EUNOIA

EUNOIA

EUNOIA

PRISONER ON TRAIN

Boarding the train at eleven pm means finding your compartment is a little more difficult. The 12313 Sealdah Rajdhani originated in Calcutta. I have a berth in carriage A1, a two tier aircon sleeper, and the porter has positioned me on the platform where the carriage will stop. Gaya is a busy railway station with trains pulling in every fifteen minutes. The station is alive with passengers waiting to alight trains with food sellers and chaiwalas plying their selection to those waiting and as trains stop. I wait, seated with luggage under a stairway, on the steel girder. Knees around chest, it is so low to the ground, hundreds of interested mosquitos buzzing around looking for a purchase. I position myself with the current novel I am reading perched open on the bags.

Platform One receives all the trains running towards Delhi. There are three Rajdhani trains in a row, starting in various locations, passing through Gaya. From here to Delhi these superfast trains only make four stops. Two trains have come and gone, thinning the people waiting for the 12313. The porters know their stuff, I have come to trust that, though the last two trains, carriage A1, passed by and there was a scramble by those waiting. My train pulls into the station slowly coming to a halt and directly in front of the carriage. Only one door of A1 is open and furthest away from my berth, seat seven. This doesn't please the porter either as he struggles with my bag. Every one has retired. The curtains are drawn the night lights on. The aisle becomes even more compressed like this. I noted, as the train pulled up, that I was at the emergency window which makes it easier to locate. 

It is impossible not to disturb those behind the drawn curtains as light floods in. Three bodies stir as I try and stuff my bag under the seat. There is little room left, like on an airline if you are last on, overhead is full. It took a little effort but managed. I paid the porter, who wanted to argue the price, but I dismissed him. A fair price was paid and he knew. 'Hello' a voice says from the top bunk. I respond to the face poking out of the white sheet. Some natter between them saying they couldn't sleep and two get up for a toilet stop, allowing me to arrange myself. Making the bed is first priority. Tucking the bottom sheet in ensures that it is still there in the morning and not a snake up against the wall. It is warm inside and the blanket would be overkill. Shoes off, valuables form the under layer of the pillow for the night, belt off, shirt hanging and ready for bed. I wish I could drift off to sleep immediately but expect the ticket inspector. A head pokes in and it is the carriage attendant wanting to know what I wanted for breakfast, veg or non veg. That means bread and veg cutlet or bread and omelette, with tea. I start to read using the night light hoping the light spill is not too disturbing. It seems my compartment companions have drifted off to sleep and after twenty minutes so do I. No sign of the inspector.

The train speeds up as I start to doze off trying to find the best position, when the train lurches, and I slip forward on the seat, decision made. Face forward. The movement and noise of the train is a lullaby, a steady rhythm, somnus.

Talking and foot traffic suggests morning. My compartment companions awake nattering away. I locate my face washer to liven my face, before greeting them. Three women, I learn they are second and third generation Chinese having migrated to Chennai. Sisters plus mother and daughter. There is a language mix in speaking between three languages, English, Hindi and I assume Bengali. Across in the aisle seats are a mother and son from Delhi. All try hard to persuade the attendant to bring chai but he has a time line. It finally arrives with breakfast as a thermos of hot water, a tea bag and a sachet of whitener. The rest of the breakfast is equally sad. The most exciting thing is tomato sauce on white bread. Luckily we are all carrying food. This leads us onto a discussion of tea especially Darjeerling, green and white and opens up conversation.  Mother and daughter now live in Toronto and are visiting the family in Calcutta. This journey is at the request of the daughter who is at uni. She wants to see the Taj Mahal, so a cross country train ride for a three day visit in Agra before a return by train. 

Many topics are covered in the hours before disembarking in Delhi. The most interesting is about a prisoner transport. At the locked end of the carriage are four uniformed and countless plain clothes officers with one cuffed and chained prisoner. The Canadians were quite concerned explaining this is why they found it hard to sleep last night. When the prisoner was delivered to the train he stared all the passengers down passing through the compartment. There was much to and fro with the officers until curiosity was roused and the daughter and aunt went down to have a closer look at the set up. They returned about half an hour later having been invited to sit and chat with the prisoner by the chief detective. They heard his story.

He was being extradited to Delhi from Bihar where he had been apprehended after escaping from his previous incarceration some time prior. His name was Manoj and apparently he is quite famous. A jewel thief, he posed as domestic help for two years in a family, learning all of the secrets before robbing them. He reportedly managed to get away with fifty three lakh rupees 

( Rs 5300000 ) worth of jewellery. He had a young accomplice who had only been employed as domestic help for ten days and still on the run. 

Manoj explained that he had two wives and seven children, marrying his second young, beautiful wife, recently. Whilst Moslems can marry up to three times it is not law here for Hindus. He was caught because his wife wore some of the jewellery to a wedding and pictures were taken. In the world of increasingly shrinking digital 'degrees of separation' the photographs were seen by someone who recognised the jewellery and that path lead to the thief. He surrendered and confessed but the Police cannot locate the jewels or the funds except for Rs8 lakh. He boasts of having a fortune from previous robberies. A clever man, no doubt, has divided the wealth amongst the family, with little to seize in his name. 

I am told that the Police gave him the keys to the cuffs. They want him to run so they can shoot him. He sits, holding the keys, in the compartment, patient in the knowledge that he will likely get off through the cumbersome legal system and the wealth he has behind him. An unassuming looking man, he knows time is on his side. He will play the game and as he is not a violent offender, with no one physically injured through his escapades. He is confident. 

The remainder of the journey is about the North Eastern States and how beautiful they are. I am encouraged visit. The train arrives half an hour late, close to eleven am, at New Delhi Railway Station. This is perfect timing for me to check into my hotel in Paharganj. 

EUNOIA

CHILD MARRIAGE

The driver, Shyam,  a young man, looked a teenager, yet was twenty two. He studied until matriculation and now had a steady job as a driver and good at it he was.

He has a daughter, eighteen months old. Nothing remarkable until learning he was married at fourteen. His bride was twelve. Child marriage has been frowned on in India for many years yet it still happens. Bihar has the highest rate of childhood marriage with a recent UNICEF report citing it sitting at 67%. The classification is marriage under eighteen. 

Bihar is a 'poor State' in relative comparison to most. Interestingly it also has some of the highest taxes and is reportedly one of the most corrupt. The Naxalites still have strong presence here and people don't venture too far of an evening for fear of being robbed. In Bodhgaya itself there is the presence of many police and military personnel.

Whilst it is viewed as a human rights violation impoverished conditions encourage continuation of the practise. Especially for the families with a daughter as the dowry is cheaper and should there be more, then the tradition of dowry, or 'gifts' to the grooms family, can drain the finances and place the family in a big debt spiral. This does not excuse the practise just places it in a perspective.

In this case the newly wed groom and bride continued to live in their respective family homes until the bride was eighteen when she moved into Shyam's family home. What impact it had on her for six years I do not know.  

I asked him if he was happy and he beamed with pride and broke out a big smile showing me a pic of his child.

Two sides to every story. Personal cultural perspective and life privilege colour vision. In a country where arranged marriages are still the cultural norm and female education qualifications add to marriage eligibility, the female continues to be objectified. 

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Naxalite

MUSIC

Beautiful music is welcoming, walking off the busy intersection, where cars, motor bikes, push bikes, petrol and battery operated rickshaws plus the odd huge bus earn right of way.  The busiest intersection in Bodhgaya leads toward the pedestrian only esplanade of the Mahabodhi Temple Complex.

'Knock off' brightly coloured croc shoes, compete with knitted warmer footwear for attention, yet nothing beats the peacock feather fans of various sizes. The seller is skilled at getting the highest price from the Asian tourists. They are beautiful constructions of pattern exploiting those found on the peacock feathers. Some are very tightly woven using many feathers and others are quite open just using a concentric pattern. The life span of the feathers is limited but right now the luminescence shines. 

Just outside the complex, a sprawling banyan tree shades a simple amphitheatre seating space which attracts a band of urchins ranging in size from three to ten. It is obvious that elder brothers have been entrusted with younger as they wrestle and play before spotting me and descend wanting to know what I am doing and where I am from. It takes about two minutes before I am draped in boys all vying for attention. One of the older boys takes charge and some order is brought to bear as each tells me his name and what class he attends. The younger ones are dismissed with a wave of the hand, ' not at school '. Three police, carrying a flexible lathi each, make their way over to see what is happening and just stop and listen.

The music continues over all the competing sounds. It emanates, surprisingly, from a row of beggars. Seated in a line, with stainless steel bowls in front of crossed legs, it is a double take that makes me realise that most are blind. Visually they look bedraggled, draped in well worn clothes in need of attention. All are male, the youngest looks twenties, it is difficult to guess the eldest. 

The tabla player provides the tempo for the combined vocal choir of sweet song. I recognise bhagans, religious songs and ragas. An audience gathers, equally attracted to vocal beauty, as the ten buskers harmonise in song. This set over, there is no applause; appreciation is shown through kindness, whether coin, note or food. Personal situation has provided stimulus and allowed a dignity of contributing productively to the lives of others. 

EUNOIA

METTA BUDDHARAM TEMPLE

In Bodhgaya there is such a variety of Buddhist Temple. Some extremely elaborate, others simple. None rival the sheer size and impressive towering structure of the Mahadobhi Temple though one stands out as being a tribute to post modern materials and thinking.

The Thai Metta Buddharam Temple occupies a small parcel of land in comparison to other temples in Bodhgaya but it makes a visual statement standing it apart. What strikes you first is that it gleams in the light. A closer inspection reveals this temple, still under construction, has an outer shell of stainless steel and decorative mosaic using mirrors. It incorporates a stylised Thai Temple style. The simplicity and lack of colour makes you look closely at the structure and the detail. Roof tiles are pressed stainless steel, the interior is sheeted stainless steel. The main temple floor though is wood to maintain warmth in the winter and in itself is a feature. The stairs and walkway around this level have inlaid repeated patterns made with various sized semi precious stones forming a flower shape.

Below the temple is the marble floored meditation room offering coolness in the summer heat. This lower level is elaborately decorated with relief sculptures, hand made, from a mixture of white cement, clay and epoxy. The craftsman is from Thailand as this style is quite different in technique. The completed alcoves are protected behind acrylic sheet as the work is very delicate depicting scenes of Buddha, with peacocks, flowers and patterns flowing around the frame. The remaining space is utilitarian and future accommodation.

The path leading to the temple has been elaborately sculpted, in ribbed lines, to represent the flow and eddies of water (large and small concentric circles), surrounding islands of tufted grass. Underfoot you receive a gentle massage and then rest on the closely cropped soft green grass. Walking up the stairs the concrete flow is bordered either side by undulating white dragons with mirror inlay. Further structures are covered in small mirror tiles, reflecting light and colour, the forms faceted and changed from the original. 

This temple makes a statement in aesthetic simplicity that still boasts elaborate decorative features that do not overpower the architectural form. 

EUNOIA

SARASWATI PUJA

Passing by, carried on a flat tray, atop a three wheeler vehicle is a covered statue with several young men squatting and supporting it on its' journey.  This is not a singular sight. Idols have been passing by all day. I recognise the statue as Saraswati and learn that it is day one of three for the Saraswati Puja.

Along the side of the road, in makeshift open studios, a mass production of statue has been occurring since I have been in the area. Crafted from straw, string and mud clay, the elaborate creations have been progressively constructed. Sitting between three and six feet high, they are skilfully created in stages. The inner reinforcing is shaped using spliced bamboo, rice straw, tied with string to structure the basic form. Layers of muddy clay are added refining the form and allowed to dry between coats. The sculptor has orders to fill with as many as twenty underway at the same time. 

Day by day the form is refined until the last to be added are the fingers in the open facing palm. This is the gesture of bestowing blessings. Sun dried the idols are whitewashed and ready for decoration. This is an elaborate process and is exacting. By sculptures end this idol is temple worthy invested with character, symbolism and faith. She will be worshipped and then ritually destroyed.

Saraswati is the Hindu goddess of knowledge, music, arts, wisdom and learning.  She is one of the three main Hindu goddesses with Lakshmi and Parvati who partner the three main gods, Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva, to create, maintain, regenerate and recycle the Universe according to scripture.

Saraswati is depicted sitting on a lotus dressed in white, the symbol of purity. This also represents knowledge and truth. Often there is a swan at her feet - the symbol for discrimination, being able to discern truth from illusion or falsehood.

Indians love colour and these idols and heavily garlanded in marigold, draped with tinselled edged  coloured cloth and beautifully painted. Their life is three days after removal from the studio. Lovingly transported they end up in homes, temples and makeshift temples in schools and institutions. The timing of the Puja coincides with spring and the flowering of mustard which often dominates the horizon with vibrant green and golden yellow.

This Puja is important for student who prayer for the qualities this goddess is attributed, mainly knowledge, therefore good results in studies. As a part of their preparation students clean and organise their study materials, books, notes, writing equipment and now-days probably electronic files. On this day they do not study. During the Puja they lay before the idol's feet, notes and texts in the hope that their future will be blessed with success.

Invested with prayer and the hopes of many Saraswati is ceremoniously taken to the closest source of water, be it river or pond, and offered to the waters. The corporeal image is taken by the water, a purification, as it breaks down, ultimately returning to the original elements. The imbued energy released. 

In writing this I have counted twelve Saraswati Idols being transported followed by a small group of boys and young men, chanting, moving the hope of their potential future life success, lovingly, devotedly along the street. Not to be confused by the unfortunate soul who left the body today being transported atop shoulders travelling in the opposite direction, equally colourfully garlanded, towards the dry river bed. The drama of life and death constantly playing out and hard to ignore. 

 

EUNOIA

NALANDA, CENTRE FOR ACADEMIC LEARNING FOR CENTURIES

Ending up on a rope way, the sun setting as a bright pink orange ball suspended in a sea of dust, was the finish to a day of travel and exploration

This trip required a vehicle as Nalanda is ninetyfive kms from Bodhgaya. Organised, the journey was quite fast after getting through Gaya. Shivam had not seen so he accompanied, excited to be exploring his own backyard. A lot of theoretical knowledge but little practical. In talking many Indians have a convincing depth of fact about destinations and what is possible, so better that I can provide the opportunity for experience. 

Travelling through one of the constant traffic jams in Gaya, something made me smile. A visual. A double bed, solid wooden structure, balancing on the back of a cycle rickshaw. The ballast, a frail elderly sari clad woman sitting in the middle of the bed as it navigates between buses, cars and bikes. Successfully. We follow until able to pass. 

The Bihari countryside is kilometres of fields, small villages, threshing, rice stacks and then an equally barren landscape populated with banyan trees and 'toddy' palms. A local alcohol is made from the palms which, some research tells me, is often spiked with datura, for more of a kick. In north Bihar the industry is taxed and regulated. A specific caste taps, creates and sells / serves the alcohol. There must be a lot that are not under these regulations by the amount of palms.

We travel at speed, dodging the obstacles on the road, of which there are many. Each little hamlet has animals staked immediately along the road edge or buildings that border. Little urchins playing games run across 'their backyard' not looking for traffic travelling at speed. This helps explain the makeshift speed humps, some the vehicle needs to almost come to a stop to got over.

The road looks recently constructed or at least resurfaced, largely pot hole free and two way. This allows us to reach eighty kms or more though the driver is ever vigilant. Near hamlets rice grains are spread out on the bitumen to dry, surrounded by broken bricks. We weave through kilometres of this. On the return, roads swept clean, rice away until tomorrow. In one village, the lane we are travelling in has a huge banyan tree growing in it. The road stops to restart on the other side of the tree. The greenies won this case though no deviating from the road plan. It becomes a single lane for about three metres. 

We stop along the journey to see where Dashrath Manjhi, the Mountain Man, single handedly chipped away at a hill for twenty two years to create a road that changed the lives of many in the area. ( wiki web address at the end for reference as most other references are newspaper articles). Recently a film of his life was made. With hammer and chisel he cut a path through the hill that was 360 feet long, 30 feet wide and 25 feet high. He was driven to this act when his young wife died after a fall, crossing the hill. Medical attention was on the other side of the hill and too far to save her. The path he created reduced the travel distance from fifty-five kms to fifteen. He was an environmental vandal but at the same time became a hero. There is a small statue outside his old house, where his son currently resides and his resting place is at the entrance to the path. Many stop along the way.

Reaching Rajgir, brightly coloured tongas ( small horse drawn carriages ) carry people from the Rajgir Hills to the city centre and then twelve kms on to Nalanda. Drawn by two horses, a high canopy - brightly decorated in tinsel and bunting, often spelling 'welcome' dangling above. The quantity a Tonga can carry depends, I think, on the age and health of the horses as these have entire extended families onboard. 

Nalanda is an historic place. It was the centre of learning in India from the fifth to the twelfth centuries CE based on the archeological evidence recovered but research suggests that this extends back further into fifth or sixth century BCE. The ruins have been excavated revealing a  Buddhist University spreading over twelve hectares. As a residential university there were eleven monasteries and fourteen temples in the complex plus a library to be rivalled. Here scholars studied religious manuscripts including the Vedas (Hindu scriptures), Buddhism as well as logic, grammar, philology, medicine, the works of magic plus law, astronomy, astrology and city planning. Those who studied here had an impact on the development of culture and took Buddhism to Tibet and China.

The entire structure was built from baked clay bricks, stone pillars and wood. That which remains is fascinating and quite beautiful. The Monasteries were multi storied with cells on the base surrounding a wide central courtyard. Each has a well with ground water. There are extensive grounds around the site and many trees. An interesting specimen was a palm, four metres single trunk, that divides into eight each with a palm head. 

It was easy to spend several hours wandering and exploring nooks and crannies imagining this as a hub of academia. Across the road is the Nalanda Museum housing an impressive collection of artefacts small and large. Unfortunately photography was not allowed. There were some exquisite examples of sculpture in basalt and sandstone. Equally there were small stamps that were pressed into clay like seals. The street running between the two is populated with merchants, all wanting business, all selling the same products. It is very colourful. Interestingly inside the Museum was a poster that listed the attributes of a 'good tourist'. One of them was buying from the stall farthest away from the entrance to discourage all of the others claiming the front door. Plus not throwing rubbish and there were several others mentioned on the list.

Travelling back towards the Rajgir Hills there is a ropeway, similar to those used on the ski fields. It is Rs60 for a return journey to the top. Interestingly a bar code ticket system is in place and it is very organised. Rhesus monkeys fight in the trees over the queue, stealing from patrons, where we are herded like cattle through gates until we reach a turnstile. It is like a roundabout in a cage. One person only at a time for the full rotation, before the next person can enter. It paces the queue  in theory. I visually measured the space available and decided I could manage. Through hurdle one. Second was the narrow turnstile after the ticket was scanned. On scanning 'green sleeves' plays until you pass through. The third hurdle was passing the assessing eye of the woman scanning the tickets. After discussion with the operators a decision was made. I was on, I would fit, it would hold, but they stopped the chair for me to get in, much to the amusement of the remainder of the queue. There was no need but all felt better. Away, flying, absurdly in my deep green chair, red one on front of me and yellow one behind. It was relaxing bouncing over the pylons rollers, looking down onto the vegetation and across the expanding vista and then we stop. Hanging. The little boy in the chair facing me is terrified. He curls up in his seat. We are stranded for about five minutes before the chairs lurch forward again. The boys face still registers fear as other try and calm him. A coupe, of cars along five saffron red robed monks are descending from atop. Getting off the moving chair requires you not to get caught up, have your legs ready to fast pace it while the attendant holds the chair for a second. No extra help here.

Ahead is one of the worlds eighty peace stupas. A beautiful hemispherical structure, surrounded by the wide circular fencing on three levels for circumambulating in a clockwise direction. In alcoves situated facing the four directions are beautiful golden statues of Buddha in different meditative postures. Outside the Stupa a huge peace bell occupies a lower platform. There is a helipad of all things and further up a temple, with an elaborately decorated interior from which echoes the rhythmic beating of a large temple drum which shakes the whole structure. 

This hilltop overlooks 360 degrees.

Upward chair journeys stop at five pm, so there is quite a queue for the downward ride. The line moves at a steady pace. Successfully managing to board the chair the journey down is beautiful watching the setting sun.