No Quarter Pounders Here

Holy Cow

I just have to ask, “Is there a McDonalds in Varanasi?” “Yes…,” Anup says, then smiles, “But they don’t serve beef. We don’t eat beef because the cow is sacred, the living symbol of mother earth. It provides milk to mothers who cannot produce their own milk. The bull, or ‘Nandi’ as we call it, is also holy, because it was the vehicle, or ‘Vahana,’ of Lord Shiva, and represents strength and virility. In this way, the ‘Nandi’ is characteristic of Lord Shiva — the same way other animals are emblematic of the gods with which they are associated; for example, the peacock is associated with Murugan and symbolizes the destruction of the ego and the owl is associated with Lakshmi and symbolizes the light of wisdom. Of course, some animals like the elephant and monkey are worshipped as deities in themselves. Elephants, because they are associated with the elephant-headed god ‘Ganesha’ and monkeys, because they are associated with the monkey god, ‘Hanuman.’ This is a stretch for me so I ask the question that has been bugging me most: “Do Hindus actually believe there was an elephant headed god or a monkey god?” Anup laughs, “To western tourists who come here, it’s mythology, plain and simple, and in some books you find here, the gods are actually described as such, but to us they are real — their stories are true, in the same way the six days of creation or the snake in the Garden of Eden are true for Christians.”

Ganges River

Shaam Aarti

My guide, Anup: “It’s a nice evening. We will go to the shaam aarti (the Hindu evening ceremony) on the Ganges river,” “Is that where the faithful bathe in the river?” “Yes, but not during the evening ceremony; that’s tomorrow morning at sunrise.” Since we arrive early, Anup uses the time to describe the river and its importance to Hindus. “Everyone wants to die in Varanasi. It is central to our faith. When you die here, your body is dipped eleven times in the river, you’re then cremated, and your ashes sprinkled over the river. This breaks the process of rebirth and allows your soul to rest in peace. As Hindus, we strive to do good in this life so that we will reincarnate into a better life once we die. Seven times this happens, but we never know which life we are in. Having our body cleansed in the Ganges ends the cycle and we can rest in peace.” I muse: “The river looks dirty to me.” “It’s not! If you take a bottle of water from the Ganges and a bottle of mineral water and let them sit for a couple weeks, the mineral water will turn green, but the water from the Ganges will be clear.” “I don’t believe that,” I say. “Not only does the river look muddy. There is so much filth everywhere in this city, it can’t possibly be clean.” “No, it really is clean! The water is holy.” “Okay, prove it. I want to see you drink some.” “Okay, I will, but not now, tomorrow morning when we come back to the river.”

Modern Courtship

Ramish

“I met my girl friend in college 3 ½ years ago,” Ramish (my guide) said, between points of interest at the Taj Mahal. “Her father is a doctor. He works for Catholic missionaries in Africa. She goes to church Saturdays and Sundays. I go to the temple twice a week. I pray the Gaytri mantra and to god. I’ve started studying Christianity because I want to better understand my girl friend’s religion. A friend gave me a Bible and told me if I read it, it will change my life. I read the Gospel of John and found it interesting — I liked it. But my girl friend and I don’t speak about these things — we need to — someday. Her mother knows I’m Hindu, but her father doesn’t. I’ve never met or talked to him. I know I must. I’m a little scared. I don’t want to come between her and her father. I love her too much to do that. I hope, if we sit around a table, we can work things out. They are interested in helping people. I’m interested in helping people. I want to start a school for the poor — maybe we have this in common. We want to have children, but we haven’t talked about how we would raise them — what religion or who will care for them — she's finishing med school and wants to work. I live at home with my parents and they're very important to me. They raised me to be a good person. They say I’m free to do as I please, but I'm afraid to displease them. They have certain expectations about marriage, weddings, and that sort of thing. Catholics have different traditions. But my girl friend and I are also of a different generation. When we’re alone we sleep together. We practice birth control. Today, it’s not possible to expect a woman to be a virgin when she marries. Young people are freer now with more opportunities and more choices. There were too many boundaries back then.”

330 Million Gods

Crumbling Walls

“I’m so sorry I’m late. The streets are completely flooded,” Umrao said, out of breath. “It took us an hour to get here.” On the way to the Amber Fort in Jaipur, Umrao explained. “Six people died, five from mud slides and another when he drove into a sink hole and drowned. My Muslim neighbor called at 1:30 this morning. ‘We got to help or pray. People are being washed away’ he said. ‘They’ve opened the Mosques for prayer.’ My mother said, ‘no. It’s too dangerous out. You will get washed away. There’s water coming into our house.’ I managed to stop the water from coming into our house — then we all prayed for the rain to stop. We were scared. My wife and I sat lotus style and prayed to Durga, the goddess who takes many forms for the destruction of demons who are troubling the gods. Then I said the Gaytri mantra. Gaytri is the five-headed goddess of divine light. We have many gods to pray to. I normally pray to Ganesha first, the son of Shiva, the destroyer. Ganesha’s the one with the elephant head. He brings fortune and good luck to anyone he blesses. Shiva, is one of the three major gods. The other two are Brahma, the creator, and Vishnu, the protector. Some say there are as many as 330 million gods, but actually there is just one god and the rest are manifestations of this one god. As we drove through the city the devastation was clear: streets flooded and impassable, walls crumbled, and huge piles of garbage strewn against the fences and buildings. A gaey (holy cow) lie with its feet up, electrocuted by a downed power line.

Arranged Marriages

Umrao

“I had an arranged marriage.” Umrao, my guide, said, on our way to the City Palace in Jaipur. “A distant relative set it up. My parents met and then spent time with my wife and her parents. They determined whether my wife could cook and maintain a household. They had our horoscopes read to see if we were compatible — absolutely essential if you are to have a happy marriage. Being of the same caste was also important. Our families are both members of the Kshatriyas caste. It was only after these criteria were met that my parents agreed to our marriage. I first met my wife on the night of our wedding and was and am very pleased with my parents’ selection. They also arranged the marriages of my four sisters, who are also equally pleased with their selections. I would like to arrange marriages for my son as well because statistics show that arranged marriages seldom end in divorce. But times, of course, are changing. When I got married at least 90% of all marriages performed in this region were arranged marriages. Now that number is down to 75%. My wife, son, and I live with my parents. Because I’m their only son, it’s my responsibility to live with them and take care of them into old age. My sisters and their husbands live with their husbands’ parents out of the same sense of responsibility. It’s our Hindu tradition.”

Road to Jaipur

Camels on Road to Jaipur

From New Delhi to Jaipur is 250 kilometers, minimum of five hours. Narayan, my Brahmin driver, doesn’t speak English so I record my impressions in silence. It’s raining, sometimes in torrents. The traffic vacillates between a standstill and a crawl. The highway so flooded in places cars stall trapping the passengers inside and ahead a loaded bus is stalled. How are the people going to get out? The water must be up to their thighs. My driver seems to know the tricks of navigating to higher ground, aggressively honking his horn to eek out a passage through the drenched mopeds, pedestrians, autos, trucks, tuk tuks (motorized rickshaws), gaeys (holy cows), stray dogs, camels, and even an elephant or two. A woman in a sari, ankle deep in water, pounds on the side of the public bus in front of us, but is not admitted. We pass a progression of men carrying a rain soaked linen wrapped body on a slab. A scene I’ve witnessed several times before. Narayan slows to a near stop and signals the Hindu sign of respect. Suddenly we’re through this mass of humanity and speeding along an open freeway — billboards everywhere — most in English. Not for long though, we hit a muddy construction patch of the highway that we bump and slosh through. We encounter more odd shaped vehicles crammed with families, a bus so full that people sit on its roof. Here and there, busy open-air filthy ramshackle stores, restaurants, and workshops pop up along the side of the highway. The rain isn’t stopping the people from going about their business. We hit one of several toll plazas. The rain lets up and we start to make good progress.

Affirmative Action

New Delhi

Driving around New Delhi, Vidvec, my guide, talked about the reservation system, India's affirmative action program. “I’m totally opposed to the reservation system. I have a friend who scored 92 on an employment test, but was denied the job because it was awarded to a scheduled caste member who scored 60. He was devastated. I also know wealthy people who have gotten preferential low cost housing, which they then rent out at a higher rate. And although I’m not rich, I have to pay the top rate for my daughter to attend college, whereas my boss’ son pays less because his family is in a selected caste. A person’s caste never changes, even though his economic status may have improved, giving him and his offspring continuing preferential treatment in just about everything; education, health care, housing, employment, etc. The original problem was the caste system who’s roots go back to the fifteenth century BCE in which the Brahmins were the intellectuals, the Kshatriyas the soldiers, the Vaishyas the merchants, and the Shudras the workers. A fifth group, the untouchables, were ostracized by the others. Gandhi wanted to do away with this discriminatory system. As a result the government implemented the reservation system, giving preferential treatment to scheduled castes and tribes, especially the shudras and untouchables. The reservation system was to be discontinued overtime, but instead it has grown so that now it comprises over 50% of the posts in some sectors and has now become a serious drain on the economy.”

New Delhi, India

Government Workers

Democracy is alive and well in India. The first time I walked out into the sweltering heat in New Delhi, I ran into busloads of men emptying out onto the streets. I started snapping pictures and soon a mob gathered around eager to explain what was happening. Unfortunately, to my disappointment, English does not come easily to these people, but here’s what I gathered from the few words of English they spoke: “We are all government workers: I’m a teacher, I’m a social worker, I’m a lawyer, and I’m a policeman. We are marching to the parliament to protest the system of reservations in government jobs, which gives preferential treatment to certain classes and ethnic groups. This quota system is unconstitutional and should stop. Promotions should be based on merit only. Now we have people in the government who can’t do their job, but are there only because of the caste they belong to. Instead of making promises to give reservation to get votes, the government should work to improve itself. If the government doesn’t change this system, we will create our own party. On another street corner a small group of men held an opposing sign: “The reservation — save promotion otherwise we want separate nation.” There was no one among this group who spoke English.

Wonderful Place to Live

Bobo

“What do you think of your president?” I ask my last guide in Uzbekistan. “I’m not going to talk politics. You can ask me other questions.” “Do you have children?” “Yes, a boy and a girl.” “Do they watch TV?” “Yes.” “Do they use the internet?” “Yes.” “Are there websites that are blocked?” “I TOLD YOU I’M NOT GOING TO TALK POLITICS! THAT’S A POLITICAL QUESTION! NO MORE! DO YOU UNDERSTAND!” I give up. There’s no way I’m going to get an honest answer to what life is really like in Uzbekistan. To a person they report, “It’s a wonderful place to live. We have a good government, strong economy, and a president everyone loves.” Can you imagine someone saying this in the United States? I point out some issues that normally would be of concern: the low standard of living, the long lines of cars at the petro stations, when Uzbekistan is an exporter of oil, the fact that the highest denominated bill is 1,000 som with an exchange rate 2,800 som to $1 — imagine buying a car for $10,000 — you would need a trunk to carry the 28 million bills, and then there’s the 33% difference between official rate of exchange for the dollar and the black market rate. “But it doesn’t matter,” they say, “Bobo [grandfather] is an economic genius and because of him we have a strong economy.” For the umpteenth time I am having this conversation before leaving for India. As the young man in the hotel lobby talks about his admiration for Bobo, I decide to Google Islam Karimov, (President Uzbekistan). My worst suspicions are confirmed. Wikipedia paints a horrific picture of this dictator; e.g., “Parade magazine has selected Karimov as one of the world's worst dictators, citing his tactics of torture, media censorship, and fake elections.” I turn my computer over to the young man. “Have you read this?” He starts reading, slowly, occasionally grimacing and mumbling under his breath. It takes a while for him to finish. “We know this,” he whispers, “But we’re not allowed to talk about it — it’s illegal. It’s the way things are and we can’t do anything about it.” 

Samarkand, Uzbekistan

Samarkand

“Where are you from?” asked one of a couple dozen police officers, who had been staring at me.  Shit, I must be somewhere I’m not supposed to be. “San Francisco,” I choked. The officer motioned me to come closer. The other officers moved in around me. “How many in your party?” the officer sternly quipped. I raised a finger, “Just one.” “Where are you staying? I handed him my hotel card. “Grand Samarkand Superior,” he slowly read aloud and passed it to a couple of the officers. A discussion ensued. They concluded that they knew where the Grand Samarkand was. The officer handed the card back and said, “You want ticket?”— I had no idea what he was talking about. Another officer said, “Football game,” and pointed in the direction where another group of officers stood. “Uzbekistan and Iran, ticket free,” he said. “Why not?” I thought and took the ticket and proceeded to the other group of officers where an officer scanned me with a metal detector and another patted me down. From behind, the officer who had given me the ticket shouted, “Twenty dollars!” They don’t stop at anything, I thought, so I turned back and handed him the ticket. “No,” he laughed, “You keep, just joking.” Turns out, the stadium was a block away. Inside army and police officers were everywhere. I found a seat and an officer sat down behind me. I turned and smiled, but he didn’t smile back. Another officer sat down next to me, but he wasn’t smiling either. The Uzbeks won 3-1.