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Pushkar Pictorial

A few images from the scenic pilgrimage town of Pushkar:

Pascal in Pushkar

Pascal shows up with rice on his forehead

Pascal describes some of his experiences in the holy city of Pushkar:

My new goal in Pushkar, video camera in hand, was to interact with as many people as possible and get some of it on film. I was kind of sick of just doing one overall anonymous scene after another. There are only so many video shots of “oh here’s a marketplace, let’s pan around and see crowds”. I wanted conversation, interaction, something worthwhile.

The going thing at lake Pushkar is to put a flower in the lake. Now, receiving a flower is a nice gift, but really what they’ll do is stay glued to your hip and introduce themselves as a brahmin (priest) who can perform a special lake gift-giving ceremony. All in the name of good karma, of course.

So I went down and thought: I’ll do this ceremony, give them a little something and move on to other things. So the guy sat down by the lake, did the flower and colored powder ceremony, dumped it in the lake and did a bunch of “repeat this hindu scripture after me” routine. Mind you, this guy is wearing blue jeans and a t-shirt and has the ceremony interrupted a few times by the cell phone ringing in his pocket.

So the stuff to repeat is pretty typical at first, Brahm, Shiva, Vishnu, the works. Then it strays a little bit. The last part was in English and said “I promise to give xxx”.
“How much do you want to give? See, Queen Elizabeth (or some such) gave an entire building over there at that ghat. Europeans give Euros, Americans give dollars. Some people give thousands of dollars. But I’m not asking you for that much. What do you feel comfortable giving?”
“I’ve got rupees. I can probably give 100.”
“100?! [incredulous, scandalized look] You Americans are powerful and wealthy. You only come here once. This is your opportunity to get good kharma.”
“Whatever, I’ll decide what I want to give later. Just finish the prayer.”
“You need to promise something. There are 52 ghats, 2000 brahmins here, this is how they eat. 100 rupees times, let’s see, three gods, several people you’re praying for, let’s round it off and make it 1100 rupees.”
“What is this charity anyway? Is it the box?” [the one smack in the middle of the stairs leading down to the lake marked “donations” in big letters]
“No, it’s my friend over here, he’ll take care of it.” [nondescript wooden box on a shopping stand]
“…”
“Look, don’t you trust me?”
“…”
“Ok, tell me how much. I’m not requiring you to promise anything in particular. My blessing will be the same regardless. 1100 is a lucky number.”
“Whatever, it might be more, it might be less. Just finish.”
[Starts doing the “I promise dollars” prayer]
“No.”
[Goes into routine again about powerful Americans, how our money is lost all the time on hotels and food]
“No.”
[angrily washes off plate, finishes off the powders, pulls out a red string bracelet]
“This bracelet is for you. We call it the Pushkar Passport. You must have one before entering the Brahma temple. No one will bother you on the street with flowers if you wear it.”
“I don’t want it.”
“You must have one. Otherwise people will annoy you.”
“I can handle the harassment. Not much different than anywhere else in India.”
“Please take it.”
“I don’t mind being offered flowers all the time.”
“It’s a blessing.”
“I feel blessed already.”
“It’s required for the Brahm temple.”
“Not really.”
[prompts for donation. I put 100 rupees in, consider adding more but don’t feel comfortable. He picks it up and walks off in a huff. I stick around by the lake and enjoy the brief peace and quiet.]

A few minutes later, I’m talking to the helper and he offers the bracelet again. So I figure it’s better to have one and not need it, than need one and not have it. I’ve been experimenting with my sleeves down, someone starts bothering me so I show the Pushkar Passport. Then they exclaim “You know, second ceremony is very very auspicious! Now is a special time to do it, only twenty minutes more possible!”

The whole good-karma rationale is really popular in India and especially in a holy place like Pushkar. Some kid will poke his fat belly, do a hand-quack in front of his mouth and then hold his hand out. Tell them no and you get the “now you have bad karma” follow-up. No rupees for the bearded buy sitting by the entrance? “Bad karma.” I wonder if locals come to a holy place like this and get their karma pummeled.

There is basically one main drag in Pushkar and every shop is on it. Just one long row of clothing, stone, music, book, movie, shoe, aroma, incense, statue and convenience stores. Many visit Pushkar on a spiritual journey and flock to the city on weekends. During the week the streets are almost like a ghost town filled up somewhat by wandering tourists.

One thing to watch out for are the henna dumpers. They start up a conversation, start scribbling henna on your hand. When they’re done, “Usually I charge 900 rupees for this, but because you’re my friend, only 800.” Just for reference, that’s enough for two higher-end double rooms at tourist hotels or 16 restaurant meals.

[Gabriel’s note: Pascal is holding out on the full henna story. Ask him for details.]

Then I met another so-called brahmin. This guy looked more authentic; he had a beard, more body markings and wore ragged clothing.
“You know, Pushkar lake is this way, yes?”
“Right.”
“I am brahmin You come with me and do ceremony by lake?”
“No, I’m good. I did one already.”
[pauses, confused, looks at wrists] “But you have no Pushkar Passport.”
[I pull the string out of my pocket and show it to him.] “Yesterday.”
“Ah. I see.” [brief pause] “You want hash? I know a house down the road…”
“No.”

These obnoxious experiences were outnumbered by the good ones though. I found a small shop owner who knew many of the locals passing by, had a genuine smile for everyone, worked with his aunt and had some fun comments to share. He offered tea and never once asked for money or purchasing anything.

There was a young kid from the desert whose business involved playing a local instrument for tourists. His family had recorded an album CD and along with more of the locals they had gotten a DVD made by a Spanish company. Not pushy, good personality, I ended up giving him something for his efforts.

The parcel post shop owner was also nice, and showed some of the many packages he had sent over the months. There were 50 – 150 kg packages of products heading to Spain, America, England and so on. The aroma shop owner and his brother, the men playing cards on the side of the road. Many wonderful people.

So, at the end of the day, I got what I wanted. Plenty of conversations, interactions, interesting people and local culture. A few less rupees. And a few great video clips.

Shekhawati

In the northeast part of Rajasthan lies the region known as Shekhawati. A harsh, forbidding land: barren desert, with virtually no annual rainfall, and temperature extremes from below freezing in the winter to over 120 degrees Fahrenheit (50 Celsius) in the summer.

And yet.

In spite of, or perhaps because of the harsh land, the Shekhawati region is home to some of the finest business minds in India. Shekhawats have over the ages prospered via trade, and even in emigration to other parts of the country soon rise to the top of the entrepreneurial landscape. In Shekhawati, such business prosperity led to much building of forts (over 50 in this small region) and scores of palatial mansions (havelis).

Historically, Shekhawati is at the heart of the ancient Vedic civilization, and it is said that the Vedas were written in this land. In the story of the Mahabharata, it is said that the Pandavas (the 5 brothers of whom the famous Arjuna is one) spent one year here in anonymity after their twelve years exile in the forest.

We sojourned in Nawalgarh, one of the most interesting small towns of the Shekhawati region.

Undead Rats

It’s Friday the 13th, the perfect day for some images from inside the haunting Karni Mata temple (a.k.a. the Rat Temple).

Creepy as the images may be, walking inside the temple, strewn with food offerings, rotten and rotting food, rat excrement, rat blood and general filth was an experience. Even after an hour of photography, I could not get fully used to the overpowering thickness of the stench, and it took a significant time to regain any sort of appetite.

Most challenging of all, shoes are not allowed inside the temple, and the rats are not afraid of people. Having rats scurry over your feet is considered auspicious, so if that is true there are certainly some good things coming my way.

In the meantime, here are the rats.

The Rat Temple of Karni Mata

In the small town of Deshnok, in northern Rajasthan near the city of Bikaner, there is a temple where rats are worshipped. Live rats. Thousands of live rats.

How did this happen?

Karni Mata was a female sage who lived in Rajasthan to the ripe old age of 151. Hailed as an incarnation of the goddess Durga at age six in 1393, Karni Mata was revered even by the maharajas of her time, and it was she who laid the cornerstone of the forts of Jodhpur (1457) and Bikaner (1485) at their request.

In 1463 her stepson drowned, and Karni Mata implored Yama, the god of death, to bring him back to life. Yama refused, stating that he had already been reincarnated as a rat. Instead, he agreed that all of her male descendants would be reincarnated as rats, but that once they gave up their rat life they would be born again as human beings in a family of Depavats. (Another version of the story has it that it was Karni Mata who, angered by Yama’s refusal, vowed that all her family members would instantly be reincarnated as rats and then back as humans in order that they spend no time in Yama’s kingdom.)

Either way, the rats are revered and looked after in the rat temple specifically designed for them by priests who come from one of the 513 Depavat families in the region. Pilgrims bring the rats offerings of food, and it is considered quite auspicious to have one run across your feet, to have one eat from your hand, or to eat from the same food that the rats have already started nibbling on (i.e. sharing a meal). White rats are considered particularly lucky, but are quite rare.

The temple is home to some 20,000 rats, and sees likely that many or more pilgrims every year.

Desert City

Once a city prosperous with trading caravans plying the route from Central Asia to India, the bloody divorce between India and the new country of Pakistan ended the flow and almost relegated Jaisalmer to a slow, dry oblivion.

Instead, it has reinvented itself as a supply depot for the Indian army (and we saw no shortage of Indian jet fighters plying the skies of India’s border with Pakistan), as well as a major tourist destination in Rajasthan, the fort and camel safaris into the desert the primary draws.

Some images from the small (78,000 people), hot, dry, dusty town of Jaisalmer.

On the Western Fringes

Jaisalmer sits on the western edge of India, and it truly does feel like you’ve reached the end of civilization. A massive medieval fort, of course (one of the few that is still inhabited and within whose walls thousands of people live), surrounded by parched sand-colored dwellings and then the vast expanse of the forbidding Thar Desert. From here on out, it’s camel territory.

The following images were all taken from within the Jaisalmer fort.

Sleepless Sleepers

AC 3-Tier Wagon -- includes pillows, sheets and blankets

Pascal describes some of our overnight train travels:

There are several classes of train wagons in India. We took a lot of overnight cars and alternated between 3AC and Sleeper class. The AC stands for Air Conditioning, which is worthless at this time of the year because it’s too cold. Theoretically, then, the only difference between them is that in 3AC you get two clean sheets and a blanket while in sleeper class you don’t. The windows are replaced by bars and blinds rather than glass panes.

We started off with two overnight 14-hour 3AC train cars on our way west from Calcutta. They were mostly comfortable. As we made our way into Rajasthan, however, there were trains that only had Sleeper cars. So we ended up on a couple of those.

First of all, the trains were six hour rides instead of fourteen, which made for miserably short nights of getting on the train at 10 pm and having to fish in the dark for a hotel at 4 am. Navigating hordes of aggressive auto-rickshaw drivers was bad enough during the day, let alone in the middle of the night, tired, groggy and with a temper.

On the train, I had my travel bags with me on the bunk to avoid having anything stolen. Now, this is in a sardine-sized 5’5″ by 2′ by 2′ space that wasn’t long enough to lie down straight on, and this was in no way improved with the bags which I stuffed under my legs.

When the train started moving, I discovered that the lack of a real window meant a constant breeze of cold air coming through the wooden blinds. For this trip I hadn’t packed much heavy gear: no decent cold weather jacket or wool socks. So I left my shoes on and threw on my thin sweater and a cheap rain jacket. The breeze still crept in and made me cold and miserable.

After a few hours, I found myself still cold, my lower back hurt, the train was jolting from side to side and I needed to hit the toilet. The toilets are nasty, stinky holes in the floor. When I got back, another dilemna: take my shoes off and let my feet freeze? Or keep them on and have the toilet juice on the bottom of the shoes touch my bags and bunk? Comfort trumped cleanliness and I put my feet as far away from my bags as possible.

That’s the kind of experience that makes a person really grateful for a normal night in an Indian hotel. The wafer-thin mattress, lack of sheets, grungy blanket and tiny space are blessings of peaceful rest compared to the train experience. The bed does not move all over the place, it is long enough to lie down on, the bags are safely on the ground, no one will walk by and there is no panicked wake-up thinking: “Where am I? Who speaks English around here? Where’s my bag? Did I miss my stop?”

Ultimately, the convenience of overnight train travel was more important than sleeping comforts, especially given the number of destinations we wanted to visit in a relatively short time frame. We couldn’t possibly do them all if we had to travel during the day. So a few rough nights just built up our travel tolerance, and each day brought forth a new city, new scenery and new sights before heading out on the next night train.

The Region of Death?

The city and surrounding area used to be known as Marwar, which means “the region of death.” Perhaps because of the forbidding desert. Perhaps because of its fearsome Rajput inhabitants.

On the hill perched above the city remains one of the largest and most impressive forts in India, the Mehrangarh Fort. Its massive walls are up to 116 feet (36m) high and 69 feet (21m) thick.

To ensure good blessings, a man was buried alive in the foundations. In exchange, his family still lives in an estate bequeathed to them by the maharaja almost 600 years ago. Right or not, it seems to have worked: the fort has never been militarily conquered.

Today, the city of Mahrwar is known as Jodhpur, the second largest in Rajasthan. We spent a day wandering its winding streets.

How to Make Zombies

The sleeper bus was a big mistake.

It didn’t leave on time. We waited for an hour on the street outside the bus agency, one eye permanently fixed on our bags and another on the comings and goings of random Indians. Who is this guy? Is he taking us to our bus? Where is the bus, anyway? Is there a bus?

Eventually, the right Indian showed up. Our bus driver, he said. So we followed him in Udaipur’s city streets at night, a gaggle of travelers bulked up with travel bags and packs, following the driver down streets and intersections like little ducklings waddling after their mother. Through roundabouts, under dark bridges and overpasses, past cows and strange shapes in the dark.

Indian sleeper buses are a mixture of reclining seats the whole length of the bus, plus glassed off compartments above them where your luggage racks normally would be: the “sleeper” berths. At the very back of the bus, Pascal and I found our double berth and heaved ourselves and various bags into its cramped quarters. It was hot, with flies buzzing aggressively, eager to drink the sweat from your eyeballs.

When we closed the glass partition, the sleeper berth felt like an aquarium, we the fish. Ah, but that was the least of our worries.

As soon as the bus started, I knew we were in trouble. No suspension. The bus could have had rickety wooden wheels and it wouldn’t have made a lick of difference. Every little road bump and pebble rattled our cage, and I deeply suspect that the road was last paved prior to WWII. Then bombed.

I immediately started feeling nauseous. Between the constant rattling, the back and forth swaying, and the rapid turns as the driver avoided God knows what calamity, my senses revolted. And I’m not one to normally get queasy. I shouldn’t have had an omelet for dinner. Oh no, don’t think about eggs.

So for the first hour I sat, trying to quell my stomach and praying that I wouldn’t lose it. Maybe that’s why they have the glass partition, I thought. To protect the other passengers.

Eventually, I successfully burped my way out of danger, and lay down to sleep. Hahahaha. Sleep, what a quaint concept.

Lying on my back, some of the jolts were strong enough to launch me into the air and slam me back down, knocking the wind out of me. On my side, using my camera bag as a pillow as I’ve successfully done on all the overnight train journeys (the soft mesh padding on the back is remarkably comfortable), I once landed so hard on it that I heard my neck crack. Free chiropractic adjustment. I put the camera bag away in the cubbyhole above with my other bag and shoes to avoid permanent spinal damage.

Sleep did not come. The rattling. The bumping. The flying up and slamming down. At one point I brushed against Pascal so hard that he now has a welt on his forearm.

Sleep did not come, but the occasional coma did. Or perhaps passing out from the concussionary effects of the ride. Brief moments of non-restful non-wakefulness.

At one point in the night, a hard bounce sent my backpack flying down from the cubbyhole to smash into my face. Bloody hurt. But I was so out of it that I simply groaned and pushed it to the side.

Later, Pascal’s shoe did the same and landed in my face. Right across my cheek and nose. This time I muttered an obscenity before flinging it down further into our miserable rattling cage.

I remember that Pascal, after a particularly hard slam that knocked the wind severely out of our lungs, asked: “are you sleeping?”

Without saying a word, I started laughing. I couldn’t resist. He started laughing. We broke down into hysterical peals of laughter, interrupted only by the rolling and jerking of the bus. The very thought that either of us could somehow sleep through this jackhammer of a ride was simply too absurd. There were tears rolling down my eyes.

At 5am in Jodhpur, they knocked on our aquarium glass to let us know we had arrived. Dizzy, disoriented, bleary-eyed, we made our way, zombie-like, into another city.