Mountain Baba

I have been lead to understand that Rajastan is nominally a desert. At this time of year however, approaching the tail-end of the monsoon rains, it is green and alive. Indeed, surrounded by a low-lying mountain range, with a holy lake, complete with bathing ghats, Pushkar is an absolute gem. Gazing from any one of the ghats, one can see that near or at the top of each surrounding mountain, there is a temple. And while Pushkar is the Brahma city, there are many other temples in and around it.

The three main deities of the Hindu pantheon are Brahma, the Creator (who created and then didn’t do much else afterwards), Vishnu, whose avatars include Ram, Laxman, Krishna and many others, who are born into this world every time the balance between good and evil tips towards the latter, and Shiva, the deity of destruction and regeneration. While there are many others, running literally into the hundreds if not thousands, it is impossible to overstate the popularity of Shiva. His image and temples abound everywhere in India. There’s an element of violence and raw energy to Shiva, and one easily picks up on the power of his cult.

Each of these three deities has his own respective holy city. Pushkar is for Brahma, where according to tradition he created the world. Rishikesh is for Vishnu. And Varanassi is for Shiva. Like the Taj Mahal, Varanassi, while indubitably a fascinating place, is one I’d rather skip. Being the city of Shiva, chaos reigns supreme 24/7, with excited pilgrims stoned off their faces, hoards of beggars, and garbage that hasn’t been collected in a few millennia. Nevertheless, when I met a Breslev (the cult I love to love) family in the Enigma Café, who were on their way to celebrate Rosh Hashanah there, I must admit that the juxtaposition did intrigue me, and I considered making the trek for a moment. But alas no. The New Year will be spent here in Pushkar, the city of creation, with Chabad (the cult I love to hate). My experience with Shiv Shakti power shall remain limited to friends who are devotees.

I have spent most days in Pushkar in the Enigma Café. Like many a traveler who decides to stay on for a while in a given place, I have had the good fortune of getting to know this one’s local cast of characters. The café is owned by a hard-nosed widow with two sons. The younger isn’t really in the picture, but the older one, Monu, figures prominently in the daily life of the restaurant. His task mainly seems to be to play the role of oldest son of owner, which he does well. Other than that, he smokes pretty much endless chillums, and as a result, does not actually manage the restaurant staff, who, not knowing what is truly expected of them, are not terribly effective. This is mitigated by some genuine culinary talent, and by Fareen, until two days ago the head cook (after which there was a conflict that I was unsuccessful at mediating).

Both young men are 23. Both are at that age where defining oneself is of central importance. But Monu is burdened by the asset of the café, his mother, and too much hash. Though brash and charismatic, he won’t be able to realize his own or the café’s true potential until he puts his nose to the grindstone. At that point, the sky is truly the limit. As an aside, he had an old jalopy of a motorcycle, which he fixed in my honor, and we spend many an afternoon touring the region. I have found the activity that rates the highest on my list of favorite things to do: slowly perambulating on country roads.

Fareen, quieter, astoundingly handsome, and with some talent of his own, aspires to design and sell shanti style clothing, in addition to doing more in the restaurant industry. Not exactly ambitious, he is nevertheless making a valiant effort to improve his life, something which I really admire. So we have spent quite a lot of time building an eBay site for him to hawk his wares. I’ve pointed out that failure in this space may actually be more beneficial than success: he’ll learn far more and build a much stronger foundation if he makes lots of mistakes now in this laboratory setting. But I’m crossing my fingers for his success.

Fareen and I also do the doctor thing together. On my left index finger, I had an infection, which developed into an abscess, and subsequently had to have the nail removed for effective drainage. This put my finger into a splint for almost a week, but each time I needed to go to the (impressive) Mittal Hospital and Research Center, we also went to the dentist for him. One tooth disintegrated. At first we went to Pushkar’s only dentist, in a one-room clinic situated in a rabbit warren in the township. I asked to have my teeth cleaned. He was suitably impressed by my clackers, but only polished them with equipment so antiquated that I wondered if he had dug it up at an archeological site. Apart from charging me a usurious Rs 500 for the privilege, he announced that in Fareen’s case, nothing short of an extraction would do. Before I let this happen, I suggested getting a second opinion in the nearby town of Ajmer. “Why don’t you want to take out?” the good dentist inquired.

“Well,” I began, “it might be a good idea to know the alternatives before leaving a hole in his mouth.


“Yes, one hole,” he replied in agreement.

We went to Ajmer the following day. In any case, the tooth did need to be extracted, and a whole bunch of other dental work had to be done, so together with my finger, every few days we had our joint set of medical errands.

The day after my minor operation, Monu took the bike, me in splint, and Surinder, a mutual friend of the guys, up to a Shiva temple on a mountainside. Rajastan is truly the Indian heartland. The crushing majority of the population are native Rajastanis. Interestingly, there are no small number of gypsies in the region, as well as a significant community of Sikhs, who have a magnificent temple on the outskirts of town.

Surinder is a Sikh, but the first I’ve met who doesn’t wear a turban. Although English is practically non-existent he does not see this as an impediment in talking my ear off. Additionally, he is a fascinating specimen of religious tolerance: keeping his faith, but hedging his bets in the spiritual realm. So when we went up that mountain, Surinder was gung-ho about paying homage to Shiva.

The temple was tended by a real sadhu, or holy man, the first I’d ever had a chance to sit and talk with. We can call him Mountain Baba. No dreadlocks, but with a trademark loincloth, he had renounced the material world, and lived in a tent on the mountainside, taking donations for the upkeep and improvement of the temple. He dispensed advice to pilgrims, told many stories and parables, and was most generous in his hospitality. He also had his own marijuana plantation, with big, green, fragrant buds soaking up the country sunlight on the mountain. It was a sight to behold. And in India, it is perfectly legal. Ha ha. He also had some special bhang on hand (all the way from Haridwar) to make my favorite drink, so leaving Mountain Baba was much more difficult than coming.

For the most part, I have enjoyed reasonable success breaking away from the world of Western overconsumption. All my possessions weigh 20 kg and fit in a back on my back (the Hi-Tech Knapsack goes on my front when in transit). In all honesty, I want for nothing. While I’m a long way from being a real sadhu, I am not a JAP (so much anymore) and I consider this an achievement. On that note, I believe myself to be deserving of a pat on the back, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be heading over to the Enigma Café for my daily bhang lassi.

Rajastani Time

I did not go to the Taj Mahal. I'm almost proud of the fact. It is the one cliche thing that all tourists to India absolutely must do. But I have no doubt that the day trip from Delhi would have been one of my more frustrating adventures, with filth and touts and assailants coming from every direction to frazzle me in four dimensions. With all due respect to the Taj Mahal, I came to India for something a bit different.

As much as discovering first hand all the secrets and glories of this country, I made a point of setting out for one calendar year. All my escape-from-the-computer fantasies back home had one common element: enough time. More than that Mughal costume, perfect beach or holy moment in pilgrimage, is the sense that there's time to spare, time to burn. The experiences you can have only when there is an abundance of time are really the ones I wanted to live.

I went to Delhi for the Monsoon Festival 2, curated by my old friend Himanshu. Indeed, I made it to the opening night, where by virtue of being white and underdressed, I was interviewed both by the Times of India and NDTV. The works focused on monsoon fashion, and were fresh and eye-catching. Held in the British Council, most appropriately in the Queen's Gallery, the crowd was rather posh, and it added to the cachet of the evening. I took full advantage of the free wine.

Quite by surprise and completely unconnected to my artistic adventures, I found myself in one of those wonderful affairs where you both fall in love and have all the time in the world to explore it. And even though I knew it was going to hurt at the end, I had the time and opportunity to live it anyway with eyes wide open.

So Delhi was an extra special experience for me. It was an amazing city. I did all the tourist stuff. And I was in love. Triple blessing.

In three weeks it played itself out, and I came to Puskhar, in Rajastan. I have decided that I will now only visit places that can be reached by first class train or airplane. No more remote backwaters that can only be accessed by a pre-Independence diesel jalopy whose crosseyed driver is stoned, illiterate and directionally impaired.

Pushkar is the site of India's only Brahma temple. Tradition has it that Brahma, the Creator in the Hindu pantheon, created the world right here by dropping a lotus flower into what then became Pushkar lake. A good part of Rajastan is desert, but Pushkar is in a valley surrounded by tree-lined mountains, and the monsoon had done its job by the early September during which I arrived. While somewhat bustling for a small town, it apparently really comes to life in November, when they hold the annual Camel Festival, which while fascinating in itself, I think I'll just skip this year.

Emerging from my hotel the first thing after arriving, I went to seek out the one concoction that has made Pushkar famous, especially among Israelis: bhang lassi. And I found it, right downstairs, in the Enignma Cafe. Green and gooey, with sugar and chocolate sauce to take the edge off, this drink, made mainly from ground cannabis leaves, ensures complete mental retardation within 90 minutes of consumption. When I first looked up, a whole week had passed.

Owing perhaps to good past life karma, I had been adopted by the family and attendant young men that run the Enigma, and they kept me fed and around plenty of foamy cushions. Taking twenty minutes to decide on the virtues of changing position really means that you have the luxury of time. Needless to say, the service is dreadful. The food is good, but boy oh boy is everything as slow as molasses in January. Yet it doesn't seem to faze me. It isn't that I have other worries to attend to. I don't have any at all.

Yes, I have finally found the ultimate cafe experience, and with the High Holidays approaching, it is good to know that the cult I love to hate (Beit Chabad) has a branch office here. This year's holiday menu includes an item of "Heated Discussions".

Pushkar, Rajastan

Click here for full album

Tourist in Delicious Delhi

Here are some photos from my wanderings around the nation's capital. They include the opening night of the Monsoon Festival 2, Baha'i Lotus Temple, Connaught Place (where I'm lodging), Jama Masjid (truly majestic) and Chandi Chowk market.

Delhi Photos

Chakde India - Movie with SRK

Strange as it may seem, in the four months to date that I have been in India, I have not seen a single movie (in the cinema) of my ultimate hero, Shah Rukh Khan. It seems that not only do we share a birthday (he's five years to the day older than me) but we also decided to take a bit of a break from the world at the same time.

SRK, King Khan, Master of Bollywood is back. Whether he laughs, cries, shows anger or aggression, is in love or plots vengeance, it shows from his body language that he is drawing on a past personal experience. In the ocean of schlock and overacting that characterizes Bollywood, Shah Rukh stands out, and perhaps alone, in being believable. He admits that, as opposed to when he began his career, nowadays it all comes easily to him. That's just proof positive of what a gift this man possesses.

Progressive social themes are a favorite of his. In Chakde India, he takes on several hot-button issues, and handles them all with panache.

The movie opens with SRK as Kabir Khan, captain of India's field hockey team, taking the final overtime penalty shot in the World Cup finals against Pakistan. This is the first film that I can remember that SRK plays the Muslim that he is. I can recall him as the good Hindu boy, making a progressive point in many films, and this flash of authenticity is most welcome. Kabir misses the shot, and India loses the match and the tournament. In a show of chivalry, Pakistan's team captain shakes his hand and offers an embrace, both of which are captured on film by the media, angered by the loss and always hungry for scandals and scapegoats. Was Kabir Khan a traitor to India? At the end of the sequence, he is drummed out of his home.

India's Muslims, some 20 or so percent of the population, have fought long and hard against suspicions that they are a fifth column for Pakistan. I have seen no small number of films where Muslim actors and directors, who are overrepresented in terms of their percentage in the general population in Hindi cinema, make the point again and again that they are Indian through and through. There seems to be a need to reaffirm their allegiance, which only says to me that it is still questioned, at least in subtext, throughout some of Hindu society.

Seven years after the World Cup debacle, appropriately set in Delhi, the nation's capital (and incidentally released just days before India's 60th Independence Day), Kabir Khan is called upon to coach a very unlikely girl's national field hockey team. Once again, SRK takes on reactionary figures to move, if only a few inches, towards modernity. In fact, the team is composed of girls from every region of this vast country, and the dynamic lends itself rather well to some good humor. There are even two girls from Northeastern states, who endure catcalls from Subcontinental men on several occasions, in one of which the girls of the team trash a McDonald's restaurant in a brawl defending them. I drew particular pleasure from the trashing of McDonald's: a symbol of imperialism at its very worst, and even though oddly satisfying on occasion when there is a particular yen for some truly disgusting junk food, it is a veritable culinary catastrophe in its Indian version.

No wonder Northeastern girls endure this type of humiliation. The natives of the seven northeastern states are ethnically much closer to Burmese and Thais than to Indians. There are a myriad of cultural differences, but one of them is that they don't negate women's sexuality and have much healthier attitudes in general as compared to Indians' messed up hypocritical "morality".

Perhaps a few more words should finally be said here about India's rule over the Northeastern states. Make no mistake about it: not one person can point a finger accusing me of not being a true friend of India. But friends can and also should level criticism where it is needed most. India is unwelcome by no small number of Northeasterners. These states should probably have become independent countries at the time of Independence, and India has hung on with a policy, at times, of brute force. Some states are under virtual military occupation, enduring terrible human rights abuses, about which the world remains almost completely ignorant. I'm not saying that I have a readymade solution on file; no doubt the issue is very complex. However the status quo is unacceptable, and more of India's friends should say so out loud.

Kabir Khan is a demanding coach. He is often harsh and difficult to please (though I would certainly try my best if given the chance). When initially denied permission to take his team to the Women's Field Hockey World Cup tournament in Australia, he responds with a challenge. If the girls can win a game against the boys’ team, they should be allowed to go and represent India. The game is played, and the girls lose 3-2. But they play a great game and are given the go-ahead to fly to Melbourne.

The second half of the movie is the series of games they play in the tournament. Predictably, they are thrashed in the first one 7-0 by host Australia. Likewise, they win in a penalty shootout in the final game against the same team, coming home as heroes, and vindicating Kabir Khan, who returns to his former Delhi home in the final scene.

When all is said and done, Shah Rukh Khan gives another stellar performance in a movie full of poignant issues and symbolism. My only disappointment is that there were no actual song and dance sequences, since I'm such a sucker for them. Nevertheless, that does not subtract from the film overall, and it should be seen now and noted for posterity for the social messages it so effectively relays.

Eating in the New Delhi

To be perfectly honest, I was dreading coming to Delhi. After my experiences in the big metros Bombay, Bangalore and Chennai, I really wasn't up for another huge, crowded, smelly, disorganized and filthy fourth-world megopolis. I was coming for an art festival. I would hold my nose. And that would be it.

Well, imagine my surprise to stumble onto what must be India's most pleasant and intriguing metropolis.

I started out in the Tibetan Colony of Manju ka Tilla several kilometers northeast of the city center. It was like a little piece of Dharamsala in the middle of Delhi. Clean, organized, suffused with dhamma, it had a positive feeling all around, and I appreciated the quiet as an introduction back into India. All the hotels were full, as they were having a "Free Tibet" day demonstration (I found a room in the end, but it wasn't easy). It is safe to assume that this is a regular occurrence in those parts, and it was nice to be able to take part in such a good cause.

On that note, I should like to mention at this point that the Dalai Lama has put the occupation of Tibet on the world agenda against a far more formidable enemy, a superpower no less, all through nonviolence. Have you ever heard of a Tibetan insurgent blowing himself up in a Beijing cafe to protest the occupation? Of course not. That would be absurd. And that is my point exactly. Perhaps China is further from making concessions on the Tibet issue than Israel is on the Palestinian one. But don't think for a moment that the question will go away. And it's hard not to have true sympathy for a people that has borne so much hardship with such stoicism and yet maintained, in every way, the moral high ground. If the Palestinians had used such tactics, I have absolutely no doubt whatsoever that they certainly would have had their state long ago.

Getting out and about in Delhi was a bit of a challenge from that lovely enclave, so after a few days, I made the decision to move to the city center, in the form of Connaught Place, or CP, as it is known by the locals. It is somewhat confusing to navigate. There is an outer circle, a middle circle (noticeably dingier, where incidentally I found my room) and an inner circle with more high-end establishments, a park and its own metro station. Yes, Delhi has a metro, and a sparkling clean, modern and efficient one at that.

I spent an evening in Saket, in posh south Delhi. There is an outdoor pedestrian mall, and it is a most pleasant place to spend time on a warm summer night. I later discovered that Delhi has many of such places, and it was at this point that the city began to really endear itself to me. What's more, the residential quarter of Saket very much reminded me of affluent north Tel Aviv, and I must say I felt quite at home there.

Nehru University is also in south Delhi. There are an astonishing number of foreign students there, from every country imaginable. As a matter of fact, Delhi is a delightfully cosmopolitan place, and this is another one of its great charms. As an example, I met a student from Tajikistan who spent, as I did, a year in Indonesia, and speaks fluent Bahasa (as I have discovered I no longer do).

A propos Indonesia, I managed to get myself invited to their embassy for lunch one day. Skye Frontier reckons that Indonesia could be the next travel destination towards the end of the year. It would be a pity not to revive my Bahasa since I now have the opportunity.

The opening night of the Monsoon Festival 2 was held at the British Council, so all in all, I've been power networking, seemingly without any exertion, with a very hip crowd. And there's more to come.

Hairspray

Some years ago, a sick fuck of a director named John Waters made a number of shockingly disgusting films, nearly all of which I enjoyed immensely. This demented pervert propelled such acting gems from sub-culture into the popular mind like Ricki Lake (yes, people) and the unforegettable Divine. Yup: there’s a special place in Skye Frontier’s black heart for his trash.

Divine’s great claim to notoriety was for eating a piece of dog shit in Waters’ 1972 film Pink Flamingos. Apart from that, he/she/it had a Top 20 (in the UK) hit, in the form of a cover version of You Think You’re a Man, in addition to other songs suitable only for drag shows. I had the priviledge of seeing Divine lip-sync her own hits at Komrad’s in Toronto in 1987. I was 16 (OK, so now you know). One can only speculate whether this seminal event turned me into the messed up puppy that I subsequently became. Incidentally, Divine dropped dead of a massive heart attack in 1988.

In the 90s, Waters gained commercial success with slicker movies such as Cry Baby and Serial Mom, attracting no less names than Johnny Depp and Kathleen Turner, respectively. A Dirty Shame in 2004 was slick but thematically much closer to his earlier work, and starred many of his original cast members plus Tracy Ullman. However, perhaps his most memorable flick was the 1988 Hairspray, a musical, starring Divine, Ricki Lake and Debbie Harry. So imagine my mortified surprise when I found out that a commercial remake of this classic was about to be released.

To be perfectly honest, I’ll have to see the original once again, because I must have been pretty stoned when I saw it the first time around (always a good way to watch John Waters). The details remain sketchy, and while I’m sure that the plot was essentially the same, I’m also certain it contained far more outrage. I do recall that the soundtrack was quite catchy, though. In any case, I saw the remake on opening day in Bangkok’s MBK Mall’s Cinema City (occupying the 7th and 8th floors of this Great Temple of Consumerism).

Michelle Pfeiffer, a slimmed down Queen Latifa, Christopher Walken, newcomer Nikki Blonsky, cute Zac Efron and total stud muffin Elijah Kelley all gave memorable performances in this camp and witty musical. Who says American audiences reject the Bollywood format? First Moulin Rouge, now this! But the icing on the cake was John Travolta made up to look like a sow with a thyroid problem. I don’t know how they did it, but 30 years after Grease and Saturday Night Fever, he still has all the moves, even looking like he weighs 250 kilos. The 60s integration theme was a bit lame, as I like my politics a rather edgier, even in a musical. To be fair, it was probably quite a bit more poignant in Waters’ original version. But the costumes, hairdos, choreography and soundtrack were all stupendous, so it can be forgiven.

Mom: go out RIGHT NOW and buy me the soundtrack on CD! You can continue reading Skye Frontier’s archives later. Come on, up you get; they’ll still be online when you get back from the Promenade.

As for the rest of you, don’t walk, don’t run, sprout wings and FLY out to your nearest cinema hall to see Hairspray. You will smile throughout every minute, and it will stick with you for hours afterward. A great show!