This image was taken one evening on the way to the Royal Festival Hall where my younger daughter, Steffi, was performing.
I don’t want to write too much about it, except that I loved the scene as I looked up. I had my camera, and knew exactly what I wanted. It makes me very happy to have achieved that.
A sweet poem by Ruby Archer fits the scene..
A little cloud stood lonely Amid the evening sky; Doubting and fearful waiting there,— No other cloudlet nigh.
It was an early start. Ahmedabad has changed to an unrecognisable extent. I drove from there through S.G. Highway to Makarba one July morning in 2018 as per the directions given by Bubbles in a cutely sincere manner – two lefts, then right, then straight for 2 kms, then three rights, and so on. It must have been the combination of her accuracy and my ability to grasp that I reached the masjid with sheer ease. The light from the golden torch was making its way to the earth before bribing its way into the roza’s courtyard.
Bhavna Ramrakhiani – Convenor of Ahmedabad Community Foundation
Bhavna stood there to greet me. Oh, what a beautiful face she had. Those eyes!! She instantly came across as a warm person willing to share her knowledge of the place. She spoke a welcome mix of educated English and raw Hindi. We entered the monument, removed our shoes, covered our heads.
Morning sceneMan reading the morning papers
A typical morning scene. Touchingly serene. A few men, unperturbed by my presence, read the morning papers. I felt at home. I kept taking photographs as Bhavna’s soft voice kept singing in my ears. We Indians are spoilt. Our history dates so far back that we casually declare a six centuries old structure as recent. We even neglect it.
Morning arrivalsSarkhej Roza
This was Sarkhej Roza, once the home of sufi saint, Ganj Baksh. To one side stood a stone pavilion in a sad state of disrepair and to the other, a courtyard with a masjid and quietly guarded tombs. Several mausoleums, an old well, hundreds of wide steps leading down to a dried tank and the infinite expanse. One part of the mosque, with its tall pillars reminded me of the Acropolis of Athens. It was too much for me to take in on a short morning tour.
Stone pavilion in state of disrepairPillars of the mosquePath to the mosque
Once in a while a person will walk the white-painted path, that led to the masjid, to speak in private to the supreme being. This path was also taken by the Sun to kiss the cheek of the messiah who must most definitely reside in such quietude.
PrayersConnecting with the messiahGirl playingWell-wheel spoke shaped like a birdSpoke on the wheel of the well resembling a bird
A small girl jumped and skipped on the steps oblivious to all. A spoke of the well-wheel pulley made to resemble an exotic visitor to the Sabarmati River. A cormorant or a spoonbill perhaps. The little bookshop opened early. A few men sat selling to no customers at all. Bhavna enjoyed a nice chat with them. A silvery bearded man in immaculate white clothes and matching taqiyah takes over the shop. “Maybe he’ll sell only one book today,” I thought. I buy one. But he will remain all day no matter what. Dedication. Service. We all can learn.
Men in the book shop, Sarkhej Roza, Gujarat.The Old Man with silvery beard and immaculate clothes. Sarkhej Roza, Gujarat.
The cleaner, with her younger grandson in her arms, complained about her useless son-in-law. From Bhavna’s story to this – it felt like I had changed the radio station.
The cleaner with her younger grandson and running commentary
Her elder grandson played near the main gate. His angelic face captivated me so much that I took several photos of him. He kept changing poses. A young man sat on the chair. Maybe, that was the accused.
The elder grandsonAngelic faceThe accused. Maybe. Maybe not.
My gaze locked on a woman sitting outside the room that housed the tombs. She was not present there. She appeared to be talking to someone. But there was no one. She then laughed, and continued to laugh. Her ankles were swollen. She was a regular I was told. She walked out as aimlessly as she had walked in.
She spoke to the spiritsWoman selling balloons
Outside the mosque, another lady sold balloons. “She’s my friend,” announced Bhavna. Where did these people buy such delightful smiles from when they could not even afford a decent meal? How can they afford such precious attributes?
On my drive back to Ahmedabad, and before I hit the highway, I saw the lady who spoke to the spirits. She was on her way to… nowhere.
Apart from the great many tourists flocking to the grand fortress of Amer, where the maximum activity is noticed, the town of Amer remains unchanged since at least my childhood days. I cannot imagine it being any different a century ago, or even two or three centuries ago for that matter. The 17th century muralled walls of the many temples, the Panna Meena Kund, the bazaars, and the shops tucked into the small pockets of the fort’s base, remain untouched and neglected. As a result, many sandstone structures have fallen into a state of grave disrepair. But, the raw beauty prevails.
Murals and Swastikas on the outside of a temple wall. Amer, Jaipur, Rajasthan, India
I hail from Rajasthan, and the areas around Aravalli Mountains (the oldest range of fold mountains in India) have been frequented by me since I was a child. I grew up knowing the region, its people, language and the customs. The women’s attires were always ‘very’ colourful, with one neon-orange found aplenty, the men wore the same multi-coloured turbans as they did now, and the kids played with marble balls on sandy tracks even then.
The sultry afternoons were, and still are, lazy, and many folks kept cows, buffaloes and goats for milk. Langurs guard the gullies, and keep a count of the kids returning from school with their huge backpacks.
Langurs watch the kids returning from school. Amer, Jaipur, Rajasthan, India
A few women carried hay on their heads for the cattle, while some hung-out to sing desert lyrics, or gossip. The men played card games and smoked bidis and chewed tobacco or paan.
Men play card games, women hang-out to gossip, and kids return from school. Amer, Jaipur, Rajasthan, India
Once in a while an object comes into sight that makes the time we are in apparent. My camera being the biggest reminder, of course.
It takes them a while to acclimatise to my presence . These people do not like their privacy being invaded. It is very difficult to photograph women facing the camera with their veil completely lifted. I speak their language, and yet…
Woman in a red sari. Amer, Jaipur, Rajasthan, India.
Woman in a neon-orange sari. Amer, Jaipur, Rajasthan, India
An old mansion falling apart. Amer, Jaipur, Rajasthan, India
Many grand old mansions that belonged to the aristocrats are now in a crumbling and uninhabitable state. The families and their grandeur have long gone and, despite a shortage of good living space for people, these mansions are allowed to wither away.
But the Khejri tree indiscriminately thrives in every quarter.
Khejri Tree – State tree of Rajasthan. Amer, Jaipur, Rajasthan, India.
I take my time. I am in no rush. I carry my heavy camera in the sweltering afternoon, walking miles, striking conversations with those I walk past, ensuring they realise I am one of them, that I just wear different clothes.
My family and myself were in a car driving through the lesser known streets of Jaipur. There were shops alongside residential areas — greengrocers, motorcycle repairers, barbers, stationers, street vendors, metalsmiths and stonemasons. Building smaller replicas of famous statues and other landmarks seemed to be the side business of the metalsmiths and stonemasons combined, as I saw quite a few statues scattered, part finished, part unsculpted.
Libertas, that attracted millions of visitors daily in the West, had almost zero admirers on that street. She stood on a shoddy unpaved muddy sidewalk in 48°C (118.4°F).
We were instantly amused, but also bemused. What was that statue doing there? There was clearly a demand for these. In the habit of always carrying my camera, I got off the car to take a couple of photographs. The men on the site found my actions as hilarious as I found theirs.
I asked where the statue was going. “It’s for a wedding.” It saddened me to learn that these men on meagre wages were building these enormous figures for an evening party. “What pleasure exactly could be derived from these cheap replicas that cost many times more than those workers’ combined monthly wages?” I wondered. “Were they trying to fake the location through these?” “Were the business families uploading the party videos on YouTube, captioned, ‘Cocktail in New York’?”
What next? A demolition party? Where do these statues go? Submerged into the waters like Kali and Ganesha? But this is the desert state – so, no sea. Recycled? Maybe! There might just be a second-hand market for these for smaller budget weddings. Who knows!
I never found out.
Later that evening, just when my camera packed up (probably due to the heat), I saw an Eiffel Tower in the middle of a garden in an affluent residential area. The bungalow was getting ready for a wedding (one can tell of the nature of the event from the extent of the embellishments). That was definitely a wedding.
I bet there is a YouTube video of the pheras in Paris.
In my next trip, I would like to know of the fate of these non-permanent structures.
If you own a cow in India, you own the world, full stop. You can plonk yourself in any(one’s) territory without the fear of being objected to. Not only will the animal receive treats and tilaks but you, as the owner, will receive chay in exchange for bringing it in daily in order to put the green waste to good use. You wait, gloating at the fools. You wait until your brothers* start joining with their cattle. Residents are happy that they have cows, not dogs. It saves them the temple journeys. They can carry out the prayers right there, feed their ‘dead’ in their courtyard without wasting money on the brahmins with big appetite for their food and rupya.
*Brothers are the other men of your community.
Selling milk is the occupation of your entire community. The sight of you and your flock gathered outside other people’s properties will slowly seem normal. It will be gradual to be noticed, until it is too late. Then, it really is too late. Now you want your cowistan right there. And you get it.
Even before your homes are built, the cowpats are drying everywhere. They bring extra income after milk. Neighbourhood is now dependent on you. They will be lost without the convenience of fresh milk, manure, fuel, building material, green disposal facility, and the ‘temple’. A symbiotic relationship is now formed.
An aunt of mine lived next to a gaushala in Khar West, Bombay. Gaushala is a concept very different to cowistan‘s. It is a charitable institution for cows. There will be volunteers, and the charity will depend on donations. Aplenty donations in the country where cow is revered. In some cases, people will actually ‘donate’ a cow, which will mean donating the amount that can buy a healthy adult cow, always a female. No one wants to donate a bull. It has no milk, so not so holy.
I got accustomed to the rural smell in her urban apartment. Loved it, in fact. After being there for decades, it closed down to make way for a huge hospital building with state-of-the-art facilities. Many lives will be saved, but many hearts are broken, including mine. I miss the cows and their smell. Gaushala cows are not as bright as cowistan cows. They don’t know how to claim the real estate.
I have lovingly handled cow dung – during my aunt’s chulha building and then when making cow dung rings for the Holika Dahan. It did enter my nails, even dried up in them, and I most definitely consumed the holy matter with my regular dalroti. It’s edible, so no worries. No one warned me against it. Not that anyone encouraged either, but there was never any cautionary lesson prior to the job.
Coming back to your cowistan… Wow, you now have several pucca homes with Enfield motorcycles – the Indian Harley Davidson. You still wear a dhoti, still sell milk, but you do it in style, on your heavy-duty bike. You even herd your cows sitting on your bike. You are the Indian cowboy – horsepower without a horse.
Your women are strong and sexy. Right in the middle of a busy road, they walk swaying excessively like they own it. Claiming gene.
Residents start to gradually sell their properties. You are the buyer majority of the time. You’ve acquired wealth by selling milk, plus minimal overheads. Your homes are in affluent neighbourhood. You are already a millionaire. The earlier residents’ properties are going cheap. No one except you will touch a property in a “milking” neighbourhood. You and your people are set. The cows are here to stay for good. Your sons can relocate to a new cowistan.
I love milk and the smell of the manure. I am not selling my property. Tough.
I loved poetry from an early age – learning, reciting verses in English, Hindi, Sanskrit, Urdu and Persian. Partly because it was a compulsory requirement in my school, but also because I enjoyed the analysing and the memory testing process.
I would often buy books by Persian writers. My favourites were Omar Khayyam, Ferdowsi, Hafez, Shirazi and Rumi. I also read Kahlil Gibran for his peculiar style of writing.
Last trip, I packed some of these books to bring along with me. Loved their aged look (they loved my aged look too). I read them again after a long time. All these men were far ahead of their time. So much depth in those words!
Today is Sufi poet Rumi’s day…..
Fountain of Fire, by Rumi, as translated by Nadar Khalili.
look at love how it tangles with the one fallen in love
look at spirit how it fuses with earth giving it new life
why are you so busy with this or that or good or bad pay attention to how things blend
why talk about all the known and the unknown see how the unknown merges into the known
why think seperately of this life and the next when one is born from the last
look at your heart and tongue one feels but deaf and dumb the other speaks in words and signs
look at water and fire earth and wind enemies and friends all at once
the wolf and the lamb the lion and the deer far away yet together
look at the unity of this spring and winter manifested in the equinox
you too must mingle my friends since the earth and the sky are mingled just for you and me
be like sugarcane sweet yet silent don’t get mixed up with bitter words
my beloved grows right out of my own heart how much more union can there be
come on sweetheart let’s adore one another before there is no more of you and me
a mirror tells the truth look at your grim face brighten up and cast away your bitter smile
a generous friend gives life for a friend let’s rise above this animalistic behaviour and be kind to one another
spite darkens friendships why not cast away malice from our heart
once you think of me dead and gone you will make up with me you will miss me you may even adore me
why be a worshiper of the dead think of me as a goner come and make up now
since you will come and throw kisses at my tombstone later why not give them to me now this is me that same person
i may talk too much but my heart is silence what else can i do i am condemned to live this life
i’ve come again like a new year to crash the gate of this old prison
i’ve come again to break the teeth and claws of this man-eating monster we call life
i’ve come again to puncture the glory of the cosmos who mercilessly destroys humans
i am the falcon hunting down the birds of black omen before their flights
i gave my word at the outset to give my life with no qualms i pray to the Lord to break my back before i break my word
how do you dare to let someone like me intoxicated with love enter your house
you must know better if i enter i’ll break all this and destroy all that
if the sheriff arrives i’ll throw the wine in his face if your gatekeeper pulls my hand i’ll break his arm
if the heavens don’t go round to my heart’s desire i’ll crush its wheels and pull out its roots
you have set up a colourful table calling it life and asked me to your feast but punish me if i enjoy myself
what tyranny is this
you mustn’t be afraid of death you’re a deathless soul you can’t be kept in a dark grave you’re filled with God’s glow
be happy with your beloved you can’t find any better the world will shimmer because of the diamond you hold
when your heart is immersed in this blissful love you can easily endure any bitter face around
in the absence of malice there is nothing but happiness and good times don’t dwell in sorrow my friend.
This morning I was greeted by a friend’s FB post. It contained a reporting from India: “Biker dies after hitting a stray cow. Cops booked him instead of its owner.”
Confusing headline. Booked “him”? Him, who? The dead biker – because it was his fault as he had hit the holy cow? Or the cow – for being responsible for the biker’s death? Him? Its? Should it be his owner or its owner then?
This news can be interpreted in both ways. Cops booked the dead man, and not the cow’s owner (or) the cops booked the cow and not its owner. In both instances, it’s going to be stupid. Ideally, no one should be booked, as one is an animal and the other a dead person, but in this instance, the owner should be booked, because in India, owners of cows deliberately let their cattle loose in order to extract compensation from the drivers should their vehicles collide with their animal.
Reading the news, I was reminded of my earlier blog post about Cowistan. This is exactly what I had addressed in that post.
We cannot blame the cows at any point. Never. They do what they know best. Chew their cud all day long. They have no malice in their nature. To think of it, no animal in the wild has any malice. What they do, they do instinctively. It’s the Man that’s the worst animal on earth. Malicious, dangerous and frightening.
This is why other animals have fear in their eyes when approached by a human they don’t recognise. They are afraid of us more than we should be of them because we will kill them just for our taste, but they will only attack out of defence.
I met this little calf on one of my recent walks in the park. First, it was so frightened that it leapt haphazardly away from me, giving a slapdash performance, but then it slowly came near me, its head lowered enough for me to pat it. It was such a delightful sight as it placed its entire trust in me.
My thought at that point – this infant will soon make its way to the market. One of my kind will hang, draw and quarter it to serve another one of us.
It should not trust me. It should not trust any of us. We are animals.
The memory of stray cows often takes my mind to a funny remark an American friend once made after seeing a photo of a cow on the streets of Rajasthan I’d shared with him. According to him, the only cow they get to see was the one inside the hamburger. He didn’t say it in a uncaring way, because he’s not that sort of a person, but the remark kind of connects my above two accounts, the stray cow and the calf reared for the purpose of its meat.
Unlike my American friend whose comment was said as a joke, my other friend, an Anglo-Iranian-Indian, who I recently met, said that he and his family were “hardcore” meat eaters. Not sure why he used the word “hardcore”. Did he mean they eat more meat than an average meat eater, or they eat only meat at every dinner, or they keep trying different animals, or they go for the kill themselves and eat like animals, uncut and uncooked?
Does that mean that I’m a “hardcore” vegetarian? Because I do all of the above but to greens. Like that cow in my photo.
Svástika – A divine and spiritual symbol in Hindusim
I am born into a Hindu Brahmin family in India. This statement alone equals to passport to respect, social privileges, and positive discrimination for life. Every single application form asks for your caste and I wrote ‘Brahmin’, unbeknownst to me at the time its importance in terms of being accepted in whatever it was I was wanting to choose as long as I had the right credentials.
So, why in the world would I even want to highlight the wrongs of the millennia-old system, – ‘The Caste System of India’?
The answer is – my conscience does not allow me to continue without questioning.
This world; its system, environment and abundance should also belong to someone else as much as they do to me.
Same as I am opposed to monarchy, which represents all that meritocracy does not, I am vocal about casteism as this too advocates the by-birth rights, undermining the efforts and struggles of those from the ever-growing educated class, some of whom were not born into the upper strata of the caste hierarchy, but qualify only through the constitutional concessions, in spite of having the right credentials. Funnily, this new breed became a target of mockery – ‘educational success because of concessions’.
How can an upper caste person’s access to privileges not be labelled as a concession instead of a prerogative?
So, in some way, both sides of the caste-scale fall under constitutional concessions. One side has all set. The other, not so. If the caste-scale transformed into a caste-balance, it will tip to one side. The more the weight of privileges, the lighter it becomes. Oppositely, the burden of inequality is heavier, which means those on that side will forever struggle to tip the balance in their favour.
Will it ever happen? I doubt it would in my lifetime, for there is a life beyond the educational system. The upper-caste mafia rules the roost in every region, department, field, discipline, branch, sector, and so on. For some have-nots, it is a grim situation of one-step-forward-and-two-step-backwards.
Social inequality is rife worldwide. India, on the other hand, has it etched in its institution of caste. India’s caste system dates back thousands of years. It is much debated, argued and, in recent years, even denied, especially by the “modern” Indians. Constitutionally, caste-based discrimination is abolished, but socially, it is practised as openly, and somewhat shamelessly, as it always has been and reflects a different reality to the radical statement of the modern-day Indian youth.
Having said that, in my experience, the caste-based discrimination among Indians living in the West is far greater than those living in India’s urban settings. The migrators who left the subcontinent decades ago held onto the ancient and un-progressive order they were born into like an infant onto its mother’s bosom. In many cases, minimal to none social integration, or interaction with the indigenous population meant further isolation from the progressive mindset, one which India’s youth wholeheartedly adopted and want to perpetuate. The mindset I gradually started to embrace by mentally shedding the upper caste skin. I don’t remember having interactions around religon or caste. I mildly lived that life in my home, around family who had their own cultural beliefs, but without being imposed upon. We had discussions in the house, but never foisting of ideologies. A pleasantly secular household. I had freedom to make choices in life. I was like a pampered child who was left loose in a sweet shop. Perhaps, that was partly the reason I felt ill-prepared for a world beyond my childhood, a world where freedom was not considered a birth-right.
My friends were from all faiths, castes and genders. There was no fear about anything in my life that was being shaped in the same pre-dominantly Hindu and casteist society. We discussed everything under the sky, except our differences. For a girl like me, stepping into the Indian life of Britain was like stepping into a world I did not grow up knowing. Even my parents did not grow up knowing that world. This might have been a world somewhat before theirs.
British Indian society, I felt, was a sort of strange concoction of desi and fringed native, an impotent east-west cocktail with illogical, uncompromising values at its core. The elders were unwilling to adapt, leaving their offsprings in a state of utter confusion. The result was sheer misery for many. Casteism, plus racism, combined with ever-present misogynistic attitude and double standards. This is not to say that Indians in India do not have these, but they can be excused for not having lived in the West where there is far greater equality. How can one enjoy the freedom that western life offers, but be unwilling to relinquish the life alien to the free world?
Some elders go as far as making their kids feel guilty by loudly reminiscing their own marriages to their uncles’ and aunts’ family relations, skipping one gotra, as they say. If kids had any sense, or freedom to that sense, they would argue back by calling it ‘marrying a second cousin’. So, the elders not only want their children to marry in the same caste, but in the same family too, if they can help it. Familyism?
Intercaste interactions will, despite the brainwashing and emotional blackmailing, occur. They have been happening for centuries. But, somehow, such interactions seem less in a familial situation than in the realms of matrimony or out-of-family friendships. Marrying outside the caste is still seen as an unacceptable, and somewhat shameful, act. One elder actually told me that her entire family had to relocate to another city, cutting off all the neighbourhood ties, because the daughter brought shame on the family by marrying a, what she described as, a lower caste man. This elder would never mention her daughter’s married surname to people because of the shame factor.
This is another thing… In Indian families, even if you leave the caste, the caste doesn’t leave you. It’s attached in the form of your surname. This whole ‘shame’ concept is simply incomprehensible to me, especially when families living in England engage in this kind of nonsense, but I also know that it’s a culturally inherent trait that has to be dealt at grass-roots level. It is almost like no one wants to steer the boat that faces the tide.
Each caste is happily or unhappily a part of this very complex network of occupational inter-dependence. This is a chain where every unit plays a designated role. You break that link, the whole network is affected. So, when the modern youth starts uttering liberal platitudes, he has to think about which section of the matrix he should first snap in order for the system to respond positively to bring about the much-required change.
What remains to be seen is how long can a system, which took thousands of years to evolve and perfect to this degree of inter-exploitation, be changed within the lifetime of any of those alive!
Will that change be internal, or will it only be a superficial victory?