Hymns to the Mother Goddess

On the contract to the refined celebration the night before we decided to join the crowds storming Chattarpur, an area full of Hindu temples. A day before when refilling the water tank of the rooftop of our house I spotted the lights demarking domes of some temples in the Gurgaon direction and realized that Chattarpur must be a very happening and fascinating place to be at these days. So, the next night we were there to find out. The roads nearby were clattered with the stalls selling the attributes necessary for puja (religious ceremony)



and families walking towards the area from the main road. We joined the pilgrimage. Again, as opposed to the last night, we were clearly a token on this occasion: not-even- middle-class families were clearly unused to foreigners, so crowds around, excuse me mam and which country were ensured. While the whole area is full of temples





there were two major places of worship that night. One was an impressively illuminated statue of Hanuman





(with mostly men roaming around) – quite strange for the Mother Goddess celebrations but anyway… The other one was the main temple



looking as striking as formidable due to the insanely long queues of the believers craving to get in.



Without much hope, but rather out of the interest we asked a policeman where the queue starts. And … Mother Goddess was watching us, I bet.. he kindly brought us to the place where we could jump the queue. He entrusted us to a man who was watching some gate, who let us in and kept our shoes under his custody. That man entrusted us to a lady policeman who brought us further on where we could merge with the crowd already entering the temple. People in the queue were shouting verses praising the Goddess in the anxious anticipation to see her, bow to her and give her their donations.



There was only one way to go around the temple – following the one way passages and stopping by the chapels with the statues of the Goddess.







So we did and then reached a huge hall where professional singers were singing hymns for the greater glory of the Goddess and where people stopped by to listen, to clap and to sing along.



After we indulged the performance and the procession around the temple, we got back to pick up our shoes. Yet the doorkeeper strongly recommended us to visit the museum devoted to the Swami who established the temple. And once again a snowball started off – we were passed over from one person to another to avoid any queues. The temple looked even more striking after the visit but hardly any formidable.

Kate saved me that night

The major outcome of my brief introduction to the states of Rajastan and Gujarat was the unconditioned love I got filled with for both. Colorful and festive by nature dots and waves of the tie-n-dye patters on the sarees and suits; rainbow-like patchworks and naughty mirrors on the biggest skirts I have ever seen; yummiest on earth, fool of discoveries and endlessly refilled thalis, people living in the 21st century yet deliberately preserving and nourishing the traditions of the past times. I have already started planning my proper meet with both states later this November. Yet, a chance did not let me miss them both for long.

These days Delhi is soaked in the celebrations devoted to the Mother Goddess, the festival known as Navratri in Gujarat and Durga Puja in West Bengal. There is a tent set up in each and every locality where people get together for food and dance every night. Temples are decorated with lights and the long lines of stalls with coconuts, prasad, read-and-golden clothes and garlands of marigold, roses, jasmine and banana leaves were stretching for hundred meters nearby big and small temples. That night Kate initiated a sally to the Garden of Five Senses where Dandiya Masti was happening. Well prepared by that time I dug in my closet and victoriously pulled a gorgeous skirt that Piyali gifted me after her trip to Gujarat. Even though there was no way to produce or obtain something like the proper gagra,



the thought that I would look somewhat appropriate in this skirt was very encouraging.



The venue of the festival was chosen perfectly. The Garden of Five Senses with lights, colors and visuals all demarking the zone of every sense looked like a fairytale ball room where we, humble Cinderellas, popped in that night.





People in festive gowns sparkling and shining in the night; tempting food with roti cooked in front of you on the mysterious tandoor; inviting music – all sorts of popular Hindi songs mixed with the beats characteristic for dandiya and garba; and couples, circles and crowds of people dancing with sticks made of wood (dandiya) or metal (garba). Inspired by the total craziness of the gathering we first shy and then gaining confidence joined one circle. A woman willingly showed us the steps which were not that difficult in fact – so much more was about following the rhythm, engaging your whole body and finding the ways to move its very part. The music was getting faster and faster and it was next to impossible to catch up with those who took steps right, clapped, masterly turned, waved hands, clapped and everything once again – the whole circle following the unified rhythm.

This was an amazing luck that later on that night we met Udit with his beautiful friend who appeared to be a professional dancer. The girl willingly showed us all sort of steps and we bravely tried all of them. The settings, the clothes we were wearing and the very spirit of the festival did not leave any doubts as of how appropriate it would be to try out that style of dancing. .And we did – with sticks, with our hands, with our whole bodies and soles. For the greater glory of the Mother Goddess and for our own sake.



We were gloriously leaving: with very festive music in the auto we carried on with dancing and playing sticks so lively that at some point the auto driver took his hands off the wheel and showed us amazing shoulder shaking.

Back

The day was hard to start. Despite the doorbell that rang four times that morning. Despite all-working flatmates who bravely ventured into the new day and by the very fact of it were calling to my not-burdened-with-work conscious. Despite all the messages that came on my phone and the one that did not.

I just hugged my pillow tighter, turned away from the window side and squeezed my fluffy moose under my stomach. I was stubbornly refusing to accept the very fact of the sun shining outside and indifferently proclaiming a very certain beginning of the new day. I wondered how long I would be able to ignore the fact.

Half-conscious as I usually appear right upon awakening I could clearly realize the reason for the frustration. I literally sensed the vacuum that had been spreading around me and by now has taken its ultimate shape and reached its horribly overwhelming size. My traineeship that has finished, my sister who kept me busy after (and happily ignorant of the vacuum) and has left now…my this and that as weel this and that which is not mine any more… As much as aware of the fact that a thrilling full-fledged stuffing would come to fill in the vacuum as much I was in pain. I do not know which feeling overtakes after a burn – suffering because the old skin has gone or anticipating the new one to grow.

Trip with sister: Shimla

Hot shower and realization that at least one full day can be devoted to this charming from the first sight town charged us with immense thirst for exploration. It was still early morning when we left our guesthouse and ventured to the town. The fog was not getting any thicker and we were little bit shivering from cold. A long descending street took us along the houses densely covering the hills and as if built on each other.



Having rested from the rush of yesterday and fresh after a quite night the streets started filling in with pupils of all ages: smallest ones accompanied by their parents and older ones walking in couples, triples and small groups.



Another category of people rushing somewhere through the fog were smartly dressed bureaucrats and bank clerks: a number of important state government agencies and financial institutions not at least provide jobs in the area. Otherwise, small and big groups of men were not heading anywhere and but carrying out their duty on the Mall – hanging out, gossiping and stuff.

The continuously condensing fog, the school girls in the uniforms not even closely reminding traditional salwar-kameez, smartly dressed men rushing to work through the grey morning, old European architecture around



- all clearly pointed that the former summer capital of British was proudly cherishing the British heritage and had carefully integrated its features in its everyday life.

Tuned in for a nice breakfast, we found an amazing café where stuffed paranthas, samosas and tea are cooked right in front of you and the mouth-watering sweets and namkeen are faced on large trays to appeal to your aesthetics and appetite. The men working there were extremely (not too, mind you) sweet to us and I totally fell in love with the place.



Here we found quite a few men in warm sleeveless jackets, suits and with briefcases indulging a cup of tea and a morning newspaper before heading to work. Among those we spotted a (British - ? ;o)) couple ceremoniously breakfasting with their paranthas, dahi and tea – with all the necessary plates, saucers, spoons, forks and knifes being involved in this almost religious-in-its-significance rite.



Later we walked down to the tiny railways station to get tickets for Himmalaya Queen that would take us through the narrow gauge down to Kalka and then back to Delhi tomorrow.



Here, from the station we could see the town still wrapped in the fog.



Yet, once the tickets were figured out we headed up and took a walk to the Observatory Hill that hosts the Indian Institute of Advanced Science these days. The sky cleared



and we could enjoy the sun rays filtering in the wet green crowns of the trees shading our path.



The Institute is located in a beautiful castle and hosts guest researchers pursuing advanced degrees in social science. The grand interiors with sophisticated wood carvings, spacious hall with that looks and feels like a dome, chandeliers brought from Belgium, ballroom that serves as a library now, wide wooded staircase leading to the study rooms framing the upper floor - all lure you to come over for a guest research project one day ;o)



Once back to the Mall we had a chance to have a proper look around the town that the fog was hiding before. Shimla appeared to me like a twin brother of Trondheim (city in the Northern Norway) and Ulyanovsk (my home town in Russia). The latter I visited a year ago – also at one cold and just starting off autumn morning – and got in love about the very town built on the hills, its old buildings, winding streets meant for walking or cycling rather than for cars, the atmosphere of the busy, but not rushy morning when people make it to work or University, my morning invigorative coffee and muffin from Narvessen, and Trondheim men who impressed me with the classy manners – wearing black trench coat and black polished leather shoes and cycling. As for the similarities with my hometown – in Shimla I found almost exact copies of some historical buildings in our downtown (Dom Goncharova, Dom Ofitserov).







Yet, Shimla remains nothing but eclectic with its old British building, Hindu temples, narrow lanes, street-staircases a-la Stockholm and busy markets.



Wandering around further and popping in the small lanes gave us a vivid picture of the local life. I derive particular thrill from figuring out and observing how various things are actually made. We found a small lane hosting tailors’ shops where you can watch them at work.



I eventually found a place where sweets are cooked and saw people pouring out curded milk in ridiculously huge bowls and putting them on fire.



The discoveries continued at the local market



Where we smelled all sorts of spices.



stood frozen in front of the stall with home-made pickles



were tempted to get vegetables just for the sake of it





I found it particularly cool that it was very hard to find packaged dahi (yogurt) in Shimla – they normally sell this sour curd loose. For all these little discoveries I loved Shimla that brings you to the origins in a way. People there do not live in the world of the ready made consumption, having no idea of what food items are made of and what it takes to stitch a shirt. And their life does not hide inside the house, but rebelliously flows out through the open doors, windows and hearts.

To a tender whisper of the night that gradually enveloped the hill station



we were sipping freshly made coffee at the Indian coffee house. Not even being British we found our piece of nostalgia in Shimla. The coffee house was run in the best traditions of a Soviet restaurant somewhere in Yalta (sea resort) – with a menu board made of golden letters showing the stability of the range and ridiculously low prices, walls painted with an oil paint, scarce lighting, solid tables with worn-out and a bit scratched covers, massive chairs of artificial leather, dishes that had being used for ages with no single item replaced however damaged unless clearly broken and waiters dressed in a white-strangely-military informs. We both cried out of tender emotions

Trip with sister: Journey to Shimla

The government bus stand in Amritsar appeared to be a high-tech brand new bus terminal (shame upon ISBT in Delhi) with undeservedly few people using its services at that hour. There we found out that the earliest direct bus to Shimla departs tomorrow morning, which was too late considering our busy program. Yet, we were also told that 24-hour bus service runs from Chandighar to Shimla, so we could first make it to Chandighar and then change to our final destination. Seriously doubting the trustworthiness of the statements regarding 24-hour bus from Chandighar, we still opted to take the word of the two respectable Sikhs at the ticket counter. We were through with Amritsar for sure and wanted to leave immediately.

Initially, all-men bus with four women including us two did not look like a safe place to be. No place looked safe to us after all. With the big backpack placed under out seats and chained, long kurta to cover the money belt, both cameras deep in the backpack we were prepared to face whatever the bus ride would bring. However, for one time sake the government bus brought us to Chandighar almost in time and with no hassle.

At Chandighar we were dropped at a dark and desert platform of the bus terminal where transit travelers were sleeping on the floor, few available benches and ticket counters mysteriously comfortably and not falling from the latter. Luckily, I was well familiar with Chandighar bus terminal, so the scenes spotted by far did not imply the lost hope, but rather meant we had to search for the right platform that we soon identified in the dark. That one appeared full of busses to Manali, Dharamsala… and a deluxe coach to Shimla was waiting to bring us to the place in 5 hours for 130 Rs each only. Still, not quite believing in this happy coincidence, amazingly reasonable pricing of deluxe and the absence of need of dubious overnight at Chandighar, we loaded ourselves in an almost empty bus.

We were sinking in the softness of the high seats, enjoying abundance of space and luxuriously closed windows with a small fan installed above each of them. Later there came just one circumstance that saddened the luxurious settings (there had to be one, undoubtedly): the cheerful Hindi music that our driver was playing all night long. I definitely preferred him awake and in a good mood, so I was imagining those were sounds of a lullaby.


I slept rather comfortably that was no surprise after trips by regular government busses and staying at Lajpat. About six o'clock in the morning I woke up after sister's "It is already Shimla", a suddenly started rush in the bus and cries outside. Even in the bus you could sense early dawn enveloped in the cold and fog outside. I was sleeping with the contact lenses on and as usually in such cases it took me a while to open my eyes and make sure both do see. What happened next was the most appropriate thing providing the rush around. While I was ribbing my eyes and blinking I got both contacts out. Coordinated actions of my sister and me were immediately undertaken to handle the emergency: we quickly found the container somewhere in the backpack and I socked both lenses in the solution that was already there. So, for some time I had to orientate myself around while being half-blind.

With the morning uncertainty descriptive for interstate bus trips – wondering if you find all your stuff as you left it - we checked all the items we had: two backpacks, two cameras inside, two bottles of water, a plastic bag with hopelessly smashed bananas and my sunglasses pinned to the back of the front seat and now carefully picked up by my sister. Yet, one of her flip-flops appeared missing. Not surprising at all considering the winding road that we were driving through and that had shaken the content of the bus many times. The rush heated up by the driver and the porters falsely anticipating two white money sacks to get out of the bus was accompanying and seriously reinforcing the search. The missing khaki flip-flop was eventually discovered by a cooperative gentlemen sitting in front of us.

Strangely wrapped in all the available scarves, stalls and jumpers we got off the bus directly into the grey, cool and foggy morning. We found ourselves nearby wooden benches where freshly printed The Tribune was re-packed in smaller piles and distributed further. And this is where we got caught in the circle of porters and taxi drivers. In my awkward gown, half-blind, I had to perform a small ritual in front of the crowd: I came a bit forward on this improvised stage, put my palms together in front of my chest, bowed twice and said "Thank you". The three fourths of the crowd vanished, yet its remaining part represented by a man in his early fifties and his twenty-year old companion turned to be thank-you-proof. The older one who was wearing a thick shawl, rolled and crossed over his shoulder and fixed on his waist on the other side was really persistent; the hotel they mentioned was on the list in my Footprints, so we surrendered. The walk started. It was only later we got to know for sure that many roads in Shimla are sealed for vehicles and strictly pedestrian, but for that time we had to take the word of our guide that climbing the endless steps was the only way to get to the hotel. The fog, old-fashion distribution of The Tribune, old houses decayed due to humidity, outdated architectural shapes – everything was pointing out at the fact we had traveled by the time machine and were delivered in the 20s of the 20 th century. The British past became evident once we saw the Mall, church, library and more. Yet, monkeys around hungrily sucking pieces of waste in abundance available around and rare already awake men in long kurtas, pants and sleeveless woolen jacket were clearly refuting the very thought of being in somewhere Europe.

Wandering around narrow passages and tiny lanes brought us up to Woodland, supposingly the hotel of our choice. Climbing some steps to get to the reception seemed impossible to ask for after all the climbing we had done on our way yet absolutely necessary if we wanted to get a room.

The reception appeared to be a dark spacious room with a reception desk, sofa and a big table – all the furniture was made of solid dark brown wood. Our guide shook out of slumber sleeping on the sofa receptionist, a man in a worn-out vest and dark shirts, both revealing enough of his hairy chest and legs. In the morning discontent, he picked up some keys and invited us to follow him upstairs.

The first room he showed us was good but obviously expensive. Whereas I had discussed the range of Rs 150 with the porter, the room came up to Rs 350. Getting used to be introduced to the expensive options before proceeding to the viable ones, I confidently said that Rs 200 is the upper limit of what I could pay. The receptionist was scolding the porter and the latter was smooth-talking him. Room for Rs 200 was obviously possible. "Ok, 220, 20 is a tax", hastily exclaimed our half-dressed hotelier trying to sound as offended as he could. "But I'll give you another room". The other room looked a bit worse, but still decent, so we had a deal. I went downstairs to check in and pay. Soon after I got back we heard a knock on the door. Our smiling porter was humbly asking about the poster' box. "For tea, mam". "Thank you, baisab, thank you". My response was reciprocated in an unexpectedly peaceful manner, "Ok mam, ok". His friend downstairs had already fairly tipped him.

Trip with sister: Town of Amritsar

Amritsar was rich in scenes and images akin to those that you find on black-and-white photos from early 1900-s that now are getting dusty in the achieves of a small-town-museum. Women in traditional clothes and men in turbans. A pharmacy with wooden closets survived from the times of the British rule, where a tall and lean pharmacist in small stiff glasses rations powders, wraps them in light brown paper and gives them, along with the prescriptions, to the customers patiently sitting and waiting for him. Narrow streets with small dusty shops where spices are stocked in huge sacks and sold loose by old men in turbans. Masses of velo-rickshaws, these more old-fashioned vehicles than autos, look way more appropriate in the settings and appear to be a good option for getting around in the town not particular famous for its distances.





However, we were not really keen on exploring the city despite attractive shopping opportunities, a chance to get a free overnight stay at the dormitory of the Temple and a pity that 17 hour trip was undertaken just for the sake of just 2,5 hours in the Temple. What held us back was the mere absence of any possibility to comfortably get around. A crowd would emerge around us in no time and would just follow us. I somehow knew about the situation in Punjab: about the low the status of women, about the horrifying child sex ratio attributed to the wide spread practice of female foeticide , about men who take liberty to establish their masculinity in the ways often humiliating for women. You will find lots of such Punjabi “specialties” in Delhi too. Yet, being there, experiencing it first-hand was a different thing. When you walk through hi-s (mam, sweetie, girl, sexy…), attempts to brush against you, to glue to you, endless stairs - it feels like escaping. Actually, this is what our leave from the town was like – running away without looking back.

Only at the end when we were leaving the city we could eventually take it easy: our velo-rickshaw was cleaving on a busy motorway towards the bus terminal: we were laughing, smiling back and waving to the whistling, commenting, singing, crying “Hei sweetie” and simply staring men passing by on their bikes, cars and whatever vehicles. Along with the lights illuminating night city this all contributed to the festive atmosphere that came into town right upon out arrival. They were celebrating. We preferred to refrain from joining them.

In my guidebook Amritsar is described as “pleasantly friendly and noticeably free of persistent hawkers and rickshaw wallahs”. This make me absolutely convinced in the necessity of gender mainstreaming in travel writing. Full of sticky, annoying, desperate men – this is what this North-Indian town is.

Trip with sister: The Golden Temple

At about three o'clock in the afternoon we arrived to the all-open-to-sun town of Amritsar. The train station looked surprisingly sleepy and lazy and even intruding auto-wallas did not persist and just let us go when we decided to walk away from the station to get a vehicle in yet more relaxed settings. An old man in dazzling white kurta and pants confidently walked towards us and offered his rickshaw. I was so taken aback by the stunning whiteness of his outfit, well-trained accent and great English that showed the learning capabilities impressive for his age - we just surrendered. He brought us to the Golden Temple, on the way feeding us with tales about the town and probing the ground for selling us accommodation services. The latter we politely rejected, got off in front of the entrance to the temple complex, paid and partied with your guide.

The temple is considered to be the most sacred place for Sikhs largely inhabiting the State of Punjab. We stored our luggage, removed our shoes, covered our heads, symbolically washed our feet in the shallow basin at the gates and climbed the steps. What I saw through the beautifully arched gates made me immediately discount all the miseries experienced throughout the journey to the place as the temple was astonishingly beautiful. The Golden Temple looked like a gorgeous boat anchored in the middle of a small harbor: the temple is indeed positioned in the middle of a pool surrounded by galleries and passages of white marble.



One could clearly sense the devotion of the pilgrims drawn from closeby and far away. The singing was coming from the temple, resonating with the water in the pool, filling in the entire complex and staying there, in this well isolated from the mundane reality place. People were sending their prayers upon entry and queuing for a purifying bath.



We joined the pilgrims moving clockwise through the galleries of the complex.





The walk around enriched us with an array of impressions. We saw Sikhs with pompous turbans and sabres who appeared as reminders of the martial past of the community.



We visited the kitchen of the temple that is said to feed up to 10,000 people a day with 3,000 at a sitting.



As the other parts of the temple it is run on a voluntary basis and offer meals free of charge. It was particularly interesting to watch and interact with people peeling and cutting vegetables for the meals to be cooked.



We saw people relaxing at a small tranquil garden nearby the kitchen.



We saw red fish dancing in the waters of the pool.



The anticipation was building up as we were approaching the bridge that would bring us to the Harmandir itself.



Dozens of ceiling fans were not enough to cool down the tension of the worshipers queuing on the causeway. At the door people rushed to give their offerings in return for sweets. Once allowed inside we got terrified by the abundance of incredibly rich decorations inside: marble walls were covered with the mirrorwork, gold leaf and the floral designs in semiprecious stones. It is on the ground floor where the Holy Book is kept under a jewel encrusted canopy and where singers and musicians are reciting devotional verses from the Book - from the dawn to the sunset. Two floors of the temple along with its rooftop seemed to rest not on its solid basement, but on the continuous flow of the prayers and music reinforced by the dynamics of moving queue of the devotees.

If just felt like dissolve in the serenity of the temple's courtyard



and merge with the pre-sunset reflection of the Harmandir.



The temple complex safely sheltered us from the troubles and concerns of the trip ahead. And as if anticipating those we were postponing the leave.