BUNDI - MONKEY PROBLEM

Each morning I am woken by a banging sound at dawn. The macaques monkeys are on the move. Whole families follow the same path across roofs and balconies. In Bundi most of the windows and rooftops are enclosed. There are so many with babies clinging securely to the under belly of their mother as she moves at speed and flies from building to building. The young learning the ropes hesitate when it comes to the big jumps. They assess knowing their strength and limits from experience and as the troupe moves on make their decision to fly or find another way. Often they scramble down the side of the building and up the other side though become vulnerable when doing this.

They are an unwelcome persistent nuisance for those who live here. Part of the daily cycle is attending to moving monkeys on, away from their premises. The monkeys languish at times in the banyan trees and move with an authority. If there is no stick in hand, as is suggested by many, it is best to avoid eye contact, avoid being in their path and avoid being between mother and young. They are thieves around the fruit and veg trolleys as are the cows who often cop a beating as their tongue reaches extreme lengths trying to be surreptitious in sneaking food. 

The presence of monkeys has made for interesting cage structures created over rooftop restaurants. One of the selling points for businesses here is the clear view of the Palace. Every view catering to travellers and tourists is obscured through woven bamboo, steel or wire structures, roofed not for the weather. In this heat it does provide a frame to hang fans which are more than welcome, circulation the hot air and taking the moisture from the scalp and neck. 

With summer around the corner options are becoming limited. The amount of eating places and accommodation reduces as the heat increases. Those open are guest houses or havelis, family homes, where life continues with or without custom. The kitchen open and manned by the family providing some tasty home cooking. For a place that signs boast 'Tom and Jerry Restaurant' or 
'Best Food in Bundi, Ben 10 rooftop restaurant' or another that says ' we understand a pizza is not just tomato sauce and cheese' I am pleased for fewer options. 

As the temple bells ring out, dusk arrives. The dust haze descends shrouding everything with a translucent gauze which eventually becomes a fresh layer over everything. The monkeys have settled for the night, somewhere, for the game to start again in ten hours. 

BUNDI - RAJASTHAN

Bundi, Rajasthan - over shadowing the small sprawl that is Bundi is Bundi Palace. It is perched on the Aravali Range, a multi storied towering edifice that has not been beautified as many of the other palaces have. It is ramshackle. Knowing the possibility of what was allows the imagination to fill in the blanks. Surprisingly what does survive is some very old and worn painting on interior structures that have survived looting, graffiti and the ravages of the weather. 

To reach the entrance is a steep climb up a polished cobbled road that winds thrice, one elephant gate at the bottom and a second at the entrance to the palace. The Fort itself is further up again. Either side are remnants of what were shops in amongst the tumbled arches. Banyan saplings have taken a foothold in areas, poking out of walls and debris. Opening into a barren courtyard a bearer has lugged up a container of water to drown the stalk like small row of marigolds. The wandering purple bougainvillea is in full colour and obscures the entrances to parts of the building. 

Exploring is the option. Up and down narrow staircases. A rope across the top of one informs danger, collapsed roof. Warning taken. Another set of stairs leads to above the gateway and looks over the township. Below is a sea of blue houses, indicating a strong Brahmin presence in the town. Strong to faded, the blue stops in a line of green, the horizon, desert acacia. Beyond it is quite barren and a dust layer sits in the air. At this height there is a welcome, strong, refreshing breeze. Up and down monster stairs, that meet no building standards, rabbits me through various sections of the Palace. At times finding the toilet holes in the floor, other times the kitchen area. The Royal suites are always the most beautiful with the best locations in the palace. An intricate water system once operated with many fountains creating a cooling effect throughout. 

A whole room is held aloft on decorated pillars with elephant upper supports. Another has decaying mirror work throwing light in the room. Decorated recesses where candles or clay pots burning ghee would have sat, line the wall. Many of the other passageways are blocked or locked. The decay itself holds a charm and from a distance the whole is visually imposing.

THE MAGIC SHOW

The Magic Show
The location, Mt Abu Polo Ground.
The occasion, an Indian 'well known' magician.  
Performance time - 6.30pm. That was the advertised time, yet if nothing else time is stretchable here and patience boundless. 
The performance space - an outdoor stage, bare, with some simple lighting.
Seating, first come first serve. 

The crowd starts to gather towards six pm. There are fifty seats opportunistically set in several rows well back from the performance area. White brittle plastic traps of un-comfortability. These are quickly occupied or saved. The bare earthen ground has been covered with hundreds of metres of green carpet, hard wearing, pegged into the ground. The area decorated with waving flags caught in the chill breeze that has been with us all day. Fairy lights are spread from pole to pole, wires precariously taped together hanging from power, providing some ambient light though it is spring and sunset is late. 

The children start to arrive. They have heard about the magician all day. A vehicle with an enormous megaphone has been cruising the Mount blaring out advertisement between Hindi songs. Think of a Mr Whippy van on steroids and with ADD. Even the profoundly deaf would be aware of this event via the sound vibrations emanating from the boom box. 

Curiosity draws the crowd. Not only the young. There are the 'too cool' mischievous male youth, fresh hair cuts, full of energy, testosterone and little release. They gather in clusters and initiate alpha male rituals. It's funny to watch from a distance as I have known some of them their whole life. To see them away from family prodding independence is entertaining. The expanse of the Polo Ground has in play several football and cricket games. Serious training is in session as well for the local teams. Families arrive and there is much arranging with the young seated at the front beneath the stage. The wary cling to mum who has to sit with them encased in the folds of her sari. 
Dads stand to the side or at the back. 

It is well past the advertised starting time. On stage the magician, not yet dressed is still laying out the tables and props full of potential wonder. The apprentice seems out of his depth. There is so much stuff piled around, there must be some sequential order. The crowd swells further and now there are many standing at the back and to the sides. The space on the ground is full yet still more urchins find their way through the sea of legs penetrating the interior. Lots of shuffling as the wait continues. Someone checks the microphone for sound, looks at his watch, speaks with the magician and then returns randomly asking someone in the audience if they could sing a song. An announcement finally, the show would start in five minutes. Hopeful. Further people arrive vying for clear sight of the stage. Vehicles parked close by are moved backwards opening more space on the sides. The magician has disappeared, a good sign. Several assistants are moving the tables forward on the stage. Anticipation. It is now after seven pm. The light is fading, the breeze increasing. I wish I had another layer and think myself warm. 

Music announces the show start. Dressed in black pants, shirt and jacket, the magician strides forward followed by his apprentice, in jeans a colourful vest and an ill fitting magicians black hat sitting low over his eyes. Mr Magic twirls a baton, Ta da! It lands in the sea of kids. Recovered, having survived the fall, it becomes a scarf. Nothing from the audience. He continues with more simple tricks, appearing flowers, nothing up the sleeve, garlands of flowers out of empty containers , others tinsel and confetti. One trick is an acrylic 'empty' box that is incredulously covered and fills with sweets that he launches into the crowd, causing a riot amongst the kids as there are not enough. They scramble over each other, the mothers and small ones. Crying erupts. The music stops and the kids are asked to find peace, 'shanti, shanti, shanti'  and sit back down. 

Half of us are to the side and for a magician that is not optimal. Because of the limited lighting he is forced to be directly front of stage. There is little room the hide or distract. His little dance is not effective and there is no glamorous beauty to focus on. The apprentice has no clue and keeps picking up the wrong things or cannot find the equipment. I wonder to myself if he would do any better just removing the hat. The 'magic' is evident from the side. I want to still be in wonder but the bumbling makes it difficult to sustain. A few more tricks where the kids are covered in metallic confetti, that was a bucket of water, brings an applause. An hour in and most tricks are just not quite polished enough. The magician spills an awful lot of milk and water on stage that also sprays the first couple of rows. I think the apprentice picked up the wrong glass and there was too much  for the trick. It is so incredible that it is hard not to watch, wanting to see what next happens. The floating glass of water, being poured, was my wonder. 

Mr Magic started a trick, innocently enough, some string, water, and then a razor blade. I should have left at that point instead I watched, rapt, as did all. This was the suspense thriller trick. A young lad was called from the audience to verify it was a new razor blade, unwrapping it, checking, then place it on the table. First he swallowed metres of thin string, but then he placed the razor blade on his tongue. I know there was a swap but visuals stick. He chewed down on the blade and the acting started. Grimaced face as he continued munching on metal, the movements become further exaggerated until he spat a 'bloody mixture' on the stage ( hopefully not those below ) before furiously indicating to the stunned apprentice to run to the back of stage and get a bucket. Chewing and convulsing in turn, spitting a decent volume of red saliva, he then drank from the tumbler only to bring this up as well. This exaggerated performance carried on for minutes. The crowd was still, the suspense had grown and anticipation of the outcome palpable. I wanted to walk but couldn't drag myself away. I needed to see the outcome. No longer was it a kids show. No community service announcements about not trying this at home. Falling to bent knees the convulsions continued, the bucket close by, the retching, revolting. Finally, it seems, he found the trick and had his apprentice move off stage to the audience and clear a central avenue, one last gag and the end of the string was in one hand. He pulled slowly and a tied razor blade came out, and then another, and another. He handed e string end to the apprentice who stretched the garland of razor blades, about fifteen metres, before the magician untied the string from his back tooth. Ta da!! A big applause from the crowd.

I walked away at this point. There was more to come but my head was filled with a visual horror of the last act. 

SHIVRATRI FESTIVAL

It is Shivratri. This is the festival of Shiva one of the three main deity gods in the Hindu pantheon. It is believed that Shiva saved the universe from darkness and ignorance. 

The celebration starts very early morning and continues through the day and night. Shiva temples are flocked by devotees, young and old, who come to perform the traditional Shivalinga worship (puja) and hence hope for favours (a boon) from the God. 

There is a constant stream of colour passing by, which becomes a trickle before gaining force again. Group after group, family after family are making their way to their favourite temple. There is a ritualistic bathe, a cleansing which is a rite of purification. Everyone then puts on their finest clean clothes for the pilgrimage to the temple. In Rajasthan that means colour. No one else can pull off the colour and pattern combinations that Rajasthani's wear. Especially the tribals. The women glide in colour as their sari's billow in the breeze. Colour flows into colour as family groups walk together sharing the road with traffic and livestock. Young children tag behind. There are not too many men, their celebration is more towards evening, where a vigil is kept at the temple.

One in the group is carry a pot of water or milk to the temple to bathe the Shivalinga. This is a simple statue representing the male form. The stone pillar sits central, within a base with a spout at the front. Near the temples the air is heavy with fragrant incense and reverberates with the sound of bells and shouts. Devotees circulate the lingam or temple housing it, three or seven times, and then pour water or milk over it, blessing the liquid, making the run off, holy. 

The Shiva Lingum has vermillion paste applied after it has been bathed which symbolises virtue. In turn the temple priest places a vermillion tilak centre forehead between the eyes of each worshipper. The rest of the day is celebration and rest. It is a holy day and therefore a holiday. Children play and male youth and young men find a space to play cricket, with games often competing for the same use of space. The games appear age wise, boys, youth, men. The river of colour flows back to houses and disappears, only to be replaced by another equally vibrant flow. 

THE STRANGE AND UNUSUAL

I wandered through part of the town of Mt Abu to look see the changes since last here and reacquaint myself with some of the locals. At one point I did a double take. Remembering this is a Hill Station surrounded by desert, mid way down the country on the border with Gujarat, I was mightily surprised to see a sign 'Dr Fish: The real solution for healthier feet'. Besides, a low fish tank filled with small fish over which some cushioned stools presided. The experience is public as it faces the street and the tank is surrounded by many small blue LED lights. The interior of this business is a games arcade. An interesting juxtaposition of business opportunities. 

LIFE IN THE ASHRAM - MT ABU

Life in the ashram has its own pace. Nothing is rushed and everything happens. The distractions of life outside does not pervade unless you invite it by immersing. It is nice to come home. To stop, feel welcome, feel an atmosphere of peace and co-operation. A striking contrast to the world of competition. Not much has changed and yet there is evidence of improvement. Simplicity is key. White the colour theme. 

The day starts early with meditation. Scheduled for four am, music softly weakens at three thirty though one with whom I am sharing a room are awake much earlier. These are called the hours of nectar when the world is asleep. Noise is to a minimum as are the negative vibrations. The nights are cool though not cold and the meditation places heat with body warmth and focussed mental heat. It is time to commune, to heal, to address the deep internal  karma that has accumulated over rebirth. Time to dive deep within, address that which hinders personal progress. For each it is different. Ego, the body, attachment the larger issues and then the subtle, desires, comparison and the unexpected, unwanted. The blinkers are removed and the three sixty mirror misses nothing. It takes courage and strength to observe, recognise, accept and determination to resolve internal change. The process is gentle though housed in pervading love and support deeply knowing the self, the strengths and weaknesses. It is the only way to navigate one own path, stream, to river, to ocean. Strength comes from knowing the self, the true self outside the bodily form and forming a relationship with the Supreme, an eternal energy unaffected by time. 

It is easier to delve into the self in an environment like this. There are no expectations except for each person to become their highest. Contribute to the community or consume and absorb its energy, each takes what is required. To clear the mind there is nothing as comforting as shelling kilos of peas. These will form a meal somewhere today. The task repetitive, not requiring intellect, though needing attention to ensure that the vegetarian meal doesn't have added protein from the grubs that are having a feed themselves. The produce is fresh, honest. Sizes are variable, not homogenous, colours rich, the food tasty. There are two options, with or without chilli. The latter for the foreigners though many partake like me. 

The day is slow, yet seems to move so fast. My pace is walking. The world is accessible at this pace, something I know, understand and forget at home. Working in my garden comes closest. 
Free to choose, attend a class, walk around the lake, head into town, find a meditation corner, respect for each ones journey is paramount. My time here is longer than others around me, their days fuller, many have come with family or groups and stay language wise. 

Classes are translated, I counted six and there maybe more. Here are fifteen translation booths. English is the central foreign language, with everyone learning a spattering of hinglish and of course Hindi. There are so many subtleties in Hindi I often wonder at the translation and what nuance is missed. 

REACHING MT ABU

Another train journey, this time it the overnight Rajdhani, a superfast train, that takes me from New Delhi to Abu Road. My berth again is situated middle carriage at the emergency window. Departure is not until 8pm with an arrival time of 6am. Ready for alighting at 5.30am, six comes and goes, it is still dark out the train window but the dark is just starting to be erased from the east. Half an hour late is not too bad and the chill of the morning has descended as I sit on the platform waiting for the frenzied business of other passengers to finish before organising a taxi to take me up the mountain. It is quiet, comparably, the station has not fully woken. Businesses have shutters down suggesting there are not too many trains due this early. 

The price of a taxi has not varied since my last three years ago, ' fixed price', I am told,  as I try and negotiate a cheaper price. The journey is twenty-seven kilometres, twenty two climbing from desert floor to a height of 1220m with the highest peak a further five hundred metres. The road hugs and traverses the hill side with stone barricades along the edge painted in black and white stripes. At times this pattern is intense, freshly painted and then totally faded in other areas. The landscape is arid. Clumps of bamboo, leaves having withdrawn their green to preserve moisture, rustle in the morning breeze. Varieties of cactus in ever elusive shapes hang from rocks unable to support themselves vertically. The food  and shelter tree for so many birds and animals, the fig, overhangs the road and forms a patchwork of dots across the hillsides. Languor monkeys are feasting and the young chase each other across the road.

The morning light glows orange across the plain, visibility is still possible, later the dust rises with the heat. Peacocks are resplendent, many wander beside the road foraging for food their iridescent  plumage hanging behind unaware of their visual beauty. Treepie join the peacocks on the ground, tan brown and black bands, quite striking. Others fly higher and are camouflaged by the leaf cover, smaller birds, flurrying from one branch to another. 

It is a pleasant drive with little traffic or excessive and continual horn use. To enter the top there is a per person road tax of rs10, willingly paid when you understand just how extensive the continual maintenance of this hill station road is.