the mountains, I pressed on from Dharamsala to Kullu, another bumpy and curvy eight-hour ride through the mountains (I actually caught a taxi down the mountain at 3:30AM and the bus at 4:15AM, but was rewarded for this insanity with watching the sunrise over the Himalayas…so not bad). I had heard the Kullu-Manali valley praised in tourist books for its natural beauty, but another part of the reason I was going is I had a contact there through a friend in Montana (a distant cousin who she’d never met). I had corresponded with Linzee when I first arrived in India, when she told me Kullu was very cold and snowy, and then over a couple days before I arrived. In hindsight it seems something was conspiring to bring me to this place, because of how well everything fell into place; my reaching there just when she had some time free and the fruit blossoms were coming out in the valley.
My contact had told me over email that she’d been living in an ashram here since the mid 80’s, and so I wasn’t quite sure what to expect from our interactions – I was picturing something very structured, where I could come up to the outer wall and maybe wave hello. It turns out it was nothing like that, and she could not possibly have been more generous with her time, energy and space. We met the first day and discussed our lives, past and present, and as I described my Sikh project she responded by telling me about Swami Shyam, the inspiration and leader of the ashram. The valley was incredibly beautiful from the vantage point of a high Hindu temple, and something about the place and company made me very open to whatever this experience was going to bring.
That night, Linzee arranged a dinner party in her apartment (which, if you’re picturing something austere about an ashram, was the most comfortable and homey place I’d been since entering this country) with several of her friends. I soon realized this meant a delightful company of expat Canadians and Americans from the West and New England. They were all educated, artistic, and most importantly committed to their spiritual quest and able to talk about it in the most down-to-earth ways. My host, despite her great humbleness, showed her prowess that night by giving a ‘lead-in’ to post-dinner meditation that put me right at ease and kindled my excitement for a meditative life.
To make a long story somewhat shorter, that spark was fanned to a substantial flame over the next few days, as I met more of the community and listened to their guru, Swamiji (“ji” for respect) speak in person - I even got to have a one-on-one interaction with him in front of the whole group. After this interaction, people responded to me with compliments saying how composed and insightful I came across with this guru. It seemed strange, though, because I was hardly aware of anything looking back at the memory except feeling interested, and an intense and reassuring clarity in his response.
I had asked him a question about one of his teachings called “Non-doership”, which my hosts had explained to me the night before. This one had caught my attention because I was coming to this experience with a sense that my time and work in the Punjab seemed at times like I was spinning my wheels and frustrated at doing a lot with very little result. The idea that there was a non-doer as a higher truth is what drove me to ask for his explanation. He responded by cutting right to the core of my motivation, despite that I’d only met him a few minutes before – (I paraphrase) ‘we are always doing; we cannot stop from actions, such as eating, moving, sleeping, playing music; but if we expect the result of this action to satisfy a desire, we are never satisfied – ie we always need to eat more, move more, play music more, etc. So first, dedicate your action to God, or to your mom and dad (laughter), that way you will not be doing it to get the result yourself. Non-doership is knowing you are perfect (in that your soul, and not the form of the body and the world), and then doing action.’
It’s hard to explain in a short space, but this answer and others, plus being open to meditation in that space, has brought about a big change in me. Over those days, and since being back, I feel much less anxiety than I did before. I am more confident in my choices and am gaining more clarity about myself from practicing the music and sitting quietly. I left those new friends in Kullu hardly able to express how enjoyable my experience was, as it was also filled with walks in the valley, tennis, hot springs, lots of great eating and great conversations, or to thank them for helping to bring me the tools to make this experience really powerful, when I didn’t even know I was missing them.
As I returned to the Punjab, to bigger, dirtier and more crowded cities – leaving behind the green mountain abodes of hill people and tiny hindu temples for the traffic, the turbans and friends of my first month, I felt a kind of comfort in this familiarity. That first period was certainly not wasted, but it was difficult and had to be gone through. Seeing other Westerners on my travel helped me to appreciate that not many people choose to do what I’ve done – plop themselves alone in a vastly different culture and language, expecting everything to fall into place and pursue a project. Of course it was bound to be difficult then, but whereas the first month was about gaining that outward familiarity with the place, I predict this next month will be about gaining inner familiarity with myself, now that I have been thrown into relief by my environment, and by the presence of HH the Dalai Lama and Swamiji. Stay tuned for pictures soon.
Well, after one month or so, I felt like I was getting a little stuck in the mud. Yes, I was learning music at a rapid pace, absorbing quite a bit of the Sikh culture of the Punjab through people I met, learning the language, and forming some pretty amazing memories in the idyllic farming villages and their gurdwaras. However, the days began to blend into one another, and I felt myself stagnating. I had become enough part of the culture that I had some friends and contacts, but I was not so comfortable (as I would be at home or in, say, Western Europe) that I could move about easily and independently. I felt that I had become a little dependent on my subjects here, and they on me.
With all this in mind, I knew from my friend Stefanie in Portland that the Dalai Lama was scheduled to give his spring teachings in Dharamsala, HP at the end of February – only a hundred miles or so as the crow flies (note, though, that in India the crow instead perches on the roof of the local bus, which takes at least seven hours and makes innumerable stops along the way) – so I decided to go. As an aside I should say that even at this juncture I encountered some resistance from my contacts here, who seem to feel empowered to set my schedule as they would like. I ultimately followed Christi’s advice of writing “Dharamsala” in pen in my schedule book, then opening it and pointing to the dates with shrug of resignation; people seem to understand that in the West our schedules function as brutal overlords whose edicts have a binding power.
To skip ahead a bit: given the part above about how I had to justify to myself and the locals about why I was traveling to Himachal, I could never have predicted how profound and important an impact it would have on me. I have returned now to Punjab full or more clarity, energy, self-confidence and, to some extent, greater appreciation for what I am doing here.
I arrived in Dharamsala after the long, bumpy bus trip, having made friend with two Russians on the bus (virtually the first Westerners I’d spoken to in person since arriving). She was from Siberia, and he a student from Belarus who had come from music school in Cologne. I played them some Hindustani classical music on my iPod and we split an orange while finding a hotel once we arrived in Mcleod Ganj. Unfortunately, I lost track of them after the first night – I lay down with a splitting headache from dehydration, and they decided the room was too expensive and moved on to another hotel. I realized I was in a bad way, tried drinking tons of water and found two aspirin in my first aid kit, but it was that level of headache where you feel drunk with pain and can only lie down in misery.
The plus side is that, because of this episode, I awoke around 7am the next morning feeling 100% better and very refreshed. I walked out of the hotel in time for sunrise over the Himalayas, cool evergreen air of the morning, and crowds of saffron-clad Tibetan monks bustling by (boy, sounds like I’m writing one of those travel books, but it was true). On the walk to the temple I spoke with an American woman who gave me the low-down about the Teachings, and it turned out the mobile phone I intended to use to hear English translation (HH the Dalai Lama teaches in Tibetan) was not allowed into the premises.
Then we ran into some other Americans, who said the morning session had been cancelled, so I seized the chance to go for a hike – again the first serious exercise I had seen since arriving here. In my enthusiasm, I may have been overambitious – turned into a ten-mile hike gaining almost three thousand feet over wet snow – but it was worth it. I had a giddy smile on my face the whole time, including the relaxing stop at a tea stall clinging to the side of the mountain at 8000 feet. On the way up, I made the acquaintance of an elderly Austrian gentleman. Other than that, the lower part of the trip was filled with Australian hippies and Israeli druggies, not to mention the French alpiners or the monkeys who were always digging through the trash and waving their bottoms as people (the monkeys were pretty bad, too).
After the ecstasy of that climb, I experienced the scene of the Teachings. Since the schedule was not at all clear to me on the second day, I ended up sitting in the same position for about seven hours. I knew there would be very full crowd who had reserved seats, and wanted to grab one of the open spots while I still could. After an hour of sitting, though, while the temple was still mostly empty except for Tibetans and monks, HH himself came out to do some chanting. People lined the sides of the pathway, and other lamas waving incense surrounded him. A hush of anticipation fell over those assembled as for a rock-star, but he never missed a step in his kind, grandfatherly gait, alternatively waving his blessings, and humorously guessing the nationality of someone kneeling at the railing: “Korea? China? Taiwan, ah yes!”
I loved the chanting, as when I’d heard it before, which involves that incredibly-low tone, if you’ve ever heard it. Also, when several monks are together on this low part, one point is to create staggeringly present overtones like someone whistling in your ear. The teachings themselves I had resolved to hear without translation – as someone else agreed, you can read his teachings in English anytime, how often do you get to hear him speak in his native tongue in person? Luckily, I think this led me to pick up more on the total ambience. The Teachings, at least the ones I attended, were less like a lecture, and more like a pep talk. He essentially was taking up passages from old Buddhist texts and explaining them with an emphasis on practice. HH alternated sections of animated speaking with the fast patter of mantras, and another call-and-response chanting style with those who were following the original text.
It was a very remarkable affair, and arresting in how the environment of the Teachings, as well as the presence of HH himself, communicated to me so immediately a tradition that is similarly ancient, colorful, and erudite, and yet so simply about peace and understanding.
The unpredictable and enriching part of my experience was only beginning. Although I had told my friends in Amritsar I would return after a few days in the mountains, I pressed on from Dharamsala to Kullu, another bumpy and curvy eight-hour ride through the mountains (I actually caught a taxi down the mountain at 3:30AM and the bus at 4:15AM, but was rewarded for this insanity with watching the sunrise over the Himalayas…so not bad). I had heard the Kullu-Manali valley praised in tourist books for its natural beauty, but another part of the reason I was going is I had a contact there through a friend in Montana (a distant cousin who she’d never met). I had corresponded with Linzee when I first arrived in India, when she told me Kullu was very cold and snowy, and then over a couple days before I arrived. In hindsight it seems something was conspiring to bring me to this place, because of how well everything fell into place; my reaching there just when she had some time free and the fruit blossoms were coming out in the valley.
My contact had told me over email that she’d been living in an ashram here since the mid 80’s, and so I wasn’t quite sure what to expect from our interactions – I was picturing something very structured, where I could come up to the outer wall and maybe wave hello. It turns out it was nothing like that, and she could not possibly have been more generous with her time, energy and space. We met the first day and discussed our lives, past and present, and as I described my Sikh project she responded by telling me about Swami Shyam, the inspiration and leader of the ashram. The valley was incredibly beautiful from the vantage point of a high Hindu temple, and something about the place and company made me very open to whatever this experience was going to bring.
That night, Linzee arranged a dinner party in her apartment (which, if you’re picturing something austere about an ashram, was the most comfortable and homey place I’d been since entering this country) with several of her friends. I soon realized this meant a delightful company of expat Canadians and Americans from the West and New England. They were all educated, artistic, and most importantly committed to their spiritual quest and able to talk about it in the most down-to-earth ways. My host, despite her great humbleness, showed her prowess that night by giving a ‘lead-in’ to post-dinner meditation that put me right at ease and kindled my excitement for a meditative life.
To make a long story somewhat shorter, that spark was fanned to a substantial flame over the next few days, as I met more of the community and listened to their guru, Swamiji (“ji” for respect) speak in person - I even got to have a one-on-one interaction with him in front of the whole group. After this interaction, people responded to me with compliments saying how composed and insightful I came across with this guru. It seemed strange, though, because I was hardly aware of anything looking back at the memory except feeling interested, and an intense and reassuring clarity in his response.
I had asked him a question about one of his teachings called “Non-doership”, which my hosts had explained to me the night before. This one had caught my attention because I was coming to this experience with a sense that my time and work in the Punjab seemed at times like I was spinning my wheels and frustrated at doing a lot with very little result. The idea that there was a non-doer as a higher truth is what drove me to ask for his explanation. He responded by cutting right to the core of my motivation, despite that I’d only met him a few minutes before – (I paraphrase) ‘we are always doing; we cannot stop from actions, such as eating, moving, sleeping, playing music; but if we expect the result of this action to satisfy a desire, we are never satisfied – ie we always need to eat more, move more, play music more, etc. So first, dedicate your action to God, or to your mom and dad (laughter), that way you will not be doing it to get the result yourself. Non-doership is knowing you are perfect (in that your soul, and not the form of the body and the world), and then doing action.’
It’s hard to explain in a short space, but this answer and others, plus being open to meditation in that space, has brought about a big change in me. Over those days, and since being back, I feel much less anxiety than I did before. I am more confident in my choices and am gaining more clarity about myself from practicing the music and sitting quietly. I left those new friends in Kullu hardly able to express how enjoyable my experience was, as it was also filled with walks in the valley, tennis, hot springs, lots of great eating and great conversations, or to thank them for helping to bring me the tools to make this experience really powerful, when I didn’t even know I was missing them.
As I returned to the Punjab, to bigger, dirtier and more crowded cities – leaving behind the green mountain abodes of hill people and tiny hindu temples for the traffic, the turbans and friends of my first month, I felt a kind of comfort in this familiarity. That first period was certainly not wasted, but it was difficult and had to be gone through. Seeing other Westerners on my travel helped me to appreciate that not many people choose to do what I’ve done – plop themselves alone in a vastly different culture and language, expecting everything to fall into place and pursue a project. Of course it was bound to be difficult then, but whereas the first month was about gaining that outward familiarity with the place, I predict this next month will be about gaining inner familiarity with myself, now that I have been thrown into relief by my environment, and by the presence of HH the Dalai Lama and Swamiji. Stay tuned for pictures soon.
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