With woody still under the weather, once again, your dear correspondent, Mr. Scott Norton, returns to the writing desk.

We were speeding through Eastern Bihar towards the border of West Bengal when Woody mentioned he wasn’t feeling so hot. His stomach was the culprit along with purple and green discoloration on his hands.

“What do you think this is?”

“Have you tried washing it off?”

“Its probably nothing.”

We both offered explanations about the blotches, but neither of us dare mention leprosy after thee encounters of the night previous. Leprosy takes longer than 12 hours to take hold, right?

The train was three hours late and Woody pounded a breakfast of omelets and toast in an attempt to reboot his system by loading his inbox. “Not helpful,” he groaned.

He put on his flowing Khadi pants, and attempted to coax his body into healing itself.

(more…)

Upon returning to the Ball Ashram from my first outing in the city of life (or perhaps the city of death, or even of the dyeing…), Nikhil and I found Scott to be in much better health. He had been transformed powerfully by the mellow yellow rice which had been so lovingly made for him. We began to pump him full of fluids and Nikhil went about arranging for a boat to take us on a ride up the Ganges. This seemed to be little trouble and the boat was to leave from the ghat at the foot of the Ball Ashram. A Ghat is a sort of a landing which consists of stone steps extending down to the banks of the Ganges. Ghats are used for a variety of spiritual purposes, one the most important being the cleansing of ones soul in the river’s waters.

We met our boatman, a lean and wiry fellow, with a mustache any 19th century field colonel would have envied, who held his well tarred wooden craft steady, while we climbed in. When we were some way from the ghat, he asked whether I wanted to give rowing the thing a shot. So I took his place and grasped the two bamboo oars.

They were of drastically different lengths and widths, with the paddle portion constructed by means of a board hammered onto the bamboo. Needless to say, i rowed only in circles. The practice it must have taken for him to learn to row in a straight line with these must have been substantial. But after all aboard had had their laugh at my expense, the oarsmen moved to the rear of the boat and began to use a spare oar as a rudder. Then we all got a chance to row, doubling up Ben Hurr style.

We were quickly back on track cruising towards the ghats as the sun set over Varanasi.

As night fell, we cruised by the main drag: ghat after ancient ghat. All around us the fragrant smell of incense filled the air, and funeral pyres burned on shore. We must have passed 10 or 15 cremations taking place right there in the open, so that the ashes could be scattered (or set afloat in a little vessel) on the dark and glittering surface of the ganges.

On two ghats, elaborate festivals were taking place, involving the burning of even more incense, the swinging of large racks of candles, intense drumming, on a variety of unique drums, and the blowing of conch-shell horns.

On our way back, we idled in a giant cluster of similar rowing boats (these are the same boats that can also be seen fishing during the day), all filled with tourists watching the dueling festivals in one giant bobbing hoard, held together by the hands of boat wallas and passengers grasping the adjacent boat. The night brought us back to the ashram for a light meal of roti and an exquisitely spiced thin vegetarian stew.

Scott, Nikhil and I awoke to find the Swantaranta express running two hours late (which in Indian for on time, I believe) and that Scott had caught a case of what we might not so affectionately call the “Agra hustle.” Though Scott seemed to be recovering rapidly, the my dear partner in crime needed sleep and water to replenish his strength. We knew not exactly where we were to be staying in Varanasi, but had been in contact with a local ashram, recommended to us by a Mr. Oliver Daly who had, for some time, been occupied there. As we exited the cool comfort of the train and immersed ourselves in the grimy heat of Varanasi, it was decided that this Ashram would be made our first waypoint in the city.

Nikhil quickly propagated through the crowd of touts and rickshaw drivers, which filled the train station, collecting along the way one fellow who was to be our driver for the day. Nikhil and this driver lead us out into the packed dirt parking lot. The air smelled strongly of woodsmoke, in addition to the normal Indian cocktail of scents: open sewers, cooking spices, and pan. Ah, pan, I don’t know if I have yet described to you this most singular element of Indian life. And indeed at this point in our tale, I was rather ignorant of the stuff myself. I knew of it only these 3 things: it was made of, among other things, beetlenuts and beetle leaves, it caused a large amount of deep red salivation to occur in the mouth of the fellow who imbibed it, and smelled distinctively and strongly enough to play a leading role in the already quite savage Indian bouquet.

Through this bouquet we barreled, in an ailing autorickshaw, which our driver started by jerking a great lever on the floor of the machine, and which –we found out when he stopped mid-trip to buy 40 rupees (~$1) of petrol– required motor oil to be mixed with it’s fuel. The streets of Varanasi were crowded, but filled much more predominantly with bicycle rickshaws and cattle than motorized traffic. And what motorized traffic there was tended to be either large machinery (dumptrucks, etc.) or auto-rickshaws. We arrived first at the Little Stars School, which was located some distance from the city center, in a more residential neighborhood. We were greeted warmly there and upon learning of Scott’s illness, Asha, who heads the school, offered to make a healing rice and lentil mixture to sooth his stomach. In addition we were told that indeed we would be welcome at the ashram, located farther downstream, on the banks of the ganges. I will once again let pictures speak for the beauty of that place.

And eclipsing even the beauty of the premises itself, was the kindness and welcome with which we were received there. All there walked barefoot on the fine marble floors, and every time I passed another person within the walls of the ashram, I was acknowledged with a pressing of the hands together, a slight bow of the head and the word “namaste.” I later found that this word was a reference to the god, and the oneness present in the two exchanging the greeting. It felt good.

We were told our room was being prepared, and we were offered spicy milky tea and food. When our room was ready, Scott proceeded to sleep vehemently. Nikhil and I retired to the ashram dining area where we sat crosslegged on wooden boards, and ate a monstrous traditional indian meal from gleaming stainless steal plates.With Scott out cold, Nikhil and myself decided to take in the city on our own. We exited the gates of the ashram where our driver had, at our request, been waiting. We found him sitting overlooking the great river and smiling. We piled back into the rickshaw and off we went.

The whole while I was transfixed with the bizarre world of Varanasi. It was a feast for the eyes: dogs, cattle, oxen, buffalo and crows roaming the streets; brightly dressed women, in dramatic sarees of fine silk; men in stark white gowns and large turbans; men sleeping on piles of brick; children digging sewage from open gutters; bicycle rickshaws carrying absurd loads of brick, or piping, or oil cans; groups of 4 or 5 people crammed on a tiny motor bike, men with their heads wrapped in linen, so that only a slit remained from which to see; and women wearing all black, with a black covering for the head which had no� slit through which to see!, but yet they strode confidently through this amazing traffic.

During my transfixion, Nikhil was talking up a storm with our driver, a very fine gentleman by the name of Babaloo Baba, who it seems had now taken a partial role as tour guide in addition to our driver for the day. Our first stop was at a house of fine silks. Babaloo Baba turned onto a narrow cobblestone lane which bounced the little rickshaw quite terribly. Nakhil explained to me how it was done inside such a place. “We must look at many things and find a number of things that we are interested in. These will go in a pile, which later we can pare down to those we actually with to purchase.”And so it began. We removed our shoes and entered the ancient building. We sat cross legged on a giant mattress, which extended to all four walls of the room. All around us were placed the most intensely colored, beautifully patterned, and most elegantly textured fabrics I had ever seen, or for that matter, can even conceive the existence of. The owner of the shop, a rounded man in a deep orange silk shirt, sat with us ordering around a small harem of young boys which fetched silks so that he could dramatically unfurl them before us. We hemmed and hawed, chose a pile of things and then Nikhil went into intense haggling mode. His face turned to a sorrowful frown and he began to peer into his wallet shaking his head while saying very many things in hindi, not the least of which was “student”, and “nay nay nay”. After some bargaining, we finally agreed on a price and the man set his minions forth packaging the silks in little blue plastic bags, which were then covered with tape and cryptic ball-point pen. The entire parcel, which has some surprising weight to it was then placed in a larger bag, while Nikhil went through the process of paying with a credit card.Silks in hand, we were then taken by one of the boy minions on a tour of the silk manufacturing operation.

This consisted of many men in dark stone dwellings, located throughout the tiny winding streets of Varanasi. We invite you to see for yourself.Next, Babaloo Baba most verbosely drove us to a temple. At the entrance gate, we removed our shoes, cellphones, camera, matches, and anything else which might be used to defile the place, and proceeded to walk through the metal detectors. On my way through, they discovered a USB key drive in my pocket, and having never seen one before, promptly confiscated it (Nikhil was able to retrieve it upon our leaving). Inside the temple was filled with monkeys, laying around, playing with each other, or eating bits and scraps from the vicinity. I followed Nikhil through the temple. He approached a number of kiosk like stone booths, decorated with flowers and offerings to the gods, and covered with elaborate engraving and statues. At each of these, he was performed a kind of spiritual transaction, which involved a small ladelfull of a holy water. The water was poured into his open hand. Some of it he drank in a quick slurp, the rest he smoothed over his hair. Also at the temple was a giant tree, which must have, at some point, been submerged in earth much farther up its trunk, for now many long roots hung from the hulking trunk which, some 3 feet above our heads, bulged out to twice its size at foot level. All over this tree were strings and ribbons fastened there in the name of wishes, in hopes they would be later fulfilled by the gods associated with this temple. In the event that these wishes indeed came true, an offering would be made at this temple in thanks.As we left the temple, a glance at the watch showed it was getting near time to return to Scott’s side. “Just enough time to have a pan,” Nikhil said. So Babaloo Baba drove us to a pan man and I began to marvel at the manufacture of this strange item. A man sat cross legged in a little alcove in a crumbling wall, near a busy street. A crowd was gathered there and he was furiously manufacturing pan, and Indian man were eating it up just as fast. First a pan leave was taken from a large pile covered partially with a torn piece of burlap. Then, from a vast array of tiny jars and metal tins, he began to fill the leaf with a sprinkle of this, a sprinkle of that.

A number of hammered copper vessels had small brushes protruding from them, and he used these to spread a number of different pastes on the leaf. Finally he wrapped it up and placed a piece of silver foil over the top of it, to keep it closed. From his other side he grabbed a banana leaf. Wiping the leaf on his pants until it had a obtained a mellow shine, he placed the final product atop and presented it to Nikhil. “So watch me. This is how it’s done.” He placed it into his mouth and began to chew. His lips bulged, and he slurped in a little air, then he was done. Next, he handed one to me. I must admit, it looked ominous, like a tiny pandoras box, sleeping for now upon the early gleaming banana leaf…

In it went.

And for the time, I genuinely enjoyed the flavor. I cannot describe it any better than to say it was sweet, strong, and tasted distinctly red. I spoke through the mouthful redness, “so I just swallow it?” Nikhil nodded. Perhaps the act of eating the pan had endeared him to me, or perhaps he thought the the pan would impair my ability to cross the street, regardless, Babaloo Baba now grabbed my arm and lead my through the onslaught of scooters and rickshaws to our vehicle.

As we drove back I felt the pan in my stomach unpacking its tools and getting to work. As Nikhil explained to me, “muscles in your stomach that have not been used in a very long time are grumbling, saying ‘what is this stuff.'” Indeed… indeed.

After our splendid lunch at the Indiana Multicuisine Restaurant, we walked back to our jalopies, feeling quite sated and a bit shaggy around the ears. In order to rectify the latter, we struck up a conversation with a cab driver who called himself Mr. Bom. Mr. Bom wore an immaculate white uniform and spoke very good English. When he asked us if we would by any chance be needing his services, we were unsure, but we asked for his number. “No mobile” he said, “I had once a cell phone, but I was drinking too much whiskey one night and smashed it.” “Like, in a rage?” I pantomimed, “Oh, yes, too much whiskey very risky” he replied.

With that sage wisdom under our belts, we inquired as to the location of a fine hair cutting establishment in a not to distant place. He instantly gave us directions to the very shop where he himself got his fine looking hairs cut. “30 rupees for a cut, 10 for a shave. Tell him Mr. Bom has sent you. The man’s name is Kalwa.” Great. We took off.

When we arrived, we called forth Mr. Kalwa and one of the two men inside the little shop perked up. Do you know Mr. Bom the driver? Heads nodded. So in we went and down I sat. Soon a little crowd had formed outside the restaurant, consisting of locals who wondered why these two white fellows in panama hats where getting their hair cut at the local dive barber. It was after a sheet had already been elaborately wrapped around my body and tied at the neck that Scott turned to me from his barber seat and said, “did you ask the price?”

“100 rupees.” I tried to communicate once again Mr. Bom and the good price, but now, it seemed, the two hair cutters knew no Mr. Bom and were very confused. We decided that $2.20 for a haircut and $0.83 for a shave was only mild highway robbery. Lay on McDuff.

The crowd of locals grew larger as the haircuts proceeded to expertly administered straight razor shaves. We parted the crowd and left the haircutter , remounting the rusted corpses that were our bikes and rode off into the Agra heat, though it was not quite as bad, with freshly sculpted UP hairdos, and baby bottom faces, burning with aftershave from a bottle advertising the “ax effect” (no charge).

Feeling cheerful and relaxed, fueled by our extended stay on the Grand Trunk express, we exited the train to find ourselves surrounded once again by a crowd of people, offering all manner of goods and services to us, not the least of which was the opportunity to provide them with handouts. We quickly found ourselves walking next to a fellow who wished to drive us to our hotel. Though we had not yet determined where we were staying (despite much hacking at the internet cafe in Chennai, and much calling from our stateroom on the Grand Trunk), we felt optimistic about the fellow and decided to trust him. We haggled a little with him, got what we thought was a decent price (only 5 or 6 times what an Indian would pay) and we were off. We looked though our notebook and chose a place. The driver informed us this as a bad place. So we chose another. he seemed to like that one much better, and in no time, a tall man in a turban was opening the door to the Hotel Amar for us.

The joint looked clean and there was a fellow savagely raging away on the internet right in the lobby. So we asked to see a room. 3500 rupees, the fellow said. We frowned and gesticulated about the expense, so the man (who later turned out to be the manager) asked us how much we wanted to pay. We said 2000.

“You are my first customers of the day… so you may have it for 2000.”

This meant two things: 1: We could probably have gotten the room for 1000, and 2: Things were going just fine.

First thing is, as always, first: bicycles. So we consulted the scanned copies of lonely planet that we had obtained through inter-library loan, and set out for Raja bicycle shop. During the walk we were averaging one solicitation for a ride on a bicycle rickshaw for every 15 steps, all manner of traffic –car, bus, sheep, bicycle, camel, bullock cart. But we strode unfazed. Why were we so cool headed? Were we beginning to develop the savage asiawheeling mind like water? Were we becoming the masters of our own destiny. Or had we forgotten to take the Malarone pills? As you, dear reader, have no doubt guessed, it was the latter.

We arrived at Raja Bicycles and found it to be quite literally a crumbling hole in the wall. Inside which we found Mr. Raja himself, presiding over a pile of rusting bicycles. We (admittedly weakly) tried to haggle, but Raja stood his ground. So 100 rupees later Raja had pulled a rusted and dilapidated hunk from the pile. This bicycle’s bent frame was held together with bits of string and was it first so malformed that the wheel would not even spin. Then, before our very eyes, he produced a giant wrench. He did not use it for wrenching, rather he set upon the bike with a furious beating, attempting to align the wheel and pounding the heads of the breaks back into position. Before 2 minutes had passed, he had produced two somewhat ridable bicycles. They, however, had no bells. Bells had been so vital a part of our previous riding that we were instantly uncomfortable. Also, as we rode away on the bikes, it became obvious that the fixes that had just been performed were of the most temporary nature.

On our way back to the hotel for that so pleasantly forgotten Malarone, we passed a stand selling water, cigarettes, and little packaged snacks. The owner was a vast man in an impressive black garb. His outfit, however, was only a dim glimmer in relation to his great beard, which was flecked with red hairs. He apparently took a liking to us and asked us to have a seat with him on the plastic chairs outside the stand. We sat and drank water while he smoked bidis. We spoke of AsiaWheeling, the disrepair bicycles we had just purchased and he even brought up Barack Obama. Perhaps the first time on this trip that I have even considered the notion of a small world.

With bellies full of Malarone, we remounted our medium-faithful steads and took off for the Taj Mahal. The streets of Agra were quite different than any we had yet navigated. Agra is in the province of Uttar Pradesh, and being a poorer province than where we were in the south, the ratio of cars and auto-rickshaws to beasts of burden: camels, bullocks, horses, and humans straining away on bicycle rickshaws had increased sharply. As we rode to the Taj Mahal on our crumbling bicycles, we passed one bicycle rickshaw after another, and while we had been offered rides (for 10 or 20 cents) it became clear that giving tourists rides was unfortunately not the main focus of these fellows careers. Most had been hired by other Indians to carry obscene loads of metal, towers of water bottles, or clusters of 3-4 50 gallon oil drums.

Since pollution from cars and auto-rickshaws has begun to dull the white marble of the Taj, we soon crossed a barrier past which nothing but cycles, camels etc. were allowed. We rolled to the parking lot where we were given conflicting instructions and a number of slips of paper. In the end we gave some person 10 rupees to stop hassling us and locked the bikes to a metal fence.

The Taj Mahal was, of course, amazing. I’ll let the pictures speak.

After hours of ambling through the Taj, Scott in particular was boiling over. So we exited the palace and sat outside a water kiosk, collecting ourselves. On the advice of our bearded friend at the water and cigarette stall, we set out on the cycles once again, all manner of traffic whirring abound us, in search of a restaurant called Indiana. The front rim of Scott’s Cycle, which had to this point been held on via an ancient length of what appeared to be a twisted and woven plastic sack, broke free of it’s proper place and began to ride gratingly on the front tire. We stopped to fix it with a length of garbage that we found in the street. Immediately we were surrounded by beggar children vying to give us a hand with the repair. As Scott fumbled with the bit of garbage, 3 more hands with alternative bits of garbage appeared on either side. Finally, we relinquished the task and gave the fellow 10 rupees. This act brought on an onslaught of solicitations, more vehement than any we had yet endured. Despite the cold pit which had replaced my stomach, I climbed back on my cycle and attempted to coax motion from its sickly frame.

Exhausted and fully aware of the fact that we had not eaten all day, but had walked around in the glaring sun for 5 hours, we wheeled our jalopies into the parking lot of the Indiana, hidden at the end of Fatehabad road, behind the hotel Ratan Deep (in case you are ever in Agra). We parked our bikes outside and immediately ran into the manager, just leaving. He said he thought we were perhaps the first customers he had ever had who arrived on bicycles. And such tattered bicycles.

We grinned and entered the restaurant. The it was cool and dim, smelled great. We were seated at a table which was so high that our lamb and cheese tandoori, palak paneer, and grahm rotis came, they hovered a mere foot under may face (the better to eat you with my dear…). When we got the check there was a 20% discount: “for arriving on cycles it said.” Yes, yes, I know what you are thinking dear reader: a more foolish man would think the deck was full of aces…

Day 2 in Pondicherry began with us donning our new Khadi shirts. Khadi, as I understand it, is a symbol of Indian independence from Britain. In the days when India was a British mercantile colony, the Brits would grow and harvest cotton in India and take it elsewhere to be spun into garments. These garments, often ill fitting the heat of the Indian climate, would then be sold back to the Indians at unreasonable prices. Mahatma Ghandi, as part of the Indian independence movement, promoted Khadi, or homespun cotton garments, made by surrounding villagers. These garments were much thinner and well suited to the hot and humid Indian summers. They are also, by the same token, rather translucent. So it was with only mild self consciousness that I left the hotel and joined Scott on our bicycles headed for his old office when he lived in Pondicherry in 2006.

The Business was called BookBox, though it was their non-profit side-project, planet read, that Scott worked on. We pedaled through the streets of Pondicherry, which where eerily empty. It was a Saturday morning at 10am, so we figured perhaps things were just sleepy. We stopped into a favorite restaurant of Scott’s, Bombay Meals, which, unlike many around it, appeared to be open. The owner, was lounging in the empty interior, but sent us away saying he might be open at 7pm, but no earlier. Somewhat confused, we decided to postpone breakfast and ride over to PlanetRead. When we arrived, I was impressed with the operation, and their admiration for Scott was clear. The office cook made some nice hot south Indian coffees for us and we retired to a comfortable room in the back of the office to examine some of the new products. BookBox creates digital storybooks in many languages, to be used as language teaching materials. We spoke also of new plans for expansion into language tools for the hearing impaired using the same technology. As we finished the coffee (which was splendid), we were asked if we wanted to sit in on the noontime meeting, and whether Scott would give a short speech (no particular topic was suggested). Scott of course agreed and we also agreed to join them for lunch (despite warnings of possibly excessive spice levels).I consider myself a hardened eater of spicy food, but I was expecting to be blown out of the water by the intensity of Indian spicy-ness. Not so. While the food here bursts with flavor and balanced spice.

It is far from gratuitous, and, in fact, more often than not milder than the raging food we used to cook back in Providence for “Sunday: Chicken and Bowling.” Though you, dear reader, cannot see, I have become choked and weepy at the mere mention…Scott’s speech was great. The highlight for me was when he quoted Henry Ford, “If I had asked people what they wanted, they would have said they wanted a faster horse…” Had he asked me, I’d have said I’m perfectly happy with my 30 pound steel atlas bicycle and panama hat.The meal was splendid: a rich chicken biryani, a stainless steel pot of curry, and splendid raita. At least here in the south, raita is nothing like the thin glop we have come to know and love at Indian restaurants in the united states, rather it consists of just two ingredients: chopped onion and yogurt, each in about equal proportion, and it is thick like coleslaw. Also it is ridiculously delicious. On the streets of Pondicherry and Chennai you can see men slicing onion with such furious precision, sweeping onion after onion aside into a giant pile waiting to become raita.Also during our visit to the BookBox headquarters, we discovered the reason for the empty streets and the closed restaurants. The entire nation had been called to strike that Saturday, in protest of recent increases in patrol prices. So we set out for our wheel, unimpeded by the usual traffic and mayhem which adhere to the city streets. Our wheel took us out into the fisherman’s neighborhood.

As we rode, the road changes from concrete to sand, and the building changed from crumbling brick and cement to palm leaves, jagged sticks, and bits of plastic. Though everywhere we go we get plenty of looks (two attractive young men in panama hats and oversized sunglasses riding bicycles –also we are the only white people), but this was a new level of attention. As we rode people called our to us in Tamil and children came over to touch the bicycles and babble at us or just wave. Most of those we passed simply stared though, with expressions ranging from mildly interested to confrontational.I must admit the experience of visiting the fishing village was emotionally tiring.

And to boot, we had been riding in 100+ degree heat with no water since all the shops were closed. As we rode back into the city we passed an ashram called Sri Aurobindo.

We parked the bikes and removed our shoes in the designated area on the other side of the street and walked across the burning hot cobblestones to enter the ashram. Not a word was permitted to be spoken inside so we simply followed the person ahead of us to a large stone table upon which an intricate image had been assembled from different cut flowers. A man walked ceaselessly around the table, waving a bundle of burning incense. All around us were small gardens and stacks of potted plants. A man with two long wispy brooms wandered sweeping dust and dried leaves from here to there, so that people could sit on the stone ground.And this we did. Again, I enjoyed the experience. I am not sure if I can say that I meditated, but I certainly found the experience to have a calming and centering effect which linger some time after the experience itself. With all the shops still closed, we left the ashram and rode the city searching for water. After some time we found a nescafe stand on the beach which sold us some bottles.

The effects of the water on my system were every bit as strong as the sit we had in the ashram. And for this first time in many hours we resumed laughing and joking, while we made our way back the the hotel.

This morning we awoke to the sound of our room phone ringing. Still disheveled I passed in to Scott, who transitioned instantly from deep sleep into business mode “Yes, hello, put it through.” It turned out that for today’s activity to have any chance of working, I would need to go consume an orientation film (or “flim” as they say it in Tamil since the “lm” phoneme is difficult), and this would require we arrive by 2:30. So be it, we thought. It was to be our first full day, waking and retiring in India. Spirits were high in our fine room at the hotel l’Orient and we bustled excitedly. We had a breakfast of masala dosa –a kind of crispy flapjack filled with spicy potato– and a very tasty south Indian coffee. How’s south Indian coffee made, you ask? Play the video below.

With full stomachs, we vetured out into the steamy day. We had, as you dear reader are no doubt aware, acquired a cellular telephone and indian sim card the day before. And we find here a perfect example of how india continues to surprise me with its strange mixture of bureaucracy and ambivalence. Though we were technically required to present a passport, a passport size photo, and proof of residence before we could get a sim card, the owners of the fine shop which we entered. Mobile phones did not seem to be thier main business, rather they sold clocks, watches and breakable nicknacks.

They did a number of head wiggles and just gave us the phone on no more than an almost unreadable passport copy and a set of AsiaWeeling business cards. So providing them with these materials was the first order of the day. We stopped to buy some $3 shirts and flowing Indian pantaloons on the way back the l’Orient.

We arrived back at the hotel (or “hotle” as the Indians would say it) to find our friend Jagruti and a white ambassador waiting to take us to a Utopian-style cashless society which exists outside of Pondicherry called Auroville. I had the night before been introduced to� the beautiful Jagruti and her devastatingly charming friend Mendakini when we took them out for seafood tandoori at the rooftop restaurant of the hotel Promenade and she had promised to the next morning to do what she could to get us into a meditation session in what I had only heard was rumored to be a one of a kind structure, housing the worlds largest crystal in the world (I mean here the kind one makes nice wine glasses out of– not the regimented molecular kind). The cab ride was delightful. Our driver was significantly older and more cautious than the previous days’, though I am still unsure which was the more dangerous of the two rides. As we neared the expansive grounds of the community, the crumbling fruit stands, nicknack shops and patched together houses dissolved into beautiful jungle, the road transitioned from cracked cement into deep red packed dirt, and soon we were passing into Auroville. We followed well marked signs towards the visitor center and arrived just as a crowd was forming outside. My first impression of Auroville was attributable (as many first impressions of places are) to the architecture. It was phenomenal, proving that despite the cashless society there was plenty of money here.

Our driver left to go park the car and relax while we entered the orientation. The first part was just about the Matrimandir, an orbular building located in the center of the very much still under construction community of Auroville. The community is shaped like a galaxy, centered around a very special banyan tree, and just to the side of the banyan tree was the Matrimandir.

During the film, a photo of the Matrimandir dissolved into a schematic of the interior. Inside there were spiraling walkways and a smaller orbular room in the top. Giant mirrors on the roof collected sunlight and focused it into a beam which shown down through the center of the building and through the giant crystal ball in the central room. I was honestly stunned. I thought such places only existed in science fiction novels. The second part of the film detailed the philosophy and history of Auroville, with regards to which I will refer you elsewhere for details.In the interim between the end of the orientation and the beginning of the meditation, we had a breakneck tour of the campus.

Everywhere we went, we saw healthy looking European and light skinned Indian people lounging or doing administrative work, all very peaceful, most were smiling. We passed outside the entrance the the inner circle of Auroville, where the great golden dome loomed over manicured lawns and curving brickwork. We were told by the woman at the gate that it was likely we would get in but only be able to stand, but Jagruti worked some magic and before we knew it we were holding deep blue translucent tokens which were to redeem our passage into the Matrimandir. We strolled around the grounds of the inner sanctum, freshening up, drinking water from a large tank with a single metal glass atop it to be used by all who wished to drink, and in no time we were in a large group of Indians and foreigners heading for the golden sphere. We stopped outside to wait until 4:30. At that time the workers )mostly dark skinned indians with singular dress and large turbans were to finish their work. We must have total silence inside the matrimandir. The crowd was given explicit instructions: do not say a word; remove your shoes; put on the socks that will be provided to you; do not cross the inner concentration room, walk only along the parameter, touch nothing but the handrails, move nothing but your own body.

So this we did. As I walked towards the great sphere, it became apparent that its many gold panels were made of smaller gold panels, forming an intricate and glittering design. At the entrance of the matrimandir we we descended a great sloping walkway of red brick, great walls of the same material rising smoothly on both sides. We silently arranged our shoes along this walkway and entered the golden door.

Inside it was cool and dark. In the antechamber, which was lit in a deep red light, we donned the socks we were handed by a smiling woman and began to file into a white marble doorway. Inside the matrimandir there was more marble, arching skyward towards a second sphere, which floated high above us. From the bottom of this sphere, a brilliant ray of light shown down into a tall obelisk, with a lens at the top. All around us were the elegant curves of the interior support structure, all lit in cool blues reds and yellows. Fountains ran along the walls, next to plaques with inscriptions in Hindi and English.

We heard only the trickle of the water was we ascended the ramps. Our feet made no sound on the ramp which, upon steepening slightly, became thickly carpeted and gripped the foot. As we neared the top of the ramp, we could see the great dome, with its single door. At this point I had become separated from scott, and was near the head of the line, so I entered an almost empty space. Once again, the temperature dropped as we entered the interior of the inner orb. The room was very dim, lit only by the light which reflected from a great crystal ball which sat atop a golden stand made of four six-pointed stars. A brilliant beam of light shown in from the sealing, so bright that the light scattered by ambient dust was stark and purest white. The beam fell directly into the center of the crystal, and passed out the bottom of the marble floor on which we walked.I took a seat with a cushion that leaned against a pillar, and sat down. I must admit, the sight of this great orb and the beam so bright as to seem almost solidified, had a profound effect.

It was the entire experience, the architecture, the silence, and the inner room itself, which transformed the consciousness of those who chose to “concentrate” as they called it. I sat town and stared into the light. I know that meditation is supposed to be about clearing ones mind, but I have never had any luck at that. The closest I can get is wheeling, or swimming laps with a snorkel… but oh… the torrent of processing that I had. in that room My mind began to churn over so many things: from Asiawheeling logistics to the meaning of existence. It seemed like only a minute later that the lights flashed silently in the room, telling us to leave. I stood and followed orders, thinking: perhaps this is indeed a step towards mind like water…

The Bangalore office, till the point this post was started to be written, was practically dead. Except for the occasional rising to life to perform something worthwhile – booking the train tickets for the India part of the wheeling and rickshaw-ing to the Jet Airways counter at the now closed HAL Airport in Bangalore to reschedule the Principal Wheelers’ tickets from Kolkata to Hong Kong, life here has always been dull and subdued. While the Chief Snake Charmer would like to conveniently blame the inclement weather in Azerbaijan and the reduction in the diameter of urban water supply pipes in Kosovo, he now has every reason to believe that there was no need for him to be that slothful. Be it the lethargy in booking the train tickets or the inordinate delay in sending the text in Hindi for the t-shirt and the business cards, the Chief Snake-charmer did not quite do justice to the august company he is in. The Chief Snake-charmer has every mind to kill himself, but is hoping to redeem himself by playing a good host to the Principal Wheelers’ while they are here in India. The train ticket booking happened just in time to get confirmed tickets. The Wheelers otherwise would have had tickets in RAC or in the Waiting List. That’d have made for a great adventure and a couple of interesting blog posts, but the India bureau would like the Wheelers to have better adventures and not the ones which would involve haggling with the Ticket Examiners on The Great Indian Railways. Neither does the Chief Snake-charmer, based on his previous experiences, looks forward to such adventures in the near future and nor does he want the Wheelers to go through those.

The India Bureau would like to thank the ever-so-dependable Mr. Srinivas of Venkateshwara Travels, Domlur, Bangalore for his kind help in booking the train tickets. Though like every honest Indian, he charged a commission slightly higher than what he is entitled to, his promptness in booking the tickets on being informed by just a phone call reposes our faith that if one knows the right people in India, things can be arranged and fixed without much worry. No doubt these services come at a slight premium, but there’s also a lot of relationship building that goes into cultivating such contacts. So be it any kind of tickets – bus tickets to travel back home to Dharwad, movies tickets to watch movies with Adi, train tickets for the North East Trip, help is just a phone call away in the form of Mr Srinivas.

Ladies, Gentlemen and the gentle ones among the ladies, here’s presenting to you Mr Srinivas and his modest office.

Mr. Srinivas majestically seated on his throne!

Only God and The Chief Snake-charmer know what earth-shattering work The Chief Snake-charmer had that made him sit over the e-mail from one of the the Principal Wheelers Mr. Norton for over a week. As Mr. Norton mentions here, it was regarding the re-scheduling of their flight tickets from Kolkata to Hong Kong by Jet Airways. Blessed was the earth that Saturday, the 12^th of April, that the Chief Snake-charmer finally mustered enough energy to reach the Airport. Calls were made to the Jet Airways counters to confirm if such transactions could happen at the Airport counter, otherwise the Chief Snake-charmer would have to go the Jet Airways office for this. It was only after pressing the first eight combinations of the numbers on the key panel of the mobile phone that the Chief Snake-charmer was able to get through to a human on the other side. Such are the funny ways of these IVRS systems. On being explained of the transaction to be done, it took ten minutes and eight seconds for the Customer Care Executive to get back after confirming from her officials. Get back she did, and also confirmed that the Chief Snake-charmer could get the re-scheduling done at the Airport.

What followed next was eventful indeed but not as difficult as exaggerated by one of the Wheelers in this post.

Enter Nakil Kulkarni, head of the AsiaWheeling Bangalore office, and Chief Snakcharmer for AsiaWheeling global. As always, Nakil’s reputation precedes him, in the same way lightning precedes thunder. So you, dear readers will find it no great surprise that, against fantastic odds, Nakil traversed miles of treacherous terrain and plunged himself into intense negotiations on our behalf with officials at said airline. After some hours a deal was struck, and AsiaWheeling once again enjoyed the calm which precedes an upcoming storm.

There’s only one way of getting things done in India – that of getting them done. It doesn’t matter what the means is, but if something is to be done, it will be done. And a word given is a word given and will be kept at all costs. Unknown people turn up at unexpected times to offer help, and what use is it of being The Chief Snake-charmer if one cannot do something as simple as rescheduling airline tickets? The Chief Snake-charmer felt very humbled and slightly humiliated after coming across glowing praise of him and issued the following press release.

First things first, The Chief Snake-charmer’s name is Nikhil, and not Nakil! The Chief Snake-charmer is deeply disturbed at the blog post titled Our Bangalore office proves invaluable once again posted on the Asiawheeling blog on April 22, 2007. The blog mentions of how Chief Snake-charmer – against fantastic odds, … traversed miles of treacherous terrain. The Chief Snake-charmer would like to mention here that there were no odds set on this airport trip of his as the betting houses in Bangalore were closed that Saturday. Hence the mention of odds is misleading and readers are advised to take note of the same. Also, the terrain that the Chief Snake-charmer had to traverse was not treacherous, but was a smooth, well-laid road from 13^th cross in Indiranagar to the HAL Airport, covering the Double Road, the 100 Feet Road and the Airport Road. Yes, it took some negotiations and a few hours for the deal to be struck at the Airport, but the tone of language in the blog posts suggests that a Herculean effort went into getting the re-scheduling done, while it was not so. It was difficult no doubt, but that’s the best part about getting things done here in India, of getting things done. Wheeler Mr. Norton would know of this best, having been a part of the team that pulled off the spectacular cultural performance at the Hebballi School, while it seemed totally impossible the previous day. The Wheelers are henceforth requested to refrain from using such humiliating language while writing about the Chief Snake-charmer. The Chief Snake-charmer wishes to remain as humble as ever and continue to quietly serve AsiaWheeling in his capacity as one of the members of the Board of Advisors.

Ok, that was a lot of crap. 276 words, 1346 characters with no spaces, 1621 characters with spaces, 2 paragraphs and 18 lines to be precise. To put it in a nutshell, the one who has completely gone nuts, The Chief Snake-charmer, is glad that he could be of some help.

Here is the photographic evidence of the preparations the Chief Snake-charmer made for the smooth(hopefully!) organisation of AsiaWheeling.

1. See the e-mail from the Principal Wheelers for the 234th time. Finally decide to move one’s arse.

2. Move one’s hands also and make the Hindi text for Chief Snake-charmer

3. Dig out an old image for the business card –

4. Hire an auto-rickshaw, reach the HAL Airport

5. The Jet Airways counter at the airport

6. Being the gentleman that the Chief Snake-charmer is(are any ladies listening?!), he writes a Thank You note to Laxin, the helpful lady at the counter.

7. Tickets done!

8. The auto-rickshaw ride back

This is news just in!

Looks like the Chief Snake-charmer won’t be able to travel to Agra with the Principal Wheelers, but there’s something about Agra he wants the Wheelers to know about and insists that they do this while they are in Agra. This comes from a book the Chief Snake-charmer is currently reading – India In Mind edited by Pankaj Mishra. It’s a collection of excerpts from works of mosly ‘foreigners’ who’ve written about India. It’s a piece by Pico Iyer from his novel Abandon.

The Chief Snake-charmer hopes the Wheelers will see what others don’t see. Better still here’s a glimpse of what it might look like, at 1:44 in the following video from The Bucket List –

[youtube:http://www.youtube.com/v/OltHNarHA9A]

The Chief Snake-charmer wishes he could join the Wheelers on the trip to Agra and see the Taj for the first time, but commitments at work are holding him back. But he’s glad his good friends are doing it and looks forward to joining them in the later part of the Wheeling.

PS. Just so that we know, Wheeler’s, A H Wheeler & Co rather, is a book chain selling books across railway stations in India.

PPS. Don’t know what the problem is, but was not able to embed that video!

Amid the songs of foreign lands, a speck of grit in foreign sands.

Iowa, my home.

Our ears will be twisted by unknown tongues;  our faces bronzed by unknown suns.