Billboard advertising a “Mr. Turban” contest for the city of Amritsar
Signs in red-lettering on hospitals saying “No sex determination done here”, in compliance with Indian national law. Apparently this stems from the fact that, given the gender roles and relative cost of dowries, some couples are more likely to decide against having the baby if they find out it will be a girl.
Respect for Sri Guru Granth Sahib, as installed in a gurdwara, taken to the extreme of reverence while in traffic. On Gurbhej’s motorcycle, we stopped in the middle of the road in front of a gurdwara so he could bow his head. Other bikers are more blasé, simply taking both hands off the wheel while still moving to bring them together in sign of respect.
After my involvement in minor fender-bender between two rickshaws (or, at least it would be if they actually had fenders), the respective drivers continued their argument as to who was at fault through traffic for the next quarter mile; each making sure to stay within shouting-distance of the other and cut one another off as many times as possible.
On a random motorcyclist in traffic by the Golden Temple, a leather jacket proclaiming on the back: “Air Force, Sioux Falls, SD”
Fully painted Indian Elephant being led down the main street, not for a parade, but loaded down with a staggering amount of building materials – I guess once the puja’s over, it’s really over
Historical gurdwara in a little town near Tarn Taran. A beautiful sarovar (pool) with a high, narrow wall on one side. We all climbed up into the top of this wall, and one of the caretakers climbed up and threw his weight back and forth, shaking the wall. Apparently this is supposed to demonstrate some mystical power from beyond that enters the wall and makes it shake, and I suppose if I considered the actual weight on this gentleman’s slight frame, it makes a bit more impressive, but the wall didn’t really seem to shake all the far. I remained skeptical.
Amazing pedal contraptions built for people with quite debilitating handicaps. Just like a rickshaw, but pedaled with one or two arms, and right out in traffic with the rest of them.
Punjabi version of American Idol, featuring popped-up folk songs, qawwali, and devotional. Some discussion of raags and intonation from the judges, though I couldn’t at all follow.
Monday, February 11, 2008
backlogged posts, still more
This post was originally written around february 1
*********
Day three of living in Amritsar. So many things to tell, I can hardly put any organization to it. I’m hesitant to build it up too much as a catharsis of the ridiculous and the sublime, though I go through both of those spectrums on a regular basis. For one, I am actually developing somewhat of a quotidian routine, which is a pleasant change from all travel and intensity.
This means there are definitely ‘down times’ in the day or, for now, lots of time for me to read (Sikh pamphlets, Indian history and music theory, plus the occasional travel novel), to take care of basic needs. One thing that concerns me a little still is how much I find myself sleeping, and still feeling tired during the day. Those who know me well have seen that I often prefer to minimize sleep and fill up time with other activities. Here, I am usually dragging by around nine or ten, get into bed, and not get out of bed until eight.
Part of it is that the sleep is not always restful (ambient noise and cold have something to do with that), and the other that I don’t really have that many things to fill up my night time except reading, and who wants to do that in a cold, dimly-lit room? But I feel like another part is physiological, the stress of having to be extra aware when I’m walking the streets – because of so many hawkers, pedestrians, and traffic – and then the poor air quality and sheer sound volume of the streets must take its toll. Finally, I acknowledge that I’m still a little homesick, and finding my feet in a place so far from those I know and love. Well, I have been assured the night-time cold will disappear within fifteen days, and hopefully by then my life will be full and adjusted and I can sleep just as blissfully, and efficiently as I do at home.
I am meeting people here, though. In addition to the folks I met during the aforementioned office adventure with Livtar, my host Navjit and I have grown closer. Yesterday, he took me on his bike to several shops looking to buy a mobile for my time here. I kept insisting on the cheapest model but, as has become somewhat regular on this trip, I was mostly excluded from the ensuing negotiations. Regardless, I ended up with a decent phone, that I can probably resell for at least half the value when I leave, and today I will get the SIM card and finally have working communication here. This, and the (hopeful) arrival of Internet in my room (which has happened if you’re reading this post) will finally keep me a little more plugged in to this world and your world.
There are many other categories of things to discuss, but I mainly wanted to get to the progress of my kirtan lessons with Ragi Gurbhej. Before that, though, one note about how I was befriended by my neighbors on this block. All the houses on this street (as you will see from imminent pictures) are built with large patios touching one another. While I’m sure it makes for cozy gatherings in the heat of summer, I had never seen anyone else from my patio. But I was surprised yesterday coming home from the market by four boys on the patio right outside my room (luckily I have a room lock which was in place).
Having just come from the street, I was in no mood to be indulging with people who proffered the customary (heavily-accented) “Hello?” and “where you from?” I brushed past them into my room as they were laughing to themselves. Once inside, however, I sat down for a moment, cleared my head, and realized I was not being fair, to them or me. So I went back out with a different attitude, engaged the conversation and found four likable young guys who all live in adjoining houses (meaning, yes, they had just climbed onto the patio from theirs). Between 15 and 23, taking high school boards to finishing medical school, I’m glad to know some people in the neighborhood. Already they’ve demonstrated to me that no one can come and go on the street without their every move being scrutinized – I guess it’s better not to be in the dark about that.
To the lessons, though. This is definitely the high point of the day. I thought it could be quite awkward, initially, due to the arrangement. Gurbhej lives in a small town about 20km away, and he rides his motorcycle in for the morning lesson (a lot like Easy Rider, except no flowing hair because of the turban). Since Navjit and his wife are away at work, the only place to hold the lesson is in my cramped bedroom. However, since this is all out of my control, I just made the best of it, put a mat on the floor with the harmonium, and waited. Well, if it’s awkward for him at all, he never lets on. He pulled up, came right up the stairs, and soon we were singing away at full volume.
I definitely lucked out. This ragi is a very likable guy. He is fairly young, probably late 20’s or early 30’s; his English is a limited, but he has a good capacity for communicating in combination of language and playing – despite the language barrier I think I learn faster from him than most people do from their neighborhood music teachers; his energy and enthusiasm match mine, as well as his ambition for what we will accomplish; there is a deep intensity to his features and his singing, but after a time a short attention span gives way to his much more playful and curious side.
We have started learning a shabad in a similar method as the ragi in Portland was teaching me, except with notation and writing in Punjabi here. Gurbhej, however, is impatient to get to the good stuff – improvisation (taans), tone color, the functional mechanics of the raag. The other method requires one to first the learn the shabad in the simple notation, and practice it ad nauseum. While I acknowledge this rote method is more standard, widely-practiced, and useful in the long run, I appreciate that Gurbhej as intuited my high objectives with a time restraint and his skipping ahead. Plus, he has already told me that he thinks I am “very intelligent in music.”
So I find myself immersed in Raag Bhairu (which, incidentally, is the one I’ve been listening to most on my iPod in Indian Classical recordings, where it is called by the Hindi name Bhairavi). He writes technical terms of Indian music in my notebook, many of which I’ve come across in my theory reading but, interestingly, also many I have not. On the first day we learned the notes of the shabad for the asthai (refrain) and antra (verse), and today I got the full text. It is inspirational, but also intimidating, to hear him riffing on the raag in my little concrete room – the full-throated tones echoing out over the houses in the morning light.
*********
Day three of living in Amritsar. So many things to tell, I can hardly put any organization to it. I’m hesitant to build it up too much as a catharsis of the ridiculous and the sublime, though I go through both of those spectrums on a regular basis. For one, I am actually developing somewhat of a quotidian routine, which is a pleasant change from all travel and intensity.
This means there are definitely ‘down times’ in the day or, for now, lots of time for me to read (Sikh pamphlets, Indian history and music theory, plus the occasional travel novel), to take care of basic needs. One thing that concerns me a little still is how much I find myself sleeping, and still feeling tired during the day. Those who know me well have seen that I often prefer to minimize sleep and fill up time with other activities. Here, I am usually dragging by around nine or ten, get into bed, and not get out of bed until eight.
Part of it is that the sleep is not always restful (ambient noise and cold have something to do with that), and the other that I don’t really have that many things to fill up my night time except reading, and who wants to do that in a cold, dimly-lit room? But I feel like another part is physiological, the stress of having to be extra aware when I’m walking the streets – because of so many hawkers, pedestrians, and traffic – and then the poor air quality and sheer sound volume of the streets must take its toll. Finally, I acknowledge that I’m still a little homesick, and finding my feet in a place so far from those I know and love. Well, I have been assured the night-time cold will disappear within fifteen days, and hopefully by then my life will be full and adjusted and I can sleep just as blissfully, and efficiently as I do at home.
I am meeting people here, though. In addition to the folks I met during the aforementioned office adventure with Livtar, my host Navjit and I have grown closer. Yesterday, he took me on his bike to several shops looking to buy a mobile for my time here. I kept insisting on the cheapest model but, as has become somewhat regular on this trip, I was mostly excluded from the ensuing negotiations. Regardless, I ended up with a decent phone, that I can probably resell for at least half the value when I leave, and today I will get the SIM card and finally have working communication here. This, and the (hopeful) arrival of Internet in my room (which has happened if you’re reading this post) will finally keep me a little more plugged in to this world and your world.
There are many other categories of things to discuss, but I mainly wanted to get to the progress of my kirtan lessons with Ragi Gurbhej. Before that, though, one note about how I was befriended by my neighbors on this block. All the houses on this street (as you will see from imminent pictures) are built with large patios touching one another. While I’m sure it makes for cozy gatherings in the heat of summer, I had never seen anyone else from my patio. But I was surprised yesterday coming home from the market by four boys on the patio right outside my room (luckily I have a room lock which was in place).
Having just come from the street, I was in no mood to be indulging with people who proffered the customary (heavily-accented) “Hello?” and “where you from?” I brushed past them into my room as they were laughing to themselves. Once inside, however, I sat down for a moment, cleared my head, and realized I was not being fair, to them or me. So I went back out with a different attitude, engaged the conversation and found four likable young guys who all live in adjoining houses (meaning, yes, they had just climbed onto the patio from theirs). Between 15 and 23, taking high school boards to finishing medical school, I’m glad to know some people in the neighborhood. Already they’ve demonstrated to me that no one can come and go on the street without their every move being scrutinized – I guess it’s better not to be in the dark about that.
To the lessons, though. This is definitely the high point of the day. I thought it could be quite awkward, initially, due to the arrangement. Gurbhej lives in a small town about 20km away, and he rides his motorcycle in for the morning lesson (a lot like Easy Rider, except no flowing hair because of the turban). Since Navjit and his wife are away at work, the only place to hold the lesson is in my cramped bedroom. However, since this is all out of my control, I just made the best of it, put a mat on the floor with the harmonium, and waited. Well, if it’s awkward for him at all, he never lets on. He pulled up, came right up the stairs, and soon we were singing away at full volume.
I definitely lucked out. This ragi is a very likable guy. He is fairly young, probably late 20’s or early 30’s; his English is a limited, but he has a good capacity for communicating in combination of language and playing – despite the language barrier I think I learn faster from him than most people do from their neighborhood music teachers; his energy and enthusiasm match mine, as well as his ambition for what we will accomplish; there is a deep intensity to his features and his singing, but after a time a short attention span gives way to his much more playful and curious side.
We have started learning a shabad in a similar method as the ragi in Portland was teaching me, except with notation and writing in Punjabi here. Gurbhej, however, is impatient to get to the good stuff – improvisation (taans), tone color, the functional mechanics of the raag. The other method requires one to first the learn the shabad in the simple notation, and practice it ad nauseum. While I acknowledge this rote method is more standard, widely-practiced, and useful in the long run, I appreciate that Gurbhej as intuited my high objectives with a time restraint and his skipping ahead. Plus, he has already told me that he thinks I am “very intelligent in music.”
So I find myself immersed in Raag Bhairu (which, incidentally, is the one I’ve been listening to most on my iPod in Indian Classical recordings, where it is called by the Hindi name Bhairavi). He writes technical terms of Indian music in my notebook, many of which I’ve come across in my theory reading but, interestingly, also many I have not. On the first day we learned the notes of the shabad for the asthai (refrain) and antra (verse), and today I got the full text. It is inspirational, but also intimidating, to hear him riffing on the raag in my little concrete room – the full-throated tones echoing out over the houses in the morning light.
backlogged posts, again
This was originally written on January 30th
*********
If you’re reading these blog posts, then I’ve made it back to Amritsar where I can find an internet connection. The past few days have been very interesting – as if in a completely different world than my first four days in India. In contrast to the noise, people, grime, people, and all the people everywhere, I stayed in a very nice home with three gentle and well-educated souls. This little town was about 30km from Amritsar, and I came here on Sunday because these folks are arranging for me a place to stay in the city through their contacts, as well as music lessons with a ragi, who is a friend of theirs.
As these things go, however, things did not quite fall into place at the right time and right way. One thing I do understand of the situation is that this past weekend was a national holiday, Republic Day, so many people traveled and were not around to make arrangements. The more peculiar part of the holdup, however, has to do with the perception held by my hosts of my accommodation needs, with a peculiar insistence on the type of food.
For instance, they have turned down offers for me to stay with Punjabi families because the home-cooking will not be “to my taste” (i.e. too spicy, not Western enough). They are holding out for a place on one of the main avenues of Amritsar, on which many of the Western-style hotels are situated, with the idea that there I can get the occasional burger, pizza, pasta, etc. While initially I felt defensive of my status as an ‘intrepid traveler’, ultimately I think I have come around somewhat to their way of thinking. After all, it was by eating only Indian food (and not very spicy at that) for the first week that I overtaxed my stomach in the first place. Obviously, I will grow somewhat accustomed to it, but in the time I stayed in Preetnagar they consistently made less spicy (but still delicious) portions for me of very hearty food. Consequently, my stomach feels more or less back to normal, and I realize that I should put trust in their wisdom and knowledge of intercultural food – after all they have many relatives in the states and have visited frequently.
The other sticking point was that of my own entertainment, which I also have come to appreciate. After all, they could comfortably put me up during my time here, and the food and surroundings are amazingly tranquil and welcoming. Furthermore, the ragi from whom I am to take lessons lives much closer to their village than to Amritsar (and he has also offered me a place in his small village). However, my host has stood firm that I would wither from boredom out here. It’s true that it is much more the rhythm of a cruise ship than a city: morning tea, late breakfast, reading in the sun, a walk, lunch, more reading, afternoon tea, another walk, dinner, TV or radio (when there’s power), then bed.
I think ultimately I will see this as a good time have gained my bearings. On my own in the cities, I felt pretty lost. Here I have people to teach me words for food, to talk about music, Indian history, philosophy. Also, I can work on my own reading, learning Punjabi, familiarizing myself more with my recording equipment, etc. In some ways I will be nervous to leave here and be thrown back into a less predictable urban free-for-all. However, they are probably right that this is where the real stimulation for my music project and view of India will arise.
A final thing is that I feel a bit confined to this nice lifestyle after two days. On Monday, in late afternoon, I was playing with my iPod out on the steps of the house, when I was moved by the pleasant afternoon sun to go for a walk. I traced the roads I had earlier walked with my host back to the main road, passing only a few people working in the fields. The main road was much busier and I was definitely an object of focus for each passing vehicle (it’s generous to call some of them vehicles). I was a bit wary, but had entered this wonderful state of walking through fields while listening to famous Indian classical recordings on my iPod. I was beginning to achieve this fabulous state of consciousness, as the sun sank in a huge red ball, I could smell the warm, fertile fields of mustard and rice, the sparse trees and bicycle rickshaws, all of it melding as one with the ancient and perfect forms and ripples of the music.
By the time I returned to the road to my host’s house, however, I realized that my hosts had panicked, sent dozens of people looking for me, and were scouring the roads themselves. For good reason, it turns out. This frontier area is one of the most active drug-smuggling regions in the world – and any of those teenage kids who smiled at me or stared curiously could be a front for some smack-dealer who wants to sedate me, steal my passport, money, etc. So for now I’m resigned to stay within the compound. *sigh* this is India.
*********
If you’re reading these blog posts, then I’ve made it back to Amritsar where I can find an internet connection. The past few days have been very interesting – as if in a completely different world than my first four days in India. In contrast to the noise, people, grime, people, and all the people everywhere, I stayed in a very nice home with three gentle and well-educated souls. This little town was about 30km from Amritsar, and I came here on Sunday because these folks are arranging for me a place to stay in the city through their contacts, as well as music lessons with a ragi, who is a friend of theirs.
As these things go, however, things did not quite fall into place at the right time and right way. One thing I do understand of the situation is that this past weekend was a national holiday, Republic Day, so many people traveled and were not around to make arrangements. The more peculiar part of the holdup, however, has to do with the perception held by my hosts of my accommodation needs, with a peculiar insistence on the type of food.
For instance, they have turned down offers for me to stay with Punjabi families because the home-cooking will not be “to my taste” (i.e. too spicy, not Western enough). They are holding out for a place on one of the main avenues of Amritsar, on which many of the Western-style hotels are situated, with the idea that there I can get the occasional burger, pizza, pasta, etc. While initially I felt defensive of my status as an ‘intrepid traveler’, ultimately I think I have come around somewhat to their way of thinking. After all, it was by eating only Indian food (and not very spicy at that) for the first week that I overtaxed my stomach in the first place. Obviously, I will grow somewhat accustomed to it, but in the time I stayed in Preetnagar they consistently made less spicy (but still delicious) portions for me of very hearty food. Consequently, my stomach feels more or less back to normal, and I realize that I should put trust in their wisdom and knowledge of intercultural food – after all they have many relatives in the states and have visited frequently.
The other sticking point was that of my own entertainment, which I also have come to appreciate. After all, they could comfortably put me up during my time here, and the food and surroundings are amazingly tranquil and welcoming. Furthermore, the ragi from whom I am to take lessons lives much closer to their village than to Amritsar (and he has also offered me a place in his small village). However, my host has stood firm that I would wither from boredom out here. It’s true that it is much more the rhythm of a cruise ship than a city: morning tea, late breakfast, reading in the sun, a walk, lunch, more reading, afternoon tea, another walk, dinner, TV or radio (when there’s power), then bed.
I think ultimately I will see this as a good time have gained my bearings. On my own in the cities, I felt pretty lost. Here I have people to teach me words for food, to talk about music, Indian history, philosophy. Also, I can work on my own reading, learning Punjabi, familiarizing myself more with my recording equipment, etc. In some ways I will be nervous to leave here and be thrown back into a less predictable urban free-for-all. However, they are probably right that this is where the real stimulation for my music project and view of India will arise.
A final thing is that I feel a bit confined to this nice lifestyle after two days. On Monday, in late afternoon, I was playing with my iPod out on the steps of the house, when I was moved by the pleasant afternoon sun to go for a walk. I traced the roads I had earlier walked with my host back to the main road, passing only a few people working in the fields. The main road was much busier and I was definitely an object of focus for each passing vehicle (it’s generous to call some of them vehicles). I was a bit wary, but had entered this wonderful state of walking through fields while listening to famous Indian classical recordings on my iPod. I was beginning to achieve this fabulous state of consciousness, as the sun sank in a huge red ball, I could smell the warm, fertile fields of mustard and rice, the sparse trees and bicycle rickshaws, all of it melding as one with the ancient and perfect forms and ripples of the music.
By the time I returned to the road to my host’s house, however, I realized that my hosts had panicked, sent dozens of people looking for me, and were scouring the roads themselves. For good reason, it turns out. This frontier area is one of the most active drug-smuggling regions in the world – and any of those teenage kids who smiled at me or stared curiously could be a front for some smack-dealer who wants to sedate me, steal my passport, money, etc. So for now I’m resigned to stay within the compound. *sigh* this is India.
backlogged posts, finally
This was originally written on January 29th, two weeks ago
*********
Another day (or two, since I’ve had internet), another few cold nights in the Punjab, another few stomach gurgles in adjusting to the food. On Sunday, I took a ride outside of Amritsar about an hour (by auto-rickshaw…knows how far it really is?) to a little hamlet called Pritnagar. I went there to stay with a gentleman named Hirdey Pal and his wife Parveen, who are related to my excellent contact in Boston. Among their many generous hospitalities, I passed the entire afternoon in conversation with, or rather as a fascinated audience to, Hirdey Pal Ji. Among his many attributes as scholar, philosopher, and farmer farmer, I was quite struck by the story of his life and this little place called Pritnagar (PREET – nugger). I wish to share some of that story now, just because of how interesting it was.
The story begins with Hirdey Pal’s father, a young man who distinguished himself enough in youth to gain enrollment to an elite school (where the Colonial Brits only granted admittance to 10 Indians a year). After this study, he served in World War I, as part of the empire, and then wound up studying engineering at Michigan during the 20’s. In addition to excelling in his field, he tried to absorb what he saw as the ‘good’ aspects of American culture, and was quite drawn as well to Thoreau and Emerson.
He returned to India in the 1930’s with a vision and philosophy, the philosophy being one, amazingly, of Love at the center of a self-sustaining community. Before he put it into action, he briefly ran a magazine devoted to this idea, and then in the late 30’s moved to spot in the center of the Punjab where he founded the Town of Love (in Punjabi, “pritnagar”). As Hirdey Pal summed up his father’s vision: “Love is not a position, but a recognition.”
The founding of the town attracted a crowd of hearty intellectuals who were devoted to the same idea, and Pritnagar took off. With the engineer/visionary at the lead, there was a boarding school constructed out of mud walls (plastered over) and a thatched roof, and individual homes were made according to plans way ahead of their time – basically today’s “pre-fab” in a place where buildings are still just brick and concrete. Local craftsmen were taught sustainable ways to make furniture from abundant elements, dig responsible wells, and use the sun’s energy for heating. No house of worship was built in town, despite the fact that the town drew from the Punjab’s muslim, sikh, and hindu communities – it was a secular town with no walled-in houses, and they didn’t want any other kind of internal boundaries to spring up.
While this part all sounds pretty amazing, and my host grew up in this paradise-world until he was 14, the rest of its history is marked by soul-crushing turmoil. In 1947, the sub-continent was partitioned into India and Pakistan and, as luck would have it, Pritnagar found itself right on the line of division. “Guillotined” is how my host describes what happened to the idealist experiment of the town. The times became so confusing at Partition – in fact, Pritnagar was initially assigned to Pakistan, and only later re-assigned to India – that the community fractured. Those who remained found themselves at the heart of the Indo-Pak war that followed, wherein the building behind Hirdey Pal’s house was requisitioned for officers, and the adjacent field contained cannons lobbing shells onto Lahore (did I mention that Lahore is only ten miles as the crow flies?).
As if that weren’t enough, in the 1980’s followed a near civil-war escalation as Sikh separatist militants variously tried to rally support in this frontier region, and looted, raped and murdered as common criminals. My host vividly recalled an AK-47 held on his chest, and calmly mentioned neighbors and family members who were killed during the conflict. Neighbor turned against neighbor, and once again this peaceful hamlet was ripped up and left for dead. Since then, he went on, most of the houses were abandoned or sold way below their value, so the tiny community that remains is not at all joined to the founding principles of the Town of Love.
Standing in his garden looking at the quiet, green fields, I could scarcely believe that this land and man belonged to the same history I was hearing. What could easily have been mistaken for a sleepy backwater had seen unbridled idealism uprooted by violence and carelessness over the course of the century. As we watched the sun slowly sink over the Pakistani border (which Tom Brady could probably have hit with a slight tailwind), the wisdom poured forth from my host as he expounded on the virtues of simple thinking, agrarian economics, Indian hospitality, and the history of the world’s oldest secular society.
*********
Another day (or two, since I’ve had internet), another few cold nights in the Punjab, another few stomach gurgles in adjusting to the food. On Sunday, I took a ride outside of Amritsar about an hour (by auto-rickshaw…knows how far it really is?) to a little hamlet called Pritnagar. I went there to stay with a gentleman named Hirdey Pal and his wife Parveen, who are related to my excellent contact in Boston. Among their many generous hospitalities, I passed the entire afternoon in conversation with, or rather as a fascinated audience to, Hirdey Pal Ji. Among his many attributes as scholar, philosopher, and farmer farmer, I was quite struck by the story of his life and this little place called Pritnagar (PREET – nugger). I wish to share some of that story now, just because of how interesting it was.
The story begins with Hirdey Pal’s father, a young man who distinguished himself enough in youth to gain enrollment to an elite school (where the Colonial Brits only granted admittance to 10 Indians a year). After this study, he served in World War I, as part of the empire, and then wound up studying engineering at Michigan during the 20’s. In addition to excelling in his field, he tried to absorb what he saw as the ‘good’ aspects of American culture, and was quite drawn as well to Thoreau and Emerson.
He returned to India in the 1930’s with a vision and philosophy, the philosophy being one, amazingly, of Love at the center of a self-sustaining community. Before he put it into action, he briefly ran a magazine devoted to this idea, and then in the late 30’s moved to spot in the center of the Punjab where he founded the Town of Love (in Punjabi, “pritnagar”). As Hirdey Pal summed up his father’s vision: “Love is not a position, but a recognition.”
The founding of the town attracted a crowd of hearty intellectuals who were devoted to the same idea, and Pritnagar took off. With the engineer/visionary at the lead, there was a boarding school constructed out of mud walls (plastered over) and a thatched roof, and individual homes were made according to plans way ahead of their time – basically today’s “pre-fab” in a place where buildings are still just brick and concrete. Local craftsmen were taught sustainable ways to make furniture from abundant elements, dig responsible wells, and use the sun’s energy for heating. No house of worship was built in town, despite the fact that the town drew from the Punjab’s muslim, sikh, and hindu communities – it was a secular town with no walled-in houses, and they didn’t want any other kind of internal boundaries to spring up.
While this part all sounds pretty amazing, and my host grew up in this paradise-world until he was 14, the rest of its history is marked by soul-crushing turmoil. In 1947, the sub-continent was partitioned into India and Pakistan and, as luck would have it, Pritnagar found itself right on the line of division. “Guillotined” is how my host describes what happened to the idealist experiment of the town. The times became so confusing at Partition – in fact, Pritnagar was initially assigned to Pakistan, and only later re-assigned to India – that the community fractured. Those who remained found themselves at the heart of the Indo-Pak war that followed, wherein the building behind Hirdey Pal’s house was requisitioned for officers, and the adjacent field contained cannons lobbing shells onto Lahore (did I mention that Lahore is only ten miles as the crow flies?).
As if that weren’t enough, in the 1980’s followed a near civil-war escalation as Sikh separatist militants variously tried to rally support in this frontier region, and looted, raped and murdered as common criminals. My host vividly recalled an AK-47 held on his chest, and calmly mentioned neighbors and family members who were killed during the conflict. Neighbor turned against neighbor, and once again this peaceful hamlet was ripped up and left for dead. Since then, he went on, most of the houses were abandoned or sold way below their value, so the tiny community that remains is not at all joined to the founding principles of the Town of Love.
Standing in his garden looking at the quiet, green fields, I could scarcely believe that this land and man belonged to the same history I was hearing. What could easily have been mistaken for a sleepy backwater had seen unbridled idealism uprooted by violence and carelessness over the course of the century. As we watched the sun slowly sink over the Pakistani border (which Tom Brady could probably have hit with a slight tailwind), the wisdom poured forth from my host as he expounded on the virtues of simple thinking, agrarian economics, Indian hospitality, and the history of the world’s oldest secular society.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Post by Proxy
Hello loyal mrkurtz readers - Christi here. Kurt asked me to let all of you know that he has been having difficulty accessing the internet over the past few days. He has some great posts written and is just waiting for internet access at his house. That should be happening within the next day or so (hopefully!). Keep checking back for more adventures from India!
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Sunday
No superbowl over here. Not that I will particularly miss that ritual, and I was treated this morning to a very different type of communal gathering. The event was an "akhand path", or presentation of the Sri Guru Granth Sahib (Sikh scripture), with all the attendant pomp, kirtan, prashad (consecrated sweet food), head covering, bowing, and throne (the scripture is treated as if it were a human king in his court). This was not in a gurdwara, however, nor to commemorate a particular saint's or guru's day. A couple in the middle-class neighborhood where I reside had added an extra floor to their house, and they wanted to hold an inauguration ceremony, and lunch for all their relatives, as a way of consecrating the new rooms properly.
So people took their shoes off and paraded to the upstairs room, or milled around downstairs where the caterers were drinking sweet coffee, and eating fried pakaurhas (vegetables, potato and cheese). The big surprise, given that I was only invited yesterday, was that I was to sing kirtan myself!
Luckily I didn't have much time to panic, as we packed up the harmonium this morning, and drove over to the house in the rain. With my teacher accompanying me on tabla, I sang one of the three shabads I know, playing harmonium, in a room of about 30-40 people, and over the loudspeakers. I think it was received well, and afterwards my ragi gave a short sermon, where he explained who I was and that I was here to learn kirtan. At least, that's what I think he said, it was all in Punjabi and no one translated for me.
Then some professional ragis took over, and the rest of the time was kind of a blur/bore of meeting relatives, having the same limited conversation over and over (because of language barrier) where I try to explain what city I'm from (the average person only knows New York and California - although one kid today who had worked in Bank of America tech support correctly identified Helena as the capital of Montana), and having too many fried cheese things forced into me. Finally, there was a big lunch with Gajrela, one of my favorite desserts (sweet, shredded carrots), and ultimately I was very grateful to be invited. It took a lot out of me, and I certainly don't have a perfect record in anything like the good guys will have at the end of today.
So people took their shoes off and paraded to the upstairs room, or milled around downstairs where the caterers were drinking sweet coffee, and eating fried pakaurhas (vegetables, potato and cheese). The big surprise, given that I was only invited yesterday, was that I was to sing kirtan myself!
Luckily I didn't have much time to panic, as we packed up the harmonium this morning, and drove over to the house in the rain. With my teacher accompanying me on tabla, I sang one of the three shabads I know, playing harmonium, in a room of about 30-40 people, and over the loudspeakers. I think it was received well, and afterwards my ragi gave a short sermon, where he explained who I was and that I was here to learn kirtan. At least, that's what I think he said, it was all in Punjabi and no one translated for me.
Then some professional ragis took over, and the rest of the time was kind of a blur/bore of meeting relatives, having the same limited conversation over and over (because of language barrier) where I try to explain what city I'm from (the average person only knows New York and California - although one kid today who had worked in Bank of America tech support correctly identified Helena as the capital of Montana), and having too many fried cheese things forced into me. Finally, there was a big lunch with Gajrela, one of my favorite desserts (sweet, shredded carrots), and ultimately I was very grateful to be invited. It took a lot out of me, and I certainly don't have a perfect record in anything like the good guys will have at the end of today.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
More internet woes (woahs), a backlog
Checking in Here...
It's been a most interesting few days, and the simple problem of reaching the internet is all that has kept you from hearing many details. As it is, I can only visit internet cafes (and that at great risk to one's sanity by braving the traffic and rickshaw drivers) where I sit at a console and wait for slow service. Meanwhile, on my computer is a backlog of posts, pictures, videos, etc
I have made arrangements to have 24-hr internet in my room, which will bring much needed connection to you wonderful people back home. However, I was told that it would be installed on thursday, then friday, and the next best estimate is monday. So, I'm not holding my breath, but I am holding many stories and musings to be released at the moment I can connect my computer (hopefully during the day on monday in the US, but i'm not promising).
Meanwhile, I'm keeping pretty busy with lessons, reading, meeting people, trying out new food, finding my way around. Today I rode out to the town of Tarn Taran, about 30km from Amritsar, with my ragi. We visited one huge gurdwara, where the central tank is even larger than at the Golden Temple. We took some pictures, sat and listened to the kirtan they were doing, with running commentary on the raag and taal, then stepped outside the complex for some spicy and delicious samosas and a cup of chai. Then we wound through town to a very small gurdwara, that was deserted (kirtan doesnt begin until the evening), but occupies important historical relevance related to the fifth guru, Arjun.
A man running a metal-equipment shop outside the gate engaged us and offered tea. He spoke with the ragi at length with many questions about what I was doing here, and when he found out about kirtan he insisted I sing a shabad for him, then had his eight-year old daughter sing one that she had been working on. I had my digital recorder with me, but unfortunately I balked at the notion of bringing it out to record her, and couldn't have gotten away with it covertly. Anyway, it remains cold here, and that was driven home by riding 30 miles on the back of a motorcycle - but it was nice to get out of the city a little bit, see some fields, and not be in the constant assault of noise and dirt. More to come soon, and keep sending me your questions and prayers.
It's been a most interesting few days, and the simple problem of reaching the internet is all that has kept you from hearing many details. As it is, I can only visit internet cafes (and that at great risk to one's sanity by braving the traffic and rickshaw drivers) where I sit at a console and wait for slow service. Meanwhile, on my computer is a backlog of posts, pictures, videos, etc
I have made arrangements to have 24-hr internet in my room, which will bring much needed connection to you wonderful people back home. However, I was told that it would be installed on thursday, then friday, and the next best estimate is monday. So, I'm not holding my breath, but I am holding many stories and musings to be released at the moment I can connect my computer (hopefully during the day on monday in the US, but i'm not promising).
Meanwhile, I'm keeping pretty busy with lessons, reading, meeting people, trying out new food, finding my way around. Today I rode out to the town of Tarn Taran, about 30km from Amritsar, with my ragi. We visited one huge gurdwara, where the central tank is even larger than at the Golden Temple. We took some pictures, sat and listened to the kirtan they were doing, with running commentary on the raag and taal, then stepped outside the complex for some spicy and delicious samosas and a cup of chai. Then we wound through town to a very small gurdwara, that was deserted (kirtan doesnt begin until the evening), but occupies important historical relevance related to the fifth guru, Arjun.
A man running a metal-equipment shop outside the gate engaged us and offered tea. He spoke with the ragi at length with many questions about what I was doing here, and when he found out about kirtan he insisted I sing a shabad for him, then had his eight-year old daughter sing one that she had been working on. I had my digital recorder with me, but unfortunately I balked at the notion of bringing it out to record her, and couldn't have gotten away with it covertly. Anyway, it remains cold here, and that was driven home by riding 30 miles on the back of a motorcycle - but it was nice to get out of the city a little bit, see some fields, and not be in the constant assault of noise and dirt. More to come soon, and keep sending me your questions and prayers.
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