My Life In India

The Day the World Turned Pink

Date: April 9th, 2008. 9:02 PM

Location: Another hole-in-the-wall internet cafe, where I am an irregular regular. I can’t escape these places.

Weather: The Indian summer has taken over here, a very strange, dry season where all the grass turns brown and the leaves fall weakly from their branches in the shimmering heat. The usually camouflaged parrots become an alarming shade of green in contrast to their barren perches. They sit proudly defeying the rules of evolution, unaware of the fact that, if the locals believed in killing animals, they’d be the easiest targets around. During this season, the goats and cows on campus, while not usually particularly clever, manage somehow to break into the administration building’s gates to snatch up the last patches of edible grass on the pampered lawn–this intrusion occurs at the great expense of our campus gardener’s frail nerves. The problem was alleviated when the campus security guards were instructed to act as human scarecrows. They begrudgingly agreed, as the task requires a level of alertness far above their usual state of constant snoozing.

Goal for the day: Publish my Holi post. This is my account of a festival I attended in mid-march. I hope you enjoy “The Day the World Turned Pink:”

I have never liked the color pink.

Not only do I find the color itself repulsive (it brings to mind images of new-born babies and pimples, neither of which I’m interested in having), but I can’t help remembering being drug down a crowded church isle every Sunday clad in a variety of dresses, all of which resembled a dead flamingo.

In my conservative town, the color pink had not yet acquired the variety of meanings it has today. The rules were strict and simple—blue is for boys, and pink is for girls. My wardrobe, my toys, and anything else in my possession was restricted to a range of numb pastels of the kind decent middle-class four-year-olds always wore. I was part of the status-quo, a maker of the “pink reality”—a reality that would follow me for the rest of my life.

As I became older, pink took on a variety of other meanings: the bubble gum that stuck on my hair and shoes, the energizer bunny who kept “going and going,” calamine lotion and Pepto Bismal and liquid penicillin. One time I even produced pink-and chocolate vomit, a disgusting cocktail of over-eaten Valentine’s candies. That day I knew there was something seriously wrong—pink vomit was a violation of the natural order of things. Vomit was supposed to be green, wasn’t it? The subsequent sequence of logic which occurs in most adolescent minds (and which I had witnessed many times in my peers) would be to boycott the incriminating holiday or candy from that day forward. I, in a brilliant example of my unique dialectics, took an aversion to the color pink instead.

Pink has remained a fiery political and social symbol in the United States, with extremists on all sides. Radical pink-haters at one end argue that pink is used by entertainers to portray women as sexual objects. At the other end, an entirely different clan of well-meaning breast cancer awareness activists adopted this traditionally feminine color as the poster-child of their campaign, practically ignoring the thousands of men who also fall victim to breast cancer every year.

For these reasons and more, while other people have worried about real problems like how to avoid cancer and global warming, I have expended a large amount of energy on avoiding this color—the sad reality being that, even though I don’t like pink, I don’t have much choice in the matter—pink likes me.

Even on the other side of the world where I had hoped to escape the Barbie dolls and nail polish of my youth, I was confronted with a horrific dilemma: the chance to see one of the most fascinating rituals of Indian society, in which my entire body and anything on it would have be dyed completley, and (scariest of all) indefinitely, pink.

Holi is perhaps the best known of the numerous festivals taking place in India every year. The colorful celebration which marks the beginning of spring has the notorious reputation of an “Indian Martigras,” insinuating that this ironically religious holiday is your one chance to run around in the streets intoxicated and ignore everything your mother ever taught you. When I stepped outside this morning looking forward to some old-fashioned hooliganism, I discovered that Holi is no exception to the universal rule of Indianness: there is an order to the chaos.

Any observant person would have no trouble identifying the procedures of Holi. I, on the other hand, was completely baffled. As I stepped off my front porch I was attacked by a band of rainbow-colored mutants who smothered me in an unidentifiable pink chalky material. Alarmed, I looked down at my arms and hands which now resembled elongated chunks of cotton candy while my assailants ambled off in a gale of laughter and shouts, a huge puff of pink mist trailing behind them.

I soon discovered that my comrades on the street were not, like I had first assumed, trying to avoid being “coloured.” To me, pink-colored skin can only mean something painful–sunburn, measles, mumps, rashes, pestules, lesions, boils, allergic reactions, jellyfish stings, mosquito bites, etc., but they obviously didn’t share this sentiment. On the contrary, they seemed delighted for any chance to add more layers to the powder already crusting off their skin and clothes. For the rest of the day, I was pulled into crowds of these seemingly diseased but ecstatically happy creatures to “play holi.” I have never had so much fun.

In ancient times, brightly colored water and powder were splashed to celebrate the spring equinox and pay homage to Kama, the god of procreation. This ritual eventually evolved and combined with other traditions to form what is today known as the Holi festival. Colored powder and dye are the foundation for any Holi celebration, but outside of these basic essentials, Holi is celebrated in different ways all over the country. From the devotees of the god Krishna who set up huge decorated swings to the Marathas who perform entranced dances with swords, possessed by the spirits of their warrior ancestors. My personal favorite are the inhabitants of Barsana, who celebrate Holi as a feminist holiday where women beat their husbands with sticks.

The Holi celebration which I took part in involved a huge bonfire where garlands of beautifully stacked cow dung awaited incineration. According to legend, an ancient prince named Prahlada rebelled against his evil father. Prahlada’s father instructed the demon Holika, who was immune to fire, to hold Prahlada down into a fire so he would burn to death. When Holika began to perform the task, she herself caught fire for the first time in her life. She burned to death, but Prahlada remained unscathed. The fire symbolizes the triumph of good over evil, and onlookers are encouraged to “burn” all the wicked things in their lives and emerge from the ceremony a pure, new person. The occasion is a time to mend quarrels, settle debts, make resolutions and reflect on one’s life in the philosophical glow cast by the heap of burning manure.

By the time I made it home after the ink party the next day, I couldn’t recognize myself in the mirror—I really had “emerged” a new person. My familiar face now resembled a cross between Rambo and a pink Smurf. Several showers later, I still hadn’t removed the remnants of ink that clung around my ears and fingernails, and I resolved that my hair would probably be pink until next year. Even the dogs and goats in my neighborhood couldn’t escape the power of the pink powder, and I was destined to walk on pink-smeared streets for at least three more days. What I didn’t realize then was that Holi would be the only day in my life in India where I looked exactly like everyone else, and everyone else looked like me. Despite how annoyingly pink the world became, strangers embraced me in an effort to share their joy, and an unwavering bond held us together while we wrecked havoc in the streets and resolved to become better people. I never thought I’d say this, but if it takes pink to make us all the same, all equal, even for just one day, then maybe it’s not such a bad color after all.

The cow dung bonfire

The bonfire begins to blaze

Bhang is the traditional sweet drink consumed at the Holi festival–but watch out, too much’ll have you reeling!

At our “ink party” the next day, a young man begins the traditional procedure of rubbing ink on both cheeks of another participant

The “ink bath” was a hit at this celebration

Nigina is dowsed with a bucket of blue–resistance is futile!

Participants at the ink party show off their moves

Add comment April 10th, 2008

Life in the Hills

Date: December 28^th, 6:50 PM

The quickest way to dry your clothes in the Himalayan foothills involves some precarious roof-top climbing. It is not unusual to hear of someone who died from hanging out the wash.

Ganeshtok is not only a beautiful viewpoint, it’s also of religious significance to Tibetan Buddhists. The prayerflags here are meant to honor the deities and bring luck to the one who hangs them. During certain times of the year, the number of prayerflags hung at these sites will swell to almost bursting proportions. Contrary to popular belief, this phenomenon does not occur during religious holidays—you’re more likely to see it around exam time or before a major cricket match.  

These are views of Gantok, the capital city of the tiny northern state of Sikkim. Sikkim was at one time the seat of a vast Himalayan kingdom, and was ruled by a king until the 1970’s. The disgruntled ex-royal family is still hiding out somewhere in Great Britain while their former home has been popularized for it’s spectacular views of Mt. Khangchendzonga, the third highest peak in the world, and relishes in its status as the least polluted state in India.  

I think I’ve made the point before that monkeys are a natural part of life here—but that doesn’t mean that we’re all used to them. I caught this family on camera while they were in the middle of a showdown with the dog below them. The worst offence to a human being for which a monkey could be responsible is an occasional breaking-and-entering into the kitchen or stealing clothes from the washline—but I’m sure they’ve managed to drive more than a few dogs to insanity.

The toilets here come in all shapes and sizes. This one is at the top of my best-rated-toilets list. It’s a series of squatting holes surrounded by flower bushes–and the gorgeous mountain view makes up for the smell.

A novice monk makes his rounds spinning prayer wheels. Prayer wheels are inscribed with a mantra in Tibetan, and spinning them is supposed to be like praying the mantra–just a little faster. Be sure to always spin clockwise!

Recent efforts by the Traffic Department have prompted them to decorate the hill roads with signs like this. Personally, I find them more distracting than the cliff-faces they’re painted on, and some can be downright brutal. One of my personal favorites: “DONATE BLOOD IN BLOOD BANK, NOT ON THIS ROAD!”           

6 comments December 30th, 2007

Fieldwork With the Drukpa

Date: 5th September, 2007, 4:00pm

Location: The common room of my apartment just outside university campus, where my second year of classes have begun (officially), although my professors don’t seem to be aware of this yet.

Weather: Whoa. According to reports, the northeastern monsoon has become notoriously fickle in recent years. Having grown up on the Texas plains where rain is scarce, I thought the one week of constant drizzle I experienced last August was what people around here referred to as the monsoon.

I was wrong.

The intensity of downpour may vary from “grab your umbrella and roll up your pants” to “cover yourself in plastic and pray you don’t get hit by lightning.” Around here, it’s understood that during this season your clothes and bed linens will always be damp, and mold will attach itself to anything that remains stationary for more than five minutes. It’s expected that you might have to wade through knee-deep water to reach some of your classes and specific parts of town. During July, every waking hour was filled with the calls of mating bullfrogs. Now, their offspring have somehow managed to flood my room (on the second floor), and after a few unfortunate accidents, it has become routine for me check the area of ground where I would like to sit before I plant myself there.

Although the wet and flooded streets are as full as ever, the weather still affects people’s movement and daily activity. Some shops routinely close during monsoon because they will inevitably flood. Likewise, there are people who move every August to the second story of their house, where the pooled bottom floor is only used for its access to the stairwell. Most importantly, the extremity of this season has displaced millions of people in western Bangladesh, many of whom have lost their homes. To find out how to help, visit the International Red Cross’ website at: http://www.redcross.int/en/default.asp or the International Committee of the Red Cross at: http://www.icrc.org/Web/eng/siteeng0.nsf/htmlall/helpicrc

Fieldwork with the Drukpa

In February and March of last year, my course mates and I conducted a field investigation among a village of Drukpa, a people who originally migrated from Bhutan to India several centuries ago. Although the Drukpa still make up the majority ethnic group in Bhutan, they are found in scant numbers in India, usually in isolated villages like the one we visited. The following are some pictures of our fieldwork process and some examples of the rich traditional culture we encountered among the Drukpa people.

The “camp” where we were stationed was a rustic lodge in a charming little village whose main street is shown below. This village, like many in India, has no running water or electricity, and is only reachable on foot. Porters are paid weekly to fetch items from the market and carry them up on their backs. Likewise, children walk 4-6 kilometers to attend school, in the same town where the nearest health facilities are available.

Our first task was to make a map of the village showing geological features and the location of homes and other facilities like schools, and places of worship.

A curious Drukpa youngster peeks through a window at us. We found out later that the window construction, which was the same in all the houses, is meant to represent the crown of an important king in Drukpa mythology.

Archery is the most popular recreational sport among the Drukpa. The bottom picture shows the prize archer of the village, Nadu Drukpa, demonstrate his ability. Despite his age (estimated at 75-80 years), he has eyes like an eagle. On this day, he was repeatedly able to hit a four-inch-high target from several hundred yards away.

The ceremony Dala Puja is performed when a female member of the family is approaching menopause age. The Drukpa believe that women who have lost their menstrual cycles are especially vulnerable to attack from evil spirits which cause them to have violent tempers and mood swings. The Dala Puja is a ceremony performed by the pao, or traditional Drukpa priest (seen here on the far left), and the male members of the family, who perform dance and song and give offerings to appease the evil spirit and request the protection of benevolent gods. The pictures below show the outdoor and indoor performances of Dala Puja.

The Drukpa have a rich tradition of dress and ornamentation designed to hold up to the cold Himalayan weather. The outfits below consist of several layers of thick cloth which is hand died and woven into intricate patters or stripes. In the winter, the cotton under layers are replaced with yak wool garments. The male traditional dress, called gho, and the female traditional dress, called kira, are the national uniform of Bhutan, where residents are required to dress in uniform outside the home from Monday to Saturday. Bhutanese caught out of doors and out of uniform have to pay a hefty fine. This requirement is obviously different in India. Among the Drukpa in the village we studied, only the older generations wear traditional dress on a daily basis, while the younger residents prefer Western clothing, and reserve the use of traditional dress for special occasions.

Weaving is the primary occupation for most women of the village. The yarn is first died and spun on an apparatus like the one shown here, after which is can be woven (shown in the bottom picture). Weaving is an intricate and time-consuming process. The weaving apparatus consists of up to 36 different sticks, each of which has its own name, function, and specific place where it must be inserted into the backdrop of yarn. The women we studied spent anywhere from five to twelve hours per day weaving — even with this much work, it can take months to produce enough cloth to make a single handbag.

The pictures below demonstrate the economic range of the families we studied. The fist picture is the elaborate kitchen attached to an ancestral house of a priest in the village, while the second is a farming family standing in front of their outdoor kitchen, which consists of a simple tarp over a wood fire.

1 comment September 16th, 2007

Some of my favorite places

Date: 14th April, 3:49PM

Location: The new internet cafe in town. My last attempt at a home connection was through a mobile phone, which was snail slow but worked quite well for one day. Well, so much for that. . .

Weather: My hat and shawl have been replaced with a fan and a bottle of water. That’s right: the heat is back. The traffic laws that somewhat existed during the winter time (people tended to sway all over the left side of the road) are currently viod. Now, you are supposed to walk, ride, or drive on the side of the road that is the shadiest. Women stroll about wrapped in yards of gauzy, flowing material and everywhere I catch whiffs of coconut oil and sunscreen. It really makes me feel like I’m on the beach. The best part is observing how people walk around in the bright sunlight with umbrellas. Hey, it makes sense. . . if you can’t sit at home, why not take your shade with you!

Goal for the Day: You guessed it. Laundry. This is a vicious, never-ending cycle, further pleagued by the fact that the little moster upon whom I was always able to blame the abduction of my socks has followed me to India. . . and now he’s started taking my underwear, too. (more…)