The Wretched End

To all who have followed this thing, I apologize for my many type-os, misspellings, and grammatical errors. I hoped that spontaneity would overcome my many, many failings, but alas, it just came off as being sloppy. And so I thank you for getting through this junk and I will bid you all a fond farewell as we did our friends in Hyderabad.

Creation

There is probably no better place than here in the heart of Hinduism in India to talk about creation. The Hindu creation story has some elements seen in the creation story of the Old Testament. Yahweh is behind the laws of nature. In Hinduism, Vishnu was not consciousness much before the creation of the universe. In fact Vishnu was sleeping quite peacefully guarded by Cobra who was also sleeping on the ocean formed by a great flood (hmmmm, another similar theme) that had destroyed the world.
Well, Vishnu is awaken by the sound of "Om" welling up from out of the depths of the ocean. When Vishnu awakens, lo and behold, a beautiful lotus is growing out of his navel. Can you imagine the amount of navel lint there must have been in there to allow this to happen? And sitting on the lotus blossom is Brahma. Vishnu, probably still a bit groggy from being awaken from what was undoubtedly REM sleep asks Brahma to create the world which he dutifully does. And the rest is history, well, mythology. But that brings me to the issue I've been grappling with here in India. If we believe that our existance starts when egg and sperm form their union, when does the individual really become conscious of him- or herself that is meaningful to the way they conduct themselves? That's what has motivated this posting. Delving into those memories of childhood and I'm not talking about repressed memories. I like to tell people the story of how my parents taught me to swim before I was even six months old. When the ice was finally off the lake, my folks threw me in and I swam almost immediately. Getting out of rope bindings and then out of the gunny sack were the real challenges. Swimming was easy.
Try to remember your earliest memory. I want to share mine with you as a preface to the thoughts I’ve had recently based on events here in Hyderabad and the greater pan-Asian area as well as what I’ve been reading from the news in the US. The earliest memory I retain was a summer day when I must have been about two-and-a-half years old. Our house, still very much a cottage at that time, had a center rear entry with a screen door that faced the road. My family always described the side of the house that faced the lake as the front. What I remember so vividly is that my mother was in our kitchen which was galley style in the back of the house. You actually entered the house directly into the kitchen. It hadn’t started as a kitchen, though. It was originally a back porch with a line of five sash windows facing the road to the right of the door and three facing the eastern side of the cottage. Our ice chest (yes, I do mean an ice chest) and now-oh-so-chic country sink lined the wall to the left of the door. These two items were flanked by floor to ceiling cupboards made from the vertical wainscoting that designers now sell as being compatible with the country sink. Go figure. My Mom and Dad were “fashion forward” with that poverty-chic look. The doorway directly across the kitchen from the entry led to the living space. The evidence that a door once hung in that space was still visible. I was anticipating the arrival of my maternal grandparents who were driving from their home in Detroit to our home in Linden. My maternal grandfather had first discovered the cottage back in the 1920s as a travelling salesman when he sold high-end canned fruit from W. R. Hearst’s San Simeon estate in California. That gig didn’t work out long, but Grandpa Brown eventually bought the cottage, moving it from its original spot on the east end of the lake to its final resting place on what is now called “The Bluffs” of Byram Lake by local realtors. I remember that the road was the luminescent tan color of the clay from which it was made. The county had not deemed it necessary yet to lay down a coat of creosote as it was too early in the summer so every car that passed by blew up a cloud of the tan dust that would either blow off to the east carried on a breeze or settle back down on the road if there wasn’t. It must have been about noon as there were very few shadows leading or lagging from any object when I heard through the screen door a car slow near our house. I caught a glimpse of a large olive green Oldsmobile coupe slowly turn into a parking spot across the road. The occupants opened the doors, stepping out onto the dusty ground. I could no longer contain my excitement. I started running directly at the screen door yelling “MangMang, BangMang” which were my names for my Grandmother Brown and Grandpa Brown respectively. I remember that I failed to even put my arms out to push the screen door open as I rushed to meet them. Unfortunately, my Mother had latched the screen door, heaven only knows why, we had nothing, and I mean NOTHING of any value to anyone in the general vicinity of Lower Michigan that would have required latching the hook and eye that was attached to the jam just above mid-door. I hit the door at a full run, my height made my head meet the cross-piece of the door dead-on. I believe I was in the middle of a second M-M and I remember saying Bang when I hit the door and was thrown back on to the linoleum, dazed and confused. I believe I’ve spent much of my life in that state ever since. The rest of the memory is blurred by time and not too many months after this encounter, my maternal grandparents moved into another cottage just down the road from us. I thought that was great. Reflecting on it now, I’m not sure how my Mom and Dad felt about it. Family dynamics like that are always tricky.
What has sparked this thought is the temporal nature of our conscious lives. We become aware of the world around us and, depending on how we developed, we end up losing consciousness even before we’ve expired. I started out this blog with a picture that just blew me away when I first saw it. It is one from the Hubble telescope and it is the gas pillars from the Eagle Nebula. From what we have learned about them, there is the potential of future creation stories being formed in those pillars of gas and debris from the destruction of another sun. The story of creation that we continue to discover is more fantastic and awe-inspiring than even the most exotic creation story of any religion I am aware of. Now, mind you, I will witness that if you press me, I will recite the Catholic Profession of Faith to you as the tenet of my belief. So, how do I reconcile the Biblical creation story with what I observe? It starts with another story.
When I think of the Biblical creation stories in Genesis, a story that had its origins in an oral tradition of the nomadic people of the Levant, I imagine a shepherd huddled around a small fire gazing up at the stars, listening for any threat to his flock, and wondering "how did I get here?" I think of his perspective being influenced by the arid rocky desert. What would he want? Any place with water would be nice. Maybe it could have a date tree or two. Yum! Perhaps it could have enough grass for grazing his herd. A garden, perhaps? How did this wonderful place that I dream of get here? If I'm here in this inhospitable place, what did I do wrong that I'm not in a delightful wadi where I don't have to worry about finding water or food for my flock? Where is it that I don't have to worry about predators carrying off my flock or worse, some dudes from over the next hill coming to take my flock and kill me? And now that I think of it, what did my folks do wrong? And so the questions require an answer that he couldn't just go on the internet to find an answer. It will be well over 5000 years before D. W. Griffith will attempt "Intolerance" as an explanation. So, what's a nice nomadic boy to do on a cold, lonely night, far from home, alone with his thoughts and his flock? Whoa, we better not go any farther there. The thing was, there were communities around when the Levant story was forming, so our fictional shepherd could have heard or maybe even seen a village or larger community. How do ya keep 'em down in the desert once they've seen Ur?
And it all starts with Genesis. "In the beginning" or the creation story is one of the great faith stumbling blocks for any Christian faith tradition. It's gotta be real for the rest of the salvation story to have meaning. Certainly the Catholic Church has explanations in the Catechism for the origin of Cain’s wife and all the other inconsistencies However, I marvel as well at the Hindu creation story and how Vishnu sleeps on the cosmic ocean, laying on the seven-headed serpent he vanquished, dreaming the dream of the world. Vishnu is the perserver. Now, Hindu belief is a mythology, right, just like the Greek, Roman, and Norse gods were mythologies. As the late Joseph Campbell put it "Mythology is what we call someone else's religion." And all too often what we fail to realize is what the common function of religion has been which is a path to take a person from that point of their existence that they become conscious of the world around them until they lose that final consciousness through death or watching the last three seasons of American Idol or DWTS.
One of the benefits of cultural isolation is that your mythology or my religion don't have the problematic issues that pop up when someone else raises their hand and says "hey, what about my way of thinking which is better than your old way of thinking?" And here in India, Hinduism (again, a misnomer first used by the early colonialists to describe the polytheistism of India) had plenty of time to set up a rigorous storyline of how the world was created, what the rules are for those in the world (as they see it) and how individuals are to act. The Caste system came out of this and the Brahmans were on top of the Indian totem pole and the Dalits (untouchables) were just below the ground level. And the creation story suggested that what Caste you were born into is the exactly right one for you! So if you are a dung beetle or a life insurance agent, you know that in a previous life or lives, YOU loaded up on some bad karmic matter that you're paying for in this life and will, certainly in the case of the insurance salesman, probably be paying off for an infinite set of lives until at some time long in the future, you will become a Brahman and a yogi from which you will reach your Moksha.
This brings up our naive western approach to thinking about reincarnation. I can't tell you how many times I've heard someone say that they recall being a Egyptian princess or a great warrior or king or some grand personage of some kind. Well, what's with THAT? In eastern religion, each time the soul goes to it's holding pen waiting for the next incarnation, it doesn't know anything of what it was. It doesn't recognize any of its former lives. It just knows, as George Harrison penned, you gotta carry the weight of all that karmic matter a long time. So any time you have those Deja Vu feelings, it's probably something you ate; an undigested morsel or cheese or fermented gruel. It will pass.

GOM*TLC=Angry Shiva

Two evenings ago Deb and I were watching a TLC program about the top 10 extravagant restaurant experiences in the world. The "critics" were from Forbes magazine, the marketing director for Dom Perignon, and three more lifestyle sycophants in the tradition of Robin Leach from different magazines. It was about how much you can spend on a meal that is so over the top that all your friends will ooooo and aaaahhh that you have sufficient discretionary funds that buying a white truffle tasting or a $5000 burger or $1000 pizza will show your extraordinary refinement and oh so sophisticated you were that (a) you knew where these places were, and (b) you had the disposable income to (1) get there, (2) get a reservation, and (3) pay for it.
I'm sorry, but living in India has changed my perspective on conspicuous consumption. Even trying to align my marketing hat, this program put me over the top. We're plopped down in a country of over 1 billion people of which 3/4 are poor and more than half of them are on starvation rations.
OK, I suppose I should stop being such a grumpy old man and I have to say that, because of David and Sarah's appreciation of fine dining, we've had the opportunity to experience some extraordinary culinary treats in NYC. But the perspective of the TLC program was so self-indulgent and the commentary of the "critics" was so lugubrious, that I think I sprouted another six sets of arms and was ready to open Shiva's third eye by force. I shall never order Dom Perignon thanks to the inane comments of their marketing director. Of course, I won't buy Cooks either, even to cook with.
I feel much better now. Have a great day.

What you won't see on the evening news!

Since December 31, the issue of statehood for Telangana has been a constant part of the newspaper coverage, but with the exception of the reading of the six option convoluted report that was finally delivered on January 6, nothing else has been shown on the news. We just learned that the rioting on the Osmania University campus was purposefully not covered by the TV news by request of the Chief Minister. But since we live in the colony populated by members of the legislative assembly (MLA), we get "special" treatment like the barbed wire cages and the bales of razor wire ready to pull across the street. These are manned by police in riot gear and armed with AK-47s. These folks were not happy when I was in our little shopping area taking pictures, asking me politely NOT to take their pictures. OK, fine! No problem!

This little shopping district, one of literally hundreds that dot the neighborhoods of Hyderabad, is a hub of activity for the thousands of working folk who do everything from construction to delivery people to the maids and cooks for the households in the neighborhood. There are chai carts and vegetable and fruit vendors.

Just beyond the screens is Apollo Supply, an event services business. They dry their carpets in the street so that all the traffic (us included) run over the red or blue carpets as we drive to or from our homes. Ya gotta love it! But it does bring to mind the facility I used in Barquisimeto, Venezuela which was a very large pole barn with a dirt floor. I had it carpeted with what had to be the rejected $2.99/yard carpet from the now defunct New York Carpet World. When I asked the decorator to sweep the carpet, that's exactly what they did. About 20 people with brooms began at the far end of the building and swept the royal blue carpet. You have to believe that with an uneven dirt floor, this expanse of blue carpet rolled and swelled like a Turner colorized opening of NBC's Victory at Sea series from 1952 .

From what we understand, the decision on what will happen to the statehood issue will be in about a month and we'll be back in the States by then. Until that decision, the chai stand guy is going to do a booming business serving the police stationed here a few times a day.

Technically being "winter" you see folks with ear muffs and coats on in the morning when it's at the lowest, 60 degrees Fahrenheit. The afternoons is in the low 80s, so it is absolutely great!

Must go for now but with all the police protection I feel safer than a man just getting through a thorough TSA patdown!

Memento Mori

This unimpressive portal is one of our latest adventures, a small one, but impactful nonetheless. This was one that even Ashraf, our Hyderabadi driver, was unaware of.

Deb and I went in search of this graveyard/tomb complex yesterday. It was a mostly-forgotten family plot tucked away in a poor neighborhood across from a large medical complex south of the city center. The family was the Paigahs, descended from Saudis who came here and prominent members at court as the Nawabs to the rulers of Hyderabad. One of the family members buried here had the Falaknuma Palace built.

But no matter how splendid the home he built (it was actually more elegant than the Nizam's Chowmahalla Palace. Why would you build a house to stick in your boss' face? But that is another story) here is where he rests.

As we went through the complex, attended by a watchman who seemed happy to see someone visit besides the local children who ran up and down the open spaces, I couldn't help but think of Thomas Gray's "Elegy in a Country Churchyard". While Gray spoke of common folk, the poem speaks of what splendid things we all leave of this life and come to the same mortal end (we're not going anywhere else in this musing). These tombs were meant to be a garden, but as we know, the garden needs to be tended and like so many of India's treasures, nature was reclaiming the Paigah's legacy as well.

I can only conclude with the last lines of the poem's epitaph:
"No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode
(There they alike in trembling hope repose),
The bosom of his Father and his God."

Drinking Tata tea, Leigh, Deb, and Me

Our Christmas Eve in the backwaters of Kerala on the border with Tamil Nadu was interesting. We intended to take a morning boat ride but it seems that every other person in a 500 kilometer radius had the same idea. Our driver had tried to hold a place in the queue, but was unsuccessful. So Leigh and I went to an organic spice plantation not far from our hut (Spice Village, duh).

Alas, the only fauna were herbivores, and as many of you know, I hate all deer species after my years of fighting off the white tail variety from eating everything green in our yard in Rochester.

But enough of the unpleasant memories. We left Spice Village and made our way back out of the mountains. Fortunately, this time in the light of day. Little did we know as we were driving up there in the dark, we were going through tea plantations.

These plantations, which stretch for miles and are in some pretty rugged terrain, are owned by Tata. Yep, the people who bring you the flaming Nanos have their hands in just about everything else. Owning these vast plantations in a communist controlled state does cause a bit of concern as to whether (1) the government are CINOs (communists in name only) or if Tata, as the largest private land owner, is really the governing body of Kerala.

No matter, we travelled on our merry way and all because it was. . .Merry Christmas Day! So, as part of the celebration, Vinoo suggested we take a slow boat ride on the big lake before we hit the beach. So, once again looking like scenes from Apocalypse Now, we took a boat ride on another body of water that CCR sang about in "Green River".

After the leisurely boat ride, we set off for Marari Beach. We were checking in with fresh coconut milk and a tour.

When my dad talked about his experience in the Pacific during WWII, he often talked about how beautiful the beach and ocean scenes were and how you told the weather (red sun in morning, sailors take warning and all that). I first experienced this on Borneo in 1999. I am not a beach person per se, but this was a great respite with the exception of the old European guys in Speedos as I had mentioned before. But Deb, Leigh, and I got to be beach bums for a day, living in a thatched hut. We hung out at the beach and waited for the sunset.

But our adventure continued and I will as well. Later!

Acarolling in Kerala we go!

Kerala is the southwestern-most state on the subcontinent. It's local language is Malayalam which means "thank goodness for Tamil Nadu and the Bay of Bengal or we'd all be Malayans, or worse, Burmese". It's the closest to the Equator that Leigh or Deb had ever been. Of course, this is glaringly apparent as these two very blond, very pale-skinned women stepped off the plane onto the tarmac at the Cochin airport. The airport is 40 kilometers from Cochin, but the biggest city in the state gets to claim ownership of this one-runway "international" airport. However, as we experienced later, they were not alone. Kerala is a European magnet much like Goa. I took no pictures because Speedos on old guys on the beach or on the deck of a houseboat is just so wrong, but they were there as well. Buuuuuutttttt, I digress, again.
At the airport, we were met by our driver, Vinayan, pronounced Vinoo, who was a Kerala backwater kid who came to the big city and has been driving ever since. His English was OK, but he had a great sense of humor and, as we've learned from our previous driver experiences, is well-known by retailers, tourism guides, and vendors in the touristy areas of Kerala. We drove straight away out to the backwater area beginning with a typical two-lane road which seemed much like the drives we had experienced before outside Chennai or Bangalore or Delhi. But within an hour, we turned off the highway and started up winding roads lined on both sides by rubber tree plantations. One of the first things you notice is the number of Christian churches, but Duh, The Portuguese were the first western traders here and they brought along the shock troops of the Catholic church: the Jesuits. But you also see a great number of Hindu temples as well as a smattering of mosques. but was is really interesting about the number of religious institutions is that Kerala is and has been a communist-controlled government for decades. So much for godless commies! But enough politics! Off we go into the mountains. The state is dotted with small villages which we drove through maybe a gazillion on our way to Theddakay. We passed through one that was starting a festival with a drumming group. We were climbing up on a fairly steep grade when we started to get into the switchbacks which were quite exciting because the roads narrowed enough that the hundreds of buses we passed needed the entire road to make each of the switchbacks. This wasn't a real problem -- until after nearly five hours drive, it started to get dark -- and rain -- but the traffic did not subside. The back roads traffic seemed like something you would expect in Hyderabad -- passing, beeping horns, speeding up only to hit a switchback and find an on-coming bus. Well, Deb and a a>Leigh, both in the back seat, were car sick from the many twists and turns. I was unable to stand up straight from tensing all my muscles during the drive as if I came off the wildest roller coaster at Six Flags Over the Wagah border crossing during the daily flag lowering ceremony. We reached Spice Village about 8pm. We had some dinner and went to bed. And reliving it has exhausted me, so I'm gonna call it a night.

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