Off The Beaten Track: Return to Kashmir

A California transplant now living in Denver, Mark Stephen Levy left his job as a sales executive for a major technology company to spend two years traveling through Europe, Morocco, India, Nepal, Tibet, and China and to write his first novel, Overland. The story is set in Afghanistan, but Mark's travels in India helped set the tone to enable him to write his book. He also writes for a cable TV show, Food Paradise, based in New York City. You can read more about Mark and his novel as well as his adventures in India on his web site, www.overlandthebook.com.

When my adventure/romance novel Overland was published in India early last year, my publisher strongly suggested I come to India to promote it. They didn’t need to ask me twice. I had once toured India in the mid-’80s. I was in a state of rapture the entire time and left with life-changing impressions. I longed to return, and finally, here was my chance!

I got to spend 10 weeks touring around the country, from the Himachal Pradesh towns of Dharamsala and Manali then down the road to Rishikesh and later Kolkata. Then farther south, to Mumbai, Goa, Bangalore, and Kerala. I even gave a speech at a university, Central University Jharkhand in Ranchi. I hadn’t been to any of these places before, yet the place I wanted to visit the most was one I’d already been to on my first trip to India. That heaven on earth known as Kashmir.

Back in 1985, I’d chanced upon a houseboat called the Pala Palace. It was situated on Dal Lake, parallel to the main road in Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir. I’d stayed a week with Aziz, the owner of the houseboat, along with his family. I integrated into their lives with thought-provoking, culturally rich activities on their boat. I’d become especially good friends with Shefi, Aziz’s 14-year-old son.

Naturally upon my return to Kashmir, I thought how cool it would be to see if Aziz, Shefi, and the houseboat were still around. I arrived into Srinagar’s airport slightly travel weary. When asked by the tourist officials at the airport about my stay here in Srinagar and where my base would be, I mentioned Pala Palace, the only name I knew. A local Kashmiri man nearby overheard this exchange and approached me.

“Yes! I know Aziz and Pala Palace. It is new Pala Palace. Aziz is my cousin.”

He directed me to take a certain bus outside the terminal into town then go to a certain hotel, where Shefi would meet me and take me to the houseboat. I couldn’t believe I was going back to the same houseboat and would see Aziz after 26 years!

Now, outside the airport was another matter. I caught the right bus towards the hotel, but a local guy with a long beard intercepted me and wanted to show me to his houseboat. I turned him down and told him I’d be staying at the Pala Palace, yet we rode the bus together into town. He seemed amiable enough and who was I to say he couldn’t ride the bus?  When we got off the bus, he became insistent about my seeing his houseboat. Sometimes, these sorts of things happen and we just have to go with the flow, so … we went to his boat.

It turned out to be a really nice boat, great views and quiet. Even better, they had Internet! When I realized I wasn’t going directly to the Pala Palace, and knowing I had six nights in Kashmir, I figured that was okay. Here I was back in serene and peaceful Kashmir, after all.

I spent a quiet, familiar, and ever exotic first day, savoring the Thursday afternoon. It was a special day in celebration of the coming Islamic holiday on Friday, as prayer calls from all directions were heard bouncing off the lake. It was intoxicating and purely mystical.

Later that evening, through the channels of how things go, Shefi and another man, Aziz’s brother, showed up to this other houseboat. When I didn’t meet Shefi at the hotel, word spread all the way back to the airport and security that an “American arrived and wanted to stay at the Pala Palace but never showed up.” Somehow, they traced my steps all the way to accompanying this bearded man to the other houseboat, and voila, Shefi found me.

Aziz, 26 years later

Immediately, we embraced. He was 26 years older, but it was definitely Shefi. I asked about Aziz, and they whisked me off to go see him and the Pala Palace, leaving my bags behind. The Shakira, a small boat that’s the standard means of transportation throughout the lake, pulled alongside the Pala Palace, and there was Aziz. He was much older now, in his 70s, and looked a bit sickly, but he still had that spirit I loved when we met so long ago. He told me he’d been worrying all day about what could have happened to me, repeatedly calling me “my American friend.” His voice was more gravely than ever, his English still rudimentary, but his effort to communicate and the vibes he gave off were touching.

We went to the back of his boat with various members of his family and all talked for a bit over a few cups of tea. We caught up on the past couple decades we’d lost touch. I told him I had written a book and that he had been the inspiration for one of my main characters in Overland. The plan was for me to return the next day with my bags, which I did for two nights. Being found by Shefi this way blew my mind, and what was to follow in the coming days turned out to be the best week of my life.

No, Really, Who Am I?

Someone recently asked whether my family is north or south Indian, and the question gave me serious pause. I know, it should be a fairly straightforward question for anyone to answer, yet I’m embarrassed to admit that I couldn’t do it. Even after a bit of research, I’m still not quite certain. Yes, I see you shaking your head and muttering “no way.” And yet…

Part of the problem is that both my parents are from Bombay, born and raised. Bombay – or Mumbai, as it's now called – is a little like New York. Once you move there, it’s hard to remember anywhere you’d been before. (That dig is specifically directed at my New York friends, who’ve fallen off the map, so to speak.)

And yes, at least a couple of my grandparents and possibly most of my great grandparents were born in the south Indian state of Karnataka. Some of my ancestors even took their surnames from the tiny villages in Karnataka where they lived. That makes us south Indian, right? Maybe.

The distribution of Konkani speakers along India's
southwestern coast. (Photo by ImperiumCaelestis)

The predominant language spoken in Karnataka today is Kannada, a Dravidic language like the other main south Indian languages such as Telugu, Malayalam, and Tamil. Dravidians belong to one of two major civilizations that have their roots in ancient India, the Aryans being the other and from which north Indians and Pakistanis have descended. Scholars believe the Indian subcontinent was entirely Dravidian until the Aryans migrated south from Central Asia and possibly the Caucasus (southern Russia).

The two traditions are as different as night and day. The languages are completely different, though today, they reflect slight influences on one another. The Dravidic languages have curly alphabets that look and sound different from north Indian languages, which use the more linear devnagri script. Aryans are typically fairer, Dravidians darker. The two have different accents, and many would say, very different cultures, even histories. Though India is probably one of the most successful melting pots you'll find, as with any large, diverse culture, biases and discrimination exist between these groups. Not as a rule, just on occasion.

Perhaps I’m just reluctant to choose sides, you’re wondering? It’s more complicated. My family speaks Konkani, which happens to sound a lot like Marathi, the main language spoken in Maharashtra, of which Mumbai is the capital. Konkani also shares a lot of etymology from Hindi, a north Indian language. Without much effort, I can understand a good bit of both languages (though more Marathi than Hindi), whereas I cannot understand a word of South Indian languages. I've heard quite a bit of Kannada spoken around my in-laws’ home in Bangalore but still can't understand more than a handful of words. (They, too, are Konkani, yet my father in-law can’t speak a word of it. Or maybe won’t.)

A NASA satellite image shows the location of
the ancient Saraswati River, which has since dried up.

It’s also been established that the Konkani-speaking community from which I hail, known as the Saraswats, descended from one of the five Hindu Brahmin communities that once lived on the banks of the ancient Saraswati River. Many subcommunities hail from these original Saraswats, including the Kashmiri Saraswat Brahmins, of which former prime minister Indira Gandhi was a notable member. In fact, many people from her community use the surnames of “bhat” or “pandit,” meaning priest and religious scholar. Gandhi’s father, Jawaharlal Nehru, whom I wrote about last week, was widely called Panditji, the “ji” added as a term of honor. Many Konkani-speaking Saraswats from Karnataka are descended from pandits as well, from even just a few generations back, before their own kids started moving away to study, work, and eventually take up other occupations in big cities and abroad.

Last month, after being asked about my northern vs. southern roots and stumbling over my response, I did a little research. That is, I turned to Wikipedia, where I learned that my community likely did descend from the original Kashmiri pandits – though not conclusively. (Damn you, Wiki!)

I’d been hearing bits and pieces of this theory for years, even had an American college professor who wrote a book on the topic, so it was interesting to gather more details. Beginning in the early 13^th century, forced conversion to Islam had begun in Kashmir, driven in large part by a Mughal general from Turkmenistan. Between 1389 and 1413, religious persecution of Hindus was at its peak under a sultan who at the time ruled Kashmir, leading many Saraswats to head southwest to Goa (just a bit north of Karnataka), drawn there because of the fertile land along the Arabian Sea and the religious tolerance under its local (Dravidian) kingdoms. 

On their way south, the Saraswats passed through Gujarat, which may explain why Konkani-speaking Saraswats share some vocabulary with Gujarati, words even Marathi and Hindi, with their closer linguistic association to Gujarati, don’t use. (Hard to otherwise explain this fact.)

Cover page of the 1622 book,
Doutrina Christam em Lingoa
Bramana Canarim ("Christian
Doctrines in the Canarese Brahmin
Language"), by Fr. Thomas Stephens,
a Jesuit missionary priest in Goa

Before the Saraswats arrived in Goa, the local form of Konkani had already been influenced by other cultures, for example, by ancient Sumerians who had settled there. Goa had long been a major trade center with the Arabs and Persians as well, so many Arab and Persian words infiltrated into Konkani – such as dhukan for “shop,” fakt for “only,” and karz for “debt.” A few centuries after the Saraswats arrived and adopted Konkani as their new language, Portuguese traders followed by Christian missionaries landed in Goa. From the 16th century until the early 19th century, the Goa Inquisition resulted in many forced conversions, this time to Christianity. To avoid persecution and/or losing their land, a great number of Saraswats converted to Catholicism and even today are known as “Brahmin Catholics.” Goa still retains this largely Christian, Portuguese-influenced Konkani culture and language.

Meanwhile, a smaller group of Saraswats moved farther south, into the small villages and towns of Karnataka. Some moved farther still, into Kerala. In both Karnataka and Kerala, they were able to practice their religion, build temples, buy land, and hold government jobs. Today along this coastal stretch, you’ll find not just Saraswats, but Konkanis of all religions and dialects, too numerous to count. Konkani Muslims in Karnataka, for example, are descended from the intermarriage between the locals and Arab seafarers as well as through conversions. The sailor-warriors from Ethiopia, known as Siddhis, also adopted the language and planted roots in the area. (Yes, there are black people in India. And they weren't slaves.)

When Bombay became a boom town in the early 19^th century, a great many Konkani-speaking Saraswats – no doubt, drawing from their adventurous, nomadic roots – migrated there, so much so, that many families, such as mine, lost most of their connection with the south, while others, such as my husband’s family, retained it. Though exact numbers are hard to come by, it’s possible that today as many Konkani-speaking Saraswats live outside of India as within it.

A few parts of this history still aren't clear: how and why did we pick up the Konkani language? It appears that Konkani existed in the south long before the Saraswats’ exodus from Kashmir. The earliest-known proof of its existence dates to about the 2^nd century A.D., and Konkani was already spoken on the Konkan Coast, from Goa to Kerala. But that fact only raises more questions – if Konkani was already spoken in that part of the world, what did the Saraswats speak before they moved there? And if we adopted a language that already existed in the area, could we also have been absorbed into its culture through the mixing of bloodlines? Maybe we have both north and south Indian blood? 

And why did the Saraswars adopt Konkani, of all things, and not one of the more widely spoken (read: more useful) majority languages, one with a real script?

A map adapted from A Historical Atlas of South
Asia, Oxford University Press (1992), lists Konkani
as an Indo-Aryan language. (Image by BishkekRock)

The origin of the Konkani language is a puzzle anthropologists are still figuring out as well. It appears to be an Indo-Aryan language, related more to Sanskrit than to the Dravidic languages of the south. One article I found says these Saraswats spoke Sanskrit in public and invented a simplified version, Brahmani, that they spoke at home. Brahmani may have formed a sort of grassroots version of Konkani. A study by the Indian Anthropological Society found that some Konkani speakers (not the Saraswats) are descended from Australoid tribes that came to India from the Mediterranean in pre-historic times, spoke early Dravidian languages, and migrated to north India! (Then moved back with the Saraswats? If so, no kidding about our nomadic spirit. No wonder I'm so antsy.) 

Even the origin of the word “Konkani” is disputed. It sounds a bit like the word Kannada, but it could also have been derived from the Persian (Aryan) word kinara, meaning “the language of the coast." The anthropologists who conducted the study conclude it could just be a language born of the confluence of Indo-Aryan dialects that absorbed some Dravidic characteristics. Either way, Konkani has the structure and syntax of an Aryan language and the grammar of a Dravidic one. 

All that to say that the Saraswats who left Kashmir for Karnataka probably took along their own dialect (possibly Brahmani), borrowed some useful Gujarati words along the way, and melded it all with a Dravidic form of Konkani, which in turn borrowed from the Persian and Arabic. Sounds like a real stretch, but if it's true, it's a pretty astounding amalgamation of cultures and languages.

Either way, I’ll just have to change the subject next time someone asks me that question, don't you think?