Turban Tales

A Bhatti in orange

Once upon a time, in Rajasthan: The Land of Kings, there existed a city of gold. It was used as a famous trade route to Pakistan for merchants that would transport copper, jewels and beautiful cloth using camels that could travel long distances and withstand the desert heat. Within this city, lies a Golden Fort run by the Warrior Caste: Bahttis.

A Brahmin doing
Pooja by the Ganges

While it is important to note that modernisation (especially in the major cities) is decreasing racist attitudes, in a lot of India tradition still prevails. The tradition I refer to, is the Caste system; it categorises locals into one of four main castes: Brahmana (Brahmins), Kshatriya, Vaishya and Shudra. The explanation I most connected with broke down these 4 castes into physical divisions on the body. Brahmins are the highest, the head, the intellectuals and the priests. Much like during Feudal times, they held the most power and respect in the community and commonly wore white turbans and 'Janaeu' (symbolic white thread) around their body. Kshatriyas are in charge of public service & defence,  the warriors/ protectors, the physically strong, the chest. Under each caste falls hundreds of subcategories, all of which are distinguishable through certain earrings, dress or colours. The Bahtti's for example are one of the Kshatriyas and the men were known for wearing white dress with saffron turbans that stood for bravery. From what I've been told, the 3rd and 4th ranks (Vaishya and Shudras) tend to merge into one another, they are the businessmen, merchants, traders, farmers and physical labourers described on the body as the stomach; they would wear more bronze. And finally a group that is ostracised from the caste system completely but is understood by most locals as being the lowest: the Dalits or The Untouchables that can be known to wear bright red turbans and would typically work as slaves (but now do jobs that have least societal and monetary gain such as rubbish collectors or street sweepers); the anatomical division would be around ones hips and sexual organs. When I was told of these physical divisions I couldn't help but conjure up an image of Freud's 3 divisions of consciousness: 'The superego' being the highest, most Brahmin-like and 'The Id' being the lowest, most animalistic, sexually impulsive in the band around ones sexual organs (like The Untouchables).

Through this piece I aim to describe and not validate, what I have come to understand about this ancient system throughout my time in India. Note that there has not been much mention of women in my descriptions of dress; this is partially due to my lack of exposure to them and their opinions, given that India is such a male-dominated patriarchal society in which women tend to stick together and not fraternise with foreigners as much. But also, as A. explained to me: the caste system historically allowed for a functioning society in which one was physically and mentally 'suited' to their role. This working role was typically taken on by the man while the women remained at home, cooking, cleaning and nurturing the kids. But women's dress and garments were also distinguishable as to what caste they belonged to. The shorter the dress, the lower the caste as it was more practical for doing physical labour. The type of jewellery (i.e. gold, silver or bronze) also indicated ones status, although jewellery adorns all Indian women.
Individuals were (and still commonly are) expected to marry within their caste or risk being disowned by their family (one of the greatest cultural sins). I made a comparison to the caste system in western society with socioeconomic status (albeit to a lesser extent). In Psychology, one attraction hypothesis is that we tend to choose partners from the same socioeconomic status as ourselves. I suppose this is due to the likelihood of meeting, shared values, friendship groups etc. but it is far less rigid. The deterministic nature of the Caste system is inherently discriminatory and must have profound effects on ones psyche.

Rajasthani ladies

Untouchable kids

So much so,  that between the 12th and 16th century The Bahtti's in Jaisalmer, in true Warrior fashion committed the Transgressive act of 'Jauhur' (ritual mass suicide, stemming from the sanskrit word life & defeat) 2.5 times in favour of allowing their women to be shamed and giving up their Golden Fort to Mughal invaders. It was a fascinating, bone chillingly beautiful ritual. The women would dress in their finest clothes (often their wedding dress') and walk one by one, with their children into the fire; their last glimpse of the golden city they were nobly departing from. There was a drummer who stood at the front of the fort and would play the beats of whatever was taking place at the time (i.e. a birth, marriage or Jauhur). So as the last of the women faded into the light and the rhythm began to change, the men would charge out in their saffron turbans to face their deaths. Ironically, during the battle as the sun set and the night became cool, the men would set aside their differences and enjoy a game of chess together regardless of what side they were fighting for (only to continue the battle at sunrise).

An Illustration of Jauhur

The final '0.5 Jauhur' occurred in the 16th Century during which there was no time for the usual ritual ceremony, so the men cut the throats of their wives and children to save their dignity before going to fight... After much invasion and through a cleverly thought out scheme, the Bahttis eventually reclaimed their land and today, there's much care taken to maintain the beautiful city in which fascinating stories linger under each layer of golden sand. As for the Caste system, hopefully one day it will no longer serve a purpose and transform into just another story that makes up India's rich history...

-The End- 

Music of the day: Rajasthani Gypsy music
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bA37uhK7IXQ&list=PLB674F3A632EBE1ED

A sleepless night

Desert traffic

Continuing on from my last post: our camel tour began at 3pm and B. (who was pioneering it) closed down the hostel for the night to join us along with volunteers M & Y. I began the journey a little apprehensive after receiving uncomfortable warnings from the locals about sexual harassment - having 2 minor negative TripAdvisor reviews shoved into our faces, 5 minutes before we left. We dismissed their accusations, wondering whether they were due to jealousy or an attempt to knock out their competition (that was rated highly on TripAdvisor). We all squashed into the jeep and began the hour long journey into the desert; it consisted of a symphony of loud Hindi pop, bumpy roads and clusters of wild camels that were perfectly camouflaged against the beige landscape. I watched fondly as 2 cows played, butting heads and frolicking around the lush green shrubs. It was a rare moment in India to see cows playing in their natural surroundings: away from the bombardment of traffic, fluorescent lights and piles of rancid rubbish.

After a pit stop at a nearby lake, we arrived at B's village and were introduced to our camels. I was going to be riding 'Raju', B. proudly explained that he'd won a few of the local Rajasthani camel races... I prayed that its racing streak wouldn't kick in mid-safari... As the camels sat placid with their legs awkwardly bent behind them, I noticed that hard calluses had formed where their bodies touched the ground on the back of their calves and under their chests. They were mounted with old brass saddles that were rusty and worn from constant usage and piled high with our mattresses for the night. We sat down on our beautiful beasts and I centered myself, engaging my thighs and trying to get used to the unusual sensation of riding an animal. B rode with me for the first half, pointing out the holes created by desert foxes, wild gazelles that shied behind far away bushes and the plenitude of huge black beetles rolling around balls of camel dung. We rode for hours with the rhythm of our animals into what eventually became a setting sun. Passing the odd tourist group who were also wearing flowy headscarves and looking enchanted.
The camels driver pulled on the reigns and the volatile rhythm started to slow down as we reached our designated spot and my thighs gave in. A few other desert folk from nearby villages sat squatting on the ground, waiting to pamper the camels and set up dinner.
Besides the terrifying moment of Raju almost knocking us off his back, it was all well and lovely: headstands in the sand, racing down dunes and feeling the wild, rough energy of the desert. I even learnt the art of making chapatti for the first time! But as the night wore on, the deserted skies began to form heavy clouds that were visible through yellow flashes that illuminated the picturesque landscape. Plan B, if it rained was to sleep in the nearest village. But as the water droplets started to fall, the plan was for some reason abandoned in favour of lying on our mattresses on the sand, under a plastic tarpaulin that was used for the camels. The energy of the group soon became confused agitation, with no help from the Bhang cookies that were uneasily digesting in our tummys (interestingly, Bhang: the male marijuana plant is legal everywhere in India).
We lay, smothered by a plastic sheet feeling the pressure of the rain against our bodies as it started to pour. The holes in the plastic, that were of variable size soon became evident as I awoke with bloodshot eyes every half hour to another stream of water dripping on my feet or forehead. It felt like a bloody Chinese torture method. The crackle of the plastic would send me in and out of dreams, as someone else's hand angrily punched the cover off our faces (that was far too close for comfort). We'd expected the storm to pass after about 30 minutes, an hour at the most, with great reassurance from B who knew best...

Om nama Shiva ;)

5 hours later, in a half wake- half sleep state, we all shoved the plastic sheet off our faces, that now reeked of camel. My clothes and mattress were soaking and stained pink from the leaking rose print on the mattress. The fine desert sand that had once felt like a gentle exfoliant, was now chafing against my sticky skin with each toss and turn. And then the mozzies arrived... desert life suddently seemed to lose its appeal. I awoke for the final time to feel the warmth of someone's body against my back, a strangers hand was comfortably draped over my hips and there was subtle breathing in my ear. It was the camel driver (that had definitely started off sleeping 4 people away): suddenly the previous days warning didn't seem so silly... I was not up for a ride at all, so I swiftly got up, shaking off the night like a damp dog and wandering across the golden hills that were cleansed from the nights rain. I did a few rounds of Surya Namaskar, saluting the rising sun and slowly and sleepily the rest of the group awoke for breakfast.

That morning, we rode back across the dunes in silence, reflecting upon our noisy night. We returned to Jaiselmer in a lethargic blur, unamused by the deafening Hindi pop that was no longer entertaining. B kindly allowed us to wash up and regain a bit of a strength with a cup of masala chai before we ventured (with whatever remainder of energy) for one last dizzy day in the desert heat. With my mouth feeling as dry as Ghandi's flip flop, I now lie, propped up by my uncomfortably stuffed backpack on a luxurious, air conditioned sleeper bus en route to Udaipur. N has crashed out with the activities of the last few days, so I turn my head to look out the murky window: the great golden ball is slowly falling through the dusty sky - a perfect lasting image of Jaisalmer: The City of Gold.

 
Song of the day: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C3lWwBslWqg

A golden surprise

Waiting for the bus with a cuppa chai

Hooly cow. An appropriate phrase that I'm beginning to feel originated here, given that cows are holy to Hindus and I find myself repeating it daily. We've just arrived back to 'Ba's Guesthouse' situated inside the Golden Fort of Jaisalmer, India.
The Sandstone fort rises out of the desert sand like a magnificent sandcastle, alive with women in colourful sari's and men wearing white shirts and saffron turbans; the original colours that the warrior caste wore & a clever shield from the scorching sun. We've just returned, sleep deprived and sun kissed from a night in the Rajasthani desert, in which we rode with the desert folk to the sand dunes that border Pakistan. The red border lights could be seen about 30km away flashing throughout the cool, cloudy night. But like many things in India, it didn't exactly go to plan...

N & I :)

The monkey temple: Jaipur

We arrived in Jaisalmer after a 9 hour night bus, our clothes damp from the manky double bunk that we'd shared. The pungent smells of the previous nights curry we'd eaten in our dark little cabin and various fumes circulating from the open window, still lingered on our sticky skin.
It had already been a whirlwind of activity: A backstreet meal in Jaipur, forgetting my passport & missing our bus to Pushkar, experiencing racism at its core in a tuk tuk bus in Ajmeer and being driven around Pushkar's mountains and lakes on Shiva day by our new friends N and C. While I'd love to expand that rammed sentence, to put all the events that have occurred into one blog would be total overwhelm; mimicking the sensation of this trip so far (in the best sense).

The Amer fort: Jaipur 

There was a moment on the night N. arrived that remains a perfect allegory for this trip. She was 4 hours late after the airport lost her luggage in Dubai somewhere and we were sat in J's tuk tuk that had just broken down. Positioned sideways, we were pushed through a stream of oncoming traffic on the highway listening to deafening horns of all frequencies blaring their business. We held hands tightly and with a hint of fear and a mound of joy, we laughed at the lunacy of the situation - knowing everything usually ends up alright. Sure enough, 5 minutes later we were puffing on a beadie on the side of the road, watching the mass of noisy cars we'd just been immersed in - and the flow goes on.

Pushkar

Due to time constraints, we were conquering each city in a matter of days, so we zoomed through peaceful Pushkar and weren't quite expecting such a scorcher in the Golden City where I now sit. The fort and Palace previously run by the warrior caste (Bahti's) deserves its own post altogether, for its elaborate history cannot be expressed in a few simple words. We'd conquered the palace and stood at all the viewpoints we could find, our eyes scanning over the parched rooftops, most of which are now restaurants or guesthouses. We managed to spot where we were staying that was distinguishable by the bright sari's flying in the wind of a half-constructed guesthouse. Our only job now was to book what Jaisalmere's famous for, camel safaris; we'd already received numerous offers all day. Many locals came from surrounding desert villages and owned camels (or had a connection that did). They could navigate through the desert like it was the back of their hand. I laughed at how what is such a novelty to us, must seem so normal to them, showing excited tourists their pet camels and sandy garden.

Pushkar lake

Jaisalmere ladies
dressed in colourful sari's

We were walking down the large stones leading to the exit of the fort, passing rows of closed travel agents and slightly wishing we'd accepted one of the previous offers. And then, like the law of attraction, B. pops out of a dimly lit side street and offers us a camel tour. We allowed ourselves to be pulled along by the warm wave of the evening, up another set of foreign stairs, leading to another magical rooftop that evoked a sense of Aladdin's Arabian nights.
After talking business and haggling hard, B brought up a welcome tray of drinks and snacks, paying homage to the hospitable nature of the Indian Culture. We gazed up at the bizarre pink cloud that was floating above us, that soon became a desert storm. We sat in the restaurant below, trapped from both sides (that had no walls) in a power cut, watching the city reveal itself through the odd flash of lightning. We soaked in the energy of the rain (that this desert can go up to 7 years without seeing!) knowing that tomorrow night we'd lie under the milky way, with nothing but dry dunes and a desert breeze...

Jaisalmer

 Recipe of the day: Dhal Bati (A classic Rajasthani dish)
 http://nishamadhulika.com/special/dal_bati_recipe.html

Chronicles in the clouds #2

Happy boys

The Tibetan Kitchen

It's our second weekend here and due to the rarity of the occasion, they are usually filled up from start to finish with a new and exciting adventure... The first weekend we checked out 'The Tibetan Kitchen' for our first meal out of bounds; the luxury of so much choice on a vegetarian menu was both exciting and overwhelming but I finally made a choice, deciding to indulge in the notorious spinach and cheese momo's (tibetan dumplings) that had begun arriving on everyone's table and creamy Palak (spinach)/ Butter paneer curry. Despite the 2 hour wait, conversation filled the gap and we went home that night with bloated belly's and no regrets, ready for the following day.

A monkey through the rubbish

Fruit stalls in McLeod

The next morning, we started off on a long walk to Mcleod Ganj, the home of the Dalai Lama. We kept up a staggered pace, unable to resist capturing the beauty of our surroundings on each of our 40+ cameras (so it took a while)...
We wandered along the long, empty stretch of road in between infinite pine trees and then the energy sped up as we reached town, monkeys began appearing with baby's on their back, climbing among piles of unprocessed rubbish, a behavior that's become so sadly normalized. Along the busy street we weaved in-between shoppers and my eyes were magnetically drawn to the odd flash of deep red robes, as resident monks went about their day.

A flash of red

Roasted corn

Resisting the temptation of all the beautiful Tibetan ornaments, gems and clothes was a mission - but we saved our limited time (& money) and soon reached the circular path that lead to the Dalai Lama's residence. The concrete path lead into the jungle where prayer flags were strewn in all directions; the jumble of sounds from town soon relaxed and mantra wheels began appearing along

Mantra wheels

the sides of stone walls. On each wheel was written a mantra/ prayer, and as you spun each one, the mantra was released. The beauty & interactive nature of the walk kept one present the whole time and our excited conversations faded through a hush, into silence.
We respected the Buddhist tradition of walking around the temples 3 times clockwise (a form of circumambulation) and reading the plaques on which horrific and inspiring stories of monks & lamas were written.

The wall of faces

Prayer flags & I

The mindful walk (also called 'Kinhin' in Zen Buddhism) continued and we reached the wall of photo's that suddenly brought back an eery memory... It reminded me of the S21 Prison in Siem Reap/ Cambodia: lines of faces were framed beneath a cabinet, illustrating all the Tibetans that had self-annihilated in protest of the extreme oppression that the country is facing by the Chinese. Most of the people on the wall ranged from 12 years old to 80+ and had inflicted suffering that I can't even begin to fathom, burning themselves alive.

O, M & I taking a picture with a few
strangers and our funny friend

The individuals that had escaped Tibet, had trekked across the Himalayas (a dangerous and illegal journey that can last 3 months) to reach Dharamshala, India. My heart swelled with pain at the torturous thought of what was currently happening in Tibet: the country behind invisible bars... what a jaded view of China I now have. When i went home that day I did a short 'metta' meditation, sending the oppressors love & compassion, for how can one bring down a super-power with more hatred & fear, draining emotions that I'm sure they already have in abundance.
We continued the walk around the circle and put down our cameras at the request of the signs leading into the Dalai Lama's residence... The words 'Please be silent' didn't seem to gain a lot of respect from the swarming tourists and the number of photographs we were asked to partake in alongside young men soon became tiring (and slightly uncomfortable), so we curved our way back into town and returned to our 'regular' for lunch... Just as my Veg. Thali was arriving, the clouds rose up dramatically behind the corrugated iron rooftop, swallowing the view.. we took out our cameras and captured another magical show of black hawks swooping through a grey sky.

Recipe of the Day: Spinach and Cheese Momo's
http://www.yowangdu.com/tibetan-food/spinach-and-cheese-momos.html 

Chronicles in the clouds

En route to
 Dharamshala

As I look ahead of me, the clouds have again enveloped the rippling landscape of mountains that stand smothered by shades of green flora... As it´s mid-monsoon here, the weather fluctuates between downpours and cloudy skies, with the odd patch of clear blue that reveals the grandeur of our surroundings... Just as sunflowers turn to face the sun, the yogis all appear in waves on the balcony, to soak up the rare rays and feel the warmth on our skin (that's getting paler by the day)...
I, along with many other beautiful souls are halfway through our journey to become Yoga Teachers with 'Mahi Power Yoga', far far away in a little town named upper Bhagsu (Dharamshala, India).
I arrived in Delhi alone, feeling that familiar rush of humidity in the airport after a long journey from London via Dubai ... a phrase that has resonated with me throughout this trip is ´You may make plans in India, but in the end, India makes plans for you´... this lack of control was initiated from the beginning. A group of us got in touch with each other and organised via whatssap to meet up at the airport, before our last leg of the journey in a tiny aircraft to Dharamshala ... but alas, the wifi was not working and we had  no way of recognizing our fellow virtual strangers..
I sauntered around the airport for a while and then sat down to sip on a king coconut and hide my bare legs from the wrath of disapproving looks, wishing I had access to the leggings in my backpack that had been shuttled off somewhere else... The expats in the little airport were soon reduced to shaved head Hari Krishna devotees, or a bunch of slightly worn-out yoginis; so it didn't take long to find each other and the excitement began as we shared stories of our lives, journeys and expectations of the course...

The opening ceremony

Our beautiful teachers

After arriving at the airport, the rocky ride to Bhagsu began; we were truly in India... the driver erratically swerved the wheel from left to right as though playing a racing game on Wii for the first time. We had become a part of the jerky flow of organised chaos, along the dusty roads, past fruit stalls, giant plastic blow up toys and mountains adorned with prayer flags. At one point, the traffic was at a complete standstill and the cars were helpless as people were speedily weaving between them... We looked at our phones, the time ticking down until the opening ceremony was due to start. I ceased a moment and jumped out of the car to buy a phone charger from the shop next to us (that broke 2 days later) and returned to our unmoving vehicle; it was the first test of everyone's patience as to how long it would take for the jam to cease.

Yoga in 'Summer Hall'

Each of us (surprisingly) arrived in one piece. We jumped out of the car, were greeted by one of the team and assigned our rooms. Luckily (after a bit of re-organisation) I landed myself in the main building, 'Forest Hill' and despite a few dodgy locks, I feel blessed to have a huge double bed and a mountainous view outside my window, just what I'd imagined... We swiftly dropped our stuff and changed into white clothes to join the ceremony just in time- the delirium of our long journeys kicking in.
The fumes of incense twirled around the 40+ new faces and sound waves of chanting resonated all around us, soon to be drowned out by the heavy monsoon rain. A few strands of red string were tied around each of our wrists as a symbol of protection, our commitment to each other & the upcoming month. We ate dinner that night (blissfully unaware of the ´eat in silence´ signs that were taped on the walls) and formed our initial bonds before welcoming our first glorious sleep.

Yoginis

Drying the tomatoes
on our balcony

Alarms shrilled at 6am and the course began... every day has followed an intense structure consisting of 2 hours of morning yoga (that varies in style between Hatha, Ashtanga and Vinyasa), breakfast, Yogic Philosophy, Anatomy, lunch, ´the art of teaching´, yoga therapy, meditation, dinner, bed.
From 7am - 7pm our minds and bodies are imbued with the ancient knowledge (Vedas) and writings (Upanishads) of the Rishis (ancient architects of knowledge from medicine to music). Our bodies are strengthening as we engage in Mahi's therapeutic yoga classes, become accutely intune with our own (mis)allignment in asanas, follow a strict Sattvic diet (mild, vegetarian, Indian food, adoorned with cumin seeds...) and a healthy sleeping pattern. The meditations each day have been an eclectic mix to say the least; from dancing to jibberish, Osho to visualisation techniques and pranayama to Tai Chi - each has been approached by everyone with an open mind and allowed a lot of emotional release.
One common favourite was the dancing meditation that began with 10 minutes of closed-eye 'body shaking' and lead into 40 minutes of spontaneous dancing to the changing beats. Laughs were echoed as 'I'm a survivor' by Destiny's Child transitioned into a fast paced Hindustani tune (and everyone began screwing in their imaginary lightbulbs...)  The windows soon transformed from transparent to a sweaty opaque with everyone's body heat, we finally lay down in Shavasana (corpse pose), closed the practise and stood blissfully in line for dinner that snaked from the yoga hall to the buffet table.
The emotional release from all the self-work has been manifesting itself physically as the numbers in lessons continue to sporadically decrease, yogis retreating to their rooms after falling victim to another cold or tummy bug... Luckily (touch wood) I have remained healthy so far, trying to stay aware of whatever comes up & steer clear of becoming the next protagonist of a Delhi belly story (just as my stomach rumbles :s)...

Lunchtime escapes to
our local waterfall :)

Mmm I can smell a freshly made Masala Chai brewing near me: the spicy aroma of cinnamon, cardammon and cloves, it's like an Indian Christmas... I'm at ´Once in Nature´, a beautiful cafe perched at the edge of a mountain,  about 10 minutes from our Centre. I've been escaping here on my lunch breaks, sauntering up the cobbled path, past the mountain goats and deadlocked babas smoking charas... to sit in silence & indulge in my current book ´The White Tiger´ by Aravind Adiga: a sinister read appropriately set in India.
The other day as I turned another page, there was a moment where I sat back and laughed... the ink had faded at the beginning of all the pages of the book, forcing my mind to pause and figure out the meaning of the sentences... I laughed at the text in front of me and the sounds of my 'quiet escape': loud conversations in Hindi and nearby drumming, not the most relaxing but appropriate background music nevertheless...

Ah, the limitations of time... that's the end of my lunch break today, time to get the books out again.

Message of the day: 
"Nothing can make you suffer without your silent permission"