Krishna comes with us

So I pack a couple of saris and ran down to hop on the jeep to take us to the station to take us to puri. I wasn't exactly sure if I would go to puri with the crew after only meeting them for 5 minutes--I thought of calling up a friend to take with me but was scared to delay things. I figured if I don't miss the jeep, and it doesn't leave too late for the train, I might as well go. I crossed the jeep-less dirt road to the newly-constructed brahmacharini ashram where the frantic girl was staying--actually her name is Sudevi Sundari--we'll call her SS. After many a cellphone call and a couple of cellphone yells by one of the Russians accompanying us, we gave up on the jeep we were waiting for--for about an hour and called a new one--actually a couple just in case. The prudent time to leave would be at least 2:30, but at 3:20 two jeeps bobbed down the bumpy road to whisk us off. At that moment, my excellently adventurous friend Lalita strolls down with her bicycle in hand. After a quick hug, I scream "we're going to puri, we have free tickets, hop on right now, you can wear my clothes!" "sure I'll come to puri with you, but I have to lock my house. 10 minutes"
and then she was off on her cycle, her hair trailing in the wind.
after complications with the other woman we were meant to pick up, Lalita arrives on a rickshaw like a classic hippie, with a big backpacker-backpack, holding a guitar. after scrambling in to the back of the TATA sumo (the favorite indian SUV) we were finally trailing off to Howrah station at 3:40 pm.

The departure of the Jagannath express to Puri is 7:00 pm nightly. Travellers should arrive at the train station at least 30 minutes before departure and the time to reach Calcutta is usually a minimum of 4 hours. If you want me to save you the math, we should have left AT LEAST at 2:30 if we intended to reach the train.

On our 50-minute late journey, we encountered one of those notorious indian railway track road blocks that delayed us another 15 minutes. To make matters worse, the truck at the front of the line had broken down and we were stuck behind it as traffic squeezed pass it coming the other way. Growing increasingly restless, one of the brahmacharinis rushed into the middle of the road and started directing traffic to let us through. This task was not difficult, as the other truck drivers were more than happy to watch the tall white skinned Indian-dressed woman taking charge of vehicular motion.

With the lorrys and ambassadors out of the way, we swifted down the road once again, reaching north Calcutta at 6:15. "Sorry girls, we won't make the train" proclaimed Lalita, matter-of-factly "It's simply not possible. To reach Howrah from here takes minimum one hour." Nonetheless, we prayed desperately to Jagannath. Lalita noticed a couple of His pictures on the way. It must be a sign.

At 6:55, we had reached the end of Howrah bridge. The jeep was in frantic exasperation, come one... come on...

The moment we reached the front of Howrah station, I threw open the back of the jeep door and jumped out into the middle of the taxi-jam. as traffic started moving again, I ran after the jeep, with barefoot lalita next to me, escaping the following taxi. As traffic clogged again, the rest of the brahmacharinis jumped out and grabbed their luggage from the roof of the Tata sumo and ran through the traffic into the station. Huge red digits shone over us-- 7:00. I glimpsed our train on platform 17. We ran through our own traffic jam, elbowing passers-by, running over toes, shoving away koolies. Hundreds of eyes ogled as 5 sari-clad foreign women ran down the platform carrying large rolly-bags and laughing hysterically. We scrambled on to our compartment, still guffawing away.
The train glided at 7:01

Jay Jagannath!

Krishna is everywhere

The adventures of the 19th, 20th and 21st of November, 2007.

I have nothing much to do here in Mayapur. I wonder around a bit, wondering about what to do, and during my wondering on the 19th of November, an adventure hit me in the face and swept me off my feet.
I was walking on the gravelly road disecting the housing complex in mayapur, and I noticed a moderately stressed out american performing a curious combination of bustling purposely and wondering aimlessly with that particular flavor of having somewhere important to go and not knowing how to get there. I stopped to help her and she blurted the story of her day--
"I'm going to puri and the car's not here and I have to pick up this girl before we go and she's waiting for us and I don't know how to tell her we're late and I hope we catch the train and I don't know how to get a new car and we have two extra tickets and you can come if you want."

Sure! I'd been wanting to go to puri and now the oppurtunity was in front of me.

to be continued....

Shaved up in simhacalam

You've probably seen the photo by now; you are one of thousands who have seen me shaved up.

How? Why? When? What do I mean?

Here's the story:

The first day I went to Simhacalam, I wanted to meet the executive officer of the Simhacalam temple to ask him if he could help me meet some of the important pujaris and persons knowledgeable about the temple for my research. He was busy that day, with the hair auction, where the temple auctions off the hair that is cut from pious paap-reducing pilgrims. Like Tirupati, Simhacalam also has the facility and tradition for people to shave off their sins and letting their tresses of beauty fall for the Lord. Not only do they offer their beauty and piety, but they also offer an amount of money, as the hair is sold to companies that export the money to wig manufacturing companies across the globe. The two year lease for the hair sold for 5 crore, 1 lakh, 16 thousand rupees, the equivalent of around 1.3 million dollars. I took it as a sign: I had been unsure whether to shave my head and now I was going to do it.

As I was waiting for the Executive Officer, the local media caught me, curious what a sari-clad white woman was doing at the auction. At first they thought I was a bidder--a foreign company coming to buy the hair, but I explained I was a student coming to research Narasimha. This had them even more interested, and they took my photo and a small interview for the newspapers. The next day, to my surprise, my color photo appeared on the middle of page three of the Andhra-wide Telugu daily. I joked with a friend: "If I had have shaved my head yesterday, I would have made it on National television :-)"

The next day I returned to Simhachalam, this time to stay a few days. To my surprise, several reporters with large video equipment had seen me in the paper and arrived to make a further interview. They asked to video me surveying the temple, taking photos, and "do what I do" as a researcher. We strolled around to a building where the pilgrims offer their hair and since I was planning on shaving up, I suggested we skip the building: I was planning to go later. It would be more sensible to do the TV interview with a head of hair. Somehow they did not understand my english quite clearly, or I think they simply did not dream that I was actually planning to shave up and they urged me to go inside. "Yes, this is where people get tonsored" (Tonsor? must be some indian-english word) "Yes, I understand, I also want to shave my hair." "Just you see this building for tonsoring." "Yes, I will see it later. Better TV show with hair, no?" "You just come inside, People, they tonsor." okay. no use arguing.

So I bought a 5 rupee ticket and walked in. It was very quiet. Now, at siesta time, no one had come to shave up before their darshan. They told me to sit in front of one professional razorer, who ritually cut three strands of hair from my head. "Shave everything" I told him. I figured since I was sitting right there, better to do it now than later. The TV crew were quite surprised and gathered for a good angle.

The next day my shaved scalp shone on the front page of the Andhra Telugu daily newspaper. And I made it on national television! My slowed down, indian-flavored accent was broadcast on TV9--most popular telugu news channel.

I'm officially famous. I met some people who knew my name, and I hear "research" and "simhacalam" and "america" when I walk by. Not to mentions staring stubbornly--even if I stare back there is no difference. Some point and some laugh and some even bring their friends to see the fun. I have to remember to keep my bald head high and dry while I walk by.

I actually don't really enjoy the fame. I always wanted to be famous, but now I realize that there is so much responsibility with it, to keep up with the image, and to fulfil people's expectations. And it's very lonely, but I can never be alone. No one can understand, I am radically different from everyone, but I can never be by myself. I can never be invisible, left alone, an anonymous observer, unnoticed, and un-wondered about. I'm always in the spot light, verily a spot of light :-) and my role as "researcher" is ironically an observer of my audience.

Observer or Observed?

love, Nila

Simhacalam

Dear All,

It's been a while since I last posted this site, and I hope you enjoy this piece of my life.

I am in South India, in the hilly and forested state of Andhra Pradesh, home to excellent idlis and eloquent telugu. The writing, the hair and the smiles are full of curls and swirls, and people welcome guests like demigods. As a guest, this state has hosted me like a goddess, I have stayed in houses where of aquaintances I hardly know and been served hand and foot with smile and cheer.

Recently I went to the the most popular temple of Simhacalam, an elaborate temple at the top of a hill. Here is a poem of the temple:

Twilight in Simhacalam

Gathering clouds darken the dusky sky.
The wailing winds scatter people into their houses.
I run up the stone steps; the first few rain drops splash.

The fight begins.
Lightening flashes.
Hiranyakashipu's sword cracks open the columned clouds.

The sky heaves,
Thunder cracks a lions roar.
An army of rain bullets the mountain.

Within the hilltop temple, the evening puja sounds.
Drums and shennai boom and wail.
A Brahmana offers a flaming ghee lamp to the lord.

I sit and write braced
by the black stone
dimpled from centuries of rain

Camphor pellets illuminate and perfume
the sheltered perimeter of the temple
silhouetting Laxmi Devi's palanquin
carried in tumultuous procession.

Brahmanas with bold tilak and large gold earrings follow,
chanting mantras and offering pujas at the corners of the temple.

White lightning shivers distantly.
The black sky rumbles deeply.
The sky slowly calms.

jay jagannath!



the wind calls me closer as i stand against the roaring wind, watching the fishermen get ready for a turbulent onset into the ocean. those same fishermen once pulled an unlikely cargo from the depths--a golden body emerged, not realising His surroundings, having already drowned in krishna prema.













I arrived in puri 2 days after Ratha Yatra, not knowing what to expect, as the Rath was already over. I came on an adventure, on a journey--literally yatra in bengali and sanskrit. Even though I knew I would not be here for the ulta rath, where Jagannath&co. go back to Their temple, this journey has been worth it.


The day that I arrived, after swimming very briefly in the violent sea, getting drenched in the downpoar, and taking a third bath in the hotel, I ventured to the Gundica mandir for my chance to see the Lords. Although Gundica Mandir also does not like foreigners inside the temple, Jagannath had not yet entered!



Standing in front of Jagan Nath,
looking at everyone coming to see
He Who has come to see them
at the end of his path.


Why is His name Jagan Nath?
Lord of the Universe, yet hidden
in a fishing town in Orrisa.


His form is ecstasy, drowning in love of Radha.
Krishna outside. Radha inside.




Why did Caitanya come to this village?
Crown Jewel of avatars, yet hidden
in a fishing town in Orrisa.


His form is ecstasy, drowning in love of Krishna.
Radha outside. Krishna inside.



The Lord of the Universe
The Crown Jewel of avatars
Embracing the whole world
Swimming in intimate emotions
from a village by the ocean.




I remember a time when Radhanath Swami came to Alachua and told a story where he and Gauranga Kishor got a chance to embrace the form of Jagannath. Shivers went through my body. I got the chance to bury my head at the feet of Jagannath this time. For once I am happy for bribable pandas, for I mounted the foreigner-forbidden cart and dive to the feet of the Lord of the Universe. Subhadra Maharani allowed me onto Her cart also, and although I did not embrace Her, I saw her very close. I did not get a chance onto Lord Balaram's Cart, but I did get nice darshan of Him:

One fine sunny Sunday, as the sun gently retreats into the late afternoon, I sit at my desk examining my vocab list. I look up from my desk, it is only 4:30 but something tells me I am done with sedentary studying. I decide to go on a follow-the-breeze venture, out of my room, out of the gates to the property, out down the road down a little alleyway, a left down a littler alleyway, a right on a small street where boys play tag. “Are dustu chele” I call out to the little giggling four-year-old boys as they run after each other. They stop and stare a couple of seconds as they compute the fact that a white girl has called them naughty boys in Bengali. I run after them and giggle along as they strategically defeat me by running in different directions. I am already glad that I left the house. Something is right in the air.
I turn around a bend and see a group of women sitting together. Mehendi? I wonder and glance over at their late-afternoon activity, which ends up to be sorting rice (chaal baachaano) I stroll a little longer and peek inside a small store stacked with newspapers. Two women are sitting inside, and lo, one is applying mehendi on the other. Something in the air drew me in this direction. “Looks great,” I comment to them, “Some day you want to do some on my hands?” “Sure,” she says “sit here” Wow. That was easy. She beckons my left hand forward and smears it with a sweet smelling oil—I still don’t know what it was. While she was applying mehendi, I got to know that the two women are sisters and that the sister having her hand decorated (shown in the below photo) was having an anna prasan the next day-the festival every child has commemorating their first solid food. Her expression in this photo is token to her enthusiastic sense of humor by which we became friends withing minutes. When I congratulated her on her good fortune of having a son, she says,"Boys? Who would want boys? All men do is eat, sleep and chew paan, it's we women who do all the work." Later she confirmed that luckily her husband was a good man who worked hard. Nonetheless, her jokes led to an ongoing friendship, indeed I am leaving the computer soon to see her family

Dear Friends, Family, and Fans;
I hereby present you with a personal newsletter of my journey in the land of mystical rivers that sometimes appear to fall from the sky. Calcutta, the city that has sheltered me for the last three weeks, has had torrents of rain for the past four days. A large portion of the city was floating in sometimes more than waist-high water--though not so mystical when mixed with city sludge.

Enough of the rivers from the sky; I must explain to you the name of my Blog. It was the first thing I thought of, and it brings together three themes. Firstly, this blog is a way for you all to venture on this journey along with me, just like fans sing a song along with the singer. It is there for a sing-a-long, but since it's a log, it's a sing-a-log. That fact is pretty obvious. Secondly, the theme of singing is not random; one of my future topics of research will be Bengali devotional singing, and for this reason I am in Calcutta refining my Bengali. Thirdly, sing-a is a sort of English pronunciation of Simha, which means lion in Sanskrit, and is the theme of the latter part of this journey, on Nrsimhadev.
So, singing and logging, I present to you my journey.
Nila.