Reminiscence from Anatolia- Part Four: Walk by the Bosphorus

So here I was standing in front of Blue Mosque…

In fact, the Sultanahmet Tram Station is quite a vantage point… it is close to all the prominent tourist attractions of Istanbul… when you face the Blue Mosque… the Basillica Cistern is at your backside… and Haga Sofia, Topkapi Palace to your left…

My refuge for the night… a place called Sindabad Youth Hostel… was about 500 meters from the Tram Station… Youth Hostels, though cheap and devoid of any snob value… are often are great place to stay… they are full of information, floating around, to be picked up… information on… cheap but great place to eat… the cheapest place to shop… cheapest way to travel… etc. They are often also a great place to meet people… as I did the day next and many other days to come. You don’t feel the corridor-claustrophobia of hotels, when you are in a Hostel.

At Sindabad, I was greeted by a cute Turkish girl… the place was tidy, full of information… as was expected.

I was famished… there was a nice place to eat, a couple of yards away. When I reached there… I was offered some liquid from a bottle… I wondered what it was… the owner told me that it was scent to be applied on hands and on face… this is a ritual in Turkey… and very soon I got used to it.

I was ready for a good night sleep… it was only 8 pm… but felt like it was 11 pm already. Turkey is further in the north, and in winters it has very small days… something, which I got accustomed to, in next few days to come. My Dorm had 6 beds… only two were occupied… one by a Canadian, and other by a Romanian… when I went to sleep, they weren’t present… and the day next, when I woke up and left the Hostel… they were sleeping… so I didn’t get to meet them at all.

The restaurant owner had told me that I must walk by the sea nearby… in the morning… so the very next day, I woke at 5 am… took a shower… packed my bags… and deposited it in the reception… and went out for a walk.

The walk was refreshing… I must have walked about 7-8 kilometers… and while walking, I realized that horizons to walk are a virtue….For my last few months of existence in Kandahar, I wouldn’t have walked this much… a prison like existence that had bruised my soul… was healed by this walk.

While walking, I met two elderly gentlemen… who smiled at me… and smiled back. They beckoned me and asked… my nationality… mamlakiyat… I became used to this word, after this. Hindistani… marhaba… have a tea with us. This was the first of so many teas that I had with Turkish people, thereafter.

Back at Sindabad… I had a sumptuous breakfast… meant to keep me going during the day ahead. And then ventured out… but before the sight seeing, I had one more job to accomplish… get a bus ticket for Selcuk.

It was then I met Yusuf… it was serendipity, yet again… I saw Yusuf, an elderly gentleman, sitting quietly in his Travel Agency, munching a Doner Sandwich. I went it… Marhaba… an affable smile greeted me… I knew I am at the right place…

Yusuf gave me a number of travel tips… what to see and what to avoid… how to travel… and yes, he arranged a bus ticket for Selcuk… at 8 pm… it was a pleasure meeting him… he said that this is not the tourist season… and moreover the Eid is nearing… he hardly has any business… and is sitting at the shop more out of habit than anything else. He told me not to miss Kars… as I would love it. (More on what Yusuf told me in another set of blogs- called Musings from Anatolia… these sets of blog wouldn’t deal with the travel per se… but important events or thoughts, which set me thinking)

Thereafter it was the turn of sight-seeing… I first went to the Blue Mosque… like I have mentioned elsewhere in this blog… blue mosque evokes an emotion within me… its domes, which can be seen from afar… and which have defined the landscape of this momentous city, which has a plethora of other things to be defined with… have always beckoned me to come and see them. Standing within the confines of the Blue Mosque was a dream-come-true…. I couldn’t help marvel the beauty of the place.

A couple of yards away is the Haga Sofia… the single most poignant and historic building in Istanbul… it started as a pagan temple… then became a church… and then a church and a mosque… and then a mosque. After the modern secular Turkey came into existence… it was turned into a museum… the history of Haga Sofia is therefore the microcosm of the history of Turkey. A huge park separates Blue Mosque from Haga Sofia… and in the park… there is a beautiful fountain… often called German fountain, because it was, apparently, built with German help… the sight whispered in my ears… you are in Europe… for years together, I have visualized Europe through the lens of Yash Chopra movies… fields of flowers… neatly manicured and pedicured parks and lawns… as if Europeans know no misery, no poverty… and while standing in the park between Haga Sofia and Blue Mosque, I couldn’t help but saying to myself… yes I am in Europe.

It was here I met this Egyptian Copt couple for the first time… they, apparently, were on a honeymoon. I overheard them while going towards Haga Sofia… words like aiwa, istanna, dilwaiti… hallmark of Egyptian Colloquial Arabic. It was really nice to hear these words after so many years…

Intu Masryeen… Are you Egyptian…? Kunt fi masr lil Sanateen… I was in Egypt for two years… abl kida… sometime ago… while speaking with the two of them… I realized for the first time… languages become a subconscious part of one’s persona… you don’t forget language… you just are out of practice… talking to them, I was very happy… the two years of American University in Cairo… were not all that wasted. (More on Egyptian Arabic and instances regarding it… in the Musings from Anatolia).

Reminiscence from Anatolia- Part Three: Another Delayed Flight

My tryst with Turkey started in 2006… when, while sitting in the class of American University in Cairo…I noticed that one of my classmates was reading a book by Orhan Pamuk… “Istanbul”.

Who is he…? I asked, ignorantly. He had an exclamation mark over his face… what you don’t know Orhan Pamuk, the Nobel Prize Winner Literary figure from Turkey… you must read him… he is a great writer.

And so I picked up his first book Istanbul, a non-fiction… graduating to “My Name is Red”- one of the most interesting books that I have ever read…. Then “Snow”- book that earned him a Nobel Prize. Snow, incidentally, is set in the city of Kars.

So here I was in Kabul International Airport… waiting for another delayed flight, this time to Istanbul. The last night was uneventful… it wasn’t meant to be that way… my friend had organized a get together at his place… and a number of my friends had poured in there… in anticipation to meet me. But they all left; after waiting for more than 3 hours… one of them quipped… knowing my determination to travel… I would even cycle all the way to Kabul… and right now must be atop the Hindu Kush…

The delayed flight opened a new opportunity… of seeing the Kabul-Mashhad flight. The Hazara community of Afghanistan is Shiite… they have extensive linkages with Iran… and therefore any Iran bound flight ought to have a number of Hazaras flying in it. Slowly poor, unkemptly dressed Hazaras started trickling in the airport waiting lounge… I couldn’t help noticing the beautiful Hazara women… their beauty have surreal and poignant proportions… one of them, wearing a Chador (an Iranian dress prescribed for women) was particularly beautiful… she had two daughters… less than five years of age….

Somebody tapped my shoulder… “Are you by any chance from Kandahar”… Yes! I am, but how do you know… wait don’t you work for the Afghan Turk High School in Kandahar, and met me in a local marriage party. Yes you do. He was a Turk; working for the Turk School… was on his way to Turkey, where he lived in Izmir.

I started chatting with him… he knew a little bit of English and that helped… he started boasting about his school and how his students perform well, wherever they go- India, Pakistan, China and Turkey…

Turkey operates a number of Turkish High Schools all over the world… especially concentrating on countries in Central Asia, Afghanistan, Pakistan and Azerbaijan. It is step to promote Turkish language and culture… as somebody confided in me, while I was in Turkey… that though Turkey thinks itself as an emerging power… it also realizes that due to lack of economy of scale (of population), the idea of Turkey could always remain stunted… it wants to propagate its idea through these schools.

I was curious… how your student do cope in China… they go to Urumqi and Kashgar… the cradle of Uighiur culture… and the Uighiur speak a variant of Turkish language. Interesting information, both of them.

We were joined by two of his friends… both Turks… from Kars… when they realized that I was going to Turkey for a visit, they invited me to Kars. Its beautiful… they assured me… you wouldn’t regret.

The flight was getting more delayed… I cursed the flight when I paid 100 Afghani for a cup of coffee… why did I even bother to use Ariana Airways… for an extra 100 dollars, I could have got a connection via Dubai… Safi Airways and Turkish Airlines.

I strayed back to the same Hazara family that I had admired a few hours ago… this time two Turks were playing with the two little girls… trying to strike a conversation with them, know their name… the girls were giggling incessantly… it was a beautiful sight… I photographed them and thereafter joined the four of them. And became their interpreter… broken English to broken Dari; and perfect Dari to perfect English.

What is their name… a Turk asked me… “Naam-e-shaan chi ast”… I asked their father… Nargis and Nazia… the Turks exclaimed- it’s a Turkish name!!! And broke into an animated conversation about the probable nationality… Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Azerbaijan… No, they are Afghans… I told them… but they have a Turkish name… No they have a Persian name… and lectured them about the assimilation of languages… my area of expertise… they sounded unconvinced. The debate however was short-lived… Iran bound flight was about to fly…

I had to wait for 2-3 more hours… the Istanbul flight took off at around half past two… some 6 hours late. Flight was uneventful. It passed through, what I presume was, Caspian Sea and then Black Sea… the terrain that I was looking below… was so very different from what I have seen till date… a red desert… probably Turkmenistan… a mighty river… probably Amu Daria…

And then I saw lights… a huge city… huge for even me… who had seen Delhi, Mumbai, Cairo and Kolkata from air… it was Istanbul. I had nurtured this dream for last few years to see this city… so momentous that even history pales into insignificance in front of it.

Istanbul Airport is huge… with terminals reading 203, 339… I presume that it must be having at least 350 terminals… was it bigger than Dubai… I really don’t know… but certainly more methodical… makes more sense… and arrow heads telling you where to proceed… or probably, by now, I was more attuned to international traveling than I ever was…

A metro ride to Zeytinburnu… and then Tram ride to Sultanahmet… I was standing in front of the site, where I have been dreaming to be… for years altogether… I kept on hearing the names of places as were being announced in the metro and tram… was comparing them with their spelling in Turkish Script (that is Latin-based)…

A tout approached me at Sultanahmet… I told him, I have a reservation… he smiled asked me where I am from … I replied India… he said Welcome to the second paradise on earth… and then without bothering any further… left for other potential customers.

Reminiscence from Anatolia- Part Two: A Delayed Flight

“Kandahar is an island”… these were the first words that I heard, when I landed at my workplace about ten and a half month ago…

With every passing day, I realized the true meaning of these words… arrested, literally, in a high wall prison that insures my listless existence over here… I often wonder… Why the hell I am here, far from my two lovely sons and a caring wife… far from my parents, who need me in their old age… and far from precious friends… who I have carefully gathered amidst the hurly-burly of life.

My saga begins here… when on the night of 26th November; I was sitting in Ariana Airlines office in Kandahar International Airport… waiting for much delayed Kandahar-Kabul flight.

The flight was late by over 10 hours now… so the flight that was supposed to take off for Kabul at around 1 pm… took off only at 1130 pm… I reached Kabul… literally in the dread of night at 1 am. Not the best time to be in a city, which falls in the high-risk category even in the day.

There are two ways to handle such fiascos… brood or smile… I brooded for a while and thereafter called up my wife at about 6 pm… when the flight was 5 hours late and still counting… she changed my paradigm… smile, your adventure has already begun. I got back to the VIP waiting room and saw a person sitting over there… he must have been there for last 2-3 hours… just that I didn’t bother to strike a conversation.

“Dari?”- I asked. Afghanistan has two major languages… Dari, a variant of Persian- and Pashto… now a few people, especially in southern areas, know Urdu as well.

“Ba’laa”… (Yes)… Most of the educated Afghans know Dari… whether or not they are Pashtoons. It connects them to larger world… to books, to knowledge… there is hardly any literature or books in Pashto… and they rely on Persian books for knowledge. His name was Mohammed Musa, an Ariana Airways employee… who was half Tajik and Half Pashto. He had come to Kandahar on a temporary Hajj duty… and was on his way back.

We started talking… people started trickling in… they were surprised to see an Indian… an Indian VIP… and an Indian VIP speaking Persian.

Someone in the gathering said something startling- India has so many religions and so many sects… and still you live so peacefully… we are just four ethnicities, all Muslims- Tajiks, Uzbeks, Hazaras and Pashtuns… why can’t we live peacefully like you. There was a craving for peace… I had seen this earlier… I have a gut feeling that slowly but surely… Afghans are raising their voice for peace; they are fed up of 30 years of war… destruction… and when they are fully awake- they wouldn’t spare anybody- not the US, not the Warlords, and certainly not the Taliban. It is just a matter of time.

8 pm… I wondered how long I would have to wait… by now the VIP room was empty; sans me… an old, unkemptly looking man entered my room… I thought he must be the cleaner or janitor. I thought- how on earth he would know Dari… I tried my little Pashto on him asking if he knows when the flight would take-off… he replied in English… at least 2-3 hours from now… Appearances are surely deceptive…

His name was Haider… a trained Aeronautical Engineer… he sat beside me and started chatting… after all, it was not everyday that he found an English speaking person. He was trained by the American in early 70s… when American not only set up training facilities at Kandahar Airport, but also- more or less- operated the airport. It was the time, when Afghanistan was pursued and cajoled by both the super-powers, the US and the USSR. King Zahir Shah played a balancing act… allowing USSR to help northern parts… and the US to help southern areas. However, little did he realize that he was scripting a violent tug-o-war between the two… which would gobble his future and that of his country.

10 pm… I was fidgety at best… I started playing with the only computer in the room… stumbled upon a folder called music… opened it- the subfolders read- Arabic, Persian, Indian, Pashto and Tajik… I opened Arabic and then Indian and then Persian and then Pashto… nothing could actually entice me… with least of a hope; I opened the Tajik sub-folder… the files read… Maniza 1, Maniza 2, Maniza 3… I clicked open one of them… and saw a very beautiful Tajik girl… singing Tajik (again a variant of Persian) songs… with an equally beautiful voice… I was mesmerized… time started moving fast.

“Your flight has arrived, it would move in another half an hour”… the Ariana employee, who owned the work-station, entered the room and told me… it was time to leave. I sighed relief. Before closing the music video… I asked him… who she is… “Maniza Daulatabadi, a famous Tajik singer”… I mentally noted her name… she had a sweet voice.

While boarding my flight… I couldn’t help thinking about the prophetic words of my wife… smile, your adventure has already begun… she sure is my guardian angle… and my source of inspiration.

I smiled… this night has taught me so many things… when I was stuck in Kandahar Airport, and the threat of flight cancellation was looming large… I was worried… it was a bad option to call-back my driver to the airport so late… and staying in the airport among bearded, ill-trained, gun-wielding guards (who look more menacing than the Taliban) was also a bad option… however, gathering courage, I approached the Airport Security Officer… and explained my position to him… he was so happy to welcome me… and assured me that if, at all, the flight gets cancelled… he would open one of his rooms and arrange night stay for me… thereafter, his men came at regular intervals… re-assured me… offered me tea, biscuits, water… whatever they can…

The night taught me… that appearances are actually deceptive… everyone, despite his appearance, is similar… the human empathy is an overwhelming feeling.

I reached Kabul at 1 am… my friend has sent a car and a guard to receive me.

Reminiscence from Anatolia- Part One: The Last Day

It was the last day of my stay in Turkey… tonight, I had a flight from Istanbul to Kabul… and here I was in the Eastern-most border of Turkey, in Kars… I had a flight to catch to Istanbul in the afternoon time.

I woke up at around five in the morning… parted the curtains of my room and looked around… no snowfall and an overcast sky… this means that the day would remain overcast throughout… you keep learning these wisdoms along the road… a night of snowfall generally means a sunny day… and no snowfall and an overcast sky… offers you a gloomy day ahead…

The last few days had given me another horizon to grow. Man, it appears grows gradually, but the path of growth is not a smooth curve but a series of small inflexions, coming at regular intervals. For some… life is all about experiencing the same thing many times over… and for some… life is all about experiencing new things, intermittently… Fortunately, I had been following the second path.

I left my bed and put on my clothes… it was time for one last walk around the city… I also packed my backpack… as I was supposed to leave the room by 9 am…. And then I set out for a walk…

Kars is an impressive city… full of vintage buildings of Soviet era… when for a few decades it was under Soviet occupation… it is an interesting activity to just walk around aimlessly and see the distinct Soviet architectural nature of the city…

Kars was one of the frontier cities during the First World War… no wonder that all around the city you find a number of go-downs and underground cellar… which were used to take refuges during hostile bombings… Soviet, Turkish, Allied Forces… every type of bombings… Today, these cellars are used as storages… in the morning, when shop-owners are opening these cellars; you get an opportunity to look inside them. They are spacious, often having shelves- indicating that they were meant for long stays- and sometimes, more than one compartment- indicating that they could be used by a family, and sometimes, a few families… it transports you to the tragedy of the world wars…

I walked down to the streets… practicing the art of walking on snow… which was taught by a person, yesterday… on how you need to walk with your legs further apart than your normal posture of walking… this extra partition gives your body an extra dose of equilibrium… which in turns helps you in walking without slipping.

I went hungry, yesterday evening… so by 8 am, I felt a huge hunger pang… I went straight to the shop, where I had my lunch… yesterday… the owner had become a friend of mine… I had taken a number of photographs of him and his friends… laughed and chatted with him… he in Kurmanji Kurdish… and I speaking in Persian… by this time, I had started understanding the expressions… if not the language… it happens, when you travel… the language of love and empathy, it seems… is one.

I had yet another Tavuk Doner (chicken sandwich), and a glass of Ayran (salted yoghurt)… my staple food for last few days… while I was having it, my friend’s father entered the shop… he was pleased to see me… apparently, his son had told him about me… he was seeing a Hindistani (and not Hindustani) for the first time… he, as opposed to his son, knew Persian… therefore, I could engage in more meaningful conversation with him… he asked me a number of question about India… and about how they perceive it as a growing power, even in far flung Kars… for sure, Indian footprints are making significant forays…

It was about 9 am… I got back… vacated the room and placed my backpack and sleeping bag in the reception of the hotel… there were a few more errands to complete… before I took the 1130 Turkish Airlines shuttle to the airport.

I went to the nearby shop… whose owner had become a good friend of mine… yesterday… when I went to his shop to purchase a bottle of water… he didn’t know much about Hindistan… but had a good friend from Bangladesh, years ago… when he used to live in Marmaris. For him, I represented his friend… he hugged me, when he realized that I am leaving forever… urged me to have one last cup of Turkish tea with him…. And then while parting, he said something in Turkish… it didn’t take me a lot of effort to realize that he was telling me to come and see him… when I again come to Kars. As I said- Love and Empathy have a universal language.

While I was coming back from his shop, I actually had a teardrop in my eyes… love is the only thing that chains this pondering vagabond… family, friends… or these strangers in far flung lands.

The flight was uneventful… I sat next to a very pretty Turk girl… I was sitting on the aisle and she on the window side. I couldn’t strike a conversation with her, thinking she didn’t know English… when we reached Istanbul… it appeared that it was raining… I asked her casually- is it raining? She smiled and replied- Yes, it is … a golden opportunity lost.

Sitting in the airplane… waiting for the flight to Kabul (which to my amazement was before time… Ariana Airways is actually not that bad)... and while I was on my flight to Kabul (where I noticed that the one of the Afghan Airways Airhostesses was perhaps one of the most beautiful girls I had seen in last few days… Afghans are a very beautiful race, I must say)… I kept thinking about the last few days…

These last days were again… a step towards my further evolution. Every travel has given me a new horizon to grow… a new paradigm to think… whether in Konkan… on in Levant… or the Western Desert… or the rural Bengal… or the Sinai.

I was thinking about the days gone by… a journey… which started from a distant place called Kandahar… where people struggle to live, everyday… where I conjured up this saga… I knew it would again be the journey of the life time.

Record of Event during my Anatolia visit

Day One- Reaching Istanbul in the evening, exploring Istanbul and night stay therein.

Day Two- Istanbul sight-seeing, going Asia and coming back, taking a night bus to Selcuk.

Day Three- Reaching Selcuk, sight-seeing therein, night stay therein

Day Four- Morning bus to Pamukkale, sight-seeing in the afternoon, stuck therein in the night due to last day of Eid holidays.

Day Five- Morning Dolmus (mini-bus) to Denizli, Dolmus from Denizli to Sparta, Dolmus from Sparta to Egirdir, Bus from Egirdir to Konya, night stay in Konya.

Day Six- Sight seeing in Konya, afternoon bus to Goreme, watching Whirling Dervish show in Goreme, Night stay in Goreme.

Day Seven- Sight-seeing in Cappadocia- including Underground City, Ilhara Valley trek, Selimiye Monastery, Night Bus to Kahta.

Day Eight- Reaching Kahta, Taxi to Karadut, Afternoon hike to Nemrut Dagi, sight seeing in and near Karadut (Arsamea, Yeni Kale, Eski Kale, Roman Bridge over Euphrates), night stay in Karadut

Day Nine- Taxi to Ferry point on Euphrates, Taxi to Diyarbakir, sight seeing in Diyarbakir, Taxi to Yuvacali Village near Hilvan, night stay in Yuvacali Village

Day Ten- Taxi to Urfa, sight seeing in Urfa and nearby Harran, night stay in Urfa.

Day Eleven- Early morning bus to Mardin, sight seeing in Mardin and visit to the nearby Saffron Monastery, Bus to Hasankeyf, evening sight seeing in Hasankeyf, sleeping therein

Day Twelve- Morning sight seeing in Hasankeyf, Bus to Batman, Dolmus to Ziyaret, Bus to Van, reaching Van by evening, evening walk and night stay in Van

Day Thirteen- Early morning Dolmus to Dogubayezit, sight seeing in Dogubayezit, Dolmus to Igdir, Caught up in Kurd-Police riot, bus to Kars, night stay in Kars

Day Fourteen- Sight seeing in the Armenian ruins of Ani, sight seeing in Kars, night stay in Kars

Day Fifteen- Morning stroll in Kars, afternoon flight to Istanbul, Late night flight to Kabul.

On Religion and Spirituality

An absolutely wonderful blog written by one of my friend… Saurabh Dwivedy….

Quoting it because the friend that set him thinking was me :-)

Religion and Spirituality

Recently during a conversation with a friend, a matter of deep interest to me came up. I was mentioning to him about a site that offers an elaborate explanation of the Gayatri Mantra when an amazing brain wave struck his mind. He was reminded of a dialogue in the very famous movie Matrix where Neo is told that even though Agent Smith, the adversary of Neo, the hero, may be smarter and more powerful, yet Neo could defeat him because the former was bound by rules ... a kind of a program, while the latter was free from any such rules. This, my friend mentioned seemed similar to what he considers a major point of departure between Spirituality and Religion. He said Religion is a codified set of rules that help in realizing God where as Spirituality - though seemingly unfettered by rules and thus appearing more ad-hoc and esoteric - is a more powerful way of reaching God.

This discussion triggered a chain of thoughts in my mind. I do not consider myself a scholar or a subject matter expert on either subject - Spirituality or Religion. Yet, I felt compelled to give an expression to the countless thoughts that immediately took possession of me when this subject was broached. I personally find it a daunting task to understand these subjects even at a very elementary level. And the most fundamental reason is the seemingly infinite number of theories that have already been advanced by scholars and nincompoops alike.

So what is Religion and what is Spirituality and is one superior than the other in the quest of realizing God? Religion is like a school, which teaches us the basics of life and survival, equipping us with tools that will help us lead a life filled with happiness and purity. It has a codified set of rules that offer a way to see beyond the mundane of life and question its nature so that we may find its true essence. To that extent, Religion is like the Primary School where we must go to study, if we ever hope to make it to College and Beyond. However, somewhere down the line, Religion seems to have gotten polluted with vested interests to sustain not the legacy of God per se, but the legacy of those propounding it. This may sound extremely vain of me to make a point-blank remark like this. Yet, even though the religious leaders wanted to perpetuate and spread their own version of God (each one does it anyway just as I am doing right now) – anything, and I reiterate, anything that talks about God is better than everything else that does not. In the Bhagwad Geeta the Lord says that even if you take my name accidentally, you will still be benefited. Spirituality on the other hand is a more personal way of communicating with the Highest Being or God. Spirituality is more internal than external and can sometimes cause a situation similar to being exposed to a naked wire connected to a million volts circuit.

Religion has its merits in that it offers a structured approach to finding God. If one is astute enough to ignore the riff raff and concentrate on the essence - Religion is a surefire way to get to God. Spirituality however is not meant for everybody. It is a stage of development. I personally feel one becomes Religious first due to the effects of positive Karma whether in this life or in one of the previous ones. Spirituality becomes the nature of that man who has already advanced beyond the stage of religion. Religion is like that little 'Walker' that children who are too young to walk by themselves are given to learn walking from. Once they know how to walk however, there is no need for it. The child can walk all by himself. So, to get to the stage of spirituality one needs to be mentored. Religion is prescriptive - it tells you to do X, Y, Z to understand God. Spirituality is practice - one is constantly engaged in and tied to the object of devotion and does not feel the need for an external aid to get him in the zone as it were.

So as far as Spirituality and Religion are concerned, on account of their respective characteristics, they cannot logically be compared because they are not at the same level; they are more chronologically linked such that one precedes the other on the path leading to the Supreme Being – the ultimate Truth – the object of the seeker and the goal of both Spirituality and Religion.

This discussion however also brought me to think more deeply about the nature of God as described in the numerous Holy Books and also about my personal understanding derived from my study of these Books. One of the key things that strikes my mind is the apparent contradiction that evinces itself quite clearly when studying the nature and characteristics of God as described in these texts. In the Bhagwad Geeta, God has unequivocally stated that He is not interested in men's good or bad karma. And, even though He is the Creator, the Provider and the Sustainer of all that does and does not exist, He holds no passion towards His work. As is mentioned in the text - He is udaseen (disinterested) towards all that He manages and controls. He further says that every human being is bound by the seeds of his karma and is bound to suffer or to reap enjoyment in accordance with the nature of the seeds he himself has sown. In technical parlance, these dualities of Pleasure and Pain are an integral part of our coming and going on Earth, and form the basis for what is known as the Samsarik Chakra. Samsara has been discussed elaborately in the Bhagwad Geeta and elsewhere. It is one of the fundamental Truths which is rivaled only by the other fundamental Truth about the existence of Atma and its non-connection with the physical body it is 'seemingly' housed in. Armed with the battery of senses, this body is destined to experience the fruits of Good and Bad Karma and act according to its own nature. In that sense, controlled by the mind and the senses, we seem eternally doomed. Desires make us run from pillar to post keeping us constantly engaged in meeting our pursuits – good or bad not just in one cycle of birth and death, but in countless,...8.4 million to be precise, as the Vedas put it.

So is there a way out of this? God is benevolent enough to offer a prescription. This is where this whole thing becomes mysterious though. I fail to understand this very simple thing - God says he has no “Asakti (attachment)” in anyone and in anything. He is impartial and treats everyone at the same level. Yet, as some scholars have expounded, He seems to become partial (or at least slightly more partial) towards those human beings who fondly take His name with all due Shraddha and Bhakti. I find this odd. How can He change his stance all of a sudden? And then people ascribe numerous other esoteric qualities to God to help Him continue with His partiality. God clearly says that while everything exists in Him alone, He exists in nothing. This is understandable; just as our physical bodies have various divisions from Head to Toe, we ourselves are none of those - neither the Head nor the Toe or anything in between. God says that He has nothing to do with anyone's karma. In one shot, God has absolved Himself of the Good or the Bad of the entire cosmos. He seems to be entirely dispassionate, unconnected and unconcerned with what goes on in the very scheme of things He has created. What then may I ask is His role or what then is our incentive for reaching such a God, whether through Religion or through Spirituality?

As the Upanishads say - there is only one reality, nothing else. Everything else is a mere appearance. Now this comes in for a lot of criticism from the critics of Advaita Vedanta. But this seems to be the only logical justification, because every other picture or description of God seems self-contradictory. He is unattached, yet caring. He shows no interest in the affairs of the cosmos and yet is partial towards His Bhaktas (devotees). He does not propagate Right or Wrong because He is free from both. Indeed the scholars have even gone to the extent of saying that this contradiction too has been deliberately created by God so that only those who persist in finding Him with the utmost faith and sincerity alone can find Him. No wonder the texts instead of giving a holistic picture of God tend to confuse people and create a phantom out of God. There are very few sources of authentic information. And they too are in a language which no one understands in the modern times. So we have to rely on commentary – again created by Humans howsoever exalted they may be. Yet these commentaries and sub-texts are our only source of understanding the Vedas and the Upanishads. And finally one has to rely on one’s own commonsense and intellect to make sense from them.

The Upanishads mention that if freedom were something to be acquired - it would not be desirable for then either it would take an infinite effort to acquire it or it would be reached by some amount of effort and thus become like any other object that can be reached through time and effort. What we desire is primordial bliss, absolute and boundless Freedom and Happiness. It can't be anything but. In a nutshell, the nature of this kind of freedom would be infinite. And to reach infinity an infinite amount of effort would be required – something which none of us mortals is capable of exerting. That being the case, Freedom or Moksha would become unattainable. And yet we do get a glimpse of that freedom even if fleetingly in deep sleep, when we leave behind all worries and troubles and sleep as though we have cast our body away. That freedom, which we obtain routinely in deep sleep, cannot therefore be unreachable. That then means that we must already have it. This is the knowledge we need to ascertain. This is the God we need to find. Yes people may call it preposterous accustomed as they are to a God with name and form; indeed people may call it a denial of the existence of God as understood by humanity. This is where the learning comes. I cannot force anyone to follow what I am saying. All this is a matter of direct experience. Efforts are directed to achieve things ... what we don't understand is that there are two kinds of achievements - achievement of that which is “not already achieved” - which is how achievement is understood generally, and the achievement of that “which is already achieved”. Now what is this second kind of effort? If something is already achieved why would one waste his time to achieve it at all? Yet this seemingly incongruous quest is what we are all engaged in when trying to achieve freedom, true happiness, moksha or God. To give an example, you may have forgotten that you are wearing your watch and in that mistaken notion you may go from one corner of the house to the other finding the 'misplaced' watch only to be reminded by your mother that you are already wearing it. Now the 'finding of the watch' is akin to an “achievement of the already achieved”. Till such time as the knowledge was not yours, you were struggling to “find” the watch. Similar is the state of all of us. We don't know that what we are looking for is verily what we are. We just need to get rid of the cobweb of Agyaan. That's all. This seemingly simple principle is I daresay at the very core of this entire drama that we see around us. This has spawned countless generation of universes and countless lives and countless sages and countless scriptures and cults ... not to mention Spirituality and Religion. It is impossible however to get to this direct fact but by winding through the maze of all that this universe has to offer. To get to this stage one has to take “Ishwara's Sharan – take refuge in His might”. Yes, I had said earlier that He is impartial. I still hold by it. Yet to the seeker He does show the way ... not because He has any special incentive for doing so but because that's the way His rules are set. He just lets the Srishti run itself by the rules He has laid down. Everything works with clockwork precision.

The foregoing discussion is now ready to snowball into a full-fledged enquiry into the nature of Existence and of God. I have shown the inherent contradictions and yet shown that these contradictions have a basis. God has set rules by which He adheres. No matter what happens, His rules are uncircumventable. The special interest He seems to evince in creatures who come to Him is not because He fancies them - but because NO CREATURE will be inspired to take refuge in Him unless he has learnt the folly of pursuing materialistic desires and in that way has cleared himself of the cobwebs of Maya.

But this would have to be a separate discussion which I intend to take some other time. For now suffice it to say that the God we so earnestly desire to find is not to be found outside of ourselves. He resides in us. Indeed there is nothing save Him. But this knowledge does not happen accidentally or by fluke. It's a culmination of years of Sadhana(contemplating on God). One needs all the tools prescribed in the texts - and to that extent confusing as they may be - one has to wade through the rigmarole and the contradictions to get to the essence. One must not get confounded. Using the same battery of senses which are normally outwardly aligned one has to turn the attention inwards and use them to cross the bridge of Samsara. Yes, the same very senses that are the cause for pain will catapult us to the path of supreme bliss. Just as the knife can be used to kill someone, it is also used by the surgeon to give life to a suffering patient. The knife in and of of itself has no intent or desire. The use to which it is put depends solely on the entity operating it. So it is with our senses. So it is with everything else. So it is with God. Blame Him or love Him - He remains unmoved and unfettered.

Hari Om!

From the Archives: My 200th Post

I wrote this blog about two and a half year ago... it is about what I learnt from my son...

Learning from my soon to be two year old son…

Few months ago, my wife brought a puzzle for my son. It consisted of a board with 26 alphabetical shaped grooves and 26 wooden blocks, again of the same shape and size. The idea was to identify similar structures and fix them at the right places.

Initially they were merely a plaything for my son, Vidhu… to be thrown around… but soon, upon seeing my wife fixing them up… he understood the method behind the madness. And started trying the same.

However in the very beginning, he was just trying to fix things up without any consideration of shape or size… a Z for an A and N for a C. But with time he understood the concept of shape, if not size… he started seeing the difference between say A and B… though still, he was having a lot of problems with the somewhat similar structures… and sizes…

So he would confuse between A and V, then B and P, then C and G, O and Q, M and W, N and Z, E and F, L and T and so on… nevertheless, he would try and test for the fixability of the blocks and was sometimes successful in putting forth upto 10 blocks in the right places.

Later, he realized his follies… thereafter he could differentiate between shapes at a finer level….so most of his confusions were gone… his differentiation, it seems, were based on add-on to a particular shape and also the sizes… so very soon he realized as to what add-on a Q comes with, when compared to O… he also realized that N and Z are not similar because one is shaped longitudinally and other is shaped horizontally. So he learnt about the importance of sizes, too.

There remained, however, one problem. Even though, he was able to find the right place for every wooden block… but when it came to actual fixing of the block in the groove… he used to struggle. Say, he was trying to fix A in its groove the same way as V… that is upside down… he was not able to understand orientation of a particular letter. And either I or my wife had to help him with that. And clap for him, when he used to do it successfully.

Yesterday…something magical happened… (It was in logical continuation of the way he was learning… but understand my feeling). Suddenly, he picked up a few blocks brought them closer to the groove and then thought for a while and then at one go… rotated them either clockwise or counter clockwise to arrive at a near perfect orientation. He understood the importance of orientation too. And yesterday, he was able to fix all 26 alphabets at their respective places…. He smiled after doing that and clapped for himself. Then he did it twice, all over again.

There are a few patterns, by which he does them all. And I should imbibe them in me for success.

1. Learning from the past- He has this knack of not forgetting or not to unlearn, what he has already learnt. So once if he recognizes the difference between A and V… then very rarely he will commit the same mistake again. Don’t Unlearn the Past

2. Concentration- When he is playing with this game… no amount of disorientation can shake him. He forgets food, his favourite cartoon shows…everything… it is just him and the game. Concentrate on the problem at hand

3. Thinking before doing- He doesn’t jump on to conclusion… he chooses the block before embarking on the journey for its logical end… even after choosing the block, he takes a hard look at all the grooves before deciding its destination… and then while fixing it up, if he encounters any problem… he steps back and thinks again. Think before you act and when mistaken do the course correction

4. Slowly but Surely- I have seen him… that he solves the puzzle very slowly… but surely. There is no rushing… and absolutely no haste… he takes all the time in the world… He understands that time is not the essence, solution is… Quite often we rush things up and compromise on quality…. And set false deadlines for ourselves, when there aren’t any. In any case, there is no deadline for a shoddy work. Slow but steady wins the race

5. Patience- Vidhu demonstrates immense patience, when solving this puzzle… he often resembles a Yogi…doing his meditation… if he goes wrong somewhere… he never cribs…he just puts down the erring block and starts with another block… and after he is finished with the new block he comes back to the older block. Sometimes he errs with 4-5 blocks in continuation, and yet he never loses patience or hope. Patience is a virtue and so is hope

Kids are a reflection of God…they are born with a lot of Godly qualities… before being corrupted by us humans… so very often their ways are the purest and the simplest ways of doing things… I was told by the Yoga Teacher at the Indian Culture centre that the kids adopt the best posture to sit… with absolutely straight back and later they just imitate their parents and slouch…

Then take a simple case of chewing food… I see that Vidhu always chew his food well before swallowing it… he has a natural liking for the food that is healthy and dislikes what is not… he loves fruits and hate French fries…. He eats egg white and leaves egg yellow behind. Often the parents force the kids to develop a liking for a particular unhealthy food… than the other way round.

Parent hood is not a responsibility, but an opportunity given to us by God to remember… how simple is life… and what are the purest and most correct way of leading it… In a way, every kid is son of God… his messenger…

Regarding the lessons… I foresee my wife yelling… I used to always tell you.

Village Home Stay in Turkey!!!

I plan to stay at a village home in Kurdish region of Turkey… this place…. Some details about the place I am planning to stay at.

YUVACALI KÖYÜ

Situation and Geography

Yuvacali (pronounced Yoovajala) is situated right in the middle of what was Mesopotamia, with the Tigris to the North-East and the Euphrates to the South-West. This village of a couple of hundred inhabitants lies about four miles from the nearest town (Hilvan), and is situated just off the main North-South Diyarbakir-Urfa highway.

History

The village, which was known by its Kurdish name of Hilun until the 1970s, has been settled since the dawn of civilization. Evidence for this settlement has been found in the mound which towers over the present village. Whilst the mound has not been excavated it is reasonably assumed to be the site of the original settlement, being close to what was once an abundant water supply. Heavy rains bring archeological finds to the surface, and these have included Sumerian cuneiform tablets (the first examples of writing anywhere in the world, approx 3,000 BC). Since these cuneiform tablets have come to light only half way down the present mound it can be safely assumed that the lower layers of the mound are a good deal older. Indeed archaeological excavations in neighboring villages have indeed uncovered remains from 8,000BC. It seems safe to say, judging from the height of the mound and the position of the Sumerian finds that the settlement at Yuvacali is among the oldest in the area.

Its more recent history consists of settlement by Armenians and Kurds. The remains of an Armenian village can be seen when facing east from the top of the mound.

Yuvacali today

Today the population in Yuvacali is overwhelmingly Kurdish in ethnic origin and the lingua franca that you will hear is Kurdish and not Turkish.
The once abundant water supplies at the base of the mound dried up with the building of the Ataturk Dam on the Euphrates and the implementation of the GAP project. The village now suffers from severe water shortages, with water being brought from a depth of approximately 100m below the surface for irrigation, while household water is piped into the area. As for electricity, it came to Yuvacali in 1982, but power cuts are still frequent.

There is a primary school in the village which takes children from the age of 7, their secondary education being completed in the town of Hilvan. The pre-school unit, taking children from the age of 5, is currently closed due to the lack of teaching staff. Having said that, while literacy in the village runs at around 50%, school attendance is almost universal, and the literacy rate among children is relatively high.

Most people in Yuvacali work in agriculture and are self-sufficient in many foodstuffs. Some younger people work away and send remittances back to the village. However, the average income is still less than the ubiquitous ‘a dollar a day’, putting these people well below the poverty line.

The family with whom, I might stay…. Some detail about them…

HOME STAY IN YUVACALI

The House

Because of the extreme climate in the area, traditional dwellings were built of mud, providing heat in winter and yet keeping the house cool in the baking summer. Unfortunately, concrete arrived in Yuvacali 25 years ago, and while there are still many examples of traditional building in the village, the vast majority of dwellings are now constructed in concrete.

Alas, your home stay property is of the modern type. However, the original building was mud-constructed and the owners of the house did not destroy the older buildings when they modernized to concrete. Instead, one wing of the property is traditionally built (it is now used for the animals and for storage), and one wing of the house is modern.

As with all dwellings in the area, regardless of the size of the family, it consists of two rooms. One room is for daily family use (you will see school books, the families personal belongings, and piles of bedding in this room), and one room is for guests (here you will see an empty room, furnished only with a display cabinet which shows souvenirs, presents received, the household porcelain, and photographs).

The Family

The husband and wife are Halil and Pero, and they have three children: Faruk (17), Fatih (16), and Aylin (9). Although neither the mother nor the father received any education, they are keen that their children go to school, and in order to facilitate this, the oldest boy works away from home during the school holidays, providing his family with valuable extra income.

Their main income comes from farming, and they keep 7 cows, and 12 sheep, as well as 20 chickens and 3 turkeys. You are welcome to join in milking time (a ladies-only job in this part of the world).

The Food

Most of what you will be offered to eat will be home-grown and/or home-made. From the isot that flavors the food, to the vegetables from the kitchen garden, and from the bread in the morning to the cheese that goes with it, all of it is home-made. Even the bulgur rice peppered with pasta is painstakingly done by hand.

Amenities

There is no shop in the village. Should you wish to buy bottled water (large bottles 1TL) or cola (cans 1.5TL), please ask Pero. Nescafe is available at 1TL per cup. An ‘honesty bar’ policy is in operation, just ask for what you want, keep a note of it yourself, and hand the money over before you leave.

If you would like your clothes laundering, the use of the washing machine including washing powder and fabric conditioner is available at the cost of 5TL per load. Just sort out a load, and hand it to Pero, your wash will be returned to you dry in the morning before you leave.

Looks like a wonderful opportunity….

A ray of Hope

If I had to recount one person’s name… just one person’s name… whose association makes me feel proud… it has to be Rangina Hamidi.

When I was coming to Kandahar… somebody told me… that you are going to a place, which is absolutely moribund… there are no horizons to grow… just a wasteland… just a human tragedy and its pathos awaiting you. He was wrong.

It is strange but true that in this “moribund” society, I met amazing people… so amazing that I felt small… amazing, like that person, who writes with his leg… after his arms were amputated due to an IED explosion. Amazing, like those many people, who brave IEDs and bullets… with so much of resilience… that you feel nauseated about your inability and impotency.

Rangina was born… perhaps in late 1970s… so her story is, more or less, the story of Afghan turmoil… her life, therefore, has been intricately linked with the ups and downs, and mostly downs, of this tumultuous land… others would have just buckled… or would have just turned away, pretending to be blind or worse, admitting to be callous… but not Afghans… they are some different breed… exemplified in Rangina.

Soon after the soviet invasion and jihad, Rangina migrated to Pakistan … she has only fleeting memories of her childhood… being a refugee was not an easy task… Afghans were mistreated, condescended and humiliated in Pakistan… but that’s the only refuge they had… as Rangina says… those who became refugees were actually lucky… those who couldn’t… had an even worse fate awaiting them.

I actually sometimes wonder… what my life would have been like… if I had been in her place… if I was born in Afghanistan in 1975… and when I wonder… then I also feel extremely grateful to God that I wasn’t… and feel responsible that I need to pay back to the world… for being fortunate enough to have not taken birth in this human wasteland.

After few years of refuge, Rangina migrated to the US. His father, an accountant by profession, re-erected his and his family’s life from nothing… in the land of opportunities. US opened gate to opportunities… Rangina studied in the US… till something poignant happened… the defeat of Taliban… and beginning of a new dawn in Afghanistan. She returned to her motherland.

The defeat of Taliban generated a new hope that… perhaps… this country, which has been dying everyday, under the scepter of a never-ending war… can be resuscitated. It brought hopes to the heart of people like Rangina… who wanted to come back and help those millions, who weren’t as lucky as her… to be refugees. Rangina came back to this wasteland… back to the most heart-wrenching wasteland of all… Kandahar… her birth-place… where life hadn’t moved, since perhaps… 15th century… where women are born to live a life of slavery…

Rangina started “Kandahar Treasure”, a small organization of self-employed women… who gathered together… away from the claustrophobia of their male-dominated homes… and expressed their small wishes and aspirations… in beautiful embroideries.

As Rangina often puts it… Kandahar Treasure was not only… a place to work… a place to earn livelihood… but also to socialize… to share their fears and joys… to share their wishes and exasperation… to lend a voice to their unheard voices… that seem to die within themselves… that seem to corrode their existence from within… in this society… where male-domination, on one hand… and the bullets, on the other… have surrogated their life to a life worse than death.

I met Rangina, almost accidentally, when she was planning to go to India… I had heard her name, almost everyday, ever since, I had stepped in this wasteland. And whenever I heard her name, I wanted to meet her… out of reverence… I have grown up seeing strong women… my mother… who sustained her family, after her father died at an early age… my wife, who single-handedly pulled her family out of the morass… I saw the same strength in Rangina… all the more… she has taken the onus of giving a helping hand to the women of this moribund society.

Rangina is helped by her very understanding and supportive husband… who defies the stereotypes of males in this part of world… together they are doing an onerous task of changing the social structures… and mind you, that and only that holds the key to change the fate of this place… as Rangina puts it, often, future of this country lies in the hands of Afghan women… and the process of transition would gradually… happen.

Kandahar Treasure sells its produces in North America… today… it’s a self sustaining organization… it is a dream come true… a hope fulfilled… it opens a window of opportunity to hundreds of women employed within, and dreaming without… that they can perhaps… mould their society for a better tomorrow… where their sons and daughters… would read and write… would live as free people… and not fall prey to misplaced values… of intolerance… of “nang and namoos” (shame and pride)… of “badal” (revenge)… an eye for an eye, makes everybody blind.

Some months ago… I met a young Afghan girl… Lina… she wanted to go and study in India… she spoke with a vivacity… and vitality, which I am yet to see in any male in this place… people like her, like Rangina… hold the key to future… Rangina is expecting to deliver a baby, soon… I pray to God… it is a girl-child… and that she helps her mother… in the onerous task, she had undertaken…

Amen!

An officer and a Lady

Yesterday… I had a wonderful official dinner at Governor’s house… it was a great opportunity to meet diplomats, NATO and UN officials, tribal elders, senior government officials.

Governor’s House is housed in the erstwhile palace of Ahmed Shah Abdali… who fought and defeated the mighty Marathas in the third battle of Panipat. He is known as Ahmed Shah Durrani… among the locals… his descendants- called Durrani Pashtuns have been the traditional ruling community in Afghanistan… King Zahir Shah, for instance, was a Mohammedzai… a Durrani sub-tribe… and the present president H.E. President Hamid Karzai is a Popalzai… again a Durrani subtribe.

The Palace is a delight to watch… if properly portrayed... can be in the same league as that of many wonderful palaces in India… the carvings and architecture is astoundingly beautiful… it is said that Ahmed Shah Abdali built this palace to showcase his status… of a ruler, who ruled vast tracts from Iran to India… he ensured that his palace is second to none…

Just across the street is the famed mosque of Kandahar… the cellar of which has the Prophet’s cloak. The cloak was seen, last, when Mullah Omar wore it and proclaimed himself as leader of all believers…. It is disturbing that his act generated veneration, and not disgust. Mullah Omar, was in fact, doing something blasphemous… comparing himself with the Prophet… and deriving political mileage and power… from the unparalleled position of the Prophet (Peace be upon Him).

During the dinner, I met two very interesting people…

In Kandahar Province, the NATO (or ISAF) offensive is led by Canada… I have often ridiculed the “defensive” nature of NATO-offensive in Afghanistan… the NATO is scared to take body-blows… often travels around in strange looking armored vehicles… one that I have never seen and would never see, elsewhere. They don’t ever set their feet on the ground, and therefore, are far removed from any successful counter insurgency strategy.

Canadian forces head for the province is (or was) Fred Vance… I have heard his name, quite often, since I landed in Kandahar… but never met him… I met him, for the first time, yesterday… after his farewell party…. Normally, I would have just bid him farewell… with terse sounding “All the Best”… but yesterday, I was moved after hearing his farewell note…

He said that he was very sad leaving the place, where he has seen the best of humanity and the worst of humanity… and that after serving this place… he finds tremendous courage within himself… to remember the best and forget the worst aspects of humanity… he then added that he wants to come back to this place, without a uniform, one day… and prays God that such a day comes soon….

He echoed what I have been feeling so intensely… I have also seen best and worst of humanity in this place… the human disaster and the human resilience… which has given me immense courage to admit, where did I fail as a human… a few days ago… when I went to India… I sat down with my father… and said sorry to him… for mistakes, that I did knowingly or unknowingly… I knew that may be I wouldn’t have a second chance… Life is too short… it gave me a surreal sense of relief to see him smiling and satisfied… that after all; I have been a good son.

I, like Fred Vance, wish to return to this land and backpack this entire region without an escort. I shook hand with him… and told him how I felt the same thing… he smiled… and I could sense that despite a deluge of people coming to him to congratulate … he would remember my face and my words… like I would, his face and his words.

Rouieda El-Hage, a wonderfully affable person, works with UN Human Rights wing… and has been recently posted in Kandahar, after a stint in Kabul… She is a Lebanese… with a long career with Office of Commissioner of High Commission of Refugees, Geneva. She has worked among other places… in Egypt… among the Copts… I wondered if she was an Orthodox Christian, herself… and foolishly asked if she was a Copt or a Maronite… she smiled… “No I am a Muslim”.

She has worked among the conservative Pashtoon society… often taking dangerous road trips to Taliban ridden provinces near Kabul… trying to educate women about their rights… within the Sharia, the Islamic jurisprudence. She reminisced how the Pashtoon women were astounded to know about their rights within Islam… they said- nobody told us that we had so many rights within Islam…

She was very happy to have come over to this place… she said that her Muslim background helps her a lot in connecting with people… women turn up to discuss their most personal problems… men turn up saying you are one of us… our sister… she remembered… how once she called her brother up… and told him that I came to Afghanistan… away from my family… and now have found hundreds of brothers… and then smiled genuinely. It was a delight to hear about her experiences… and wondered if Muslim world can play a more productive role in this country… it made me reflect at the nature of UN… which is dominated by a particular race… where even a powerful country like China is treated with a bargepole… and where no Muslim country has enough power… where India… the largest democracy is an untouchable.

I accidentally happened to occupy the dinner seat beside her… and to my delight found her to be an Arab, and Arabic speaker… tried speaking Arabic with her… was pleased to know… that I am not a spent force viz. speaking Arabic… just that I have to think a bit before speaking… so another stint in Arab world and I would be comfortable again…

We, somehow, instantly became friends… and promised to keep in touch and catch up for a lunch either at my place… or within the UN Guest House…

Like, I always say, I am serendipity’s favourite child… I keep on stumbling wonderful human beings… add two more to the list… may their tribe grow… they enrich me… they make me a better human being…

Traversing Molvania with a Travel Guide!!!

Google Molvania… and you would be transported to a fictional land… perhaps, made after mixing up the names of Moldova and Slovenia…

Molvania is a fictional country, which lies somewhere in Eastern Europe and entails everything that could be wrong with a country… has hotels that are “appalling and not appealing”… has a language that can be learnt only after putting in 16 years… lacks… sanitation, hygiene and public utilities… and yes good dentists…

And around this fictional country… somebody weaved a travel guide… on the lines of a Lonely Planet… Rough Guide etc. This travel guide is a delight to read… unapologetically funny and unrelentingly sarcastic… on the culture of travel with travel guide books… traveling with stereotypes…

After reading about Molvania… I started wondering about my trysts with the guide books… and at the outset, I would confess that travel guide books haven’t been all that a hurdle for me…

I have, till date, purchased 5 Guide books… Rough Guide and Bhraman-Sangi on India… and Lonely Planet on Egypt, Europe (on a shoestring) and Africa (again on a shoestring)… let me discuss them one by one.

Rough Guide… on India… is contrary to what the Molvanian spoof would like to believe us… it is good in parts… but as I always say… India is too big and too varied to be captured in one book… Rough Guide suffers from the same handicap… however for a beginner; it’s a nice place to begin. The fact that I purchased it with my very first salary… in Mussoorie… would always make it special for me.

I was introduced to Bhraman-Sangi by a Bengali gentleman in a Bookshop near New Market in Kolkata. I was there to purchase heart-full of books… I purchased the Feluda Omnibus, Jibonanda Das’ poetry book (which I sadly misplaced at Kolkata Airport, while taking a flight to Agartala)… and then turned towards the travel book section… and was flipping through Lonely Planet on India… when this Bengali gentleman… having a height of 5 feet 2 inches… black complexioned… salt and pepper hairs… intruded.

“If you want to buy any travel guide on India… it has to be Bhraman-Sangi… nothing comes close… and look at the price only 300 rupees, quarter of what you would pay for a Lonely Planet”… I gave into his logic and confidence… and purchased it.

Bhraman-Sangi is a treasure trove... lots and lots of information… for example… Amarkantak in Chattisgarh (or is it still Madhya Pradesh) has a passing reference in Rough Guide… but in Bhraman-Sangi… you can have almost 4-5 pages of information on it.

However, Bhraman-Sangi has a very “Bengali-centric” worldview… it’s amazingly rich on places frequented by Bengalis… for example… Puri is dealt in some 30-40 pages… other places, though adequately referred, pale in comparison. This is a seriously anomaly… after a while… you start wondering why should Bishnupur be covered in more details than say, Hampi. Nevertheless… Bhraman-Sangi is a great value for money… notwithstanding the fact that I could never connect with the book and couldn’t ever consider it a Bhraman-Sangi (a travel companion)

The question arises… how much I have used the two guide-books… and the answer is… very little. Most of my meaningful travels… in Maharashtra, Himachal Pradesh, Gujarat, West Bengal, Tripura, Uttar Pradesh and Uttaranchal… happened sans these guidebooks. And I believe that had I followed these guidebooks… my travels wouldn’t have been half as interesting. But yes, compared one to another, I have used more of Rough Guide than Bhraman-Sangi… because of ease of use… open-endedness… and secularity.

Along the line… I discovered a great website called indiamike.... The site is an absolute delight… it has thousand and thousand of travelers, who have traveled far and wide in India… experienced varied and vivid experiences… and are willing to advice you… indiamike changed the way I perceived traveling… I was introduced to this site in 2006, and though since then haven’t traveled much in India (because, more or less, since then, I have been outside India)… but am sure, as and when, I would enact one of the many dream odysseys of mine… I know, I won’t even bother to look at Lonely Planets, Rough Guides, and Bhraman-Sangis… I know that I would need to just float a thread and then would be inundated with tried and tested advices… from fellow travelers who wander across the length and breadth of India… searching for new and newer experiences.

Lonely Planet Egypt… was helpful in the sense that it assisted me in taking the first few steps in Egypt… it was quite helpful in deciding the spots I wanted to visit… but stopped at that… it couldn’t tell me the extent and extant of the magic of wandering along the beach of El-Arish… the most cherished memory from Egypt… it could not tell me how magical it was to ride a rickety taxi… in which a cassette of Umm Kulthoum was being played… I just had to close my eyes and recline on the seat and suddenly I was transported to a world of pathos, love, nostalgia… and my own past. Nonetheless, Lonely Planet helped me in deciding the routes of travels… and I would always owe this to it.

The two other Lonely Planets, on Africa and Europe, however, were magical… they introduced me to the world… flipping through its pages, I realized how beautiful, and varied is my world… and it’s all mine… the world’s longest train in Mauritania… the Canoe in Lake Tana, the beaches of Zanzibar... the dunes of Namibia… the Blue Mosque in Istanbul… the beauty of Barcelona… the waters of Venice… everything was mine… to claim… and I knew, thereon, that I may or may not claim it… but the fact that it is mine… would always bring a smile to my face…

Guide Books… suffer from the stereotypes… are often shallow… but then… they are good starting point… but they are losing out, now… so they should, only and only, serve as a starting point… and then the real traveler should take over…

Wikitravel is making them redundant… Lonely Planet’s Thorntree forum is making them futile… and they would have to, sooner or later, re-invent… guidebooks need to be replaced by travelogues… real, extrapolated and fictional… to remain relevant…

Till then Molvania… would keep us smiling.

Further away from my comfort zone...

Turkey… incidentally… is further away from my comfort zones…

Two and a half years ago, when I visited Syria, Jordan, Israel and Palestine… I knew Arabic… I never felt out of the place… I never had any problems in communicating… but Turkey is altogether a different ball game.

I asked somebody… if Arabic or Persian… two languages that I am decently conversant with… would be of any help in Turkey…

Arabic is bit helpful… a few Arabic words have found place in Turkish… but, by and large, it has a very little utility. All I can expect from Arabic is some wee bit of help in Turkey-Syria border… in places like Sanliurfa… which I plan to visit.

Persian is even less helpful… a wee bit helpful in places like Van and Dogu… which are close to Iran… though the lingua franca in these regions is Kurdish and not Persian. Somebody quipped that the most renowned saint in entire Turkey is Maulana Rumi… whose verses were in Persian… apparently, even today, Turks sing the Persian verses of Rumi, without even understanding even a bit of it. Largely, Persian is hardly understood in Turkey.

So the point being that I am going further away from my comfort zone… for the first time… to a place… whose language I don’t know… it reminds me my first few months in Egypt… or those few days in Cyprus… when I felt lost… unable to communicate… it was the first time, when I realized the power of language… of written and spoken words… of heard words.

Turkey is away from my comfort zones is more than this sense… it is actually the first place in the world I am traveling to, where it makes sense to carry Euros and not dollars… having traveled… largely in the Middle East… my traveling world was always to the dollar economy… it was easy… whenever transacting I needed to multiply the dollars spent by 50 and arrive at the Indian Rupees incurred.

Now, I have to consider new unit Euro… I have to start multiplying the Euros incurred by say, 75… I guess its no mean feeling … your world changes with the currency you are handling…

For example… when I traveled Jordan and Israel, one after another… I incurred roughly same expense in both Jordan and Jerusalem… but the very fact that I could exchange only 0.8 Jordanian Dinar for a dollar in Jordan and could exchange 4.5 New Israeli Shekels for a dollar in Jerusalem… made me feel as if I am getting better deals in Jerusalem... as if it’s a much cheaper place. (Incidentally, those 11-12 days, I used to carry 5 different currencies in my pocket… Syrian, Jordanian, Israeli, Egyptian and American…)

Another element of comfort zone is that of distance… in Syria, Jordan and Israel… I was never more than a couple of hours away from Egypt… where I belonged to… there were more than couple of flights everyday to Cairo and Alexandria… if I needed to get back…

Essentially... Syria, Jordan and Israel were small countries… getting to an Indian establishment… Indian missions in Damascus, Amman and Ramallah, and Indian Hospice in Jerusalem (Indian Waqf Board operates an Indian Hospice in Old Jerusalem City, and an Indian can actually stay here for free)… was a matter of hours.

However in Turkey, I could be at least a day away from say Indian missions in Istanbul and Ankara… Not only that… back then I knew at least somebody in all the Indian missions… Amman, Damascus, Ramallah and Tel Aviv… here in Turkey I know nobody… add to this the fact that there are only two weekly flights to Afghanistan from Turkey.

Thus… Turkey becomes further away from my comfort zone.

That it is, does not worry me… it’s an experiment… it prepares me… mentally attunes me to claim the world… one day, I want to travel from Cairo to Cape Town… traverse the Silk Road… map the South East Asia… travel from Kashmir to Kanyakumari… I need to convince myself that I can do that… that I am not an artificial wanderer, who travels to prove himself as different… that I am not a reluctant traveler, who first decides the extent and extant of his comfort zone before planning his itinerary…

I want to tell my sons… that my straying into the West Bank… or near Rafah Crossing… or travels in Sinai on a Camel back… or sleeping deep inside the White Desert… were no flukes… they actually defined me… I want to tell them that I am real…

This time… when I would brave the snow in Mount Nemrut to see the mysterious statues… when I would try to negotiate my way through Turkey, speaking through sign language… when I would try to find a foothold in Konya amidst the Whirling Dervish festival… when I would be whirl-winding the expanse of Turkey beyond human possibilities… I would be further defining myself… more exhaustively and yet more succinctly.

It is amazing that by mere thinking of traveling… I have been able to think so much more, research much more… blog so much more… though I am still not sure whether I would be finally traveling or not… but the very fact that I am able to generate so much passion inside me… so much energy within me… just by dreaming to travel… tells me that I should never stop dreaming… and traveling…

Perhaps, I have started traveling within myself… and the physical act of traveling merely assists the more meaningful act of traveling within me… something, a learned person from Pune told me, which was much more intensive and real.

That I am able to confess my fears, my passions, my likes and dislike… to myself… via this blog… makes me feel blessed… that I ever discovered my passion for being a PONDERING VAGABOND.

The Walls within

Twenty years ago… a wall broke down… promising to bring humanity closer… promising to break down artificial barriers that had divided humanity for many decades, or perhaps centuries… promising to usher the world into unprecedented peace and brotherhood.

Twenty year… down the line… the promise remains unfulfilled… the world has further slipped into insanity… into mutual suspicion and hatred… the optimism had paled and pessimism reigns large.

Berlin wall… though important… was entirely symbolic… a higher and stronger wall still remains… within our hearts… within every heart… which doesn’t allow us to place unqualified trust, submission on to other fellow humans… we still find solace in being a race, a nation, a clan, a creed, a caste and a religion… and not in being a Human Being.

Twenty years ago… I had a number of walls in my heart… this blog is the story of how these walls cracked and withered away… how it brought me closer to those, whom I thought, were my enemy (or at least adversary)… how it brought me closer to myself… how it made me cherish and relish the fact that I am a human being… to whom God has bestowed the blessing of not being provincial… but, who, still behaves provincially… as he were no better than a pack of wolf…

My formative years… saw two most tumultuous incident of Indian modern history… the Mandal Commission agitation… in which the so called “Upper Caste Hindus” agitated against affirmative action is favour of the so called “Backward Caste Hindus”… and Ram Mandir agitation… in which right-leaning Hindus agitated in favour of constructing a temple in Ayodhya… in place of a defunct Mosque, which was constructed in medieval ages after demolishing a temple.

These two incidents… had big impact on me… as an Upper Caste Hindu… I was fashioned to believe that my identity was endangered… and the only way to preserve myself was to ghettoize and construct wall that separates me from my adversaries… namely the Backward Caste Hindus and Muslims… respectively… no one told me… not even my parents… that such walls often use the raw materials of hatred, suspicion and selfishness… to be constructed.

The walls kept growing bigger and stronger… during my Engineering College days… where caste used to play a huge role in deciding the election of General Secretary of the hostels… and the institute… these walls were very deceptive… they never appeared during personal interactions with a person from the adversarial group… they appeared only when the group identity took over… it made us think… that perhaps we are all right… as an individual and as a group…

That I was in Kanpur… a communally sensitive city in the heart of communally charged Northern Indian plains… had another effect. Every time my cycle-rickshaw left Kanpur Central station… winding through the roads of Muslim-dominated areas… famous for their riots that broke out for petty reasons- like a Hindu eve-teased a Muslim girl or a policeman thrashed a Muslim boy… I felt a strange feeling in my gut… what if I am caught in one of these riots… would I turn into a mangled piece of flesh… Can I call this Muslim dominated part of Kanpur my own country… why do THEY celebrate when Pakistan wins in a cricket match…? This wall was even more deceptive… it made me feel like a patriot, a proud Indian… it not only made me think that I am right… but also that only I am right. This wall grew with every bomb-blast… that ripped the body of my motherland…

Life it seems has its own way to even itself out… traveling was never a passion with me… it was just a way to spend long weekends… or meet some distant friend… or see some monuments… that common logic says… should be seen in one’s lifetime. However, later in my lonely hours of Jamnagar, I started traveling for refuge… the very first time when I ventured out alone… without a plan, out of my comfort zone…

These lonely travels took me to different places… to Somnath… where I discovered God… the discovery that changed me from an uncaring atheist to the believer… to Alang, where I discovered myself… and to Nagpur… where I discovered that I may be a born Hindu… but was a blessing of Sufi saint Tajuddin Baba… when on the night of 7th October 1975, a Sufi appeared before my father… in a small railway station called Bindaki Road in Fatehpur… where my father was eagerly awaiting for a much-delayed passenger train to Allahabad… where my mother was undergoing labour pains… the Sufi said, all by himself without a prompt… the spirit of Tajuddin Baba has told me that you have been blessed with a son… tell him to visit Tajuddin Baba’s Mazar.

I never looked back; thereafter… my travels broke down, slowly but surely, the walls within me…

I still remember the face of Rohidas Gaekwad… whom I met during the aimless wanderings in Konkan… in a place called Jaitapur… who gave me new ways to think… new horizons to explore… who transformed me as a person, forever… he was a Dalit… the most backward caste of Indian society… and yet he would always be etched in my heart for being my Guru. Today… I am no longer an Upper Caste Hindu… I am just a human being… I discovered the Rohidas (or Raidas, a learned Hindu saint from Dalit caste) during traveling… he helped me in demolishing a huge wall inside my heart.

My wanderings took me to Egypt, Syria and Jordan… where I met amazing people… where I started shedding doubts about Islam… about Muslims… where I learnt that I was wrong… Muslims are not preachers of hate… or intolerance… they are like me… or perhaps even better… they pray together… they eat together… they invite me for a iftaar… without even batting an eyelid… or questioning as to whether I am a Muslim or not… they helped me in breaking another huge wall inside my heart…

Today… when I am perturbed by huge walls in the hearts of people all around… I wish they travel… to meet people beyond their comfort zones… to feel that a world palpates beyond their recognized patterns… which defies the walls… the stereotypes… which awaits them to make them realize that they first and foremost… are humans…

Serendipity, Serendipity, Serendipity…

Serendipity, Serendipity, Serendipity…

Who would have thought that my plan to back pack Turkey would clash with the Mevlana Festival in Konya… to commemorate the death of Maulana Rumi… a Sufi saint and traveler from Afghanistan, who finally settled in Turkey…

And that I am a traveler coming from Afghanistan… is no mean coincidence…

More about the festival

WHIRLING DERVISHES FESTIVAL
(10th December – 17th December 2009, Konya)

The Commemorative Ceremony for Mevlana, the great Sufic saint (1207-1273), is one of the world's greatest spectacles. More than a million people descend on Konya, the ancient Seljuk capital, for the Whirling Dervishes Festival (Sema).

Mevlana taught complete tolerance, positive thinking, awareness of God through love and union with God through dance. At his Mausoleum in Konya, centuries-old mystical dances are performed in his honour by his Sufi followers.

The dance, music, listening and spiritual experience fuse together during the dance of the Dervishes, and the religious leader and the leader of the dance also become one. The final night commemorates the death of Mevlana and his union with God.

The dancers are accompanied by the ney (the title of one of Mevlana's longer poems) reed pipe, a reference to the mythological trumpet sur that will be blown on the Day of Judgement.

The dancers' conical hat represents a gravestone, their cloak a coffin and their white skirt a shroud, while the leader represents the sun and the spinning dancers the orbits of the stars and moon. The four dances symbolise the four seasons, the four elements and the four ages of man.

The dancers begin by marching around the hall three times, representing the knowledge of God, the seeing of God and the truth of unity. Then, as each phase of the performance starts, the Dervishes kiss the right hand of the Sheikh (Mevlevi religious leader) and begin to whirl. The head twists to one side, the arms are crossed and the hands are clasped. The upturned palm is said to receive influence from Heaven, which is handed down to the world below by the other hand. With downcast eyes, the dancers spin faster, their long white skirts spinning open like umbrellas.

Seems interesting….

The route!!!

The idea is to travel… seeing is incidental… it was always like this for me…

When I thought of traveling 3 countries in 11 days, people dissuaded me… but I did it… this time around its only one country and probably 12 days… but then Turkey is humongous… multi-cultural and geographic as varied as one would see in India, China, Iran… thus, of course it would be a challenge…

My route… clockwise… read in reverse for anticlockwise…

Istanbul
Trabzon
Kars- Ani
Van
Urfa- Diyarbakir
Kahta- Nemrut
Cappadocia
Konya
Antalya
Pamukkale
Selcuk
Istanbul

Don’t know if I would be doing them all… or would I be able to… as I told someone… I don’t have plans… I only have a road ahead… and I start walking… God has been kind… the road has always unfolded for me…

Pray that I am able to WALK…

Predicament is over

Who would have thought that the predicament, which I faced two years ago, would haunt me for two years…?

Some Predicament this... November 16, 2007

Bundle up the Christmas and New Year holidays…garnish them with some unused Casual Leaves... and you get 10-12 days of pure bliss… called Vacation.

For me its traveling time… just that I am not able to decide.

Israel- Have seen Jerusalem and Bethlehem … but a lot remains… Haifa, Tiberias, Golan Heights, Seeing Druze villages.

Egypt- Wandering again in the Sinai… been there, done that and yet the beauty of Sinai is so bewitching that it still beckons.

Turkey- Istanbul often dubbed as the most interesting city in the entire world. Cappadocia, Ephesus, and Troy… add them all and you get a vacation of the life time… the only hitch… brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!! Its winter time.

Where to go, where to go, where to go

The predicament continues. Any suggestions.

I am planning to go to Turkey for two weeks in winters….

Kabul… Dangerous yet Rocking.

Have you ever lived under the shadow of death… imagining if the person approaching … pulls the trigger, or worse presses a button… and then everything goes blank, forever. Or if you hear a huge sound… and the next thing you remember is floating in air at an unimaginable speed along with a detonation wave… hoping that even in that turmoil you remember the basic drill of leaving your body totally loose… and slightly opening your mouth… and hoping that you land up softly.

No it’s not traumatic… it’s dramatic... for… with every step you take, you look for a place to duck and an alley to run… you look for any suspicious action on part of the person approaching… you look for a car at a furious pace with only one occupant, and the direction it is headed for… you look for tiny hints, which can differentiate between life and death..

Yesterday, there was an attack on a UN Guest House… it killed 6 UN staffers. A few days ago… there was another attack on the Indian Embassy… every incident is as old as the next incident… it galvanizes public memory… distaste for a few days … or sometimes for few hours… till it is dissipated in wake of another incident. UN Guest House attack, for instance… was quickly forgotten in the cacophony of a bigger attack in Peshawar…

Sanity and empathy is a commodity these days and in this part of the world… pulled and pushed by… demands and supplies… scarcity and abundances… favorites and disfavored.

I visited Kabul this time; when it was reeling under a severe security threat… so severe that I was advised to hole up in my hotel room for all the three days of my visit. I thought what is worse… a push of a button or a bolt in the door… perhaps both are equally worse… depending on what you seek from life… or from death.

The flight was ordinary… but I had to wait for 1 hour at UN terminal for my secured vehicle to arrive… I told my friend… I can stay away from heaven… but don’t like being kept waiting for 1 hour at heaven’s doors.

Heaven… is it… Kabul has been described as heavenly by Babur in his memoirs… it had been a melting pot for Muslim travelers and conquestors… from Persia… from Samarkand… from Turkey… in the yesteryears… they all vouched for the clean waters… fresh airs… cool climes… and relaxed disposition of this momentous city… today it’s a pale shadow… getting paler day by day… and yet there is something… some wee bit… left somewhere… to make you call it is heaven.

For a weary traveler from Kandahar… it is not only heaven but also heavenly… it makes you feel a pulse within yourself… a pulse that was all but lost in the medieval values… outdated ideologies.

On the first night, I yet again went to Anaar the Indian restaurant… with its relaxed atmosphere and good food… it would always remain my favourite… you just sit on its comfortable couches… and while your time away… as if there is eternity to savor… the waiters don’t bother you… and they bring baskets after baskets of Diltod Papad (the name I gave to the magical, though simple, crispy papads of the place)

While in hotel (yet again Park)… at midnight… my world started shaking… it took me a while to realize that I was facing a massive earthquake…for the first time I saw the fury of an earthquake… 6.1… epicentered in Pak-Afghan border middling Jalalabad and Peshawar… though luckily, the tectonic plates moved 150 kilometers beneath the earth… thus causing no major damage… God, it seems, comes with an extreme sense for irony… he saves us from an earthquake in an area, where his subjects bay for each others blood, otherwise.

The next day… had a sumptuous brunch of Chhole Bhature at a friends’ place… missing a “sponsored” Italian Lunch by a few whiskers… I moved around… searching for a perhaps non-existent Kabul Coffee House… purchased a number of DVDs to accompany my soliloquy in Kandahar… I, for one, would mind dying without seeing the latest blockbusters from Bollywood. Hahaha!

In the evening, I went to a Lebanese Restaurant Taverna… the place is absolutely fantastic… the atmosphere… it appears that you are in some relaxed Greek Mezze Tavern… with soulful of music… with relaxed pace of dinner… with an evening ahead to relax, relish and enjoy…. The place served Lebanese and Egyptian delicacies… and my favourite Tahina sauce… Give me a loaf of bread and it, toss in a few pickled olives … it’s a life well spent.

The next day I spent in going around the town… having a wonderful lunch at a friends place… going to a treasure trove called Bagram Stores… which sells astounding collection of adventure gears… jackets, sleeping bags, rug sacks, camping gears, knifes, compasses etc. I promised I will come back with loads of greenbacks…

The evening, thereafter, was quiet and lonely… I chose it that way… this time missing an invite to gate-crash into an all-girls Pajama party by more than a few whiskers… I had a wonderful dinner at Park… while having it… I was approached by an elderly gentleman… if he could join me on my table… it was serendipity… the man called John Butt… was a Cambridge scholar… a Muslim… a preacher of tolerant version of Islam… he runs a community radio in Peshawar… though ethnic English… he had lived his entire life, well almost, in South Asia… in Deoband… in Peshawar… in Jalalabad… we talked about Deoband, Sufism, Maulana Wahideen, about Peshawar and its turmoil… about Taliban and its ideologies… it was an hour or two… of revelations and enlightenment. He looks forward to establish an Islamic University in Jalalabad… I am Serendipity’s favorite child, perhaps…

The flight next day was more or less uneventful… perhaps portending the life to come in Kandahar… I flew over the Hindu Kush… barren… some days later they would be capped by snow... the weather would change… would the destinies???

I often wonder…