ORCHHA

Middle February

116 k day into this jungle city paradise. Forts and palaces to explore, and a river for daily swim.

Shivaratri commence. In lue of “shubaratri” (good night),  Orchha comes alive past 9 to make merry like “there’s no other time”.  No bhang lassi reverie with  my lost travelers in Varanasi- a rained out cycle day spent playing chess. Yesterday we wandered into the square outside of the only religiously relevant building in this city of ruins, which is not an architectural gem. Wedding music blares, Bangara drummers funnel blast beats of energy. I take out my guitar and start to play along, drawing a crowd and locking eyes. Oh, the Saddhu we helped into the nature sanctuary the day before wants us to follow him. He leads us into a circle playing baijan on Sarangis and tiny cymbals. Our guy plays a little hand drum-I take out my guitar and look at him through his thick glasses.  My guitar is magically and randomly open tuned to the same chord of the Sarangis.

Call and response “Sita-Ram”, “Hare Krishna”. I chordify baijan classics, sharing in the exact romaticized way we’ve put our search for on the backburner in exchange for hot showers and lemon tart. My plan to unload my wallet on these holy beggars is foiled only by their incessant asking for money.  Interrupting the music- “Money”-I ignore. “Rupees, Rupees!”. Of course we give. But the harsh reality reigns another day-money is the basis of every friendly exchange here.  India will never give us what we hope for, and tends not to give us what we expect. But as soon as we give in, agree to love or hate it, it smacks us in the face with a stomach flu or sunset river dip.

“ride awaaay”

GWALIOR

End February

Too much “real India”. The city is off the tourist loop, and left us fending for ourselves from the bottom of the food chain in a “law of the jungle” economy with fewer western comforts. Being bullied by greater vehicles amidst insane traffic, being ripped off more, and general heckling left us indulging more intensely in soda, ice cream, and television. We upgraded rooms to view “Street Fighter” in Hindi on our big rest/recovery day.

More of the same, if you can call experiencing extremes “sameness” (Which one can more easily here). Exploring the fort that sits atop the city (turns out architecture is the best thing about India) we were pleased to meet a good hearted, wispy bearded man at the Sikh temple. He gave us food and chai in an enormous dining hall where everyone sits on the ground in lines and cleans their plate. He treated us as pilgrims in the classical sense. He offered us a place to stay around the temple for free. A place where a traveler in a strange land may have some peace and dignity. We left the temple evolved from a cocoon(a) of judgments (unevolved Beedrills) about the nature of the Indian, open hearted and greeting strangers with “Namaskars” to show respect. We smoked a bidi on the fort wall, overlooking the city in smog. We heard yells from above in Indian half-englishy, threats and curses. A group of teenagers were throwing rocks at us from hundreds of feet up. Multiple encounters on the ride home left us cursing the idiocy and ignorance of India’s layfolk.

I am learning the value of “callous” here. Whatever’s I do do is what I do, and there’s some rightness in it. There’s wayyy better places to work on opening the heart than India. Expand in the comforts, attack and defend when in its almost a matter of survival, lest we finally push our luck and in our ultimate plunge into the unknown suffer death, which we can’t better ourselves with.

SHIVPURI

ender February

Such grace led us to the holy mandir (temple), where we deed as Baba’s do for 3 days. It started with a young 17 year old’s prayer to Hanuman that his dream of meeting a westerner may finally be granted, after 2 years of studying English from the songs of Akon.  After an hours conversation, mostly translations of American slang and uncomfortable descriptions of sexual acts, we asked to stay in his home. Too embarrassed to show us wher he lives, he took us to a temple which sat under a spring, and the keeper of this holy place agreed to let us stay.

The babas, whether out of ignorance  or disinterest in value judgments of “good” and “bad” possessed as little ecological consciousness as the rest of India, littering plastic chai cups and washing oily dishes in the source of fresh water for the wildlife of Madhav national park. Sharing their lifestyle for a few days was a gift and required little renunciation, save the headmaster Baba insisting that I use his blanket instead of my sleeping bag, which everyone was equally astonished and disgusted by.  These people know how to live: wake early, bath, meditate, eat delicious, simple food, do Assana, formal prayer and Baijan singing, hitting the chillum violently and drinking chai throughout the day. And all in the name of god.

JAIPUR

Beginning March

” Bundar manu, Holi hai!” That’s what we say to victims of our bicycle, water balloon drivebys on this holiday-Holi. Day…of water and color bombs, dished backhanded to approved victims based on their response to a “Happy Holi” as we approached. If there was no risk of cold blooded, cruel natured revenge, I flung one and rode away with a “scram!”. “Do’t mind, it’s Holi!”, and most didn’t. The foul looks and nastiness that we often receive at the whims of overproudy teenagers and young men as we ride by have, for the time being, transformed to smiles, hugs, and a generous smearing of purple powder dye on our cheeks.

We stayed in a guest house occupied by a cross section of a family with a long lineage of musical mastery.  The current bearer of the flame, 17 year old named Zuber,  is presently a finalist on Indian Idol. His crystal voice could easily come to be recognized through overdriven speakers on street corners across India. Each morning we  practice Qawwli singing. The home cooking is Rajasthan flavored and delicious. Our room has lot of windows and smells like old books. During the day, pigeons fly in and out of the open windows as I play guitar and write poems.

Hardcore roadside calorie clincher

Sikh wedding. Guess I was doin’ “the zombie”

We biked many sun baking, wind whipping, lip parching days through the desert of Rajasthan to get to  Udaipur  , oasis city where the “bicycle adventure” portion of the trip ends and the “traveling with parents” section commences. We meet my dad and grandparents here tomorrow, and do aspire to sneak our filthy selves into the Lake Palace hotel to stay with them, most romantic and luxurious hotel in all of India. I always thought of this section as the icing on the cherry of the cake of this trip, very end, lap of luxury. Weird! Home on April 7th. Thanks for reading my blodglings’zes!