Tag Archives: Mumbai

meandering along a country lane in Nashik

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Remember that old saying You can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl! As far as I’m concerned, it’s one-hundred-percent true. Ever since I began this series on India 2011, I’ve been looking forward to posting these views of a very different kind of India than the one I’ve shown you so far. It’s great to take your pilgrimages to religious temples and historic monuments, but for a very long time I wondered–where do Indians go to just get away from the proverbial rat race? Well, now I know, so I refuse to apologize for featuring these lovely village and country scenes before even telling you about the vineyard that brought us here in the first place. For now I’ll put the cart in front of the horse and save the talk about wines and all that and instead talk about the perfect getaway from crowds and traffic in Bombay.

Though we only have two days left before we leave Bombay for New York, Raghu planned a wonderful excursion that took us to Nashik, in Maharashtra State (incidentally, Bombay’s the capitol city). It’s about 180 kms away (or about 112 miles). Due to the roads and the heavy traffic getting out of Bombay, that isn’t exactly a day trip; it takes about six hours by automobile, so we’d be staying overnight. Nashik is considered India’s greenbelt and top producer of grapes (wine country), onions and tomatoes, and varieties of fruits and vegetables. It’s also where the nation’s currency and stamps printer, the Security Printing Press, is located. Incidentally, Hubby’s father was the Director of the Stamps Press in Nashik during the last three years of his career. One other tidbit you may enjoy: According to the Ramayana Hindu epic, it was Nashik’s forests where Lord Rama hid out during his 14 years of exile after killing the demon king–the one that stole Sita, I presume.  Even though it’s one of the fastest growing cities in India, there’s still room here to breathe.

And talk about breathing room! We arrived at the Sula Winery mid-afternoon. After checking into our rooms, and sharing a tray of cheese and crackers washed down with glasses of wine on the dining room veranda, it seemed the perfect time take a late afternoon, leg-stretching, walk to explore. Tomorrow we’d tour the winery and sample the wines.

Right away we come upon a cow. I wasn’t afraid as we approached, but kept a respectful distance all the same. The cow and I “eyeball” each other as we pass. I’m not sure who was more nervous, me or the cow. At least I wasn’t thinking about cobras at this point. Raghu shared with me that he thinks that cows are awesome creatures and there is nothing more peaceful than seeing a cow resting under tree looking very contented. As a country girl who practically grew up with cows, I had to agree. Both of us, dedicated amateur photographers that we are, snapped away with our cameras, I with my point and shoot canon, he with his much more sophisticated, albeit heavier, single lens reflex digital.

What could be more appealing or more restful than lakes and mountains in near perfect weather conditions . . . and could that be a bird swooping down on that tree limb? I was so busy looking at the cow I didn’t notice.

Add to that puzzle another bit of mystery–how did this USA 385 Speed Bot come to rest in this pasture in India? There has to be a story there, don’t you think?

Ditto for this little objet d´art.  It’s deceptively large in the picture. Actually it was quite small, probably about three inches long, and stitched from a gray-colored heavy canvas fabric with painted features and filled with some sort stuffing. It’s an interesting little relic and could be anything. A religious symbol of some sort? Voodoo doll? A pagan or religious amulet? Fetish doll? Most probably it’s a homemade doll some poor village child lost. Looks can be deceiving though. It’s either very frightened or very mean. Look at that mouth! I left it where it was for the next tourist to ponder.

With these kinds of vibes in the air, I must confess I wasn’t exactly unmindful of the fact that there might be cobras lurking about. I had read in the local paper from the hotel that cobras are quite common in the area. There was even a story about a resident living on the road we were on during the drive had reported one in his yard just the day before. And the sun was beginning to sink below the hills.

And then we were approaching this interesting looking structure I’d had my eye on for awhile during the walk. I asked Raghu if he knew what it was used for. Indeed he did. It’s an open-air funeral pyre Hindus use for cremating their dead. Traditionally located near a body of water (there’s just a glimpse on the right just below the tree branches), a pyre is prepared with piles of wood stacked on the concrete stage you see here.

 The body, laid out on a stretcher, is then placed on top, feet facing south (so that it can walk in the direction of the dead). The chief mourner–usually the eldest son–facing south, walks around the pyre three times, sprinkling water and ghee. He then lights the pyre with a flaming torch. After the fire consumes the body, which usually takes several hours, the mourners return home, and the entire family must then have a bath, and begin a period of mourning lasting 12 days during which the family is subject to many rules and rituals. One or two days after the funeral, the chief mourner returns to the cremation ground to collect the remains in an urn to be immersed in a river. I tried to imagine what it would be like to attend a cremation ritual as a member of the family. I was mightily relieved when Raghu informed me that only men attend the actual pyre–women and children remain at home.

You may be thinking how barbaric. However, Christian burial–when it comes right down to it–is no less barbaric. Growing up in the southern U.S., where children usually attended funerals at an early age (at least in my community), I always worried as a child What if Aunt Harriet really wasn’t dead, just in a deep sleep or in coma? How horrendous if they woke up later and found themselves in a box in a pitch black grave. I think I’d just as soon be torched as be buried in the ground.
And here’s the edge of nearby lake just to the right of the funeral pyre.

And as dusk approaches, more cows standing nearby in that peaceable kingdom may have all the answers to all the deep complexities of life and death. But they’re not saying anything. 

Well, we haven’t seen any cobras yet, and here’s a paved road home, or at least back to our rooms at the Sula BEYOND, so we elect to head back that way instead of crossing the fields in darkness.

On the way, we pass this pretty girl from a nearby farm, a perfect Kodak moment if I ever saw one.  I ask and get permission to take a photograph–and get at least two shots in as quickly as possible. (Okay, I admit that I had to do a little adjustments with the light setting because it was nearly dark by the time I took these pictures. I think they turned out well in spite of myself.)

Just today I was reading the new PEOPLE magazine, in which the “fairy-tale” wedding pictures of celebrity-for-no-reason Kim Kardashian were featured. The bride was perfectly made up with diamonds worth millions of dollars from head to toe. She was lovely of course. But may I say, no matter how much money she makes just for being the daughter of a famous dead fashion designer, she (Kim Kardashian) can’t hold a candle to the natural beauty of this simple village girl.

Finally, nearly everyday here along the Wasatch front in Utah, U.S.A., we’re treated to a wonderful sunset. Here’s what that same old sun does on the other side of the world. It’s my National Geographic moment. And look! More cows!


(Next time we’ll take a look at the winery and learn a little about the wines themselves.)

Postscript:  Daughter, S-I-L, Hubby and I enjoyed another Margarita evening on Thursday of this week. One year after the completion of my chemo- and radiation-treatments at Huntsman Cancer Institute, my scans are still clean. Happy to report we’re still living happily with NED.



malabar’s hanging garden, towers of silence, victoria terminus, and jain temple

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Being a flower lover, the first time I visited Bombay and heard “hanging garden,” my imagination went wild trying to imagine a garden filled with hanging baskets of flowers. We went by ourselves, sans guide, while I loved the peace and quiet, I never did figure out why it was called the “hanging” garden. I saw lots of beautifully manicured lawns with flower borders, then as now, ringed with flowering fruit trees with exotic names, and in the distance there were views of the city, as well as Chowpatti Beach along Marine Drive if you found the right spot. I remember also the displays of topiary animal shapes cut into the hedges much like those we had seen at Disney World in the U.S.

This time was different. Our guide Sudha–seen here strolling along with Hubby–explained the name. This terraced garden is laid out over the top of the three water reservoirs that supply Bombay its water. The soil the garden is layed out on is only 6 to 30 inches thick spread over the surface. That’s why the trees grow only on the slope of its perimeter. The reservoirs, constructed in 1880, were renovated in 1921 and the capacity increased to store 30 million gallons of water. Besides providing a storage place for the city’s water, the garden is a popular destination for quiet walks and contemplation for both tourists and locals alike. It’s design is also believed to be a practical application constructed to deal with the contaminated waters from a nearby tower of silence you’ll learn more about below.

The towers of silence are located in secluded gardens in the Malabar Hills on land donated by a Zoroastrian (Parsi) industrialist and chairman of the Bombay Stock Exchange from 1966 until his death in 1980, Sir Jamshetji Jeejeebhoy. It’s off-limits to tourists, but I caught this glimpse of the steps that lead to the tower where the centuries-old custom of exposing  remains of the dead to the sun–to be picked dry by scavenging vultures–takes place.Because they regard the elements of nature as sacred, they neither cremate–as Hindus do–nor bury underground–as Muslims do–because they believe such practices corrupt the natural element of fire and earth and thus defiled by the dead.

As urbanization spread, more and more high-rise apartments were erected in Malabar Hill. Soon it was too easy to catch a glimpse of the tower’s interior. One day a citizen was horrified to see shrunken corpses stacked in piles inside the tower. He was so disturbed that he complained, and soon a wall was built to screen the tower from anyone other than those tower attendants who worked there. I must add another cautionary tale of modernity here regarding still more influence of changing times. Sometimes, as the old saying goes, you gotta do what you gotta do! As the numbers of the Zoroastrians, or Parsis, began to decline and possibly a result of pollution as well, fewer vultures are around to flock to the tower for their ghastly task. Also, for  reasons not quite so clear–those that do come seem less inclined to touch the corpses anyhow. Hence the bodies take far longer to deteriorate than they did in the past. In time, naturally, bodies begin to accumulate. In what could be referred to as a “green” attempt to assist nature, solar panels were installed. Many in the community have had enough grisly experiences, however, and continue to press for changes to the old custom. Note to self: you can’t escape change–not even when you’re dead!

In the photo below, if you look hard at the top of the dome slightly right of the gable in the center, you’ll see a statue of Queen Victoria (the white one), for whom this impressive example of Victorian Gothic architecture spectacularly infused with stone domes, turrets and pointed arches of traditional Indian architecture, was built in time for opening in 1887 on the date of her Golden Jubilee. It took 10 years to build.

If memory serves, it was the explosions from a few years ago in the Victoria Terminus, Taj Mahal Hotel and other Bombay sites that led to a policy of NO photography inside the terminal, which is a crying shame as I’ve seldom seen such a magnificent interior, especially in a train station. There were ornamental iron and brass railings, tiles, and wood carvings–angels to elephants–everywhere. I remember wishing I were skilled at sketching so I could make sketches and remember things in more detail, especially the jungle-themed facade with peacocks, gargoyles, monkeys and lions. Historian and author, Christopher London, wrote in Bombay Gothic that Victoria Terminus is to the British Raj what the Taj Mahal was the the Mughal empire.

As beautiful as it was inside, however, it was one of the noisiest, busiest places–with people swarming like bees everywhere–the noise was phenomenal. I was particularly impressed that women all ages and alone were briskly moving in and out of trains. Since I’d read in local newspapers about vicious rapes, even numerous killings of young women in Delhi’s train terminals, I had wondered how safe they felt in the chaotic confines of Victoria Station. Sudha assured me that–not only was it safe, but it was easy as well to learn the system. Women of Bombay apparently feel free to move about quite freely at any time or day in Bombay.

Like everyplace else in India, the trend of renaming important locations with Indian names in response to demands of a political organization, the station was renamed after a famed 17th century Maratha King. It’s now officially called the Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, although I suspect most Indians–as I–will always think of it as Victoria Station.  Whatever you want to call it, it’s still the busiest railway station in Asia.

Another tour, and yet another temple! I expect my readers are getting used to finding temple notations throughout our India tour this year. How better to learn about the people than to explore the institutions they erect. The last temple we would visit was the Jain Temple located nearby in Malabar Hill. It’s relatively new, built in 1903. One of the significant differences in the Hindu sect of the Jains is that their followers are not only strict vegetarians, as are most Hindus, but they go to great lengths to avoid killing any living thing. Flowers are used as offerings in most Hindu temples, but not here at the Jain Temple, lest a bug inside the petals inadvertently be killed. Some sweep the path ahead of them while walking, and often wear masks so they won’t accidentally inhale insects. The most devoted among them will not eat any root vegetable like carrots or potatoes for fear of killing bugs when pulling the roots from the ground.

The entrance to this Jain temple is flanked by two stone elephants, like the one in the picture above.

One of the main tenets of the Jain community is charity. In this temple, a group of volunteers from the temple assist the poor by providing the means to purchase medicine they might not otherwise be able to afford. Each worker carefully looks over the individual doctor-issued prescriptions to verify their legitimacy, then the prescriptions are filled at the pharmacy, and dispensed afterwards to those who need them.

One final note for this post. I kept noticing bamboo scaffolding around construction and buildings of all sizes–skyscrapers, and modern office buildings alike–during our stay, like this one:

I kept thinking it couldn’t possibly be a scaffold assembly because the bamboo poles looked far too flimsy, but I asked the guide about it anyway. I’m so glad I don’t let the risk of sounding ignorant outweigh my desire to know things! She was quick to point out sound reasons to use old-fashioned albeit flimsy looking bamboo rather than the metal I was used to see in the U.S. (1) it’s strong–in spite of its skeletal look, and (2) it’s extremely lightweight and easy to handle, and very flexible as well, plus another decided advantage in what would soon be a very hot Bombay summer–it stays cooler than metal and thus less likely to burn bare foot workers. Sometimes simple is just better and a lot less expensive.

Next we’ll visit an art festival and have tea in the newly renovated Taj Mahal Hotel. Hope you’re able to come too.

bombay’s dhobi ghats

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Summer, now that it’s finally reached us here in the Wasatch Front, has brought with it visitors from out of state. Hence, I’ve neither been very good at regular blogging practices nor reading those in my Google reader, other than occasionally. At last, in a brief break, I’ve come to the logical place to write about one of my favorite visits in Bombay, the municipal Dhobi Ghats.

Some may remember a post in 2007 about Bombay’s dabbawalla lunch delivery system (re-run in January this year)–the intricate system of lunchbox pick up and delivery straight from the hands of the wives in Bombay to  husbands in their offices, then rerouted back home before the husband gets home at the end of the day. Well, the Dhobis who keep Bombay’s people in clean clothes and linens are every bit as impressive. Approximately 200 dhobi families collect dirty laundry from families around Bombay, take it back to the municipal dhobi ghats you see here, where they wash and dry it, neatly press and fold it, then deliver it back home again–all for a small fee, around Rs 400 (less than $8 US) per month.

First comes a soak in sudsy water, then scouring on the scourging stones provided in each pen until clean. They’re then tossed into huge vats of boiling starch and hung out to dry. Next comes the ironing, and then wrapping into neat bundles ready for home delivery. Although other ghats are scattered about the city, most of them are used by poorer locals. The most famous of these Dhobi Ghats is this one at Saat Rasta near Mahalaxmi Station (you can see it in photo #4 below) where entire dhobi families work pay a rental fee to the municipality. It’s a hereditary occupation.

It’s quite a sight, with row on row of open-air concrete wash pens. For stubborn stains, there’s a soak in a caustic solution like sulfur; drying takes place on long, brightly colored lines; and heavy coal-burning irons are used for pressing. Clothes and linens are hung to dry in batches of white, pastels, and type.

Loads are washed much as you might do at home, by color and weight.

Look as you might, you’ll never see a clothes pin on any of these lines.  Instead the lines are made by tautly stretching two lines together and twisting them tightly. A small corner of the garment is then pressed between the twisted segments.

The bonus at the end of a hot work day, there’s plenty of water and makeshift bathtubs around to take a cooling plunge in. Let’s hope he remembered which vats hold that caustic soaking substance.

Nope, everything seems fine! Whew.

The locals are hard pressed to understand why everyday so many tourists come to gape, with cameras in hand, at an ordinary people working at very ordinary labor, but having witnessed it myself I must say it’s quite an impressive sight. Another example of intelligent enterprise passed from generation to generation. And I’ll bet their CEO’s don’t get any bonus at all, just the satisfaction of a job well done at the end of the day and that cool bath.

There’s a Hindi movie, available on Netflix, entitled Dhobi Ghat, that Hubby and I enjoyed very much, especially after visiting Bombay and the dhobi ghats. It’s a story of four people from very different backgrounds whose lives in Bombay intersect briefly, leaving them forever altered by the experiences they share. One if those unforgettable characters is Munna, a dhobi from the ghats who dreams of escaping the limitations of his family’s life of labor in the ghats by becoming an actor. The characters are very real, as are their relationships, their smiles, their tears, their dreams, fears and their tragedies. It offers a decidedly different look at Bombay than the city you might have seen in Slumdog Millionaire.