Shillong, Meghalaya

Hallelujah.

In more ways than one.

We have at last reached the remote town of Shillong, in the state of Meghalaya, home to a rich amalgam of ethnicities, cleaner than any town yet, and full of lush greenery. There's still heart-wrenching poverty, but now juxtaposed with riches, and oh the streets feature far less trash.

We've met Leban, the Peace Education Conference organizer, but not before a comedy of errors that had us contacting the kind friend we met on the bus first. Finally, we landed in the home of Pamela, a Punjabi Christian woman (a large percentage of Shillong is Christian), who has been treating us as honored guests: our own room, meals, a driver, and very entertaining conversations.

Raj is reminding me that I've gone past the time I promised to end at this computer, so I'll come back to this later, with photos, if possible!

Love,

Jill

Traveling with my "very good friend."

Jill, 03 November 2010

Some nonsequiturs...this is Raj and me at a large food court-type place in Delhi with my first sample of Indian treats.

It's been a while since I've been able to get to a computer. Even now, I'm in a little shop on a busy street of Guwahati, an industrial town above Shillong, where we're headed tomorrow. A strong kerosene smell visits my nostrils with each inhalation. Not so much fun. Sometimes it seems I go for many hours at a time without a deep inhalation.

It has all the dirt of Delhi, plus extra industrial stuff, but without the color and culture of Kolkata, so we're moving on sooner rather than later down toward Shillong, which will be more rural, I expect. We did see a number of beautiful farms on the way from the Guwahati airport, and quite a few animals (goats, cows, ducks) roaming freely in and out of traffic.

I feel overloaded with sights, sounds, smells, tastes, observations, and questions.

Stares follow us wherever we go. Not unfriendly, but curious, puzzled, unsure, sometimes what looks like guarded or suspicious. A few times, Raj has gotten called "sir," shortly followed by an apology. She says that never happened when she traveled alone, so we're thinking they look at us and think I'm female, so naturally Raj, with the sole secondary masculine sex characteristic of short hair, must be male.

We've been trying to be mindful and consideration about taking photos, asking permission, or being very discreet about the camera or both, and have been amused and a bit surprised that a number of Indians, particularly younger folks, have also wanted to photograph us. We aren't quite sure why. While at the Taj Majal, a large group of schoolgirls in uniform were looking at us, and then one with her friends asked to take our picture. Of course we said yes. Then I asked if I could take theirs. I love when people are so open with their curiosity, such honest curiosity and lack of judgment.


On the way to Guwahati, a young man sitting opposite us asked where we were from, requested a photo, and then invited us to sit with him. So we talked with him for a while. He was on his way back from Delhi, where he had enlisted in the Indian Navy. He asked if we were sisters or friends or what. I consulted Raj briefly, and then told him we were "very good friends." A part of me sank inside as I lied to him through this partial truth, and I chose to do it because I really had no idea what the consequences might be for announcing our relationship in this part of the world, where we don't know the language, have no clue what kind of resources or support might be available if we were to encounter danger, and are days from home.

My very good friend and I encountered another awkward moment when we arrived at the hotel and requested a single double bed instead of the two twins we were given. A crowd of four staffpeople hovered at the entrance to our room looking in as the bellperson showed us our new quarters. Again, I sensed only curiosity, not hostility, but still I felt uncomfortable.

OK, this place is closing so more now--I have zillions of pictures!

Love,

Jill

Goodbye Delhi, hello, Kolkata

Jill, 11-01-10

I notice the numbers of the dates whenever I write them. Significant or not, I enjoy the patterns. I find them attractive.

I feel as though I have officially entered India, but now I get to go and visit the places (well, one of the places) Raj's family is from, Kolkata, formerly known to Westerners as Calcutta.

There, we'll meet up with a cousin of Raj's, take a cooking class, and gear up for the third leg of the journey, before we head up to Meghalaya for the peace education conference where we're both scheduled to present, Raj on Kinesthetic Modeling, me on Witnessed Mediation.

More words--and hopefully images--later. For now, lots of love to all...

Jill

Taj Majal

Queen Mumtaz Mahal

Jill, 10-31-10

I doubt that I would have, of my own volition, arranged to travel five hours in each direction to visit the Taj Majal. For one thing, I tend to eschew the more touristy attractions. For example, I've lived in the Bay Area 17 years, but never managed to get to the top of Coyt Tower. Or drive down the famous zigzag portion of Lombard Street. And so one. For another, I just couldn't imagine how worthwhile it would be to see a single architectural phenomenon.

Well.

It was an amazing car ride--we careened through a whole panoply of rural Indian scenarios, from monkeys palling around with humans and other creatures in what Westerners might call a "front yard" to enormous statues of religious icons, to random car lots selling Jaguars (!), to our driver getting pulled over and questioned by a group of young men (the range of what went through Raj's and my heads could probably fill an entire other post), to the tourist-trappy pit stop where we slogged down yet more chai, we gulped down mouthfuls of India, tasting each component before driving on to the next.

Many dozens of missed photo opps whizzed by, leaving me longing. We did catch a few, though. And thank Vishnu that Raj is good at hearing the English words through thick accents, or I'd be like, totally up the Yamuna drowning in toxic misconception.

So at last we arrived, greeted by our guide, Nitti, who thankfully wasn't overly chatty or presumptuous--he left us lots of time and space to amble at our own pace. I hung around by the entry gates, looking at the architecture, trying to keep an open mind for any wow moments that might knock me over...and all of a sudden I stepped forward and saw the outlines of one of the newest member of the Seven Wonders of the World.

I swooned and wept.

You see, (I didn't), I'd been in the entryway, thinking it was The Thing Itself...and hadn't realized TM was just beyond.

At once weighty as marble and weightless as feathers, I just stood and stared at my new acquaintance for quite a bit. I think part of what moved me so deeply is that the Taj Mahal's very existence sprung from a deep love, of a Muslim king for his queen, Mumtaz, (hence "Taj") who died birthing her 14th child. He build the Taj Mahal as a memorial to her. With the labor of over 20,000, (workers, not slaves, we were assured) over 22 years, the Taj Mahal is crafted of marble, and features fine floral details of inlaid semiprecious stones throughout.

But like love itself, as much as I yearned for those parts, the Taj Mahal's impact on me was far greater than their sum. I felt sad that the queen never got to witness this monument to her king's love for her. I also had some illicit thoughts, like copying some of the designs for the interior of our home, and recreating the TM in cake form with white Swiss meringue buttercream.

But I digress.

The inside of the mausoleum, which was but a replica of the actual tombs below, was filled with noisy visitors. One enraged guard grabbed a woman's flashlight (apparently they're not allowed) and banged it repeatedly against the marble, presumably in an attempt to destroy it. I guess it was one of those hardy varieties. I wanted a more solemn feel to my surroundings to appreciate what I was beholding.

There's so so so much more to say. A lot of it can be better expressed through pictures--we just haven't yet found a way to get them up here. Stay tuned.

Raj, 10-31-10

Up bright and early this morning, 6.5 hours car drive south, a quick jaunt in an auto-rickshaw and then a brisk walk up to and through security only to stand before one of the 7 wonders of the world. Even as my third time gazing upon the radiant beauty of the Taj Mahal, I am still in awe of the powerful ways in which it’s energy hypnotically captivates me quickly sending me into a trance.

Some more fun food and then a 4 hour drive back to the hotel wrapped up the day. Tomorrow we’re off to Kolkata. Not sure how Jill will handle yet another busy, bustling city. Yet this city is where I can proudly cast my line deep into my lineage and hear the familiar language spoken to me (usually in the form of scolding) as a child from my grandparents. And finally one last comment regarding my experience of Jill’s experience through my eyes. I could write quite a long missive, detailing what I have witnessed in the last 48 hours, however, I feel that one sentence pretty much covers it:

She gets it.

And that's pretty damn cool, to say the least.

Everyone's trying to connect

Jill, 10-30-10
Driving through Delhi at first feels like pure chaos. Lanes are marked, but ignored. Drivers crowd into the oncoming lane, then swerve back into their own at the last minute. Horns blow, not to alert others to danger, but simply to announce, "I'm here--please move over." Pedestrians, dogs, bicycle rickshaws and sometimes cows and sheep blend in and out.

At first I was terrified--it looked like an accident might happen every other moment. Then I began to see the quiet rhythm of the consensual chaos. People moved their vehicles through and among others with ease, and a kind of grace. The hostility of an urban U.S. setting was nonexistent--no one was enraged, or even rattled. Horns weren't expletives and exclamation points, but rather ellipses, parentheses, modifiers and links.

Various levels of poverty, from employed subsistence to abject dearth populated the densest area just north of Connaught Circle where we've been staying. However, unlike in the U.S. where the homeless are swept from place to place with nowhere to really land, I noticed people making homes all over in makeshift shacks, cardboard boxes, on rooftops (including of the hotel where we're staying, and its neighboring buildings), and even a simple cot along the street. I haven't seen anyone attempting to police or dismantle anyone else's home.

The same goes for services--people along the street are offering tailoring, shirt ironing, shoe shining, and even a shave and a haircut, presumably with little or no overhead.

This morning, I saw an ad for an arts festival at the Indira Gandhi National Center for the Arts (or something like that), and we took an auto rickshaw (sort of like a motorized golf cart) ride there. So after stumbling upon an embarrassingly fecund food emporium--the dessert windows alone took up about 300 square feet of space--we waddled out to find transportation to the festival.

I wish I could upload the pictures. Firestorms of color, wild patterns, and yes, more food. We bought food tickets, but then cashed them in because even die hard foodies like us sometimes get just plain full. In this case, ogling sufficed. Well, almost. We went batshit crazy over some mango candy and crushed spices this one vendor proffered, but didn't want to load up (did I mention I'm traveling for two weeks in India with just a backpack a little larger than your average day pack, and my purse?), so we took an order card for when we come back through.

Hah--that's just the surface of all that went through my mind today. I haven't talked about handling harrassment, my sheer joy at being outside the U.S., reactions to other white people, or any details about the FOOD! Raj is out for a walk, and I'm so tired I'm about to collapse into the keyboard, so for now...alvida.

Delhi, first morning

Jill, 10-30-10
Raj wants to see India “through my eyes.” Yet I feel in a sense she has some idea of what my eyes will see...she is so curious what I see. I almost want to go spend a day alone to see what it is my eyes are seeing without being aware of her idea of what it is I may be seeing.

I notice myself taking out the camera, wanting to capture odd little moments and scenes--not unlike I do in the U.S. I notice the smell of where we are, which somehow is exactly what I might have expected, given Raj’s description. Maybe I am smelling India through her nose, her memories. The smell is compelling, captivating...like a mix of industry, street food, cows and a hint of incense somewhere in the corner. Salt. Silt. Grit.

We continue to try to be mindful of where we are in terms of expressing affection, or telling people that we’re a couple. For example, the cab driver asked Raj if she were married. She replied, “Not yet.” I saw a couple of well-groomed, clean-pressed bright-eyed men walking by holding hands, and wanted to run after them and ask where the nearest gay bar was. Raj stopped me and reminded me that men in India often hold hands as an expression of friendship. In retrospect, I guess that was a lot more likely than that they were expressing romantic affection.

I realize it would have been good to research what’s up with homosexuality in India before thrusting ourselves into the thick of it.

Raj, 10-30-10
India. Home. And not home. It’s strange to be back, to have the familiar clinging so comfortably to my back, holding me like a baby, reminding me of a very distant past. I don’t speak the language and yet I feel soothed when spoken to. Each bite from each meal sparks flecks of memories long stashed away, hidden almost in haste, afraid of what the truth might reveal. I am home, for at least a part of me. And it is that part that embraces all that India thrusts into my heart. My tender heart.
“I have lived in the US too long”, Jill uttered over paratha and chai during breakfast. I looked over, warmed by such a bold statement. Yes, I think. The US is an easy life, one in which I am always reminded of how grateful I am upon my return from this land. Bharat. This land. My land. My not land. No one’s land.
“My father is Bengali”, I say to the concierge and quickly reduce our cost by 500INR ($11.50) for our trip to Agra tomorrow. The convenience of being biracial.

I am excited to spend the day with Jill tomorrow at the Taj Mahal.