I saw a tea stall this morning that was called Hameeda, the name of one of my Muslim friends, but the name on the sign was misspelled. Correction. There is no correct spelling in Romanized English. These Hindi or Urdu words can only be transcribed with semi-accuracy in English, a language with haphazard, random spellings and pronunciations. When people ask how to pronounce Indian names written in English, their guess is as good as mine. The only way to know is by seeing it written in Deva-Nagri script. Actually, that script is a perfect work of art. It covers every possible sound in any language (besides maybe African clicks) with its 36 letters, there are no weird spellings like in English, its’ phonetic so the spelling is easy it’s simple and easy to read and learn, it is forgiving with handwriting-challenged people, its’ not an ugly script, 500 million people can read it, and lines on top connect the letters of every word, so the spaces are clearly demarcated. I like it a lot better than English and infinitely more than languages like Chinese or Egyptian hieroglyphs. I want to somehow implement it as a code language, but since no one knows the script and we’re no longer in 7th grade, that’s nothing but a fleeting dream. I woke up, washed up, and checked out of the hotel and caught the uncomfortable minibus for my tour to Rameswaram, an important Hindu pilgrimage center, because it said that Ram gave thanks to Shiva, and then crossed the Palk straits to Sri Lanka. Rameswaram is on a little island in the Gulf of Mannar, strattled by India & Sri Lanka, connected to India by a huge bridge, the Indira Gandhi bridge. The drive was nice. The geography of southeast Tamil Nadu was flat and hot, giving way to thorny shrubs that covered the ground as far as the eye could see, with the occasional village, hardy palmtree oasis, or rice paddies. In the rice paddies, lines of human figures bent over, picking and dredging incredibly in-synch with colorful saris and lungis. Men worked alongside women, and because rice requires a lot of labor and is the staple crop in South India, gender equality is usually more equitable. In the North, there is an unhealthy male sex ratio, only men harvest and make money, there is the Muslim influence, and also male–dominated Hinduism. Nearing Rameswaram was like driving from Atlanta to the Florida Keys. Little stagnant lakes and pools Sat beside the roads, with palmtrees acting as shade for the not sun beating down on the small rural villages. Then the vast Indian Ocean started closing in on both sides as we neared the Peninsula and Island, connected by freeway. The waters were turquoise-blue & very inviting, especially in the hot (even thought it’s December) sun and humidity. Rameswaram was a slow moving pilgrimage town, with not much around except coconut trees, thorny bushes, and shops catering to Indian travelers, usually south Indian Hindus on pilgrimage bus circuits, or rich North Indian holidaymakers touring South India. The first stop was a Hanuman Temple with “magic floating rocks”, or in other words, coral. Then we made a beeline to the Agni Thettham Shrine and bathing place, basically a beach facing Sri Lanka, which was full of South Indian devotees playing in the water, as well as landmines of human feces everywhere. Nearby was the Ramanathaswamy Temple, the highlight of the town. Intricate carvings covered its vast dark corridors and on its high Dravidian gateway. The unique feature of this temple are the 22 wells in the complex holding fresh water. Priests guide visitors around the temple, taking them to each well, and lowering buckets to get water. Devotees are supposed to bathe in these waters and drink, which is holy because the wells represent the number of arrows with which Ram used to irrigate the island. Since we were basically just tourists, we just had water poured on our hands, and then we sprinkled them on our heads. The rest of the devotees, who were hardcore Shaivites and Vaishnavites from South India with matching black skirts and no shirts, each lined up to be completely doused in the water. Needless to say, the temple was disgusting, despite the awesome architecture, it’s a shame. It’s like a pool or gym locker room, except where shower sandals are not allowed and in India. After everyone’s bath, the Hindus go into a little sanctum, with a long line for darshan of the Goddess Devi. I guess for the day I was a Hindu, so I saw her, a black figure with a white face, adorned with gold and colorful flower garlands. Priests gave oil and tikka to worshippers as they left. That temple was probably one of the most interesting and different Hindu temples I’ve seen. Where else are you supposed to get doused in water 22 times before a look and offering to a goddess? We left in the bus & saw a tiny roadside tank that looked like a roadside puddle, but apparently it’s the site of Sita’s bath. We ate a boring thali lunch, and again crossed the high, tall Indira Gandhi Bridge over the turquoise waters of the Gulf of Mannar, before reaching the mainland. We made our last stop here at Gandamadana Parvatham, supposedly where Ram’s footprints could be seen, but the better view was over the entire Island and towards the Indian mainland, flanked by the Palk Bay and Gulf of Mannar. I was nauseas and miserable on the four-hour drive back to Madurai, so I booked a train as opposed to an overnight bus to Chennai. At 9:30 I got on another minibus, which took me and a bunch of old ladies to Kanyakumari on Tamil Nadu’s southern coastline. The ride sucked because it was only six hours, not enough to get a full sleep, and too long for a simple daytrip. Also, random friends of the bus drivers would hop on and off, just using it for a free ride, but always waking me up by stopping and going. Does this look like an airport shuttle to you? I paid 200 Rs for this. We got to a shitty hotel booked as a package deal by the travel agent. There was broken glass for windows, the sheets were stained, there was no power outlet, and they didn’t even attempt to paint the concrete walls with holes and pipes for a missing sink. The hotel manager assumed I wanted the room with a western toilet. I’m actually surprised there was one, considering the state of the hotel, and the fact that Kanyakumari is essentially a pilgrim town for Hindus. But, now I’m starting to like non-Western toilets, at least in India. They generate less mess for your ass, it’s more explosive & easier to excrete, I hate touching the toilet with my body in Western toilets in India, and Western toilets in India are disgusting and all wet because no one uses toilet paper.
No comments:
Post a Comment