Ananda, I am Vata hear me roar, Ganga Aarti

This morning we bade farewell to Hirsch, Mr. Jith, and Bala in Delhi, and flew to the town of Dehradun situated in the foothills of the Him-al-yas. We were met at the airport by our colorfully turbaned and thick mustachioed driver, who whisked us up the mountains to the idyllic site of the Ananda Spa. The Spa sits in the center of a sprawling mountaintop haven, owned to this day by the Maharaja, and which contains the Maharaja’s palace. Ananda is a serene wellness center where the staff to guest ratio of 5:1 makes for a luxurious and friendly atmosphere. The perpetually genuflecting staff call out “Namashcar” every time they pass you and the al fresco dining room waiters remember how you like your earl grey tea (with lemon thank you) and that you prefer sparkling water. Upon arrival we were greeted with flower necklaces and a traditional welcome whereby a small prayer was offered and a red saffron dot placed between my eyes to ward off evil while musician played the sitar and flute.

I then had my Ayurvedic and Wellness Consultation with the resident Ayurvedic doctor, Dr. Shabyran. The kind doctor explained that he would do a brief intake to assess my Ayurvedic body type (there are 3 types and depending on your type different foods are encouraged and discouraged) so that I could follow a special food and beverage regimen while at Ananda. I informed him that I knew I was not a Vata but unsure as to whether I might be a Pitta or a Kapha. Dr. Shabyran gave me a sideways glance, “let me be the judge of that” he seemed to be saying. A few questions later, the most embarrassing of which required me to classify the nature of my stool as “dry”, “oily”, or “moist”, and the good doctor pronounced that I was very clearly Vata. So there.

He then went on to describe in specific detail the telltale signs of Vata; she prefers to drink water at room temperature, often suffers from indigestion, suffers from knee pain, has skin that is highly sensitive and on and on. Dr. Shabyran gave me a deep knowing look, “nailed it!” his soft brown eyes announced. I was cautioned to never skip meals but eat often, to avoid cold foods, and to ensure that I had sufficient fat in my diet to combat my tendency toward dryness. This will now serve as my favorite excuse for why I must indulge in full fat cheeses and add cream to pretty much everything. I am also to avoid cauliflower and other “windy” vegetables and legumes such as lentils as according to the doctor “tey wheel tend to mek you even gahseeah tan you neture-alee ahr”. I assured him that I am no “gahseeah” than the next person and that even when I am gassy it doesn’t have an odor, in response to which the good doctor simply smiled and said, “Tis the sem for all Vata. Too much ayahr, too much weend.”

I then relaxed into a 4-handed Manipuri Massage, Ananda’s signature Ayurvedic treatment which is a full body scrub followed by a deep tissue massage employing two massage therapists as well as warm poultices filled with detoxifying herbs. After my massage, and feeling the warm post massage glow flowing throughout my every chakra, I changed and headed into the town of Rishikesh to attend the holy ceremony of Ganga Aarti.

Rishikesh is the yoga capital of India and the place where yoga is said to have been created. It is also the home of the annual International Yoga Festival which I imagine is like Lollapalooza for Yogis. The town is situated on the banks of the Ganges and pilgrims flock here all year long to pray by the holy river which itself is an incarnation of the god Shiva, and to cleanse themselves by ablution and dare I say it, the drinking of the Ganges water. Having been taking the precaution of drinking 2 tablespoons of Pepto Bismal daily as a prophylactic stomach protector while in India, I cannot fathom how anyone would dare drink directly from the river.

Our driver parked the van by the riverside, ditched his turban, and led us through the village past women selling flower and food offerings for the gods. We then boarded a small wooden boat and crossed the Ganges along with colorfully dressed pilgrims excitedly chatting away. We then disembarked and walked through the cow strewn streets (there are an enormous number of sacred cows in this country), taking time to visit the local Ashram where young Indian boys from Brahmin families are sent to live and study Hinduism and Yoga from the age of 8-18. The saffron colored robes of the boys are as immaculate as their carefully combed hair. I spotted one young man, so beautiful that he could have been a Bollywood movie star playing the role of a young priest in training at the Ashram. I may have come across as a bit of a camera stalker to the young man, who did look mildly uncomfortable when I trained my lense on him repeatedly.

We found seats on the marble steps beneath an archway leading down to the river and thus seated amongst the pilgrims, the boys and their Swami, enjoyed the hour long chanting and singing of the Ganga Aarti ceremony. Candles were lit, incense burned, offerings tossed into the holy fire and holy river, and the Swami’s muse led the crowd in melodic verses of “Om Shanti, Shanti Om”, as well as several stanzas of an old Beatles song (seriously who knew that “Hari Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Krishna Krishna Hari Hari, Hari Rama, Hari Rama, Rama Rama Hari Hari,” were actually the words to a holy Hindu prayer sung on the banks of the Ganges at dusk). I sang along to that part with gusto, eliciting smiles from several of the younger boys. The boys swayed as they sang, hands above their heads in exultation to mighty Shiva, Krishna and Rama.

The service was magical (video clip attached) and as the sun set and the service came to an end, we made our way back across the river by footbridge, carefully avoiding holy cows and their patties, under the cover of darkness.

The Unfortunate Lamb Incident, Evil Genius Jeweller, and 12 hours in Agra

Yesterday afternoon Hirsch took us to a wonderful pashmina shop where the owner spent well over an hour helping us find the perfect color and “bery best qwaleerty for you meh-dem” shawls handmade in the Himalayas. Please note that Himalayas should be pronounced Him-al-yaz. Please also note that I have been referring to the famous mountain range as frequently as possible in order to speak the name with the correct pronunciation, which rolls off the tongue with great aplomb. The price negotiations for the Him-al-yan shawls were lengthy but amicable and in the end I paid slightly more than I wanted which was slightly less than the shopkeeper felt he could get. But we had some laughs, so he let it be, although he did let me know that if he hadn’t liked me so much he would have “fwound a whey to teerick meh-dem weert lesser qwaleerty”.

After posing for some photos with our Sikh hotel doormen, we went to dinner at the famous Dumpukht Restaurant in the ITC hotel. We arrived hungry and eager for a 5-star meal. The extensive menu posed a challenge, as there were too many dishes to choose from and none familiar. In the end we chose a variety of specialties recommended by the waiter. This would prove to be a strategic error. The first course arrived, the special Dumpukht lamb kebob.

The kebob bore an unfortunate resemblance to a rather large piece of dog poo (see pic) but I cut into it with gusto excited for the tantalizing taste sensation I was surely about to enjoy. I popped the morsel in my mouth and felt an oddly slimy texture not unlike gelatin, only grittier, slide down my throat. I looked over at Hilary who was uncomfortably trying to swallow the tiny bite she had taken. I sliced another small piece of the lamb jellostick and smothered it in mint sauce, but this tactic only served to accentuate the problem; as the mint brought out the severely unpleasant smoky flavor of the dish. The waiter appeared and inquired if the dish was to “meh-dem’s liking”, it is “berry femousse deesh from Dumpukht”. In a panic and not wanting to be inhospitable, I smiled widely and nodded my head vigorously, hiding the offending meat jelly as best I could in the hollow of my cheek. When the waiter had returned to the kitchen, I did my best to cut the remainder of the gelatinous kebob into as many odd shaped sections as was possible, and moved them about my plate thereby creating the illusion of consumption. Hilary, severely traumatized by the offending lamb jello, refused to touch the kebob in spite of my supplications, and left in lying on her plate in plain sight.

The rest of the meal was uneventful by comparison, although the two couples at the table next to us did insist heatedly on speaking to the chef in order to lecture him on some apparently serious issue with the preparation of the dal (lentil stew). I considered calling the chef over for a small tete-a-tete regarding the meat jello, but decided against it. After dinner, grateful for the case of energy bars we had each packed, we returned to the Imperial, and after a lengthy consultation with Hilary on the right kind of sleeping pill to take given our 5:00am wake up call, turned in for an Ambien assisted night of quiet slumber.

Mr. Dith and Hirsch fetched us at 5:30am and we headed for the train station. We piled into the “AC Chair Car” along with 50 other Caucasian tourists and 2 short hours later arrived in Agra. We met our new driver, hopped in his white van and made for the Taj Mahal. After declining a ride from the parking lot to the Taj Mahal by a camel driven carriage, we walked up the road passing wild baboons along the way. Soon we came upon a large archway through which I caught my first glimpse of the magnificent Taj Mahal. Built by the 5th Moghul King as a final resting place for his beloved queen (1 of 3 wives but clearly his very most beloved), the monument took 22 years to build and is made from impressive gleaming white marble, and adorned with precious stones inlaid as mosaics into the walls. Photography is strictly forbidden inside the main chamber where the Queen and Moghul King’s marble coffins rest, but not strictly forbidden enough for Hirsch who graciously snapped a low light photo of us in front of the tombs.

After an hour at the Taj we came to the realization that our train back to Delhi was not for another 11 hours and so we would need to come up with an aggressive plan for how to spend the remainder of the day. Our first stop was a marble factory where the art of using precious stones as inlay in table tops and small boxes is being lovingly preserved by a merchant whose style with his artisans was akin to a pharoanic overlord. He moved us through the various stations with great flourish explaining the origin of this dying art form with lyric language and enormous personal concern for the slow death of this cultural heritage, which is now “solely up to da gin-ee-roz-itty of ‘merry-can too-wris like meh-dem.” The work stations, which were no more than areas on the floor demarcated by different collections of tools, were occupied by squatting stone grinders, stone polishers, stone pacers, stone finishers, and master designers.

Our host grunted out commands which would spring one or more of the squatting workers into action like organ grinder monkeys, and it became readily apparent that the entire scene was solely manufactured for our benefit. I had little doubt that the moment we left the factory, the group would stand up remove their turbans and languish about on cigarette break watching Bollywood videos until the next van pulled up, sort of like a marble brothel. In spite of the fate of this art form being laid squarely upon our “merry-can” shoulders, we left empty handed.

We then informed Hirsch that it was time to visit a jeweler in search of emeralds, natch. We arrived in front of the steel gates of Kohinoor Jewellers, hidden behind 15 foot high armored walls and guarded by some rather fierce looking, machine gun toting men. This particular jeweler is not the one our tour company “has an arrangement with”, per Hirsch, but he informed us that this was the best jeweler in Agra and that if we would keep it a secret he would take us. We pinky swore, subtly aware that this was likely the jeweler that Hirsch had an “arrangement with”, but excited at our middle aged rebelliousness.

Inside the factory we joined a group of Swedish tourists who were hearing a lecture from a diminutive yet highly distinguished looking Indian gentleman of about 70 years of age. This we would learn was the famous proprietor of the business Mr. Ghanghyam Mathur. Mr. Mathur resembles the slightly egg-headed arch evil Megamind of the animated Disney film. He speaks in a deliberate and clipped manner with a smooth almost slick British English with only the slightest hint of an Indian accent, betraying his English boarding school upbringing. Mr. Mathur made quick conversation with Hirsch, looked Hilary and I up and down, and nodded in approval. He then announced to the Swedish group in a royal page-like fashion or perhaps more akin to the announcer’s voice at the Pyramids of Giza in the 1977 James Bond film, The Spy Who Loved Me, that, “We have the honor (pause) of being joined (pause) by these two (pause) lovely (pause) American ladies (long pause) who will accompany us into the Museum (pause) where we shall enjoy wonders (pause) the likes of which (pause) have (next part said with extra emphasis) never been witnessed (crescendo, pause) outside of our great city of (pause) Agra.”

Mr. Mathur then ushered us into a large, rectangular and very dark carpeted room. I could barely make out the framed built-in display windows in the low light but it was reminiscent of the Museum of Natural History’s animal encasements. Each display window was covered in glass on the exterior and opaque black velvet on the interior so that the contents were completely shielded from view. Mr. Mathur had us gather around the first display window and gave a rousing introduction full of “priceless”, “unique in the werld”, and “nevah before seen outside these walls” references before pressing some buttons on his remote control LCD panel, which he was very very proud of.

Instantly a spot light was illuminated from within the display case and the electric curtain lifted, revealing a 10x8 foot tapestry embroidered with the most beautiful silk depicting a large lifelike rooster and chicken and surrounded by a border covered in embroidery and precious gems. The room gave out a collective gasp, and Mr. Mathur smiled slyly, he knew he had his audience under his control now. One by one, in Dr. No style, Mr. Mathur revealed his precious collection of encased and embroidered bejeweled tapestries until we were left with no choice but to clap gratefully for the privilege of the exhibit tour. Mr. Mathur then invited us upstairs to view the Moghul Queen’s jewelry collection.

I volunteered to model the Moghul Queen’s emerald ring and Mr. Mathur seemed pleased with my performance before the Scandinavian crowd. He posed for a photo with me and even introduced me to his son and daughter who both work in the business. The son, a newlywed, spent some time explaining the virtues of arranged marriages to me and how living with his parents was a genuine pleasure. The daughter, a “famous Indian jewelry designer” according to her Papa, showed me some of her latest jewelry designs. Let’s just hope nepotism does not run too strongly in the family business.

With Hirsch’s help we managed to see every single sight in Agra including the Moghul palaces, the Third Moghul’s tomb, the spice market, the Oberoi Hotel for lunch, as well as the ITC hotel for tea. When at last it was time to board the train back to Delhi, we settled into the overly air conditioned rail car and shivered happily all the way home to the Imperial.