Mirage

Sometimes I wonder if it had all been real. Was it all a mirage--India? When I get this feeling, I take out my photo box and sift through my visual memories of the place.

I took more than 2,000 photographs in my five weeks in India; more than I had ever taken before in and of one country at one time. Even so, for every picture that I took, there were two or three more that I had wanted to take but couldn't, because I was on a careening bus or it was prohibited or the tour guide was hurrying us off to the next place.

There were times too that I was worried about how my intended subject would react; a feeling that, I realized in the end, was unwarranted. It is a delight to take pictures of humanity in India, because its people seem generally unwary and unafraid of the camera. Indeed, many times, they themselves offered to pose for me, for a shot! This was especially true with children.

Another time, I experienced a reversal of roles as some local tourists in Rishikesh, quickly noticing my foreignness because of my camera, clothes and hat, asked to have a picture taken with me. It was quite disconcerting, but I felt glad to somehow be able to return the favor, through them, to all the people who now populate my photo box, photo CDs, and most of all, my heart and mind.

I loved India, and a huge part of that is because it is the most photogenic place I have ever had the blessing to visit and experience so far. I know that what I had seen of it is a mere fraction of all that it has to offer; for the rest, I will have to go back--and I definitely plan to do that.

Pearl by the Yamuna

God's Little Creatures

One of the things I found most delightful in India is how hospitable it is to God's little creatures. Pigeons peck contentedly at food scattered for them on the square of Jama Masjid; parrots peek from nooks of the Quwwat-ul-Islam Mosque in the Qutb Complex; squirrels scurry about the garden of Humayun's tomb; birds of all kinds skim and dive in formation in Lodi Gardens; and even in Ashoka Hotel, my home in New Delhi, crows would gather alongside the driveway in the morning, and fat dragonflies would circle the air near dusk. And of course, how could I forget that most privileged of creatures: the cow, which occupies a special place in the Hindu psyche!

(Clockwise from top left: This gentle giant blessed me at Nandakanan Zoo; Hanuman's kin; A winged neighbor in Ashoka Hotel; One of the furry little creatures that make their home in Lodi Gardens)

Humayun's Tomb

copper earth,
sun-baked stones,
against emerald.
in the tomb
light chases shadows
as doves peek
from the blue corners,
their cooing a lullabye
echoing off cool marble.

(*Humayun's Tomb, Delhi)

Phoenix on the Fields

Help! Hurry!
A tongue of flames in the ripening fields!
But wait--
it is only a woman
wearing a phoenix' burning plumage.

Red & Saffron

Red and saffron are the colors I associate most with India; reminiscent of saddhus, bindhis, biryanis, Kali, and sandstone ruins. They are the hands-down favorites when it comes to choosing the color of saris. Marigolds adorn Gandhi's memorial, and red hibiscus, Hindu altars. Even Jaipur's Pink City is not pink but a dusty red orange!

(*Clockwise from top left: Gilded finial, Jain temple along Chandni Chowk, Old Delhi; Ganesha figure in Mukteshwar temple, Bubaneshwar; Pilgrim in Swarg Ashram, Rishikesh; Boy with mother beside the Ganges, Haridwar; Woman on motorized cart, on the road to Jaipur; Sightseers in Taj Mahal, Agra)

Be Like the Little Children

On my first day in India, and only eight hours after I landed in Delhi (at the ungodly hour of 2 a.m.!), I heard mass in the chapel at the Nunciature, which was a mere five-minute walk from Ashok Hotel. I was delighted to find that the congregation included these three curious, pint-size members.

Nirvana

Bodhgaya was where Siddhartha achieved enlightenment
beneath a pipal tree.

The descendant of that tree still spreads its shade there,
and those wanting to go where Buddha had gone
still meditate in its shade.

Arches

The arch is a masterpiece of human creation. It is a complex structure that converts vertical forces into horizontal forces and allows little pieces to travel long distances.

(- my friend Carlos)

Ashok Hotel

In New Delhi, I stayed in Ashok Hotel, located in the tranquil, tree-lined diplomatic enclave in Chanakyapuri. As someone remarked, it is a grand, wonderfully situated hotel that could be run better.

What I liked about it most was its touch of Indian art and culture. There are replicas of famous Indian sculptures and artifacts at the entrance and all over the lobby. The undulating lobby ceiling (shown above) depicts the founding myth of the country. The second floor corridor is lined with elegantly powerful photographs taken by Steve McCurry, mostly of Asia.

Also, during the three weeks that I stayed there, two painting exhibits were held in the tea lounge. In the first one, you could actually watch the artists, all women, at work. In the evenings, I enjoyed passing between the two rows of easels holding the canvasses, on the way to my room, as soft piano music played in the background.

Amber Fort, Jaipur

(Above, clockwise from top left: Donkeys going downhill; Ganesh Pol, an intricately painted gateway built in 1641; Time-worn walls; Rajput lady laborer; Flower-inspired dome;
Below: The ramparts of Amber Fort)

A Suitable Boy

(borrowing the title of Vikram Seth's novel)

South Park Cemetery

Graveyards usually either depress or spook me, and I try to give them as wide a berth as possible. Even on All Souls' and All Saints', I prefer to offer up my prayers for the dead at home rather than visit the cemetery. When I read about Kolkata's South Park Street Cemetery in my guidebook though, I felt I absolutely had to visit it.

Serene and atmospheric, almost reminiscent of a Japanese moss garden, the cemetery is a bit of the Raj frozen in time. Secreted there, beneath the mildewed stones and gnarled roots, are the bones of British soldiers and civil servants, and their wives and children, their own little histories summed up in their epitaphs. Some of them died fighting for the British Empire, for the Queen. Many young wives and children succumbed to illnesses that the English constitution wasn't built to survive. But saddest are the graves of babies, which are tiniest but seem heaviest--filled as they are with undreamed dreams and unfulfilled promise.

A Riot of Colors

India would not be India without the riot of colors and flowing elegance of women’s saris. Nowadays, the younger people seem to prefer the shalwar-kameez, which has its own beauty, with its knee- or calf-length blouse, loose pajamas and dupatta (shawl), and Western-style clothing like jeans and shirts are quickly catching on among the urban youth, with branches of popular American and European clothing lines sprouting up in big cities.

One cannot help but hope that the sari would not go the way of the traditional garbs of many other countries—relegated to be worn only on “special” occasions. If that happens, India would lose one of the unique features that give it charm, color and character.

Panoramas

Panoramas, sweeping vistas,
remind us to take the long view of things;
to see the grand design of life by stitching together parts of it
that, by themselves,
might seem ordinary and meaningless.

(Top: Swarg Ashram, Rishikesh;
Bottom: View from Lindsay Hotel, New Market, Kolkata)

Court of the Beloved

The "Court of the Beloved" (Pritam Chowk) in Jaipur's City Palace has four doors, beautifully painted to evoke the four seasons.

Mother Ganges

On my last weekend in India, I decided to go on a pilgrimage to Haridwar, where the Ganges flows from the Himalayas. I had been mulling where to go when someone told me about the Aarti, a ceremony held there everyday at dusk, when baskets made of leaves are floated down the Ganges bearing flower petals, lit candles and whispered prayers.

It was an uplifting, purifying experience sitting on the ghats with a thick crowd of pilgrims who had gone there to immerse themselves in the sacred waters of Mother Ganges. As the sun set, bells began to peal and music started playing, as more and more candles were released downstream. Torches were lit and swung over the currents every time one of the baskets bearing the candles floated by. Later, priests went around the ghats bearing burning lamps and I imitated the other pilgrims, passing my hands over the flames and drawing its smoke to myself.

Lotus

Holy Cow!

"Her (the cow's) superior position in the world is agreed upon by common consent."
- Paul Bowles, Notes Mailed at Nagercoil

Self-Portrait

(Shadow on stones strewn in front of Victoria Memorial, Calcutta)

Rishikesh

Rishikesh became popular as the place where the Beatles went to experiment with Eastern philosophy and religion, staying in an ashram and catapulting Maharishi Mahesh Yogi to fame by adopting him as their guru. With that in mind, I expected it to be a "hippie hangout," bristling with a new age atmosphere packaged for the consumption of Western seekers.

I was thus pleasantly surprised to find Rishikesh--Swarg Ashram, to be precise--to be a tranquil town tucked between thickly wooded hills and the Ganges. True there were many foreigners among the saffron clad saddhus, but they weren't at all the wild backpackers I was expecting to find.

As I left the place, I actually found myself thinking that it would be lovely to be able to go back there someday and stay a few weeks or months. With such lovely surroundings and a gentle pace of life, it's the kind of place where it seems very possible to find enlightenment and peace of mind.

One in a Billion

(Clockwise from top left: Little girl playing at Netaji Subash Road, Kolkata; Rajput musician in Amber Fort, Jaipur; Indian couple visiting Victoria Memorial, Kolkata; Guy giving a salute, seen from a bus, Gaya; Frightened baby on cable car, Haridwar)

A Peek at the Countryside

Haridwar

Sacred Roost

(A winged resident of St. Paul's Cathedral in Calcutta)

India's 3G Transport

Third generation? Come on.
It's gaudy, geriatric and garrulous.
On the rear of each of these brightly painted rickety boxes is written: BLOW HORNS PLEASE. And the drivers behind them, in a rare and somewhat perverse show of obedience, comply.

As I unsuccessfully tried to lull myself to sleep, I just consoled myself with the thought that, at least, Indian bus makers and operators haven't (yet?) discovered those crazy horn sounds--maniacal laughter, crowing rooster, la cucaracha, you name it--that hit Manila's streets a few years back. God forbid they ever do!

Renaissance Man

When my Dad visited India in 2004, he gifted me with a copy of Rabindranath Tagore's Gitanjali, the Nobel Prize-winning collection of English translations of his verses. I never imagined that, two years later, I would get the chance to visit Tagore's ancestral home, which has been turned into a museum, and the university he started, in Kolkata.

Holding my breath, I wandered through the narrow corridors--into the room where Tagore was born, the one where he created his art, the one where he might have made love with his wife, the one where he must have told his kids stories as they sat on his knees, and coming full circle, the room where he breathed his last.

I was staggered by the illustriousness of his pedigree (and dazzled by the names on his family tree, wondering if the son and daughter I would like to have would be able to live down the names Nagendranath and Barnakumari); delighted to discover that, on top of being a poet, he was also a painter, a composer, and even a ballet dancer; impressed with how well traveled he was; and charmed with the paintings of the Bengali School, which he espoused.

After the tour, we sat on the floor sipping milk tea in tiny green and blue cups, while a girl from the university sang two of Tagore's verses in a beautiful, plaintive voice.

Afterwards, the museum's curators invited someone in our group to reciprocate with a performance, and Beth egged me on to sing a Filipino love song. I refused vehemently of course, not just because I knew the limits of my singing voice, but because I felt that anything anyone attempted at that moment could only sully the afternoon's poetry and romance.

(Tagore's poetry can be found in all decent bookstores. Take a peek at his artworks, which are less ubiquitous.)