Dogster: Mumbling in Maheshwar
Oct 22nd, 2008, 11:19 AM
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Dogster: Mumbling in Maheshwar
Everybody's being very nice to me in here. You're all being very tolerant of my pathetic attempts at making words. So thank you. It's a great blessing, the chance to unload - and to have the luxury of a few people who bother to listen is a real buzz for me.
So, for those who want to come, here's another little oddity. I'll stick it in over the next six days. It's all connected - in a Dogster kinda way.
Here's the place.
www.ahilyafort.com
Here's the words.
So, for those who want to come, here's another little oddity. I'll stick it in over the next six days. It's all connected - in a Dogster kinda way.
Here's the place.
www.ahilyafort.com
Here's the words.
Oct 22nd, 2008, 11:20 AM
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This was going to be a night to roll with the punches. No complaint to the management would stop this noise, no amount of grizzling or rage; I was going to have to suck this racket up. There I sat, hot, drunk and crazy, my moon hanging full in the sky, lonely guest in the restored fort of Rani Ahilyabai Holkar, living out what might well be my own private miracle in Maheshwar – if only they’d shut up.
The distorted screech soared up a hundred feet to my balcony. One pubescent youth sang interminably out of key, shrieking prayers into the mike, his voice catapulting through the broken octaves of his new-found vocal range. He was joined by another lad and together the two caterwauled their way like strangled cats into the night. I could tell by the movement there were hundreds of people down below on the ghat - something big was happening and it was all dressed in orange.
I had to go out and see. The security guard blinked at the gates as I stumbled into the gloom. Guests tend not to wander off into the dark at ten p.m. but then, mere guests aren’t the mighty Dogster on the prowl. The guard was a little confused. I was a little out of it. We were a perfect combination.
I’d only just arrived that afternoon. All I knew of Maheshwar was a tiny main street that stretched what seemed a long way, a hill and the huge gates of Ahilya Fort. On arrival it was all dogs and welcome, unpacking, wine and dinner - I’d barely looked over the ramparts. Not that anything like that was going to stop me. I waved cheerily at the guard and stumbled into the street.
Of course I turned the wrong way, tottered along in the dark heading away from the ghats. A gate was locked, I can’t remember, Dogster was diverted. The noise of the ghats faded away, swallowed far into the night; now I was wandering down a hill following a different drum – a prayer, some kind of chanting.
The distorted screech soared up a hundred feet to my balcony. One pubescent youth sang interminably out of key, shrieking prayers into the mike, his voice catapulting through the broken octaves of his new-found vocal range. He was joined by another lad and together the two caterwauled their way like strangled cats into the night. I could tell by the movement there were hundreds of people down below on the ghat - something big was happening and it was all dressed in orange.
I had to go out and see. The security guard blinked at the gates as I stumbled into the gloom. Guests tend not to wander off into the dark at ten p.m. but then, mere guests aren’t the mighty Dogster on the prowl. The guard was a little confused. I was a little out of it. We were a perfect combination.
I’d only just arrived that afternoon. All I knew of Maheshwar was a tiny main street that stretched what seemed a long way, a hill and the huge gates of Ahilya Fort. On arrival it was all dogs and welcome, unpacking, wine and dinner - I’d barely looked over the ramparts. Not that anything like that was going to stop me. I waved cheerily at the guard and stumbled into the street.
Of course I turned the wrong way, tottered along in the dark heading away from the ghats. A gate was locked, I can’t remember, Dogster was diverted. The noise of the ghats faded away, swallowed far into the night; now I was wandering down a hill following a different drum – a prayer, some kind of chanting.
Oct 22nd, 2008, 11:21 AM
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A clump of temples drew me in, bright pink, soaring into the night, an illuminated Mr. Shiva Whippy of stone and sculpture, lit up in an open courtyard. From inside came the sound I was following. It was a man reading from the Bhagavad Gita, sitting in front of the inner temple door, a single light bulb hanging over his head amid the waft of incense and flickering oil lamps. A number of other men lounged around, gathering for late-night prayers. I slipped off my shoes and looked up to see a dozen pairs of twinkling eyes staring at me.
I think everybody was a little bit surprised to see a foreigner wander into the compound late at night. Maheshwar is not exactly tourist central.
‘Come, come!’ one whispered. There were many smiles.
‘Here. Sit. Sit. Good.’
I sat on the edge of another temple just next door watching the proceedings.
They couldn’t really believe I was here. We talked cricket and smoked cigarettes and everybody shook hands. I was chatting with half a dozen young men, a couple of older priests.
‘Are you comfortable, Uncle?’ one lad said, ‘sitting here with us?’
‘Yes, of course I’m comfortable,’ I laughed. ‘Why wouldn’t I be comfortable?’
‘Are you not afraid?’
‘What is there to be afraid of? I’m in a temple. You are good men.’
I’ve learned to talk directly like this. No confusion. No ambiguity.
‘I’m not afraid, my friend,’ I said and paused; ‘I’m a lucky man.’
The words rippled round the group in translation.
‘Mmm-m-m,’ they chuckled, ‘lucky man... lucky man... lucky...’
It was time for prayers. At their invitation I joined them, sat cross-legged and uncomfortable on a special mat while they sat and chanted. Bells were rung. I didn’t understand anything but the smiles of the men around me. This was a blessing I could comprehend.
‘A special night,’ one said.
Yes, it was.
Another looked up at the sky. It was the night before a full moon.
‘You are a good man,’ he said seriously and grabbed my hand.
‘No,’ I said quietly and squeezed his fingers, ‘I’m a lucky man. There’s a difference.’
‘Ah-h-h-h,’ he squeezed back, ‘but good luck only comes to good men.’
I’d like to think this was true.
I think everybody was a little bit surprised to see a foreigner wander into the compound late at night. Maheshwar is not exactly tourist central.
‘Come, come!’ one whispered. There were many smiles.
‘Here. Sit. Sit. Good.’
I sat on the edge of another temple just next door watching the proceedings.
They couldn’t really believe I was here. We talked cricket and smoked cigarettes and everybody shook hands. I was chatting with half a dozen young men, a couple of older priests.
‘Are you comfortable, Uncle?’ one lad said, ‘sitting here with us?’
‘Yes, of course I’m comfortable,’ I laughed. ‘Why wouldn’t I be comfortable?’
‘Are you not afraid?’
‘What is there to be afraid of? I’m in a temple. You are good men.’
I’ve learned to talk directly like this. No confusion. No ambiguity.
‘I’m not afraid, my friend,’ I said and paused; ‘I’m a lucky man.’
The words rippled round the group in translation.
‘Mmm-m-m,’ they chuckled, ‘lucky man... lucky man... lucky...’
It was time for prayers. At their invitation I joined them, sat cross-legged and uncomfortable on a special mat while they sat and chanted. Bells were rung. I didn’t understand anything but the smiles of the men around me. This was a blessing I could comprehend.
‘A special night,’ one said.
Yes, it was.
Another looked up at the sky. It was the night before a full moon.
‘You are a good man,’ he said seriously and grabbed my hand.
‘No,’ I said quietly and squeezed his fingers, ‘I’m a lucky man. There’s a difference.’
‘Ah-h-h-h,’ he squeezed back, ‘but good luck only comes to good men.’
I’d like to think this was true.
Oct 22nd, 2008, 11:22 AM
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Next morning, crack ‘o dawn, the noise began again. Drums echoed on the ghat. A swarm of men dressed top to toe in bright orange moved about, each at a different stage in their devotions but all heading to the same end. Gathering below were a thousand pilgrims, every one of them dressed in the same orange clothes, loose-fitting orange trousers, a variety of orange shirts, scarves and hats, a great orange caterpillar of faith about to set off on a walk, barefoot, over country roads for miles and miles and miles. Each carrys a bright yellow pole wrapped in tinsel and coloured string. At each end of their pole is a small pot filled with water collected from the blessed Narmada.
The Narmada is a holy river, born from Lord Shiva's sweat, one of the seven most sacred rivers of India. It flows wide and brown in an east to west slash right across the middle of the sub-continent, the official border between North India and South, a stream that begins in the Amarkantak plateau and doesn’t stop till it sweeps into the Arabian Sea, 1247 kilometres away. A man is purified by the mere sight of the Narmada; to bathe in the waters absolves him from all his sins – but if you’re really serious about the whole thing and want to go for broke; eternal salvation can be attained by doing a parikrama.
This is the only river in India where a parikrama or sacred circumambulation is performed. Pilgrims believe that by walking along the riverbank from mouth to source then back again on the opposite side, visiting each of the holy places en route, salvation will surely follow.
One would hope so - this little circuit is 2,500 kilometers long and takes more than three years to complete. That’s three years of walking; battling heat, battling cold, battling pain; three years of sleeping in temples or under trees, waking early in the morning, bathing at a different spot in the river every day, three years of prayers, special puja ceremonies to the gods, three years of solitude, lost in the world of a pilgrim, a ‘mahatma’ on the road.
Understandably, not everybody has the odd three years to chuck away in pursuit of eternal salvation so, in the short term, mini-parikramas occur. Some of them seem to have a spiritual sponsor, someone who has hijacked the event in the name of this or that brand of Shiva - so it was with this extraordinary event. Frankly, I never did understand what was going on. On a truck with a band and that bloody squawking microphone sat an elderly man of strangely Western appearance.
I kept thinking of Marlon Brando in ‘Apocalypse Now’.
The Narmada is a holy river, born from Lord Shiva's sweat, one of the seven most sacred rivers of India. It flows wide and brown in an east to west slash right across the middle of the sub-continent, the official border between North India and South, a stream that begins in the Amarkantak plateau and doesn’t stop till it sweeps into the Arabian Sea, 1247 kilometres away. A man is purified by the mere sight of the Narmada; to bathe in the waters absolves him from all his sins – but if you’re really serious about the whole thing and want to go for broke; eternal salvation can be attained by doing a parikrama.
This is the only river in India where a parikrama or sacred circumambulation is performed. Pilgrims believe that by walking along the riverbank from mouth to source then back again on the opposite side, visiting each of the holy places en route, salvation will surely follow.
One would hope so - this little circuit is 2,500 kilometers long and takes more than three years to complete. That’s three years of walking; battling heat, battling cold, battling pain; three years of sleeping in temples or under trees, waking early in the morning, bathing at a different spot in the river every day, three years of prayers, special puja ceremonies to the gods, three years of solitude, lost in the world of a pilgrim, a ‘mahatma’ on the road.
Understandably, not everybody has the odd three years to chuck away in pursuit of eternal salvation so, in the short term, mini-parikramas occur. Some of them seem to have a spiritual sponsor, someone who has hijacked the event in the name of this or that brand of Shiva - so it was with this extraordinary event. Frankly, I never did understand what was going on. On a truck with a band and that bloody squawking microphone sat an elderly man of strangely Western appearance.
I kept thinking of Marlon Brando in ‘Apocalypse Now’.
Oct 22nd, 2008, 12:35 PM
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Well, I tried looking up Maheshwar in the free India guide that Fodors sent me for being quoted from this forum. No luck. Also tried Indore, Narmada River and, of course Ahilya Fort also with no luck. So you must have been a bit off the beaten track. I finally located it in my Footprint guide so at least I know now where you were.
In any case, as Frasier would say "I'm listening".
In any case, as Frasier would say "I'm listening".
Oct 22nd, 2008, 03:08 PM
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Apparently, I have no listening skills. Rest assured that I am reading. Unlike Craig, I am content to let the places you visit exist solely in the Dogsters world. Reality need not intrude. It's still hard to believe that you have such wonderful adventures abroad and live a self-described mundane Melbourne existence.
Oct 22nd, 2008, 03:26 PM
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The sadhu’s skin was almost completely white, blotched with viteligo. I suppose he was Indian, but he sure didn’t look like it, this old guy looked exactly like an old American hippie to me; long hair, wild beard, crazy, scheming eyes. He saw me in the crowd - but there was malevolence in his eyes.
‘Piss off!’ he was saying with that poisonous glance, ‘this is my patch. Go away.’
His long red robe, his beads, white skin and fierce concentration marked him in the crowd. I was as marked a man in my own public way, the only other white man in Maheshwar – and I had a camera, which seemed to make me nearly as popular as he was. I decided I wouldn’t piss off, seeing as he and his band had kept me awake all night. His sadhu ju-ju didn’t get to me. I didn’t get the feeling it was a private occasion.
Each pilgrim had to arrive, change, dispose of his clothes, bathe, wash several times and pray, dry himself and change from wet underpants to fresh ones then carefully don the new orange clothes, recently bought from an orange shop up the road. His old clothes were packed in a bag, collected and carried away in a mysterious but completely practical truck.
Each must then sit and studiously wrap his pole in what appeared to be Christmas decorations; that excellent gold spiky tat that Hindus love, red string and tinsel. Each must then go down to the edge of the ghat and slowly fill his two orange plastic pots with holy Narmada water. There’s a bit of whispered prayer, then the two orange lids are put on the two orange pots and both tied up in a square of orange material. String is tied around the material and each pilgrim hangs one orange bundle at either end of his decorated pole. Once complete the pole, with its identifying tinsel and number, is placed on a rack in the middle of the square.
Eventually, over the course of about three hours all one thousand poles are laid out, all one thousand men are dressed in orange, all two thousand plastic pots of holy Narmada water are dangled from their poles and about as many chillums were passed from hand to hand. There was just one last thing.
One thousand men, about to set off on a long march, need a slash first. On a shout the crowd dispersed. In every direction orange men widdled akimbo, turned with their backs to the ghat, hovered in the time-old position, squatted, some hid behind a tree - but more just let rip where they stood. That attended to, the ranks swiftly re-formed and the count-down began. Swami Marlon picked up the chant. His nasty little eyes flickered around the crowd. He smiled with all the sincerity of Liberace and launched into the show.
‘Narmadey Har!’
‘Narmadey Ha-a-ar!’ they roared. Two thousand orange arms waved in the air.
‘Narmadey Har!’
‘Narmadey Ha-a-ar!’ Once again the arms went up.
I was in the middle of it, in the drum, the bang and shout of it, surrounded by noise and wide-eyed orange pilgrims, all having the time of their life. In front of the assembled crowd Swami Marlon waved wildly, conducting the throng. He was a showman. He stood with his microphone, leading the chant, arms swaying wider, his robes swinging wild. The rhythm built up, the drums bashed out, the cries grew louder and louder. Orange men were danced crazily, elbows held high, wrists bent back, swooping and swirling and crying out, ablaze with the whole damn excitement of it all.
Then, on the Swami’s dramatic signal, one thousand orange lungs burst forth with one great orange shout:
‘Narmadey Ha-a-a-r!’
‘Piss off!’ he was saying with that poisonous glance, ‘this is my patch. Go away.’
His long red robe, his beads, white skin and fierce concentration marked him in the crowd. I was as marked a man in my own public way, the only other white man in Maheshwar – and I had a camera, which seemed to make me nearly as popular as he was. I decided I wouldn’t piss off, seeing as he and his band had kept me awake all night. His sadhu ju-ju didn’t get to me. I didn’t get the feeling it was a private occasion.
Each pilgrim had to arrive, change, dispose of his clothes, bathe, wash several times and pray, dry himself and change from wet underpants to fresh ones then carefully don the new orange clothes, recently bought from an orange shop up the road. His old clothes were packed in a bag, collected and carried away in a mysterious but completely practical truck.
Each must then sit and studiously wrap his pole in what appeared to be Christmas decorations; that excellent gold spiky tat that Hindus love, red string and tinsel. Each must then go down to the edge of the ghat and slowly fill his two orange plastic pots with holy Narmada water. There’s a bit of whispered prayer, then the two orange lids are put on the two orange pots and both tied up in a square of orange material. String is tied around the material and each pilgrim hangs one orange bundle at either end of his decorated pole. Once complete the pole, with its identifying tinsel and number, is placed on a rack in the middle of the square.
Eventually, over the course of about three hours all one thousand poles are laid out, all one thousand men are dressed in orange, all two thousand plastic pots of holy Narmada water are dangled from their poles and about as many chillums were passed from hand to hand. There was just one last thing.
One thousand men, about to set off on a long march, need a slash first. On a shout the crowd dispersed. In every direction orange men widdled akimbo, turned with their backs to the ghat, hovered in the time-old position, squatted, some hid behind a tree - but more just let rip where they stood. That attended to, the ranks swiftly re-formed and the count-down began. Swami Marlon picked up the chant. His nasty little eyes flickered around the crowd. He smiled with all the sincerity of Liberace and launched into the show.
‘Narmadey Har!’
‘Narmadey Ha-a-ar!’ they roared. Two thousand orange arms waved in the air.
‘Narmadey Har!’
‘Narmadey Ha-a-ar!’ Once again the arms went up.
I was in the middle of it, in the drum, the bang and shout of it, surrounded by noise and wide-eyed orange pilgrims, all having the time of their life. In front of the assembled crowd Swami Marlon waved wildly, conducting the throng. He was a showman. He stood with his microphone, leading the chant, arms swaying wider, his robes swinging wild. The rhythm built up, the drums bashed out, the cries grew louder and louder. Orange men were danced crazily, elbows held high, wrists bent back, swooping and swirling and crying out, ablaze with the whole damn excitement of it all.
Then, on the Swami’s dramatic signal, one thousand orange lungs burst forth with one great orange shout:
‘Narmadey Ha-a-a-r!’
Oct 22nd, 2008, 03:40 PM
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Those one thousand men – and three brave women – had become one. They turned and flooded to the water’s edge. Something sacred and smoking was paraded through the mass, a few more priests appeared amidst a lot of shouting; everybody crowded by the Narmada for more blessings then, on some invisible signal, they all hurtled back up the steps to where they’d come from, a swarm of milling orange bees - shouting, waving, singing, chanting, shoving – it was a controlled bedlam. Suddenly a mass lunge and group kafuffle as one thousand poles were grabbed, swung in the air and placed on one thousand shoulders.
‘Narmadey Ha-a-a-r!’ Swami Marlon shouted.
‘Narmadey Ha-a-a-r!’ they all replied.
‘Narmadey Ha-a-a-r!’ he shrieked again.
‘Narmadey Ha-a-a-r!’
The excitement was building. He babbled something in Hindi then, with one wide diva gesture, hurled his final blessing to the wind.
‘Narmadey! Narmadey! Narmadey! Ha-a-a-r!’
Then, from the crowd, in a volcano of excitement, one massive shout.
‘Narmadey HA-A-A-R!’
With all the cavalier idiocy of young men off to war, the great flood began. A liquid orange snake erupted out of the square and spilled up the road into town, a joyous beginning to their very own Kokoda Trail of faith.
A large grey ambulance staffed with serious looking doctors followed slowly up the hill.
Oblivious to all but the marathon in front of them, lost in the slog, the sweat and the prayers, every year pilgrims are mown down by lorries, passing buses and the like - mostly it’s the feral trucks. It was a statistical probability that some of the men I saw marching up the hill would die by nightfall – but then, so might I.
I never did work out where they were going. There were orange pilgrims slogging their way along every road in India, it seemed to me. This religious pilgrimage was as boisterous as a winning football crowd right now, full of ganja and faith but wherever they were going was a bloody long way, they were barefoot– sometime soon, about the time I sat down to lunch, I knew that a whole lot of that bravado would ebb right away, soon replaced by exhaustion; bare feet, sore legs and bruised ego all feeling the sharp edge of their devotion.
‘Narmadey Ha-a-a-r!’ Swami Marlon shouted.
‘Narmadey Ha-a-a-r!’ they all replied.
‘Narmadey Ha-a-a-r!’ he shrieked again.
‘Narmadey Ha-a-a-r!’
The excitement was building. He babbled something in Hindi then, with one wide diva gesture, hurled his final blessing to the wind.
‘Narmadey! Narmadey! Narmadey! Ha-a-a-r!’
Then, from the crowd, in a volcano of excitement, one massive shout.
‘Narmadey HA-A-A-R!’
With all the cavalier idiocy of young men off to war, the great flood began. A liquid orange snake erupted out of the square and spilled up the road into town, a joyous beginning to their very own Kokoda Trail of faith.
A large grey ambulance staffed with serious looking doctors followed slowly up the hill.
Oblivious to all but the marathon in front of them, lost in the slog, the sweat and the prayers, every year pilgrims are mown down by lorries, passing buses and the like - mostly it’s the feral trucks. It was a statistical probability that some of the men I saw marching up the hill would die by nightfall – but then, so might I.
I never did work out where they were going. There were orange pilgrims slogging their way along every road in India, it seemed to me. This religious pilgrimage was as boisterous as a winning football crowd right now, full of ganja and faith but wherever they were going was a bloody long way, they were barefoot– sometime soon, about the time I sat down to lunch, I knew that a whole lot of that bravado would ebb right away, soon replaced by exhaustion; bare feet, sore legs and bruised ego all feeling the sharp edge of their devotion.
Oct 22nd, 2008, 04:58 PM
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Thank you Dogster - I've been looking out for this and waiting impatiently but have had a couple of days off - well at least working rather than fodoring so its nice to come back to a bit of insanity.
Oct 22nd, 2008, 05:32 PM
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Within ten minutes the ghat was empty. The truck, loudspeakers and Swami Marlon drove away. Silence.
This bizarre orange event had swept me away in such a tumble-dryer of faces, photos, handshakes and excitement that now I didn’t quite know what to do. It had moved on, as we all eventually do, disappeared leaving the square looking suddenly empty and a little tragic, grey and windswept. I half-expected a piece of orange tumble-weed to roll across the flagstones.
I sat on my own and had chai by the bank, let the thoughts of the morning wash over me. My legs were tired. I stopped for a moment, stretched and sighed.
‘Narmade-e-e,’ I said to myself and slurped my chai. ‘Ahh-h-h-h-h.’
Slowly, as I sat there, the real inhabitants of the ghats emerged and one by one reclaimed their traditional places. A feral collection of religious ratbags crept out of hiding, spread their few possessions out in the sun, rejoined their pals and sat right back down again, just as they always had, just as they always would, sprawled watching the holy Narmada, sipping chai, passing a chillum and languidly thinking their sadhu thoughts. A goat trotted by.
There, standing alone in the square was the young man that had kept me, and most of Maheshwar awake till dawn screeching his prayers. He smiled up at me, completely without guile.
This bizarre orange event had swept me away in such a tumble-dryer of faces, photos, handshakes and excitement that now I didn’t quite know what to do. It had moved on, as we all eventually do, disappeared leaving the square looking suddenly empty and a little tragic, grey and windswept. I half-expected a piece of orange tumble-weed to roll across the flagstones.
I sat on my own and had chai by the bank, let the thoughts of the morning wash over me. My legs were tired. I stopped for a moment, stretched and sighed.
‘Narmade-e-e,’ I said to myself and slurped my chai. ‘Ahh-h-h-h-h.’
Slowly, as I sat there, the real inhabitants of the ghats emerged and one by one reclaimed their traditional places. A feral collection of religious ratbags crept out of hiding, spread their few possessions out in the sun, rejoined their pals and sat right back down again, just as they always had, just as they always would, sprawled watching the holy Narmada, sipping chai, passing a chillum and languidly thinking their sadhu thoughts. A goat trotted by.
There, standing alone in the square was the young man that had kept me, and most of Maheshwar awake till dawn screeching his prayers. He smiled up at me, completely without guile.
