That night I dream I’m a bird, the wind lashing my face as I race over the water. I spot the silhouette of a fish in the water and I dive for it. Splash! The water cradles my body as I plunge. My form changes and scales appear; a tail develops; my gills strain for air. I can suddenly turn, dart, hover, or glide. I swim to a sunken canoe with half its planking rotted away. A school of small fish live in the stern, and I ask them about the pink-headed duck. Yes, they’ve just seen it and wonder how I could have missed it. Minutes ago one was dabbling along the far shore. I’m off, cutting across the river, wending my way through the islands. At the shore I crawl up the bank like a salamander and slowly regain my human form. I awake with a start, my body chilled. The campfire is out, Shankar is snoring, and the river droning. Falling back asleep is easy; I’m learning where to look for nature’s prize.
Rory Nugent also contributed “The Calcutta Fowl Market” to Part I. Both stories were excerpted from his book The Search for the Pink-Headed Duck: A Journey into the Himalayas and Down the Brahmaputra.
“We in India do not think the gods are far. They are all around us. They walk our streets; they come to us in dreams.”
—Adilakshmi, quoted by Andrew Harvey, Hidden Journey: A Spiritual Awakening
Breaking the Fast
WILLIAM DALRYMPLE
Of pigeons, kites, and the end of Ramadan on the rooftops of Delhi.
IN THE LAST HOUR BEFORE THE BREAKING OF THE RAMADAN FAST, the courtyards and rooftops were filling with people. Some were lying in charpoys, snoozing away the last minutes before their first meal for thirteen hours. Others sat out on carpets beneath the shady trees enjoying the cool of the evening. Nearby, little boys were playing with brightly coloured diamond-shaped kites which they flew up into the warm evening breeze. They pulled sharply at the strings, then released the kites so that they flew in a succession of angular jerks, higher and higher into the pink evening sky. While most of the fliers were quietly attempting to raise their kites as high as possible into the heavens, some of the boys were engaged in battles with their neighbours. They locked strings with the kites of their enemies and attempted, by means of the ground glass glued on their strings, to cut their opponents’ kites free.
Yet, on the rooftops, the kite fliers were easily outnumbered by the pigeon fanciers—the kabooter baz—who stood on almost every terrace, hands extended into the air calling to their pigeons: Aao! Aao! Aao! (Come! Come! Come!) Above them, the sky was full of the soft rush of beating wings, clouds of pigeons dipping and diving in and out of the domes and through the minarets. The flocks whirled and wheeled, higher and higher, before nose-diving suddenly down towards their home terrace on the command of their flier. Some came to rest on the bamboo pigeon frames—horizontal slats of trellising raised on a pole—that several of the fliers had raised above their roofs.
Charpoy
In England the mention of pigeon fanciers brings to mind Geordies and flat caps and Newcastle Brown Ale. In Delhi the sport has very different associations. It is remembered as the civilized oldpastime of the Mughal court. Its laws were codified by Abu’l Fazl in the A’in-i-Akabari and its delights and dangers were illustrated by the Mughal miniaturists. Its arts were mastered by, among others, the last of the Great Moguls, the Emperor Bahadur Shah Zafar. It is still one of the great passions of the Old Delhi-wallahs, and one of the many habits which distinguishes them from their Punjabi neighbours in the New City.
We were admiring the towering minaret of Jami Masjid when two Belgian women asked if we’d accompany them up the tower, since women alone were not permitted. Up we went, through a claustrophobic stairwell, wondering if we’d ever reach the top. When we did, the view was stupendous. The Red Fort shimmered nearby in the setting sun, golden clouds hovering like halos. But kids kept emerging from the stairwell like termites; within minutes the tower was jammed, people pushing, arguing, getting edgy. We were pressed close to a knee-high railing with nothing between us and the plaza below but 120 feet of that golden light. We began to worry that someone might go over the edge, perhaps an infidel or two. We squirmed back to the stairwell, finally slipping into the center of the crowd and down. We emerged, immensely relieved. Outside the mosque we discovered a man selling bullwhips. We wished we’d seen him on the way in, but we bought two anyway.
—James O’Reilly and Larry Habegger, “Fools in Delhi”
Fardine took us to the edge of his terrace, where his own pigeons were kept in a large coop. He opened the wire-mesh door and scattered some grain in the floor. Immediately the pigeons began to strut and flutter about, billing and cooing with pleasure. As they emerged from their coop, Fardine pointed out the different varieties in his collection.
“These are the Shiraji,” he said pointing to two birds with reddish wings and black chests. “They are the fighter pigeons. This is a very good pair: they have won many battles. And you see these?” He was now pointing at some large pigeons, coloured very light blue-grey. “These are the Kabuli Kabooter. They are the strongest pigeons in Delhi. They are not very fast but they can fly very high and for two to four hours—sometimes more. And these red ones: the are Lal Khal, along with the Avadi Golay they are the fastest of all kabooter.”
With a swift movement he picked up one of the Lal Khals and kissed it on its head. Then, turning it over, he pointed at the miniature bracelets he had fixed to its ankles. “Look!” he said. “They wear ghungroos like a dancer!”
Fardine took out a tin can from a cupboard beside the coop. In it was grain mixed with ghee (clarified butter). This was obviously the pigeons’ favourite delicacy: at the sight of the tin can, the pigeons leapt in the air and fluttered above us waiting to dive down on the first grains; others landed flirtatiously on Fardine’s arms and shoulders. The boy threw the sticky grain up into the air and the pigeons swooped down after it. The birds on Fardine’s shoulders maneuvered their way down to the edge of the can where they sat on its rim, greedily pecking at the grains. Others sat on Fardine’s open palm eating from his hand.
When the birds had eaten their fill, Fardine stood back and shouted: “Ay-ee!” Immediately with a great flutter of wings the pigeons rose into the air and circled above the terrace. When Fardine whistled the birds shot off in the direction of the Jami Masjid; another whistle and they returned. Fardine waved his arms and the birds rose high into the air; at the cry of Aao! Aao! Aao! they obediently returned. With another flutter of wings, the birds came in to land on their coop.
“These tricks are easy to learn,” Fardine shrugging his shoulders. “But to become a master—a Khalifa—can take twenty years of training. A master can teach his pigeons to capture another man’s flock and drive it home like a herd of sheep. He can make his birds fly like an arrow—in a straight line, in single file—or can direct them to any place he likes, in any formation. There are perhaps five thousand kabooter baz in Delhi, but there are only fifty Khalifa.”
As Fardine spoke, there was a sudden report, like a loud explosion. Seconds later the muezzin of a hundred Delhi mosques called the faithful to prayer with a loud cry of “Allaaaaah hu-Akbar!” The sun had set. The fast was over. It was time for the iftar.
William Dalrymple also contributed “A Sufi Spring” to Part I, “The Other Raj” to Part II, and “Beyond Turkman Gate” to Part IV. This selection was excerpted from his book City of Djinns: A Year in Delhi.
In the middle of the afternoon in Delhi it simply poured, the hardest rain of the year. I discovered that Jimmy, who is only nine, had taken the big black umbrella and gone for a walk! When he came home an hour later, by which time I was getting worried about him, the streets were so flooded, he was soaked to the bone, of course.
“Where have you been?” I asked, relieved and irritated.
He said,“I went down to the nullah [open drainage] by the bridge and the corn parcher’s son—he’s about my age—was sitting all huddled up and his fire had gone out. So I sat down beside him and we both got under the umbrella and sat there. Then his fat
her and his mother and his little brother came. His mother was the most pregnantest lady I ever saw. His little brother didn’t have anything on and he got under the umbrella, too. And they were all shivering so hard. I wasn’t shivering. Then they all went away so I came home.”
—Betty Ann Webster, “Sharing”
In the Ladies’ Compartment
THALIA ZEPATOS
The community of women is alive and well in India.
A MANGO MOON RIPENED AS THE DAY’S HEAT DRIFTED INTO THE South Indian night. I fidgeted on the noisy train platform at Ernakulum Junction, alongside the northbound express that was to carry me on the overnight journey up the west coast of the subcontinent to Bombay. Under the watchful eyes of a six-year-old vendor, I drained the last of the chai and returned the glass to his waiting hands.
The platform buzzed with now-familiar railway station life. Indian travelers lugging parcels of all shapes and sizes picked their way between sleeping figures huddled under shawls. Wealthier travelers paraded before their hired coolies, who calmly balanced metal suitcases and trunks on their red turbans as they followed in single file. Men and women lined up at water stands, washing away the heat and dust of the day. Chai and coffee wallahs bellowed their wares, each toting a huge aluminum kettle in one hand, a bucket of repeatedly rinsed glasses in the other. Food vendors chanted their way alongside the train, exchanging fruit and chili-laced snacks for one- and two-rupee notes pushed between the metal bars that crossed each window of the ancient train cars.
I’d traveled over five thousand kilometers by train during six months of wandering India. The second-class trains were always hot, the seats often crowded, the air dusty. Riding down the east coast and up the west, I bounced babies on my lap, practiced new words in Telugu, Malayalam, and Kokkani, and traded fruit for homemade meals. Tiny villages ringed by rice paddies and banana plantations passed outside the window in an unending panorama of rural Indian life.
Trains in the south provided an unusual treat—a small “ladies’ compartment” at the end of each car, designed to carry six or eight women traveling without the protection of a male. They seemed unneeded for these strong Indian women who dealt matter-of-factly with numbing adversity. I was thankful, however, that the Indian Railway system had provided me an exclusive place to meet Indian women without hovering husbands, fathers, and brothers edging in to control the conversation. My previous journeys in the “ladies’ compartments” had been the scene of some of my most delightful and instructive encounters.
On one twelve-hour ride across the shimmering heat of the Thar desert to the fortress city of Jaisalmer, I was surrounded by fierce-looking, bejeweled, Rajasthani women. They frankly reviewed my foreign looks and dress, their black eyes wandering slowly from my wavy brown hair to my ringless toes.
I returned the interest, pointing to their red and blue patterned skirts and the scores of ivory bracelets that climbed past their elbows and under the sleeves of their tight-fitting bodices. With shy smiles, they admired my silver ankle bracelets and, one by one, displayed theirs. They removed their necklaces and earrings with girlish giggles and adorned me like a doll. Riotous laughter met my polite refusal of a tattooed matron’s offer to pierce my nose. Heads shook with approval as a young woman with high cheekbones and a lustrous smile combed and oiled my hair. As we approached Jaisalmer, we scrambled to return jewelry and sandals to their owners.
Days later, as I wandered through the walled town, these same women drew me into their houses, painting elaborate designs on my palms and feet with henna that lasted for weeks.
A man in a white coat comes by to take dinner orders. There are two choices: vegetarian or nonvegetarian thali, the Hindi word for the steel trays that the food comes on. A thali really means that rice, lentils, and bread will be served along with a main dish or two.
The orders are wired to a station ahead, and the thalis are pickedup during a stop and distributed. After dinner the trays are collected and off-loaded further up the line.
Recently I’ve been on a train where the thali system has been replaced by food in tinfoil dishes. After dinner, I wondered what to do with the trash. Normally I don’t balk at throwing it out the window, since food is usually served in leaf-dishes and tea often comes in disposable clay cups. But tinfoil? Go right ahead, said my two Indian seat mates, one of them a botanical scientist who preserves endangered plants for a living; it will be recycled.
—Cameron Barr, “Night-Train Glimpses of India,” The Christian Science Monitor
A shrill from the steam locomotive jolted me and urged me inside for the long trip to Bombay. This “ladies’ compartment” was crowded, with eight or nine women sharing seats for six. We smiled and nodded greetings in Hindi; no one offered a word of English. As a wiry young woman in a tattered green sari closed the door that separated the compartment from the rest of the train, I glanced around and wondered what new play would unfold during this night’s ride.
While the train pulled out of the station, I was preoccupied with the necessity to transfer in Mangalore in the middle of the night. With sign language and a few words, I indicated that I was headed for Bombay. A confident, middle-aged woman with silver streaks highlighting her thick black braid alternately pointed her finger at my chest and hers, repeating “Bombay” with each movement. Yes, yes, we both had the same destination. She then started the process anew, this time saying “Mangalore” while using sign language to pantomime that we would get down and change trains there. I hoisted my pack and followed it up to the overhead bunk. I folded myself into sleep, hoping to keep her in sight during the late-night transfer.
Dozens of jangling bangle bracelets sounded a tinny alarm as a brown hand shook me repeatedly. It was 3 a.m. and I struggled awake as the slowing of the train’s momentum signaled the approach of Mangalore station. My protector picked up her own small bag, pulled my backpack from the overhead rack, grabbed my hand and hauled me down from my berth. It seemed that keeping her in sight would not be difficult.
We wandered up and down the platform in a zigzag pattern to avoid sleeping travelers. Carrying her cloth bag without trouble, she headed straight for the corner where the red-shirted coolies were dozing and negotiated with one until he accepted her offer. He then led us along an empty track until we came to a spot that looked to me like any other. His fee paid, he floated away as she triumphantly smiled and pulled me down to squat beside her. She indicated that we would wait in that spot for the Bombay train.
We’d been traveling for hours in fits and starts, lurching from station to station, stopping in the middle of nowhere for no apparent reason. The steam locomotive spewed ash and bits of coal which blew through the window on the wind, soiling the seats, our clothing, our bodies. As darkness fell I saw sparks flying with the grit, something I’d never noticed on these ancient Indian trains. At night the smoke was alive with fire, whole constellations of stars riding off on the breeze.
A short while later we stopped again, the locomotive shut down, the smoke and ash cleared, but the sparks continued, and as I leaned out into the sticky heat I realized they weren’t sparks at all, but the air was thick with fireflies.
—Larry Habegger, “To the South”
I decided to put my faith in her, discarding the notion of finding a railway employee for official verification, and settled down to wait. Other travelers emerged from the night and spread their bundles to claim sections of the platform. Their low murmurs were silenced by the deep rumbling of the approaching train. As the steam-belching locomotive screeched into the station, people and luggage multiplied around us. Suddenly we were at the head of a pulsating crowd. Madame, as I thought of her, firmly stood her ground and barked at anyone who tried to usurp my spot. I knew that none of us transferring from other trains would have reserved seats; now I realized that many might not even make it into the train.
The air brakes hissed and we bounded up the steps of the car still lumbering slowly before us. I stopped short as we entered the corr
idor; every spot was already filled, there was simply nowhere to go. Madame propelled me forward as I struggled to keep my pack from battering other passengers. The first compartment we passed had twelve or fourteen women sardined into a space designed for six. As we pushed our way forward I realized that every compartment was a ladies’ compartment. The entire train car was packed with hundreds of Indian women—matrons, teenagers, and tiny grandmothers shushing girl and boy children. The ultimate Ladies Compartment.
My advocate moved ahead of me, regally examined the two benches that faced each other in the next section and parted the women on one bench with a sweep of her mighty arm. She parked me firmly between those on one bench and inserted herself opposite me. A howl went up from the women on both sides. Color rose to my face, and I started to relinquish my place, but Madame pushed me back down and answered each argument with a quick retort. A quiet woman wrapped in a blue sari edged in gold brocade murmured in clipped English, “She is informing everyone that you are a visitor to our country and we must show you hospitality.” Grateful for a translator, I implored, “Please apologize for me and explain that I will sit in the corridor.”
Travelers' Tales India Page 35
