The Art of Religion

Let me begin by first apologizing for the title of this blog. It's truly, truly terrible.

My family left yesterday, and for the past day and a half I have been on my own, having made my way from Delhi to the beach/party oriented state of Goa. In those 36 hours I have succeeded in developing a limp in certain pairs of shoes, seen cows brawl, and was potentially dragged to a gay bar by accident. But as to my usual, backtracking style of blogging, I'm not going to discuss any of this. Okay I'll tell you about the cow fight - it was 8am this morning on a rural dirt path and I was all alone. Two cows kept butting heads, in an escalating level of violence. Eventually the black one (vs. the white one) began backing up as they rammed each other, shit himself, and took off in a sprint when a 2nd white one also began charging. I can't believe how fast he moved. It was pretty awesome.

About a week ago the family and I were in Haridwar, one of the holiest cities in India, right on the Ganges (an incredibly holy body of water). It is so holy, no alcohol or meat is served anywhere (and the only cheese they eat is swiss!! Get it? hol...y... )

We stayed in what would've been known - were it not such a holy place - as the pimp shack of Haridwar. This beautiful hotel lent us one of their boys as a guide to bring us to a very spiritual event called "Arty." If you were reading legitimate travel memoirs, this is where I would explain in fascinating detail not only the intricate details and significance of Arty, but would also provide an even approximately accurate spelling. Instead, I'm at an outdoor restaurant on the beach, using a flashlight to reference my notes and writing a blog. Consider yourself lucky I'm even taking the time to fix some of my typos. What I can tell you is that Indians believe verystrongly in the power of the Ganges, and coming to a place like Haridwar and experiencing Arty is a pilgrimmage many wait their whole lives to take.

Our boy-guide brought us to the most signifcant portion of the Ganges in Haridwar . What we experienced next was one part thousands of years of religious history, and one part quintessential Lonely Planet warning - with a dash of really dirty holy water. We were hustled through the increasingly hectic crowd of probably thousands by sadhu's (religious men) constantly trying to get our attention and get us to follow them to the river - an act the Lonely Planet explicitly warns against, because they always ask for money, and you really don't know if it is legit. Through Elizabeth's Hindi and our boy-guide (who will from here on be referred to as the bouide) we somehow ended up with a white robbed man and his brown robbed accomplice, with our feet at the edge of the river. We were broken up into mother and father, and brother and sister - you try explaining our family dynamic to a society embarassed to meet 24 year olds who are not married. In our hands were baskets of flowers with candles - which at the end of the prayer are sent sailing off in the river. But first we had to repeat many prayers in Hindi to our sadhu, who lead the procession like an auctioneer, pausing only when asking our names (think of a Family Guy style Las Vegas wedding: "Do you take to be your yada yada yada"). We are holding our hands as instructed - with one carnation wrapped in our palms, hands touching. The sadhu tells us that we are praying for the well being of our family and friends (you're welcome). The noise, the crowds, the masses bathing in the river make the whole experience full of an intense energy. I am then told to touch my sisters feet, and both of my parents' feet as signs of respect (I still haven't lived that one down, from any of them). My Dad is very happy to be witnessing such an important event - even when the sadhu's ask us for monstrous donations. The parents oblige - its really only about 12 dollars. I on the other hand chose to barter, and paid $5 for both my sister and I. I wouldn't even be considered a good Jew - so tacking on Hindu hell ain't such a big deal in my book.

We were then led to a small temple a few feet away, where we went through a similar process, all four of us together, concluded with the infamous Indian forehead dots. They then ask for 12 dollars each. To spare this religious man of my expert bartering skills, Elizabeth pays for us.

We stepped outdoors to witness religious men waving huge flames of candles, with as many as 30, 40 people holding on to their arms, shoulders, bells being rung constantly by hand. There were so many Indians pointing video cameras in everyone's face, I quickly got over any self consciousness of photographing the event. It all lasted about an hour in total. Our bouide was never heard from again. Until we left, when we found him standing where we left him, guarding our shoes.

The next two days were an existence of pure relaxation. There is not a lot to do in Haridwar as a westerner/tourist, so we spent a lot of time at the hotel. Confined to an alcohol-free city and struggling to find any excuse to even leave the hotel, we sought entertainment in very....let's be diplomatic here...low brow ways. For example: we played a game called speed chess. None of us were really very interested in actually playing chess, so we insisted on rushing the game by shouting "speed!" at each other constantly until our opponent would move a piece. We must have spent at least 2 hours one day reading a Hindi phrase book in thick American accents, reverting to sound effects made only by humans of an IQ of 40 or lower, and then laughing hysterically.

Then came the attack. It started on November 8th, while walking down the street. An explosion so loud, the sound sat in my ears for seconds after it concluded, refusing to let any other audible waves enter. I was struck in the chest with the shrapenel. As the remains of the explosion bounced to the floor, I thought it silly to consider the paper remnants of a firecracker shrapnel. And it didn't end there. Excalating the following night, November 9th, for a holiday called Diwali, the town erupted in explosions. A blind stranger to the holiday would have been sure Pakistan was attacking. Like almost every aspect of Indian culture, there is little regulation on lighting fireworks, and apparently every person in Haridwar decided to take advantage of this. The fireworks show was spectacular, because it was so random. Standing on our hotels roof, the pattern was completely sporadic. Often the most amazing displays were when the sky was lit up in a seemingly coordinated performance, knowing that it was all dumb luck.

The hotel's security wouldn't let any of us leave the premises once the fireworks began that night, because the streets were too dangerous. From our balconies we could see children hurling m-80s at every passerby below. I didn't see one person in the streets who wasn't running. The explosions were so loud and so frequent (until about 3am), that you could have gone on a murderous rampage with a machine gun and no one would have noticed. Unless, of course, they saw you shooting people with a machine gun.