Idols, Marigolds, and Anachronisms

Yesterday I passed a small procession walking down the
street. The procession, composed of a small hutch on
wheels preceded by 2 people and followed by 2 people
slowly trundled down a busy street. The hutch, nothing
more than an old fruit crate, was covered in bright
marigolds and inside sat an idol covered in marigolds,
purple flowers, and long, smoking sticks of incense.
Ironically for me, the women wore rather plain saris,
although beautiful, sheer fabric cowled their heads.
The men wore scrubby pants and shirts, looking no
different from others on the street. All 4 were
dreadfully thin with very long, wiry arms and legs.
One banged a drum while the other 3 held out their
hands for money. This is a frequent sight, people
asking for money for their god in a display bedecked by
marigolds. My task before leaving India is to discover
the significance of marigolds for they shine out
everywhere; on rickshaws, trucks, over doorways,
and sometimes strung over the rear view mirror.

Shortly after passing the display a cart drawn by 2
cows passed me. The cows' horns had been painted bright
red and a wreath of marigolds strung over the yoke.
I still reflect on the anachrony of this method of
transport as trucks, rickshaws, and cars whiz by on
either side of the poor beasts.

I know anachrony isn't really a word but it seems to fit here.

Monkey Business

Walking to market today I encountered a young boy
thumping on a little drum and holding a lead. Tied
to the end of the lead stood, despairingly, a monkey.
I assumed that the boy wanted money for which he'd
make the monkey do tricks. Of course I was an
obvious target for the boy and monkey, however I
looked away and overacted total indifference. In
reality I was appalled and saddened at the life this
poor monkey must lead. Then I felt hopeful for the
boy that he had a means of supporting himself. Now
I wonder where the line between cruelty to animals
and a right to survival begins and ends. I would
never endorse the monkey method of employment, but
I can't fault the young boy for finding a way to
feed his family. In the U.S. this would be a very
different story, but here, in India, life is so
different.

The Market

This morning I walked to the market with Iain. There's no
way I could possibly describe the scene. Stalls of fresh
fruit and vegetables lined the street, spilling out onto the
road. More traditional shops stood back, along the
pathway. Hawkers scrubbed their produce until it glowed,
others busily hung bright garments, bags, or plastic toys that
hung from self-made structures of bamboo poles tied
together in a framework with anything that could possibly
be used to tie a knot; string, plastic bags, long grass,
or bright yarn. And everywhere I walked people stared
at Iain and me. It's so hard to enjoy the atmosphere when
every move you make is being watched by others. I
far prefer anonymity.

I stopped by a stall to buy some fruit, succeeding in
purchasing everything I needed. The fruit seller offered
me a small, round, orange fruit. All traveling books tell
the tourist to never eat anything you can't peel without
first soaking in a solution to kill water-born bacteria.
So I thanked him and told him that I would perhaps try
the fruit another time. The man insisted, several times I
politely refused, repeatedly he offered it to me. So
there I stood, in a busy market where everyone stared at
the only white person around as a kind fruit seller
offered me a taste of his fine fruit. Do I risk the bout of
stomach cramps and nausea for the sake of avoiding offense?
Or do I possibly offend the man and refuse?

What would you have done?

So Many Switches

Our temporary apartment has 3 bedrooms, 3 bathrooms, a kitchen, and a
living room/dining room. In all, there are 109 switches. Some turn on lights,
some turn on outlets, some turn on fans. At night Steve and I race to bed
first, whoever loses has to turn off the lights and may spend 10 minutes
trying to figure out which switch is for which light. The dining room alone
has a panel of 11 switches.

Across the street several families labor every day on a new building site.
During the day the entire family works, at night they sleep in the shell of the
building. Women (dressed in those bright saris) break up stones or haul
metal tubs of rocks out of the site. The men ascend flimsy scaffolding
to continue work above. There is a fishnet strung between bushes below -
presumably to catch any who may misstep and plunge from the 9-story
building. Children scamper over piles of sand, stopping only to laugh and
giggle in youthful exuberance. These are the lucky ones - they have work
and a roof over their heads, at least for the moment.

First Impressions

I don't know where to begin - my senses are overwhelmed by all that is new;
sights, smells, tastes, even the air feels thick and heavy. In smug certainty
that my overseas upbringing would prepare me for anything, I found myself
to adapt to this new life. The first 3 days left me breathless as my emotions
swung back and forth on the pendulum of experience. Let me write of some
wonderful observations - probably of no interest to those experienced with
travel to Asia, but intriguing to me ... most assuredly a Westerner.

Trucks here stand out as beautiful works of art, all the more appreciated as
I wait in endless mazes of traffic. Designs vary a bit, but there seem to be 2
main styles; small panels along the length depicting idyllic tropical scenes, or
beautiful stripes of color along the sides. The front may have a metal plate
depicting a temple, or golden tassels that hang from the grill. The back door
usually displays the words "Horn OK Please," presumably a request to beep
your horn if you pass the truck. How the driver could possibly identify the
passing car's horn over the cacophony of horns blaring from all 248 other
cars around it I don't know.

People are everywhere. The impoverished and homeless break my heart as
some even resort to sleeping on the median as traffic zooms by on both
sides. Shantytowns lining the road to work serve as constant reminders of
how lucky people in the the U.S. are. Brightly painted buildings appear at
regular intervals along the shantytown strip; I am told these are
bathrooms - the only source of running water for hundreds of people
crammed into the small, corrugated metal huts.

There is a pervasive layer of dust over everything, so all you see is a dull
brown which only serves to accentuate the brightly colored saris worn
by the women. Even some of the beggar women wear beautiful, clean
saris. How the fabric shines so brightly when all else fades to brown
is a tribute to the women who spend hours washing clothes every day.