cooksinindia

Saying goodbye to a friend

A couple of weeks ago I went to Haridwar, which is about 240kms. North-East of Delhi. It’s said to be the holiest of cities in India, an honor I thought belonged to Varinasi. I booked a second class ticket on the train, and at 6:30 am on a Friday we glided out of Delhi’s station. The train was a lovely experience. Porters whisked about bringing tea and food, which is included in the 2nd class fare (and which ran me about ten bucks each way for a five hour trip: fair enough, I say). Mostly fields and villages along the way. Rice crops. But Haridwar marks an end to the plains. Here begin the foothills of the Himalayas.
My reason for going was two-fold. On a very selfish level, I simply needed to get out of Dodge, especially out of the dust and smoke of Dodge. I needed to smell air. And I was hankering for a little bit of small-er-town India. But there was another, more driving force which took me to Haridwar, and specifically to the Ganges. In my bag there was (appropriately enough) a small whiskey flask. In the flask were some of Bill O’Connor’s ashes. Kris came dashing through our door back in September on the morning we left for India. “”Here,” she said, handing over the flask. “I almost forgot to give you Bill. Find a nice place for him in India.” I may not have perfectly captured Kris’s words, but those of you who know Kris probably drew up an accurate picture on the etch-a-sketch of your mind the Kris we all know and love. Kris at 6:00 a.m. makes coffee look like mother’s milk. But I regress.
I booked a room in the town square at the Hotel Kailash. The term ‘faded glory’ springs to mind when I think back on my temporary digs. But ‘glory’ is too strong. Perhaps 'faded ambition’ more accurately depicts the Hotel Kailash. Once upon a time, it tried. Then-apparently-it threw in the towel. Rooms were Rs. 300, and I had to bring my own Toilet Paper, but the water was hot and there was lots of it. (You can see my view of the town square from the balcony if you scroll down the last couple of entries in the blog. To the right in one of the pictures is the hotel’s sign. The other picture is of a cow. Go figure. )
I strolled about a bit, and soon had the lay of the land pretty well sussed-out. The river is rather fast and furious in Haridwar. Voluminous. And it has also been diverted into a channel which runs the length of town. There are Ghats, or steps leading down to water’s edge, and metal bars to hold onto in order to keep from being dragged downstream. (It really clips along.) Most pilgrims take the plunge along these ghats. The air was chilly, and so was the water (I stuck a tentative toe in) but such was the fervor and ecstasy of said pilgrims as to render them oblivious to elemental hardship. I found myself engaging in a bit of mental conversation with Bill as I walked about. “What do you think, lad? Up for a swim?” He wasn’t terribly pumped. Somehow this didn’t feel just so, and I decided to sit on the problem.
Later that day I took a stroll up a hill that looks out over the town. It was quite a ways up, actually, to a large Hindu temple. There were monkeys all along the route, and at one point along the ascent I bought a small red plastic bag of offerings for the Gods up top, but the bag never made it. A big, tough, dude-monkey faced me down mid-road and showed his teeth, which are surprisingly large and pointy and which, frankly, freaked me out a bit. He then charged me, and at the last minute swung to my left, nipping the bag of treats from my hand. I opted not to give chase. But once I achieved the Temple, I was rewarded with ‘the big picture’ of the Ganges, Haridwar, and the hills which stretch to the North. Quite breath-taking, actually. And educational. I heard a voice in my head suggest, “What about that broad, meandering part of the river? East of town and the channel? I might enjoy a dip there.” Sure enough, there appeared a piece of the Ganges that was left to its natural inclinations. And so I resolved on the morrow to make my way hence.
The day dawned cool but clear. Blue skies have become something of an act of faith in Delhi. One feels the heat, and reasons there must be sky somewhere above the haze. But to actually see them is a treat. And there they were. I stopped at a small street stall next to my hotel and ordered up a couple of roti with dal and curry. A lovely breakfast. I sat on a small bench and watched the flow of humanity work its way riverward, sopping up curry and dal as I did so. When the guy told me the cost (Rs. 10) I thought I heard Bill’s voice again, this time coming from the flask, nestled in my shoulder bag. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. The people know how to eat.” Word. (Did I mention my recent shift toward ‘native’ stature? No? Well, I suppose something needs be held in reserve. A bit of mystery, eh?) Bill and I brushed ourselves off and headed out in search of the river Ganges.
It didn’t take long. I worked my way past the usual ‘Holy men’ who were after donations, and soon found myself working up a sweat. Across two bridges, along a bit of road, down some rather crumbly steps and I found myself looking out over an expanse of rounded stones with their terminus the banks of the river.
A couple of village women were slapping laundry against some rocks, and across the way were donkey carts hauling gravel and water from the river’s edge, but for the most part, it was quiet. I wandered until I came to a point where the water ran clear and deep. And cold. One is faced with certain challenges in this life, and I’d like to fancy myself up to any task. I stood in thigh-deep water and watched the swirls it made around my legs. Then, just as I lost all feeling in my feet, I gathered a deep breath and took the soul-cleansing plunge. In the Hindu faith, one must clear the cobwebs of sin before executing any holy act. Not that there was much to be cleared from my attic. But just to be safe…
Back on shore, Bill rested in his flask. He was smiling. And so I came ashore, gathered him up, and walked him into slightly-more-gentle waters. I stood for just a minute in the knee-deep current and enjoyed flashes of memory. One day, years ago, Bill and I fished the Escanaba for trout. I had on my red ball rubber waders, but Bill would have none of that. He simply donned an old pair of cotton pants and tennis shoes. And we worked the stream. That was a good day. As I poured him forth into the current, I looked at the large pieces as they settled to the bottom, and at the finer, dust-like pieces that spread a small cloud downstream. Then something nice happened. I lingered once again over the heavier pieces, and my eye caught a flash. A small fish, working its way upstream, passed over Bill and darted between my legs. Kind of gave me the shivers, but I also felt oddly light and buoyant. I said a last goodbye, and began my walk back to town. That, too, was a good day.

cooksinindia

My little domestic dilema...

I’m sitting on the roof of our apartment complex. The sun is about five degrees above the horizon. I’m in shorts and a T-shirt. The date is December 3.
One of the interesting little dramas that have become a part of my life is my relationship with my house-helper, Leela. She is very protective of Tom and me, and gets down right nasty if we try to do any work in her presence. Washing dishes is out of the question, as is laundry and sweeping the floor. Sounds OK, right? Well, here’s the problem: Leela is a doll and all…a real sweetheart with a heart of gold, but she’s not the most thorough of cleaners. Laundry is pretty much dumped in a bucket and let sit for an hour or so, then drained and hung out to dry. If there’s any agitation going on, it’s strictly on my part over the less-than-sterling results. After about three days it might show up ironed and folded. Maybe. But you can imagine the less-than-uniform look of the finished product. Mottled might best describe it. So.
There happens to also be a very nice family that sets up shop in the little parking lot outside the flat. They have a lean-to…a bit of a roof, and they make their way in the world by taking in laundry and ironing. The iron is a great massive affair with a central chamber into which one puts hot coals. Very ingenious. I’m sure it was all the rage in the first world at the turn of the century; and it’s still working fine here in India. So a month or so ago the little girl from this family rings the bell and makes motions to suggest she’ll do laundry (my neighbor helped me to understand the gist of her message). I figured Leela was no where to be found, so I handed her over an armload of the good stuff. The next day it comes back clean and pressed. Let me emphasize: Clean and pressed. The cost? Ten rupees…or about twenty-five cents. And it was service with a smile. The little girl was cute as a bug’s ear. Enter Leela. She happened to be in the apartment one day shortly thereafter when the little angel knocked to again inquire after my laundry needs. Overhearing my discussion with the lass, Leela reacted with a purpose. Pointing to a pile of laundry in need of laundering, she gestured in the general dirction of my new laundry family and said: “No. No laundry.” Or thereabouts. She then gestured to herself and said, “I laundry piagee.” (Piagee is what she calls Tom and me. Loosely translated, it means, “little brother”. Or, ‘helpless one’.) Just for good measure she told me ten more times I’m strictly not allowed to take my laundry to the humble-and-incredibly-efficient-family-in-the-parking-lot-who-is-available-and-willing-to-do-a-great-job-for-next-to-nothing. Well. You don’t need to hit me over the head with a blunt shovel! The little girl walk away dejectedly, and I decided for the sake of domestic tranquility I’d live with dirty pants.
Switch scenes. This morning I was feeling the need to clean and organize, what with my time fast coming to a close. I amassed a small pile of particularly dirty laundry, and resigned myself to not seeing it again for a week. Then I did a bad thing. Flying in the face of what I know to be right, I hunkered down in the bath room and proceeded to scrub that pile of laundry with a vengeance. And you know? It felt good. The chance of Leela coming in unannounced made it that much sweeter. I felt like a middle-schooler stealing a smoke in the boy’s room. I scrubbed and rinsed and scrubbed some more before hanging them out to dry on the roof and heading off to a well-deverved lunch of fish talis and some shopping. I was willing to concede Leela the ironing; I’d had my fun, and was prepared to take my lumps. Washing the clothes myself was a relatively minor transgression, I reasoned. Then, inexplicably, a dark cloud passed between me and my better judgment. It was a small cloud, but profound in effect. It came in the form of the little girl who first enticed me into her laundry services. As I wheeled my bike into the parking lot following lunch and various business, she gave me a smile and a“Namaskar”. I responded with an “Ap ke sai heh?” And she with, "Mais ah cha Huh!” A simple howdy-do, but delivered with such sweetness and light as to render me weak in the knees. I was done for. After locking up my trusty bike, I went directly to the roof, pulled the clothes from the rack, and proceeded back to the lot to ask about ironing. I thought I might have caught a sly glance stealing from the face of son, to mother, to father. They knew I was operating behind Leela’s back. But guess what? They ironed the pile in five minutes time for a charge of Rs. 5. I gave the boy a tenner and told him to keep the change. That was about twenty minutes ago, and now I sit here in nervous anticipation. Shades of Crime and Punishment pass before me. But I have a pile of fresh clothes. And the sun is next to the horizon. And, as they say, what doesn’t kill us helps to make us strong. Let us hope Leela can find forgiveness in her heart. I’ve included a photograph of the sun touching the horizon, as viewed from the roof, as well as a picture of my partners in crime. Sorry about the latter’s blurry aspect.

at home on sunday