A few days ago Chinta and I went to her friend Poku’s wedding up in the villages near Durgapur. Poku is a guy who originally rescued a small orphan kitten I ended up raising and naming Redux. (That’s a story for another time.) What’s more, Lena treated Poku’s sick father, as part of her work for the Emergency Medical Fund. The original plan called for us to attend a bit of puja, and then have lunch, before returning to Rewalsar. True to form, I thought I’d be back by 2 pm, and wander down to Baisakhi Mehla for a couple hours. But this is India, so you know how the punchline to this goes. Anyway, learned some important stuff I thought I’d share with you guys:
1) No matter what the pandit says, the first full day of Baisakhi Mehla is not a good time to travel anywhere near Rewalsar. The traffic in and out of town is horrendous. The jams started happening around 9 in the morning, and continued throughout the day. At one point three cops showed up outside the house and attempted to direct traffic. That lasted about 15 minutes or so. After that the traffic snarls became this ongoing audience participation group therapy style of thing. Anyone who had an idea how to make traffic flow smoother basically got out of their vehicle (yes, leaving it smack in the middle of the road) and started directing traffic. Meanwhile people in other stopped vehicles would look down the hill, realize it would be faster to walk, and begin to do so. We’re talking busloads and truckloads of pedestrians in the middle of the traffic snarls making for the nearest path down the hill to town. And then, any people left in stopped vehicles would recognize old friends/family/inlaws/outlaws and start to visit with each other in the middle of the traffic.
The plan called for a friend of Chinta’s to show up in a car at about 10 AM that was going to the wedding with some other people. The car managed to inch its way in front of the house about 11 o’clock. Chinta and her friend and I piled into this teetiny compact taxi that already held three people and the driver. And then…the car didn’t go anywhere. There was no place for it to go, the traffic was that bad. After a while I realized it would actually be faster for the seven of us (including a lady in her sixties) to get out of car, pick it up, and carry it to the mandir (shrine) we were headed to. I told Chinta that in America we had traffic problems too, and everybody in the car laughed.
An hour or so later we made it the 5 kilometers down the road to the mandir where the ceremony was happening. Although we’d missed earlier portions of the puja, we were in time to catch the bride and groom as they made seven trips around the mandir.
Once the bride and groom are officially married in the eyes of Shiva, Parvati, and everybody, you get to actually see the faces of the bride and groom. This would be something like the umpteenth wedding I’ve been to where I had no idea what the spouse-to-be even looked like until after the excitement’s over. The dulahana, in this case, turned out to be a young freckled version of Selma Blair.
I then spent some time discovering the next important lesson:
2) Village events do not involve precision scheduling. Instead there’s this group consensus thing where enough people finally decide for the next event to happen before proceeding. The ceremony was almost over by the time we arrived, but we were in time to meet with folks and present gifts and such. Looking around, I realize I was seeing no lunch preparations. The shrine is just a small one next to the road and a ramshackle general store/tea shop.
We got served plenty of prasad (cooked, sweetened wheat cereal), meetha (fudgy sweets), water, and chai, but no actual food. Turns out lunch was scheduled in the groom’s village down the road. The car went off with a load of people and was supposed to come back for us.
Yeah, so….no, the car didn’t come back.
We ended up hitching in this truck whose driver may or may not have been part of the wedding party. It was never clear. At any rate, a bunch of us piled into this truck (as the visiting Westerner/VIP I got a seat up front). And then…the truck didn’t go anywhere. The driver stood outside the truck, either looking for somebody or waiting for something. After a while, he got in, started up the truck and drove a total of 10 meters down the road, stopping in front of another shrine on the other side of the road. And then…the truck still didn’t go anywhere. The people tending that shrine gave us more prasad and some pakora while the driver got back out, and proceeded to wait some more. More folks piled into the truck, and finally the driver headed for the village.
A few kilometers the truck stopped in front of a house. One with no wedding preparations in evidence. Chinta’s friend explained to me that we would now be taking a “shortcut” to the grooms house. Yep–another “just down here” hike down the hill to a picturesque family home filled with villagers. We parked in a shady room out of the sun, and were plied with more water, prasad, meetha, and chai, leading to the next lesson:
3) Everybody in this region should have turned diabetic years ago. No joke. I’d had a bit of chai and biscuits before going off to the wedding, then nothing but water, chai and prasad at the wedding, then over to the house…basically I’d eaten nothing but combinations of water, milk, carbohydrates and sugar since about 6 that morning. Yipe. We sat around for a while, and finally Chinta inquired about “lunch”. By now it was about 3:30 in the afternoon, and we were out in the villages with no way of getting back home, except for a 4:30 bus. A couple people held a puzzled conversation in Hindi, the gist of which was: “Lunch? I dunno…maybe we’re having something at 4:00…” “Are you sure? I thought we weren’t eating until 6:00…” Finally things got sorted out, and we were seated on the ground with plates in front of us by a little after 4:00.
Your typical wedding feast takes place sitting on long mats laid out on the ground. “Plates” are either fresh leaves stapled together with small sticks, or paper plates that are safe for a cow to eat. Yes, you eat with your right hand. As usual, I was offered a spoon, which I declined. (It’s the equivalent of a concerned waitperson in a Chinese restaurant offering a fork in case you can’t handle chopsticks.) The eating takes place in shifts–the next shift can’t come in until the previous one finishes, so being a slow eater is something of a social no-no. By now I’ve become something of an old hand (so to speak) at these feasts, having learned the proper hand signals for “more,” “less,” and “none”. Without these, the catering wallahs will load up the plate at every opportunity to make sure you have enough to eat. Afterwards, you get up, wash your hands with the last of the water in your cup, and move off so the next round of hungry diners can have a place.
As it was, Chinta and I had only a few minutes to eat, because we needed to get back “just up there” to catch the bus by 4:30. Leading me to the next little lesson:
4) When it comes to planning out your day around a visit to the village, just give up. Seriously, it’s not worth the effort attempting to be precisely on time with anything. Since most people around here travel by foot or bus or truck, visit planning is “you get there when you get there, and you leave whenever.” Chinta and I looked at our options for getting home. Not an inspiring sight.
We tried calling Raju, an friend who drove an autorickshaw, but that was hopeless. He was stuck in Rewalsar, somewhere near the bus stand. If he actually made it out to the village and brought us back, fighting the traffic both ways, we might possibly make it home by oh…7 PM. We settled for the hike “just up here” to catch the bus, waiting with a group of other folks headed more or less towards Rewalsar. No bus. Instead, we all hitched on a truck that was headed more or less towards Galu, a small village 3 kilometers outside town and up the hill from the jungle surrounding the lake.
Galu gave the two of us a wonderful view of Rewalsar. As we looked across the valley two things were immediately obvious:
- The jungle just above the lake was on fire, and full of smoke.
- It didn’t matter who we called to come get us. Traffic was backed up from a kilometer along Mandi Road leading into town all the way up to the house.
So along with everyone else, Chinta and I started walking down the road toward town. A kilometer later we managed to hitch another ride with another truck headed more or less toward Rewalsar, arriving at the house by about 5:30.
Final total: 2 hikes and two truck rides to get 5 kilometers back home, taking about an hour. With no traffic, because it was all in Rewalsar…leading us to the final lesson:
5) There really is no such thing as being alone in India. There just isn’t. Once Chinta and I got back to the house she immediately wanted us to leave again, this time for Baisakhi Mehla, down in town. Looking down at town, I could see the kora path packed with people, shopping, selling, and celebrating. I ran some calculations…and realized I had not so much as been out of sight of another person since, oh, 9:00 that morning. Despite the spaciousness of Himachal’s great outdoors, I’d actually spent a good deal of the day pressed cheek-by-jowl with other folks in various modes of transportation. Meals and snacks happened the same way. I got a special bonus for stepping outside the groom’s house to make a phone call. Mid-conversation I turned around, and discovered I had an audience of about 10 goggle-eyed kids who had never seen anything like me before. Politely, I begged off the trip to town, and stayed home, certain there would be more chaos in the future.
April 16th, 2010
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Those of you who remember the saga of Chime and her various offspring may be interested in the latest developments. A year ago last May, Chime brought a kitten to our door. Literally:
This cat got named Tsilu, and grew up to replace Leopard once he struck out on his own on the hillside to find a good female to settle down with and raise a family. Once Leopard moved on, Tsilu grew up as the Only Child for many months.
Then the siblings arrived. In early July I visited the statue of Padmasambhava, and after a cup of chai one of the construction workers led me down into the basement room, where Chime’s latest litter resided. At the time the kittens were only five days old, and Chime was still nursing them. I eyed them dubiously. If you’ve read this blog for any length of time, you’ll know that the life expectancy of a baby anything in Rewalsar is kind of dicey. I told the workers that if the kittens were still alive in three weeks, I would take them.
Time passed. Then one day a friend from the construction site turned up, with too little kittens in tow. The younguns were frightened by the trip up the hill, dusty from living in a construction area, and full of fleas from their feral mother. Chinta and I set to work cleaning them up, and three days later we had kittens that were actually presentable for the camera.
First up: Pixit. A mighty but playful adventuress who thinks nothing of satisfying her curiousity come what may.
She also quickly figured an escape route out of the little kitty house she and her brother were stashed in.
Next: Dixit. His name in Hindi means “scholar,” and he earned it by being the shyer, more reticent of the two. Like his continually bad-tempered mother, Dixit often has a grumpy, and seems to be of two minds as to whether to share.
July 30th, 2009
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Ghari (car — local dialect)
Bajaiya (musicians)
Mommyji (mother) Sue wearing a sari for the very first time
Mamaji (mother’s brother) Bob wearing a pallu (wedding headdress) for the very first time
Parivara (family): Mommyji, Mamaji, Bhai (brother) James, and Behan (sister) Chandra
Dulaha (bridegroom) Martin
Dulahana (bride) Tara
Shaadi (wedding)
Saatiya (husband and wife — local dialect)
July 26th, 2009
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This is our living room:
This is our living room during monsoon:
Any questions?
July 15th, 2009
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Among our bhi-bhi Chinta’s varied household duties is that of produce shopping. As a local villager who’s known most folks since they were children (and is probably related to the rest) she has the best chance of getting decent quality produce at a reasonable price out of a profit-minded subji-wallah. She can usually haggle the price down from what a Westerner like me would be charged to something a bit more affordable. Also, since she has a bit of farmland in combination with her neighbors, she’s often able to bring in seasonal “local-local” vegetables at no cost.
However, this year everyone has the drought to contend with. Monsoon has not yet reached our region of India. The few rains of the last couple of weeks have been enough to moisten the ground, but not enough to do the farmers much good. And so, several days ago, Chinta turned up at the house empty-handed.
“Kuchne,” she reported disgustedly. Nothing.
Just the day before we had reeled in sticker shock at vegetable prices in Mandi. A subji wallah had informed us–with a straight face–that peas were 70 rupees the kilo. To understand the seriousness of this, most produce here normally runs under R20 a kilo when in season, with exotic stuff like broccoli running closer to R40, and fragile fruits like grapes running probably 60 or more. In this area the average produce seller has no qualms about quoting any price he feels like to Western tourists; after all, he reasons, they can afford it, and they’ll be gone in a couple weeks, anyway. Quoting the same price to a couple of Hindi-speaking women in local salwar suits and dupattas, especially in Mandi where the subji wallahs all sit cheek by jowl selling the same produce, means the vegetable shortages have started in earnest.
After Chinta struck out finding reasonable produce near her village, I wandered down the hill to check the produce available in Rewalsar. It was just as bleak. No tomatoes, at the height of the season. Stumpy, undergrown cucumbers. The kicker was finding peas that were not selling at R70 the kilo. No, these were priced at R80.
I returned home also without buying anything, and Chinta and I commiserated over the current state of vegetables. Nothing was worth buying, and what there was was too expensive.
“Well,” I said finally,” I guess we’ll be losing a bit of weight over the next couple months.”
Meantime, the water rationing continues. During rationing they turn off the water supply except for public handpumps for a period of anything from four hours to a full day. Today I woke up to greetings from my next door neighbor, a schoolteacher with two sons. He told me his water tank was empty; did I have any water? By now the morning water-tank check has become routine. Climb the stairs to the roof, fish out the practically indestructible iron ladder, and climb to the water tank platform. Then use a key to unlock the monkey-proofed lid, and peek inside.
Half empty, and not refilling. The water is off again.
I grew up in California, so I thought I understood water shortages. But the situation here calls for a lot more than just putting the toilet on “California rules*”. This year’s learning curve has been steep, with little room for error. Like everyone else I’ve quickly learned to stash a couple of full water jugs against the next round of rationing. Making sure there’s enough water in the drinking filter is now an automatic thing. The Indian-style bucket wash makes more sense than a more luxurious Western-style shower. And these days, no trip to Rewalsar is complete without seeing a group of Indians, Tibetans, and schoolchildren gathered around the public water pumps, waiting to fill buckets, bottles, and jugs.
As I write this, they’ve turned on the water again. The tank has refilled, and off in the distance are fluffy cumulus clouds, promising (but not yet delivering) rain. Now all that remains is to see what the subji wallahs are selling tomorrow…
* During water shortages in California, the basic rule is: “if it’s yellow, let it mellow. If it’s brown, flush it down.”
July 12th, 2009
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Now the rains arrive.
Cool water drips on live wires–
power’s out again.
June 29th, 2009
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Not a lot, and not enough: rain.
June 28th, 2009
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As our stay here in India continues, we’ve grown more and more used to the practice of “eating local“. I did a recent calculation, and realized that, except for commercial products like biscuits, cheese, butter, and oil, a good 85% of our groceries come from within a 25 kilometer radius of our house. Another 5% perhaps originates from as far away as Punjab. Chickens are free-range birds from a ranch several kilometers away. Sheep and goats are also local; often a member of a flock passing along the road is destined for the butcher’s shed.
Some things, like milk, are much closer. The cow our milk comes from lives just down the hill, within perhaps 50 meters of the house. Our produce, for the most part, comes from local farms. Our bhi-bhi, Chinta, explained that most farmers hereabouts don’t like the idea of chemically enhancing their produce “with injection”, and that many people are suspicious of commercially-grown produce from Punjab. After all, she asked us, if you don’t know who grew your food, how do you know it’s not full of chemicals? And so we have learned to ask while shopping at the subji wallah where the produce was grown. In Mandi, it’s not uncommon for a subji wallah to retort that the vegetables in his baskets came from his land, “just up there,” while pointing to a nearby hillside.
While it’s true that eating locally has been much healthier for us, and has given us the chance to support local people, this year has been a hard lesson in the other side of the equation. When you’re eating this locally, your food supplier’s problems are your problems, too.
Monsoon is late this year. Very late. Instead of the cooling rainstorms that make the summer rice crops possible, northwest India has had incredible heat waves, and day after day of brushfires up in the hills. Without water, the rice paddies are dry, allowing mice to overrun the fields and eat the crops. The supply of rice is already in trouble. Without water, other crops grow badly, or not at all. Healthy, unwilted vegetables are less common and more pricey. Without water, milk cows dry up and suddenly milk, yogurt, and paneer are a lot more expensive.
Two days ago Rewalsar experienced water rationing for the first time. “Water rationing” in India is very similar to the “rolling blackouts” California went through nine years ago. During water rationing they cut off the water supply at the source, except for the public pumps. Once that happens, whatever water you have, or can carry, is what you have until the water is turned on again. Our landlord came over to tell me his family was down to two buckets of water, and asked me to check our water tank. I discovered it was only half full, and not refilling from the water line. For the next day or so, Rewalsar was full of folks carrying bottles, buckets and jugs to the public handpumps for filling.
The “trickle down” effect of drought doesn’t stop there. The rivers are the dryest they’ve been in years, and even the level of the holy lake of Tso Pema is much lower than usual. This also means that water-powered electrical generation is having problems, leading to power outages, in addition to the water shortages and brush fires already happening.
To imagine the effect of all these shortages, just go to your local grocery store. Put the stuff you usually buy in your cart. For every item, multiply the total price by two. If you buy any imported stuff from another country, multiply the price by three. If any items require constant refrigeration–which assumes you have access to stable electricity–multiply the price by four.
Shopping just got a lot more complicated, didn’t it?
For projects like our Emergency Medical Fund, this situation is making medical assistance a complicated task. Helping someone isn’t as clear-cut as it used to be. When you’re assisting a diabetic, which do you sponsor first–food for a better diet that will keep her sugar levels manageable, or medicines that she will need more of, because she’s not getting enough of the right foods? With someone elderly, do you just give vitamins, or do you also donate a bunch of mustard greens because he hasn’t had them in a while?
Theoretically monsoon may arrive by the first week of July. But the damage of the drought will have already been accomplished.
June 25th, 2009
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Ya know, happiness is a very subjective concept. For some folks it’s represented by piles of money, or gold, or food, or toys, or so on. For others happiness means simply having the time to do a couple things around the house. For one special person, it’s the ability to walk a few meters out an open door.
Behold:
When our readers first encountered Sonnam Yutron, she had been become bedridden by arthritis. She hadn’t seen the sun in four years. Her ability to see anything was dwindling, due to cataracts in both eyes. She could feel, and speak, and hear, and with those senses still functioning she could at least conduct her daily prayers.
So what happened?
Well, the Emergency Medical Fund happened, that’s what. The original idea, back in 2007, was simply to get Sonnam Yutron out in the sun again. (Eventually, we succeeded.) Joy originally posted the need for enough funds to provide this woman with a wheelchair, so she could at least get outdoors for the big teachings and celebrations. People responded. And responded. Soon we discovered that we had enough money to help not only Sonnam Yutron, but other people in Rewalsar who needed assistance getting proper health care.
After treatment for her arthritis began to show some results, the next project was to get Sonnam Yutron seeing again. She underwent cataract surgery in nearby Ner Chowk. Lena carefully set up medication instructions for Lobsang, Sonnam Yutron’s husband. He followed Lena’s notes, applying eyedrops and creams diligently to the eyes of the wife he loves.
For months I’d become used to visiting Sonnam Yutron as she sat in bed, praying over her malas, perhaps turning a prayer wheel or petting a cat. I’d also gotten used to the idea that she didn’t pay attention to much outside of perhaps a four foot radius, and that when I waved to her through the window, she was waving back at a friendly shape. One morning I was startled as she told me the flame under the chai pot was too high, and asked me to turn it down. Afterwards I gleefully called up to the house to give Lena the news.
By Losar this year, Sonnam Yutron put on her tchuba and apron like any other Tibetan housewife, and insisted on walking to the lama dances. The walk was one of only a few meters, but for those of us who knew her story, it was like watching that first step Armstrong took on the moon.
And now? Most days I see her putter around the house on a daily basis, or simply sit outside to greet friends and perhaps invite them in for a cup of tea, with a smile that’s literally priceless.
June 19th, 2009
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India, Emergency Medical Fund |
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