Hanuman Statue in Trinidad and Tobago (Photo by Kevin Rajeev Persad)
Over the ages, Hindus have interpreted and explained complicated divine forces through a vast, colorful array of forms, probably none more so than Hanuman, a flying warrior monkey-god with followers even today.
Hanuman’s most notable role takes place in the religious and literary epic, Ramayana, which scholars believe the poet Valmiki wrote around 450 B.C. In it, Prince Rama’s wife, Sita, is kidnapped and held captive for 14 years by the multi-headed demon, Ravana, from Ceylon (modern-day Sri Lanka). While Rama and his brother go searching for Sita, it’s Hanuman, Rama’s trusted bodyguard and devoted servant, who discovers where Sita’s been taken and goes to rescue her. Sita ultimately refuses his help, insisting only her husband can come avenge the insult on her honor, so Hanuman has to go back and notify Rama. Before he does, he wreaks havoc on the tiny island, thus beginning a long and ugly war between the two sides.
A dancer's mask of Hanuman in Thailand (Photo by Saerin)
There are numerous stories about his origin, but Hanuman’s generally considered an incarnation of Shiva, the god of destruction. He’s the lord of the planet Mars, and is said to control the planets with just his tail. In popular retellings, he’s often depicted looking like a muscular nobleman, wearing a round, gold crown. He may be shown holding his palms together, to indicate his selfless devotion to Rama, who’s believed to be an incarnation of a god himself, or carrying an umbrella or a heavy club. Often, he’s portrayed flying to and from Ceylon or else taking on a giant form and stepping across the ocean to reach the little island. In another depiction, he’s shown as having five heads and ten arms, a form he supposedly took on at one point during the war so as to kill a particular rakshasa, a demon who practiced a kind of black magic.
Hanuman is still a huge iconic figure in Indian culture and folklore. Believers pray to him for strength as well as modesty. There are large statues of him all across India as well as other countries where the Ramayana is well known, including Sri Lanka and Southeast Asia. One statue in Trinidad and Tobago is said to be the largest outside of Asia, at around 24 feet high and 12 feet wide. Within India, there are plenty of them triple that size. Numerous Hanuman temples abound, especially in North India, where he may be the most revered.
The Hanuman Dhoka in Kathmandu, Nepal, is the entrance gate that protects a 16th century palace complex from the Shah dynasty. (Photo by Manjariz)
Across India, it’s a common sight to see monkeys lingering along the walkways that lead to temple entrances. I’m not sure how they get there, but their presence has always made me more than a little nervous. These are wild monkeys, sometimes cute and gentle but also often hungry and a little unnerved by humans. Temple-goers try not to bother them though. These monkeys are supposedly there to ward off evil forces and serve the gods, just as Hanuman himself would do.
Ever since I can remember, I’ve been fascinated with myths, especially ones involving animals. Many cultures, both ancient and present-day, use animals in their story-telling to either get a message across or help explain the way their world works. Kids, especially, seem drawn to these tales.
As a young girl, I would spend hours in the library poring over picture books, and later, archaeology tomes that delved into mythology from around the world. So when I sat down to write Vestige, it came as no surprise I wanted to weave in some Incan legends, including ones that contained animals. I could bore you stupid with the folklore I’ve studied, but I promise I won’t and will limit this post to two—one myth from Central America and the other from the Andes. Well, maybe I’ll squeeze in a quick one to make it three—let’s briefly go to Brazil as well.
Central America:
In Mesoamerican legends, the resplendent quetzal is a bird associated with the snake god of creation and wind, Qutzalcoatl (try saying that ten times in a row). The Mayans and Aztecs believed the bird represented goodness and light and the rulers of these civilizations wore head dresses with the feathers from the quetzal. By donning this bird’s feathers, they felt a connection with the god Qutzalcoatl. The bird was so revered, it was forbidden to kill it, so the lackeys would capture and pluck its feathers then set it free.
The quetzal was thought to be unable to survive in captivity, so it came to represent liberty for those in Mexico, Guatemala, Costa Rica, and El Salvador. Until twenty years ago no one had been able to keep the species alive or breed it in captivity. In the past, whenever a quetzal was captured and put in a cage, it would somehow kill itself through starvation or ramming against the enclosure. But a zoo in Mexico has been able to breed the species on a continual basis since 1992.
In Guatemala, the bird has been associated with the warrior prince Tecún Umán of the Quiché Maya. This bird was the prince’s nahaul (spirit guide). Legend has it that one day, the Spanish Conquistador, Pedro de Alvarado, rode in on horseback, and, Tecún Umán, who was on foot. When Alvarado delivered a spear to Tecún Umán’s chest, a quetzal landed on the spot from where the warrior prince bled and dipped its chest feathers into his blood. The Mayans believe this is how the quetzal received its distinctive red chest feathers.
Another legend tied to the Spaniards is that prior to its arrival in Central America, the quetzal had a beautiful singing voice. But at the time of the Spanish conquest, it fell silent. Many Central Americans believe that one day the quetzal will find its voice, but only when their land is truly free.
Photo by Rick Swarts
The Andes:
The Aymara- and Quechua-speaking people of Bolivia and Peru believe that there were once two, superimposed worlds. The lower world had countless herds of healthy, long-haired alpacas that belonged to the mountain god Apu and were tended by his daughter. The upper world contained alpacas of inferior quality.
Apu’s daughter had problems protecting his precious alpacas from predators, so Apu arranged for her to marry a young herdsman from the upper world. For a while, their union was successful, but the herdsman grew homesick and so the daughter and her husband decided to take their healthy flock to the upper world. Apu agreed but only under the condition that the daughter and her husband take special care of his precious herds, especially his prized possession—a particular baby alpaca. They started their journey, travelling alongside springs and lakes. The baby always wanted to be carried but the husband became lazy, and one day he dropped it to the ground and left it to fend for itself. Apu’s daughter became frightened and ran to the nearest spring, diving in and swimming back to the lower world. Many alpacas tried to follow her, but the herdsman prevented them from doing so. Ever since, the alpacas of the upper world have stayed near lakes and springs, waiting for their mistress who has yet to return.
Brazil:
The Cobra Encantada is a beautiful woman who turns into a vicious snake to guard an immense treasure. Whoever can break the spell will have the gold and marry the maiden. I’m not so sure Disney will like this one for the next movie--it might freak out the little kids.
For thousands of years, humans and animals have been connected. There’s no wonder we want to include animals in our folklore also. Take a look at the advertisements for kid’s products or the popularity of shows such as the Care Bears (showing my age, now) or Big Bird on Sesame Street. Animals are used in many forms to gain attention, especially from the little people, and deliver a message. The wheel, penicillin, and technology may have changed the way we do some things, but others have remained the same—we still use animals in our story-telling.
In a land far, far away and in a time before time, the Tree of Wisdom grew beside a vast sea at the center of the world, and the seeds of every plant fell upon its branches. At the top of this tree lived a magical bird with the body of a peacock, the claws of a lion, and the head of a dog. Her name was Simorgh, and she possessed the wisdom of the ages. Every time Simorgh took flight, a thousand new branches sprouted from her tree, and when she returned to her nest, a thousand more branches broke, scattering seeds throughout the world.
Simorgh (also spelled Simurgh) is the mythical bird of Persian legend, and she first appears in ancient Zoroastrian texts. Her feathers are the color of copper and, in some stories, she is the size of thirty birds. Simorgh is so old she has seen the world destroyed three times, and after each catastrophe, she emerges stronger and wiser than before. It is said that after 1,700 years, she will rise from the ashes like the phoenix.
Most Iranians today know Simorgh from the Shahnameh (Book of Kings), the epic poem by the eleventh century Persian poet, Ferdowsi, who tells the mythical and actual history of Persia from the creation of the world until the Arab conquest of Iran in the 7th century A.D.
In the Shahnameh, Simorgh’s tale begins when Zaal is born to King Saam of Sistan. Because Zaal is albino, Saam fears the baby boy has been cursed by demons and abandons him in the wilderness. In Ferdowsi’s version of the story, the Tree of Wisdom grows high in the Alborz Mountains, and Simorgh swoops down to rescue the infant. She bears him away to her nest and raises him to manhood. When the time comes for Zaal to rejoin humanity, she sends him away with a feather from her back.
“If you ever need me,” she says, “burn this feather and I will come.”
Years later, when Zaal’s wife, Rudabeh, is dying in childbirth, her husband remembers Simorgh’s words and burns the feather. The mythical bird arrives and gives Zaal yet another feather, this one with medicinal properties, which he uses to save both mother and child. The boy grows up to be Rostam, the central figure in the Shahnameh. As an adult, Rostam embarks on his own adventures as the greatest of all Persian warriors, and Simorgh appears again with more sage advice and a personal choice: Rostam can accept defeat at the hands of his nemesis, Prince Esfandiar, or kill this enemy and live the rest of his life in sorrow. Being a proud warrior, Rostam chooses the latter.
Simorgh captured my imagination the first time I read about her legend in the Shahnameh. The love intrigues, battles, and tragedies recounted in the epic poem are absorbing, but who can resist a talking, magical bird who looks ferocious enough to tear flesh from bone yet has wisdom, compassion, and the skill of a healer?
Apparently, I am not alone in my fascination with this mythical creature, for Simorgh’s image appears often in Iranian art and culture. She has even lent her name to a band whose music is a fusion of Persian classical, rock, and rap. They performed in the movie, Prince of Persia, and have a Facebook page. Although the group disbanded last year, their special blend of tradition and modernity lives on in the London-based group, Ajam. It’s almost as though Simorgh has risen from the ashes.
Novel Adventurers are very happy to welcome our guest blogger today. Gary Corby is the author of The Pericles Commission, the first in a series of murder mysteries set in the ancient world. He lives in Sydney, Australia, with one wife, two daughters, four guinea pigs, and two budgies. You can catch him on his blog at GaryCorby.com, on twitter, and on GoodReads.
Novel Adventurers is all about different cultures and storytelling, so this is the perfect place to discuss a question close to my heart: when you write a book, does it help to visit the places you're writing about?
The answer should obviously be yes, but I write murder mysteries set in the ancient world. My detective Nicolaos walks the mean streets of ancient Athens as an agent for the up and coming young politician Pericles, keeping the city safe from enemies both domestic and foreign, while his fellow citizens go about the job of founding democracy, drama, philosophy, history and science. The adventures of Nicolaos are really an invitation to come join the world of classical Greece, and watch what happens as western civilization is born.
Brauron
There lies a problem, because short of a time machine, visas to 460BC are hard to come by.
Can I really bring this ancient culture back to life? Well if I can't, you'll never know the difference, because you can't go back in time to check me. But wouldn't it be nice if I could have some assurance that the people I describe, the architecture, the way of life, the shops and the food and the ceremonies and the way the children played in the street, had some patina of reality?
Fortunately I can, sort of, because some of the places I write of still exist. Dotted around the eastern Mediterranean are some amazing ruins. They're ruins, yes, but with a little imagination and a lot of archaeology you can tell immense amounts about the life and times of our cultural ancestors.
It's possible to visit the Acropolis in Athens, for example. There's a slight problem with that, because the Parthenon that everyone goes to see hasn't been built at the time I'm writing. Yet I've stood there and discovered for myself how far you can see in each direction and felt the breeze. More importantly for my books, I've stood on a rock outcrop next to the Acropolis, one which is called the Areopagus, and which figures heavily in my first book. In fact it's because I've stood there that I was able to write my first book.
I once visited Ephesus, which back then was a thriving Greek city just within the borders of the Persian Empire. Ephesus was abandoned in medieval times, which was bad news for the city but wonderful news for me. Ephesus today is part of Turkey and a magnificent ruin totally worth visiting. Unlike Athens, which is covered in some pretty awful modern buildings, Ephesus is there to see as it was in Roman times. Not my period, but it's not so hard to walk the streets and subtract the Roman additions in my imagination. The same applies to Olympia, where the ancient Olympic Games were held. Needless to say, Ephesus and Olympia feature in my second and third books.
So it can be done. The other places—very important places!—to get a visa to ancient Athens are in Paris, London and New York. The Louvre, the British Museum, and the Metropolitan are my friends. Also the Getty and any number of smaller museums. In a very meaningful way, they have more of the ancient world than the ruins in Greece, because they can show you the everyday things like cooking utensils, and kids' toys.
So I might not be able to live in ancient times, but the archaeologists can get me a visitor's pass.
Matryoshka, the nestled Russian doll, is perhaps the most famous Russian toy, a culture symbol and a phenomenon in the folk world art.
The moniker Matryoshka comes from a female name Matryona (Matrëna), rooted in the Slavic word “mother” - mat’ (maть), and is associated with fertility and motherhood. That’s why the traditional Matryoshka dolls use the image of a full-bodied, strong, and cheerful mother on the outside with the likenesses of her numerous children painted on the smaller, inner pieces. Some Matryoshka sets consist of female-only dolls while others feature male figurines as well. Today, the image of a robust peasant matriarch is probably still the favorite, although Matryoshkas are painted in a variety of themes, including folk characters and even former Soviet leaders.
The Rescued Swan Turns into a Princess
If you follow my collection here, you will see that every doll features a scene from a Russian fable, The Legend of Tsar Saltan. As the fable goes, a tsarina and her son, sealed in a barrel, are thrown into the seas by traitors, but the pair safely reach an island where the young prince builds his own state and finds his true love after rescuing a white swan who turns into a beautiful princess – and eventually reunites with his father.
The first “official” nesting doll was born in the 1890s, in the Children's Education Workshop in the Abramtsevo estate near Moscow. Founded by a Russian patron of arts, Savva Mamontov, the workshop employed professional artists and talented craftsmen to produce and preserve peasant folk art. The original nested doll set was carved by Vasily Zvyozdochkin and painted by Sergey Malyutin, who also did the original design drawing. However, it was not the first wooden doll ever produced. Thus, the origin of the Matryoshka doll is still unclear – and has a story of its own.
Supposedly, Abramtsevo Matryoshkas were inspired by a Japanese wooden doll brought to Russia from the island of Honshu in Japan. However, the Japanese claim their dolls were inspired by the work of a Russian monk, who created a wooden figure depicting a good-natured, bald old man thought to represent a Buddhist sage. Other sources say, there were seven Japanese dolls, although non-nestled, representing the Seven Lucky Gods. I must admit, in this particular case, I tend to think the origin of the painted wooden figurines belongs to Russia. Blessed with endless forests, the Slavic craftsman had been carving wooden toys, buckets, shoes, kitchen utensils and children’s toys for centuries.
The Adventures of the Tsarina and the Prince
Instead of the theological theme, the Abramtsevo craftsmen saw a folk leitmotif to the figurines. Their first doll was a girl named Matryoshka. She held a rooster and carried seven nestled figurines inside: six more girls, one boy, and a baby. In 1900, Savva Mamontov's wife presented the dolls at the World Exhibition in Paris, and the toy earned a bronze medal. Soon after, Matryoshkas were being made in several places in Russia. Now, the tradition is over a hundred years old.
The New Palace and the Charmed Swan
The biggest Matryoshka was made in 1970, contained 72 pieces and was 1 meter tall. It cost 3,000 rubles (while a popular Soviet car cost 5,000 rubles in the time) and was sent to an exhibition in Japan. A famous Matryoshka couple, "Russian Lad" and "Russian Beauty," was taken to the International Space Station Spaceship by Russian astronauts and given as gift to its international crew. The word Matryoshka is also used metaphorically, as a design paradigm, known as the "Matryoshka principle."
Most folks these days are familiar with the Hindu god Ganesha. He’s the god of good luck, the remover of obstacles, the god whose blessing we seek before we embark on a new journey, be it travel or enterprise. And he’s more than that—he’s also the god of success and of new beginnings, the patron of arts and science. For these reasons, Ganesha, or Ganapati (“gun-puth-ee”) as he’s also known, is more than just one of many in the pantheon of Hindu gods. He’s one of the best known and most widely worshipped, so iconic that he’s become an art form.
There are many legends about Ganesha, but the one I first read about appeared in an old Indian comic book. In that explanation, Ganesha's mother created him independently, trying to form the perfect son, then had him stand guard outside her home as she bathed inside. When her husband, Lord Shiva, returned and found the unknown young man at his front door, he thought it was an intruder and took aim with his trident, cutting Ganesha’s head off. (Side note: As in Greek and Roman mythology, Hindu mythology is filled with gods who have human flaws and weaknesses.)
Later, when Shiva found out that technically Ganesha was his child, he ordered his men to go out and cut the head off the first living thing they found and replace his son’s head. Of course, the first living thing his men found was an elephant, thus the unusual form.
Traditionally, Ganesha is depicted as in the first photo up above. But these days, you’ll find him the subject of about any form of art and in any media. Because of a similarity between the shape of his head and the Sanskrit letter for “om” (or “aum”), that primal sound invoked during prayer or meditation, he’s sometimes depicted in that shape as well.
Another popular expression uses minimal ink strokes, especially a single one. Our family once received a unique gift, a print of Ganesha's head using the letters from the names of our family members. I know someone who creates Ganeshas out of collages of neatly cut paper, known as cutwork art. The images I’ve included in this piece were all handmade by a relative who created hundreds of varied forms of Ganesha over half a century before he passed away last year. They’re in chalk, charcoal, watercolor, oil, ink, pencil, gold foil, you name it. You’ll see one is even in the shape of a hibiscus.
The breadth of creativity and diversity in recreating Ganesha’s image is boundless, and for me, a little addictive. Many Indian homes feature Ganesha collections so I avoid collecting them myself. That is until I find one that’s unique, then all bets are off. That’s an event that happens more and more these days. Ganesha playing various musical instruments, Ganesha dancing, Ganesha reclining, Ganesha standing, Ganesha in profile, modern Ganesha, traditional Ganesha, bronze or soapstone Ganesha sculptures, tiny Ganesha figurines … the list goes on and on.
A few years ago, while passing through Idagunji, a tiny village in southern India, I picked up a unique statue made of black stone known as the Idagunji Ganesha. The town is an ancient pilgrimage site where saints were thought to come for penance. Ganesha is said to have prayed there, and at the center of town, there’s a 1,500-year-old temple in his honor, one that attracts thousands of pilgrims each year. In the sculpture, the god is dressed in the style Hindu men wear during pilgrimages, including donning a loincloth and holy thread. He looks more stout than other representations, and there’s a small depression in his forehead, as though he’s wearing the sacred mark that symbolizes the mind’s eye (the one we use to meditate and attain spiritual enlightenment). He’s carrying a lotus flower in one hand, and his favorite sweet, the modak (a dumpling with a sweet filling), in the other. Here he is, below at right, along with some other little souvenirs from my collection.
Yes, the golden piece in the center is a regular old elephant but my collection extends to those too. Nothing like expanding a godly collection beyond its earthly limits, right?
For more than a century, Argentina and Uruguay have butted heads about where the first tango steps were taken. They’ve also spent many decades arguing about the birthplace of Carlos Gardel, one of tango’s greatest crooners. But in 2009, the two countries kicked aside their differences and joined forces to persuade UNESCO to list the tango as an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. Tango lovers around the world celebrated, happy their beloved dance and music will forever be protected. This massive achievement is especially impressive for a little dance that had some very dodgy beginnings.
The first time I saw tango dancers was in the quaint neighborhood of San Telmo, Buenos Aires. On a cobblestoned plaza, amongst a crowded antique bazaar, a woman in a sequined dress and gentleman in a designer suit danced with an intensity and passion that captured the onlookers, including me. That was the moment I fell in love with the tango, and I’ve been fascinated with its history ever since.
Back in the 1800s, Argentina and Uruguay opened its doors to immigrants. They came from Africa, Spain, Italy, England, Wales, Poland, and Russia and each brought their own music and dances. Eventually, the African rhythms mixed with the South American milonga music (a fast-paced polka) and new steps were invented. This was the first foray into tango.
Most immigrants were single men hoping to make a fortune in their new country. Destitute and desperate, they gravitated toward each other in the brothels and port-side bars, wallowing in their sorrow and longing for the people and places they’d left behind. This remorse and mourning is the basis of most tango lyrics. I advise you not to listen too closely unless you’re ready for a good cry or want to spiral into a pit of depression.
As tango was initially danced by people who couldn’t read or write, there is no documentation backing the tango’s history. Of course, people are happy to give their own version of events, even though they happened over a century ago. It is well known that men first danced the tango together, but no one knows exactly why. Some historians say it’s because the men got bored waiting for their turn in the brothels. Others say men practiced their steps so they could woo the woman of their dreams through dance. I have my own idea, but that’s a whole other post I promise to write at a later date. Or maybe you’ll have to wait until I finish writing my tango mystery novel.
Argentine and Uruguayan high society looked down their noses at those dwelling in the brothels, even though their well-to-do sons were not averse to slumming it every now and again. Word of the tango spread, and by the beginning of the twentieth century, the tango became popular with everyone apart from the elite.
The wealthy sons traveled to Paris and introduced the tango to Parisian high society, which embraced the risque moves. The year 1913 saw the tango become an international phenomenon in England, France, and the United States, although the dance had been modified slightly. The “ballroom tango” had less body contact, though many were still shocked by the obvious passion compared with the tame waltz. High society Argentines and Uruguayans, who had rejected this dance and music, were now forced to accept it with national pride and gathered to dance in ostentatious dance halls, complete with crystal chandeliers.
In 1926, the Italian-born Rudolph Valentino starred in The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. He performed the tango in wide trousers and leather chaps (as worn by a gaucho—an Argentine cowboy) and had a carnation in his mouth and whip in his hand. This visual brought the Argentine tango to the attention of the cinema-going public, despite the fact that gauchos didn’t dance the tango. Probably the most famous tango scene ever on film, Valentino’s performance cemented the Hollywood future for all tango stars at the time to wear gaucho attire.
By the 1930s, Argentina was one of the world’s ten richest nations and the arts flourished. Carlos Gardel, one of tango’s most famous singers, made his mark in Hollywood until he was tragically killed in an air crash in Colombia in 1935. His legend still lives on, with millions of his recordings and paraphernalia sold the world over.
Carlos Gardel
The 1950s saw Argentina’s economic situation take a dive. The country was in political turmoil with military dictatorships banning large gatherings. The tango went underground but still managed to survive. Small, unpublicized venues were frequented by the people, reflecting the drive and passion behind the music and the dance.
With the advent of rock and roll, the tango declined even further until the mid-1980s when a stage show, Tango Argentino, hit the stages of Paris. Once again, France became the springboard for the tango’s worldwide popularity.
In last week’s blog (here), I mentioned the amazing talents of Astor Piazzolla, a man who has mastered the art of tango’s main instrument, the bandoneón. Born in 1921, he spent decades paving the way for Tango Nuevo, a style of tango that incorporates jazz and classical music. Piazzolla wrote 3,000 songs and recorded around 500, and even though he died in 1992, his death is still mourned by tango lovers around the world.
Tango today is changing again. The Argentine and Uruguayan youth that once thought of it as a fuddy-duddy dance now embrace it. Musicians are mixing the old with the new, dancers are creating more complicated steps, and the two countries are uniting over a shared passion for a dance with a very colorful history.
I’ll never play a bandoneón like Piazzolla, sing like Gardel, or be a cast member of Tango Argentino, but what I can do is appreciate the skill and dedication it takes to create a style of music and dance that tells stories of love and heartache. In a way, the tango is a reflection of the turbulent history of Argentina and Uruguay.
And for your viewing pleasure, I present a couple of brothers who can not only dance, but will make you laugh; Rudolph Valentino at his finest; and a couple of dancers who will amaze you. Enjoy!
