Karma Chameleon

 By Supriya Savkoor

As the daughter of immigrants, someone with brown skin and a somewhat eastern upbringing, I should have a lot to say on the topic of fitting in. My co-bloggers think so, anyway. And yet I’ve been stressing over my post for a week now.

Contrary to what some people might expect or believe, I’ve never had much trouble adapting to new environments. We moved a lot when I was a kid, so I changed elementary schools four times that I can remember. Who knows, it may have been more. It was all so routine.

Of course, in those days, I was often the only brown kid in these schools, which tells you how long ago this was. But that was part of the adventure, what made me unique. Maybe just the tiniest bit exceptional. I’m sure I was the only kid who legitimately got to check “other” on all those old school forms, the ones where the only choices were, “black, white, or other.” None of my teachers knew what I should be checking, so at one time or another, I’ve checked off all of them. (Maybe I’m more black than white? Or, maybe I’m more white? I’m from Ohio, so could I be other? That’s right, a perfect chameleon, I chose my answer depending on my color mood.)

And so now, trying to remember the times when I didn’t fit in, I do suddenly recall a little acronym we American children born of Indian parents have heard so often (supposedly not as an insult): ABCD. That stands for American-born confused desi. Desis being anyone of South Asian descent, so Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, Nepalis, Sri Lankans, and any others with roots on the subcontinent.

Was I confused? Most certainly. In America, ever the melting pot, even back then, most folks accepted my differences, though perhaps they didn’t always understand them. (True story: “India? Oh yeah, where they’ve got our hostages.”) But why did so many Indians, especially ones living in India, think I was confused?

I don’t mean to poke fun of either side, but I know such stories ring true to many “others” like me. And I saw the genuine confusion in the eyes of relatives back east. I was more other there than I was here. I looked like one of them, but I didn’t speak any of their languages, know their national anthem, or drink their water. So they were the ones confused, right? Er, not me.

I may not have known it then but being other gave me a deeper appreciation for both cultures as well numerous privileges and opportunities in both countries. While I wasn’t always grateful for them back then, I certainly am now. You could say it was my karma.

Have you ever had to walk the line between two cultures? If so, were you successful, and how did you do it?

Holy Waters—India's Varanasi

By Alli Sinclair

This week, I’m straying from the continent of my heart to another part of the world that is very special to me—India. When I first set foot in this wondrous land, I had no idea the profound effect it would have on me. Even though I faced numerous challenges with my patience and beliefs, the people of India allowed me a glimpse into their customs, religion, and love for family.

I had been traveling for three months by the time I arrived in the “Eternal City” of Varanasi (also known as Benares, Banaras, or Kashi). Situated in the northern Indian state of Uttar Pradesh, Varanasi is regarded as a holy city by many religions. At 3,000 years old, Varanasi is India’s oldest city and one of the oldest continuously habitated cities in the world.

The first time I visited Varanasi, I arrived by boat (yes, I’ve been more than once because this truly is an amazing place). For five days, I sailed down the Ganges from Allahabad using a traditional Indian sailboat. We camped on the riverbanks, met scores of villagers along the way, and were entertained endlessly by kids keen to show their latest dance moves.

Arrival day at Varanasi meant getting up in the dark to ensure we sailed into the city at dawn. Bleary-eyed, we travelled along calm waters as nervous chatter filled the night. Just as the black sky turned gray, we rounded a bend and saw Varanasi. A heavy mist hung above the water but faded quickly as the bright orange sun rose and shone on the magnificent red-brick buildings blackened by fires used for pyres. Countless ghats (steps that lead down to the river) lined the west bank of the Ganges.

According to Hindu legend, the deity Lord Shiva founded Varanasi and buried his trident under the city. As one of seven holy sites for Hindus in India, people flock to bathe in the fast-flowing waters of the Ganges and wash away their impurities. Hindus believe that if one dies in Varanasi, they will obtain a faster route to heaven and many make the journey to this beautiful city so they can spend their last moments in the holy waters of the Ganges.

 

It is common to see bodies wrapped in white sheaths and transported through narrow alleys that lead to one of the two ghats where bodies are cremated. For those who can’t afford to pay for the wood, bodies are placed in the Ganges and float along the river until they perish.

But it’s not all solemn in Varanasi. Sanskrit scholars flock here because of the important role Varanasi has had in the development of the Indian language, Hindi. And Tulsi Das, famous for writing the Hindi version of the epic Ramayana, lived in Varanasi for many years.

With more than 100 ghats along the river, the sight of thousands of people taking an early morning dip is fascinating. Along the steps are Brahmin priests offering blessings (for a price) and beggars who will convince you that giving them money will bring you good karma. Hindu pilgrims bathe at five ghats on the same day and, to bring good health and fortune, they need to bathe in the following order of ghats: Asi, Dasaswamedth, Barnasangam, Panchganga, and Manikarnika.

The Golden Temple is dedicated to Shiva, Lord of the Universe (also known as Vishveswara or Vishwanath). In the 1600s, the Moghul ruler Aurangzeb invaded Varanasi and destroyed the original temple then built a mosque over it. In 1776, a new Golden Temple was built by the Sikhs, and the towers are covered in three-quarters of a ton of gold plating. Non-Hindus aren’t allowed in the temple, but it is possible to view the beautiful building from a house across the street—for a fee, of course. I remember standing at a small window a few floors above, enjoying the peace and marveling at the beauty of this building. It truly was a memorable moment.

For Buddhists, Varanasi is one of four pilgrimage sites and, in the residential neighborhood (only 10 kilometers away from the Ganges), lies Sarnath. This is where Buddha preached his first message of enlightenment 25 centuries ago. The Chaukhandi Stupa stands on the spot where Buddha first met his disciples when travelling from Bodh Gaya to Sarnath.

The Jains (adherents of yet another religion born in ancient India) believe Varanasi is the birthplace of Parshvanatha, and is the site of the Dgambar Jain Temple. Parshva, or Parshvanatha, is one of the earliest Jain leaders to be accepted as a historical figure. He lived sometime between 877-777 BC and meditated for 84 days straight before attaining Kevala Jñāna—Absolute Knowledge—which is the highest a Jain soul can reach.

When winding through the narrow streets of Varanasi, it’s not unusual to hear the Muslim call to prayer five times a day. After the Muslim invasions from centuries ago, many Muslims remained in Varanasi and made this city their home. Muslim temples are dotted around Varanasi, and some of the most important mosques are Alamgiri Mosque, Ganj-e-Shaheedan Mosque and Chaukhamba Mosque. One of Varanasi’s greatest exports are the beautiful textiles made by the skilled Muslim weavers of Varansi. To possess a Varanasi silk sari is a dream for many Indian women, especially to wear on their day.

The Varanasi experience that stands out the most for me was when I gathered with the locals one warm evening at sunset. I’d purchased a clay dish filled with flower petals and a lit candle, and I slowly made my way with the men and women down the steps of the ghat to the edge of the Ganges. Gently placing my offering in the sacred waters, I sent a silent prayer and allowed the love and faith of the people wash over me. Nearly 20 years on, I still get shivers remembering this moment.

Off the Beaten Track: Passions Kindle'd – Real Books Still Got It

Our guest this week is Lavanya Sunkara, an Indian-American freelance writer who lives in Long Island, New York and loves traveling to exotic places. Lavanya is currently working on her first novel; her work also appeared in Yourtango, The Frisky, Voices from the Garage, and NY Resident. When she is not reading or outdoors with her dog, Lavanya is organizing volunteer events, exploring New York with her friends, and planning her next journey. In this post, Lavanya shares her passion for books and the power they possess.

If I were stuck on an island and had to choose between my mother’s delicious Indian food and a good book, I would be in a bind. Staying true to my roots, I eat with my right hand, licking every bit of rice and curry off my fingers, and relishing the taste. The feeling I get running my fingers through an old paperback is equally ecstatic. And the decadent smell of a new book is akin to the aroma of sambar right off the stove. My love affair with books began while still being hand fed by my mother when we lived in a small southeastern Indian town. I remember carefully wrapping my school book covers in brown paper, pressing flowers among the pages to dry them out for decoration, and hiding peacock feathers for good luck. Today, at 30 and living in New York, while still taking in the simple pleasures of books, I have been finding comfort and guidance in the pages that become a part of my life.

With everything from classics to chick lit digitalized in recent years, I began to wonder if I would ever succumb to the e-book revolution. Books are such an intrinsic part of my life that I read them on the train, when traveling, while walking, and even in my dreams. My first summer in America fifteen years ago, I spent afternoons at the library checking out every young adult work I could get my hands on. At Fordham, I majored in Philosophy and learned from great works by Sartre to Irigaray. Later, I fell in love with magical realism through works by Salman Rushdie and Yann Martel. Other books, from feel-good fiction to self-help, kept me company in good and bad times, near and far from home.

So it was quite a shocker when I ended up on a remote island off the coast of East Africa without a book. The year was 2004, and all the books I carried for my month-long adventure were devoured during the first part of my trip, and not by some hungry baboon. Desperately, I scanned the shelves in my host family’s house, as a lioness on a hunt. The bright yellow-red cover of Richard Preston’s The Hot Zone caught my eye. As if finding a rare gem, I quickly grabbed it. Surprised with my choice, my host ventured, “Are you sure you want to read a book about the terrifying ebola virus while you’re in Africa?” I innocently responded, “Why not? What better book to read than one set here? Besides, it looks like it had been read a few times, so it must be good!” Perplexed, she gave up. It didn’t matter that the book I chose was horrifying. I was happy I had a book at hand. So, there I was, swinging in a hammock on the shores of Zanzibar, reading the dog-eared pages of a real-life thriller and savoring every single bit of it, even if it kept me awake for the next few nights.

With traveling came the awareness of environmental issues plaguing our planet, especially the damage caused by the destruction of forests for paper. So when books were turning up on e-readers, I became curious. I wondered if scrolling the Kindle’s keys could replace the joy of browsing library books on warm summer days, or if an iPad could bring back memories of a far-off island. The plastic smell of these gadgets certainly can’t replace the scent of an old-fashioned paperback. No matter how many books these electronic miracles hold, they all still look and feel the same. The books I have read are unique, and each one of them reminds me of a memorable time or a place I've visited. The Piano Tuner in Baja, The Notebook in Oaxaca, Ishmael in California, Siddhartha in India, and more recently, Five Men Who Broke My Heart, which helped me get through a breakup.

Earlier this year, a novel by Amulya Malladi, Serving Crazy with Curry, inspired my passion for cooking. It’s about an Indian-American woman who cooks delicious meals to deal with life’s issues. I began experimenting with the help of cookbooks. My masala pasta and coconut brown-rice biryani got rave reviews from my family. I can't possibly imagine using a Kindle in the kitchen where chances of spices and water spilling and damaging it are high. The recipe guides, on the other hand, will gladly absorb the smells and the occasional spills and become a part of my library of books and memories.

What books remind you of adventures you’ve embarked on or inspired you to go on one?

Would you imagine your life without real books?