Recollections of a Rover

The Mandir of Memories

izzyabraham — Tue, 26 May 2015 01:38:01 GMT

It’s a still, cold night in early August, and I’m huddled outside a brightly-lit Hindu temple.

I’m just a spectator who wants to take part in the annual celebration of Lord Krishna’s birth, Krishna Janmashtami.

With the weight of a self-dubbed title, “The Christian Intruder”, hanging over my head, I walk in with a weakening confidence that was already fragile to begin with.

The darkness fades behind me as I enter into the warm colours of red, yellow and orange. Lively embellishments dance across a scene of grandeur.

Up in front are the deities—statuettes adorned with garlands for the occasion— who watch as trays of offerings are set before them on the altar. In the corner of the room, an elaborate cradle stands inconspicuously in the corner, a representation of baby Krishna. It’s not ignored though; occasionally it is gently rocked by children while the elders of the temple kneel before it.

I look on as several treasured customs take place: Aarti, a ritual of worship where lit lamps are offered to the gods; Prasad, edible goods that are given to all who are present; and Raksha Bandhan, which signifies a bond of protection between a brother and sister. To show her affection and bestow blessings upon him, a shy little girl ties the sacred thread, called Rakhi, around her brother’s wrist. In return, he will protect and support her in life. This last one provokes sentiment: my own sibling is on the other side of the world—far, far away from me.

Throughout the night, hymns are sung in praise and worship, with the tunes of musical instruments flowering in the background. There’s a short break as young children gather to tell us the story of Lord Krishna’s birth.

The quiet humming of prayers drift in and out of the room. Despite the endless repetition, their sincerity never falters—they’re sustained by a deep veneration for a long and rich history. Krishna Janmashtami is one of the most revered events in the Hindu calendar, and devout Indian followers have put in the earnest effort to make this a special ceremony.

The thing is, I’m not in India. I’m in a small mandir in Grahamstown, South Africa. Yet here we are, honouring a religion that originated thousands of years ago in a different hemisphere.

A small boy skips to a stop in front of me, scattering my thoughts. His round cheeks and shining eyes smile at me, and he holds up something in his hands. It’s a gift: a bag of undoubtedly delicious sweets.

And just like that, I’m not an outsider anymore.

A walk in another world

izzyabraham — Fri, 9 May 2014 06:34:00 GMT

The remote Indian village stands exactly as it was a decade earlier. Raggedy weeds still cleave through the winding dirt roads. The ramshackle shops offer the same toys and sweets from a lifetime ago. It seems as if the same men are standing outside, wearing what look like skirts, and holding hands while chatting. Local girls, wearing garish salwar kameezes, walk past and stare at my T-shirt and jeans.

The jade green forest is robust from recent rains, which doesn't make it any easier for me to stumble through. Finally I come across a clearing where schoolboys are immersed in cricket. A few nonchalantly glance my way before resuming their game.

After trudging up a lone hill, I face my grandparents’ abandoned abode. A ghost of a house that once raised ten children. A house that now strains under the weight of neglect and regret. The moss-laced well still resides outside; a nurturer during droughts, but a murderer to the unfortunate creatures that fell in.

Inside the home, dust particles swirl and sparkle around the bare rooms. I find it difficult to stay because of the silence and the glaring walls, and the musty scent that will linger when I’m gone.

Later I pass by the rubber plantations where workers, exhausted from bending all day in the unrelenting humidity, greet me with gentle smiles. I belong here in Anickad, Kerala. But I am uneasy, knowing that soon I have to leave.

Evening prayers are long in the sweltering heat, and the songs of insects drift in through the shutters. My wavering attention is captured by the brilliant glow of a firefly upon a faded painting. I am partly horrified, partly mesmerised, when a lizard’s head emerges from behind the picture. Before I blink again, the radiant blaze of the firefly is gone forever.

Losing myself, finding a city

izzyabraham — Wed, 16 Apr 2014 19:57:54 GMT

I am standing in a whirlwind of chaos. It sweeps me up in its heavy heat and then wraps me in a dusty yellow blanket.

My senses are overwrought: eyes flicker between nervous mongrels and rundown buildings; nose conflicted by the stench of old urine, and the inviting scent of spices drifting from scattered stalls; one ear straining to hear above blaring car horns, and the other trying to ignore the dishevelled bystander who softly croons an old Hindi love song to me.

This is lively Chandni Chowk. Centuries ago it belonged to the splendid Mughal Empire. And that’s what I'm looking for today – a glimpse into the past. More specifically, for Jama Masjid, a mosque that’s over three hundred years old.

My stomach audibly chastises me for ignoring it, so I buy a mutton kathi roll from a food cart on the street corner. The vendor hears my foreign accent and demands to know where I'm from.

“Mozambique,” is the reply and when I'm met with an incredulous face, I explain: “It’s in Africa.”

“Ohhh,” he says with a chuckle, “so far away”. He asks me if I like my country, and if it’s better than India.

“Well they're both very different…” I trail off diplomatically. I tell him that it’s a beautiful place and he nods thoughtfully.

As he turns to serve another customer, he mutters with a little sigh, “Someday.”

I smile and bite into my hot meal. The bliss of eating something so delicious calms my nerves and I stand still for a moment, chewing and trying to find my bearings.

How on Earth did I end up here? Around me, people shove past and yell out to one another. The tires of vehicles try to run over my toes, while I struggle to avoid soiling my slippers with putrid garbage and bodily waste. And in the distance, I can see the outline of the majestic Red Fort, an Indian icon. I am utterly overwhelmed by this novel scene, but everyone else seems to take the confusion in their stride – it is daily life.

After an hour of turning into packed alleyways and following the kind but misguided directions from locals, I have to face the facts: I am completely lost. An idle rickshaw driver sees my dilemma and offers me a ride out of the commotion.

“Kitana?” I ask. How much?

“40 rupees,” he replies.

I shake my head. “Tisa.” Thirty.

He beckons with his head, and I climb up onto his rickety bicycle. As we ride away, I turn back for a last bumpy gaze at the wonderful mayhem that’s fading away.

Searching for a mosque, I have found Old Delhi instead. Not a bad compromise.

A mountain in the sky

izzyabraham — Sun, 29 Sep 2013 04:18:00 GMT

I'm used to looking up at mountains, wondering if I'll ever feel energetic enough to climb them. However in a dull afternoon, I unexpectedly found myself at the top of one without any effort. And the highest mountain in Africa, no less.

The flight to Addis Ababa, without any surprise, was exceedingly uncomfortable and annoying. Narrow seats without any legroom, coupled with fellow passengers with no regard for personal space, was enough to set my face in a permanent frown. But all that changed when suddenly, one of nature’s treasures apparated in mid-air.

I happened to absentmindedly gaze out of the aeroplane window. I knew what it was as soon as I saw its dark purple body soaring by. The trademark icy peaks and wisps of clouds encircling the summit were giveaways. I knew it without even knowing which country we were flying over.

“Look it’s Mount Kilimanjaro!” I exclaimed excitedly to my travelling companion. Carelessly, she gave it a side glance and said, “Don’t be silly.”

I was angrily insistent that it was the famous mountain. A funny conviction, since I had only seen it before in blurry online images.

But I knew, and I was right. Seconds later, after it had disappeared from my sight forever, we saw our route on the flight map screen. The plane was displayed, gliding over Tanzania, and hovering obliviously over a mountain icon labelled ‘Mt. Kilimanjaro’.

A smug grin was cast at my friend while she acknowledged it with a look of wonder.

Yet self-satisfaction faded quickly while I pondered if I'd ever see that majestic mountain again. I guess the only sureway is to climb it one day.

Misjudging Germany

izzyabraham — Wed, 15 May 2013 19:59:00 GMT

Oh, the joys of being wrong about a country. This is a classic case of expectation vs. reality. I only visited a small part of Germany (Bonn), but it was a refreshing experience and threw away any innocently-founded prejudices I had had.

What I expected: A severe, almost desolate landscape. A childish image of ruin.

What I encountered: One of the cleanest and greenest countries on Earth (in my biased opinion of course). Try a train ride from Cologne to Bonn; I wish mine was never-ending. Under an autumn sun, the countryside is a vibrant lime colour. Lush flora zooming past.

Walking through the streets of Bonn, traditionally colourful German houses are gradually replaced by haughty modern skyscrapers. And wonderfully unavoidable is the imposing Rhine river that pierces through the country’s body.

Who I expected: An intolerant Aryan population. Narrow-minded of me? Ashamedly yes, but I couldn’t help it. All I knew of Germany was what I had learned during History lessons in high school.

Who I met: A salad of cultures and nationalities. Such a variety of [beautiful] people! We encountered a Libyan expatriate. He told us about life in the tumultuous country, how he was forced to leave home, and the struggles of keeping in touch with friends and relatives. The patriotism for his nation was brimming in his eyes and evident by the passion of his tale.

What I expected: The English language, everywhere.

What I struggled with: I had been told that most Germans would speak English. Whoever told me that was wrong. The majority that I came across only spoke German and - luckily for me - some French. Before you go, learn some useful phrases (guten tag and danke is NOT sufficient to get you around).

What I expected: A difficult and tiresome journey.

What I experienced: Yes it was (dragging my 30kg suitcase up a flight of stairs). But it was also one of the happiest times of my life. I met lovely and well-travelled friends, covered a United Nations conference, and had sushi and German beer for the first time.

I spent less than a week in Germany, but left besotted with the nation. To be utterly clichéd but honest: Deutschland, ich liebe dich. Germany, I love you.

Magic in the mountains

izzyabraham — Thu, 9 May 2013 20:31:00 GMT

I am staring at water; a writhing, bursting body of it. The water of a valley nestled in the Drakensberg Mountains.

Bubbling liquid from a miniature waterfall cascades into a pool of delight. The hikers stoop to savour its purity after a wearisome walk. I can taste the story of the mountains as the stream soothes my parched throat.

The pool sparkles as if a thousand tiny crystals dwell within. We are surrounded by the rich colours of Mother Nature: emerald foliage, sapphire liquid, and ruby blossoms adorning the plains.

Best of all are the golden rays which the sun bestows on our fatigued figures, a safeguard against the sharp winter chill. Invigorated by this mystical fountain, we continue our journey, leaving behind an alcove of heaven.

The Protectors of Paris

izzyabraham — Fri, 26 Apr 2013 20:42:00 GMT

High above, from a fixed abode on top of the Notre Dame, gargoyles watch over the city. They are the grim guardians of Paris.

I am a newcomer to the capital of France, but these carved creatures have been here for more than a century, warding off evil spirits.

The one next to me, whose face is cradled in his hands, pensively gazes down at the concrete maze which teems with life. He has witnessed a tumultuous past and now mulls over an uncertain future.

The buildings coldly glow under a fading sun while my immobile companions and I continue to watch the surreal scene. Far below, the people and vehicles are oblivious insects, vainly engaged in a never-ending crawl.

Soon it’s time to go and I turn away without bidding adieu to the bizarre beasts. I rush down the spiraling staircase as though demons are chasing me.

The gargoyles remain hovering over the Gothic Cathedral, destined to be silent sentinels forever.