Shout Out #18

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  Srinagar, India
Monday, April 16, 2007

     The mid-morning alpine sun was blinding.  Recovering from a night of abnormally good sleep when I faced the streets of Srinagar, the light scorched my waking eyes.  Internet was the only thing on my mind.  A man with long gray hair and a purple coat spotted me quickly and called across the street.  I made the double mistake of acknowledging his shout by looking and nodding without breaking stride.  Hopefully he'd read my mind (go away).  With his purple coat in a sea of men in earth-tone fehrans it was easy to see in my peripherals that he hadn't.  Traffic delayed his progress but he was hustling (hustlers hustle) to catch up with me.   He spoke surprisingly good English with a slight accent.  Although he missed the 'go away' part (or did he just choose to ignore it?) he read my mind about the internet.  "Would you like to use the internet?"
"You must have been reading part of my mind."
"Come with me, my friend has a place across the street...a good place for doing email

01

.  And then maybe you'd like to join me for tea?"
I quickly got to work on the mass of writing I'd wanted to accomplish for several days.  He meant to wait for me so I told him I'd be working most of the day.
"Okay, I'll let you write and I'll come back in an hour or so to see how it's going."
"Or in 3 or 4 hours."  (Or never)
     My headphones were on before he left.  59 minutes later, engrossed in writing, I felt a tap on my shoulder.  I took one ear out of my headphones (wanting to hear maybe half of what he was going to say.)
"It's been an hour."
"Yeaahh?"
"Would you like to go with me to have tea with a local family?"
"I wasn't planning on doing much more than this today."
"Yes, I can see that you are focused."
"Why don't you come back later in the day."
"Okay", and he turned to go.  My headphone was almost back on

02

.  Turning back to me, "Well, I was hoping to show you some of the city...maybe the Old City or the Mughal gardens?"
     I was about to tell him to split, but it was a nice day.  Seeing the city wasn't a bad idea.  His persistence was annoying in a nice enough way.
"Alright Abdul, I'll go."
"Yes, it's too nice to sit in front of a computer with the radiation and all.  Your emailing is for the night time."
     I followed him along a waterway as he explained that the houseboat designs were a modification (first made by the British) to the traditional Kashmiri boat.  The family hosting us for tea lived on a houseboat.  We walked down a series of planks, shakily built, to access the entry door at the back of the boat.  We took off our shoes and sat in an empty room near the front of the boat.  It was home to an exceptionally friendly man named Rashid and his mother.  They invited me to eat but I was full.  Abdul gave me a book then joined them for lunch in the adjacent room.  It was one of Osho's books.  Osho is a widely read guru in India but the book didn't do much for me.  The tea on the other hand, was fantastic.  They poured me a glass of kashmiri saffron tea with honey (I'm wishing I had some right now even though I'm in the summer desert heat of Rajasthan) and I had to restrain myself from quickly chugging it down.  Instead, I drank it slowly and savored every bit.  They even gave me a second dose.
     Rashid was the first to join me after their lunch.  He spoke of the treks he does during the summertime in the mountains.  He likes to spend several days in the forests.  He sat in a full-length fehran with his knees up.  Below his knees he carried a chongri- a clay pot with burning coals for heat

03

.  Every Kashmiri man (aside from Abdul and his purple coat) has a fehran with a chongri in the winter months.  On one of his treks he met an 80 year-old shepherd who'd spent a lifetime roaming the mountains.  The man knew a series of shortcuts and often walked between Srinagar and Jammu, a 300 kilometer distance by road.  A sheep had been born within a few days of Rashid's encounter and he told me about how it licked with its little tongue.  He described the encounter with a youthful joy.  Abdul walked in and spoiled the discussion.  He was harmless, but it was obvious he wanted to develop a good business relationship.  I wouldn't mind having a business friend in Kashmir.  It deepens the experience when someone within the culture shows you how everything really operates.  I didn't like Abdul's approach because he wouldn't just say, "Look, this is my situation, this is your situation, maybe we can figure something that will help us both."  Instead, he hounded me to do more and more and, eventually, started appearing in all the places he expected me to be.  Rashid simply sat with me and talked and when Abdul and I left, he offered to have me for dinner and said that if I ever came up in the summer he would enjoy showing me the mountains.  I could see he was a man of honesty and warmth, someone I would readily contact on a return visit.
     As we walked along the waterway, Abdul told me about the vast number of spiritual masters who had lived in Kashmir, including Buddha and Jesus

04

.  (There are some books saying Jesus lived in India during the gap in his biblical whereabouts)  I could see how Kashmir would be home to many people of that nature.  The area has an incredible presence.  Without being able to put words to it, I just got a feeling that I was in a very special area.  In an odd way I understood how there could be so much conflict over the soil...even if it was (and it was/is) politically driven.  He also spoke of the great mosques and temples in the city, constructed in "times immemorial".
     His personal mantra is, "Peace, love and tourism".  He said it several times throughout the day.  "Since I was young, my passion has always been peace, love, and tourism.  I lost 17 years because of the war though.  It is my bad luck that when I was younger and more energetic I couldn't put that energy into my passion." 
     Kashmir is the second poorest state of India, largely due to the conflict with Pakistan over whose land it is.  The people are predominantly Muslim and Pakistan would enjoy its sacred grounds, but Kashmir is its own place with its own culture.  I asked one boy on a bus ride if he'd ever been to other parts of India and he told me, "Oh, no.  I've never been abroad."  It wasn't mistaken English.  Kashmiris see both India and Pakistan as foreign.
     Abdul greeted several friends along the way, "Asalaam aliekum"

05

.  He stopped to speak to a man with a lighthearted smile.  They chuckled, said their goodbyes, and we continued on our way.  "He's quite a funny man.  He likes to joke around a lot.  One day he'll wear a yellow turban and another he'll wear blue.  He's always changing the color." 
     We went along a stretch of the river being rebuilt.  For years the river has been neglected.  It's a cess-pool and now the government is cleaning up.  They started by bulldozing the slums that pushed their way to the banks and are now beginning to add greenery.  It looked like the government was also hoping for peace, love, and tourism.
     A group of soldiers stood on the corner of one of the streets.  Abdul's pace increased double time, more from dislike than inherent danger.  I stopped to speak with one of the soldiers and watched Abdul shift side to side like he needed to pee.  The soldier only wanted to know where I was from and I enjoyed telling him only because of Abdul's discomfort.
     In the Old City he showed me several mosques from times immemorial.  Some were built with wood and brick in a fashion I've never seen.  Bands of brick sat on bands of wood in broad stripes.  It was surprising how well they aged.  All the buildings had intricate woodwork, painted ceilings, and lavish ornaments.  Some were being restored but Abdul wasn't pleased with the efforts.  "See how much better the old wood looks.  I don't like the new wood and all the fast colors." 
     Many of the streets and homes in the Old City were empty.  The Hindu population left during the conflicts and the homes remained empty.  He pondered how the shop-owners stayed in business without much foot traffic.  I wondered how it was possible for an Indian state to have a road not crowded by people

06

.  Several shops sold food and household goods and several others were in the wool business.  On one street is was possible to pass a shop with scales for weighing raw wool, a shop selling wool thread, another selling dyed wool, and another selling wool clothes and fabrics; the entire process encompassed through several stores.  In just about every patch of open space, a group of people (kids and adults alike) were playing cricket.  Cricket is the sport of India.  The World Cup was about to begin and the country was eager.  Their team is said to have the best batters in the world.  In Australia I managed to enjoy parts of the soccer World Cup, I can only foresee enjoying the cricket World Cup from a very deep coma (and I would hope that the matches would be enough to end it all).
     We moved down a small alley and a bright yellow and green rickshaw cruised by with the blast of a horn.  Abdul enjoyed it and, like a few other people I've encountered, tried to encourage me to use more rickshaws, "Aren't those things great.  They can get in places no other vehicles can." (What with their fast colors and all?) 
"I have trouble using them because the drivers are too busy trying to milk more money from me.  I rarely get where I want to go and the ride often becomes a constant hassle over money and commission shopping."
"Yes, it's very unfortunate

07

.  We need to educate them somehow.  They need to know that it is better to help the tourists."
     Our final stop was a humble building with decorated windows and a small cross on the upper roof.  "This is where Jesus's remain are said to be."
"In there?" 
"Yes.  Several years ago a woman claiming to be a direct descendent of Jesus wanted to do DNA tests with the remains.  People were once allowed inside but they locked it after she made her claim.  Now, people such as these two lovely ladies (two women were bowing by a side window), pray from the window."  A metal fence was built to keep people away from the glass entry doors.
     We had a long walk back to my hotel and it became a long philosophical discussion.  We passed some kids in school uniforms and he said their classes had just begun after a lengthy winter break.
"I don't like how they teach children these days."
"Oh yeah?"  My encouragement came from thinking he was going to talk about how schools tend to focus more on rote memory and standards rather than teaching children how to learn, how to be lifetime learners.  I was projecting my own beliefs on him.
"Yes, I would much rather see a classroom of children working at looms rather than lugging all these heavy books around."
"What!  Looms?"
"Don't you think it would be more beautiful seeing a classroom of kids working at looms rather than sitting hunched over a desk with all their books?  We used to be happier before all these technologies and machines came around

08

.  Now we sit behind desks absorbing radiation from computers.  All these technologies and books are taking the life out of people.  We get sick easier and we are weaker than we used to be.  I think it would be better to teach children something more valuable than how to compete in the world of competition."
"Sooo, how exactly would you plan on doing that?"
"The world of competition and all these new technologies are polluting the world and taking the life out of the people."
"I know, but how?  How do you get everybody in the world to forget about most of what has been learned in the last, oh I don't know, 500 years?"
"Don't you think it would be better?  All this competition and sitting behind desks..."
"That's not what I'm asking.  How do you tell everybody that we're no longer going to use cars, buses, planes, and trains?  'Here's your horse, try to avoid the billion slaves we've rounded up to tear out the roads with pick-axes.  In the spring we'll be hand seeding native grasses and re-planting all the forests.'  It's impossible to even say that we could go back to some pure ideal and still retain our current level of awareness.  The only way we could ever go back to an agrarian or hunter/gatherer ideal is if we went back to their same social systems too...warring tribes, slavery, women as property, human sacrifices....Depending on how far back you want to take us, we'd have to forget about soap and penicillin...diseases we've cured would become plagues and our life expectancy would be somewhere in the 30's or 40's

09

.  You'd be dead and I'd be hoping there were no droughts or famine so I could scratch out a few more years.  It's impossible.  Technology isn't the problem.  The problem is that our scientific knowledge has advanced faster than our common level of awareness.  Our only hope is that our common awareness, our common ability to be human will catch up with our science.  We don't have to like one another, we just have to be able to accept that other people have other beliefs.  Maybe then we can agree to use our technologies wisely."
"That's what I was saying!  There's too much technology.  We need to teach basic skills and...."
     It was a conversation I ultimately took less interest in continuing.  At first I wanted to attack every word that came from his mouth but in the wheels of repetition, that lost its lustre.  If he were wealthier I might have pointed out that he is the only man in Kashmir not wearing a locally made wool shawl and that his purple coat was made of synthetic fabric and dyes.  It had been a long time since I heard someone put forth similar ideals; nobody took it as far as he did.  I was close to actually liking him. 
     And then the discussion shifted to plans for the next day and when I returned after going to Gulmarg, and maybe if I came back for the summer, and, and, if I came back in the future...oh yeah, and dinner at Rashid's?  (Damn, I forgot about Rashid.  If only Abdul wasn't going...)
"I'm going to pass on dinner tonight.  I apologize but I'd like to have some time alone.  I haven't had much time alone in the past few days."
"What?  But you promised?  They're expecting you."
"Please tell them I apologize

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.  It's important for me to have a certain amount of time for myself and I arrived late last night after 27 hours of travelling."
"Okay, yes I understand.  I'll tell them.  Would you like to have tea?"
"No thanks Abdul.  I'm just going to go on my own."
"What are your plans for tomorrow, before you go to Gulmarg."
"I have no plans.  I want to leave as early as possible...maybe I can make it in time to snowboard a little."
"So I won't see you until you get back from the skiing in Gulmarg?"
(Did he just say that?)  "Nope."
"Why go so early?  The market isn't even open until 10, you don't have to rush, we could have tea..."
     And I wasn't at all close to liking him anymore.  (I thought of enrolling him in the education program he wanted to create for rickshaw drivers.)
     That night I returned to my room with great help from one of the hotel's service staff.  Mohammed had shown me the room during check-in and brought my room service the prior night

11

.  He is a humble man with a humble smile.  When I returned this second night, he followed me in the room and busily started flipping all the switches and setting up the space heater.  "It's okay Mohammed, I can handle it."
"Will you sit down for a minute sir?"
"What is it Mohammed?"  It was apparent he had much more than a standard conversation in mind.
"I was hoping you could help me get to America?"
"How can I help?"
"Will you send me a visa?"
      I explained how difficult obtaining a visa to the U.S. has become (especially for a man named Mohammed) and how small his chances are.  He once worked for an elderly American woman in Kashmir but she left several years ago.  She told him he could make more money in the U.S. and gave him a recommendation letter with important facts about his hygiene, house cleansing abilities, and readiness to make a good American hamburger.  She gave him the idea that if he could get in the country he'd live a great life.  I tried to tell him that even if he (somehow unbelievably) got a visa and managed to put together the 10 years of salary it would require for him to pay all the fees and transportation costs, the economic situation wouldn't be much different than what he faces in Kashmir.  In Kashmir he at least has a family and a familiar culture.  Almost in tears, he told me his brother had been taken by the military for no apparent reason and nobody in the family knows what happened to him.  His father died shortly after his brother's abduction.  He just wanted to get away in order to hopefully create a better life for his wife and children. 

12

     My trip to Gulmarg was delayed the following morning by my need to buy a new journal.  Life doesn't move much before 10 AM in the north and I found myself in the awkward position of having excess free time in the morning.  An excessive breakfast in my excessive hotel room filled the open slot in my social calendar.  By the time any stores opened, Abdul had me marked on the street.  "Ash, hey Ash, good morning.  I thought you would be gone already."
     I wasn't pleased to see him and didn't mask my displeasure. He actually became helpful before becoming a hindrance in his overly-helpful way.  It was Sunday so most of the bookstores were closed.  He took me to a little news stand where I purchased an Islamic diary.  The vender stressed that I should treat the book with respect and care.  I verbally agreed to his request and mentally imagined my tattered and ripped prior journals dancing through my mind.  If he only knew what I'd be writing backwards (the journal is constructed to read right to left.  I started writing on the page dated December 31 and will finish on January 1) in the Islamic journal, I'd be running for my life with Salman Rushdie.  I also wondered where in the book I'd find the essence of religion.  Isn't religious devotion a matter of the heart and life as it's lived, not a matter of words on a manufactured piece of paper?   Perhaps that's why I'm not religious

13

. 
     Abdul insisted on going with me to the bus station.  I watched several buses pass us on the street and asked if they were going to the station.  "Yes, but we'll wait for an empty one."  (What!  An empty bus in India?  That's unheard of.  Is he really trying to delay my departure just to walk a few more minutes down the street?)  I waved down the next bus and piled in.  Abdul followed.  He followed me all the way to the door of my sumo (a 4wd SUV) and shook my hand goodbye.  I shook his hand good riddance and looked forward to snowboarding in the Himalayas.
    

 
 

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