Topic: Travel

[Michael]

Firecrackers of Diwali

My earliest memory of Diwali fireworks (I didn’t know about Diwali back then), was on my first trip across India nearly forty years ago. I knew nothing of India, and was simply travelling from the Pakistan border to Calcutta by train, staying in Sikh temples, as I had almost no money. I arrived somewhere in Delhi, which I now think was probably New Delhi railway station, around 11pm at night. With nowhere to stay, exhausted from the third-class train journey, and little idea where I was or what India was all about, I walked away from the station looking for a Sikh temple to stay the night. All around me firecrackers were exploding – it was an extremely disorienting experience. I recall finding a Sikh temple where they were not happy about me staying, but I knew enough of India by then to know you can ignore anyone’s protestations, so I just crashed on a walkway inside the temple grounds, and went to sleep with the war of Diwali pounding in my ears. I didn’t realise then that I already had hepatitis from Afghanistan.  I suspect my disorientation was more than just the inexperienced novelty of Indian cities.

The next time I experienced this phenomenon was with Julie in Mt Abu, ten years ago. One night we went to have dinner at a prominent mansion-hotel on the hill overlooking the whole valley and lake. We chose this mansion because it looked a swish place and wasn’t too expensive – they even had beer. By sheer chance it happened to be Diwali, when  millions of firecrackers detonate and light the sky across India ... all night long, for days, in fact. Diwali night is the peak. We have since experienced this in varying forms at different places, but that night at Mt Abu was unique in many ways.

To our delight, we sat on a patio overlooking the valley of Mt Abu, having beer and dinner, with a traditional Rajasthani music group playing behind us. The sky was full of exploding light! I have never seen anything like that again. We watched the fireworks  from the best  position in the entire valley, with musical accompaniment. They were very good – I was itching to join in! Quietly smiling to myself, I reflected how rarely this kind of experience comes to one. It was visually the most spectacular performance of light we have ever seen in India.

But it wasn’t until this current Indian trip that I discovered the significant thing about Diwali: that it sounds very different in different places, and from different positions in each place.

The subsequent time after Mt Abu that we witnessed, or rather endured, Diwali, was at Kasar Devi near Almora. Sitting on the hillside, I could see the festival unfolding for the locals – they have seriously good acoustics: sound ricochets back and forth across the valley. And they have the whole valley with which to entertain themselves, the dispersed village spreading around the hill sides, in one blast of light and sound. It was only just beginning there, and they couldn’t contain themselves from testing out the crackers and rockets beforehand.

Then it started to build in Nainital. This was a far-out aural spectacle. Nainital is a lake at the top of a huge mountain, with higher mountains encompassing it like a giant horseshoe. This revealed to me that it was where you sat during Diwali that conditioned the experience. We were in the old Grand Hotel, up slightly from the lake, near the hill’s end. When a cracker ignited anywhere it resonated around the valley, highlighting the sound shapes. But when it went off at one precise area,  closer to the valley opening, it caused the most extraordinary result – at no other point in the valley, as I listened carefully, did it create such an aural effect.

The sound might originate from a quieter cracker, but it amplified like a giant lion’s roar as it echoed through the hills, especially from the opposite hill. At night, this  was a dark mountain strewn with light-points – some lights travelling sideways up the mountain roads, others stationary. The blackness of the mountain opened up in an insistent way, by amplifying the cracker sound like it was being driven from a mega Tibetan Valve Amp – all deep groaning and roaring. I was truly astounded. It was a real treat for a musician.

But then we came to Varanasi, Banaras, Kashi, Avimukta etc... the restaurant at the end of the known universe for Hindoos (don’t come for the food).

Varanasi is a harsh place. There is no denying this. It has put Westerners to the sword, mentally, for centuries.  The firecracker display here was surprisingly low key. But the sound is what I want to talk about. In our room, the crackers went off in the ghat-alley below the window like bombs exploding – shocking us right out of whatever we were doing. It was a violent, deafening and hard-edged blast the couldn’t help but make us jump.

One night I went for a walk quite late. After a spooky relationship-fantasy-reality Indian movie we were watching had stopped half way, I decided to nip down to the local jetty and check the water. It was 10pm; everything was quiet after the day’s big Sun festival on the ghats. People were still sitting around with little lamps – they were going to sleep the night on the ghats as the morrow’s dawn was also a big deal for this festival. All was soft and beautiful. I noticed one of the stone mushrooms that the pandas sit under was empty. These aren’t only used by pandas or sadhus; they are public property. I sat down, as it  was surprisingly clean, and I watched the Ganga flow murkily past. For some reason it always looked dirtier at night than by day, with the large, white night-birds sitting on floating debris,  drifting down stream.

The firecrackers continued their interrupted explosions. It astounded me, the way it ricocheted across the whole three mile ghat wall of Varanasi. And the empty further bank, from my position, resounded a huge echo that bounced around for quite long. Considering how low the opposite bank is, it was surprising to hear such a good echo.

I was just sitting, relaxed as is the gentle mood on the ghats, when I suddenly realised I was listening to an artificially enhanced sound. Not just the massive intricate ghat wall effect, but something I couldn’t pin down – a subtle reverb which also amplified. It was very pleasant, like listening through good headphones in a studio. Then I realised...

It was the mushroom dome above me. I checked it – it was concave, basically cement I think, with some metal on the inside. It was big circular umbrella which, in the darkness, subtly rimmed your sight above in a strange way, like huge extended eyebrows. When I stood outside, the volume dropped and the sound harshened slightly (not always enjoyable in bunger season). Still, it was a good sound from the ghats reverberation, but when I sat down within the dome, resting against the centre pole, the sound enhanced dramatically. I was flabbergasted. What a good idea for a council to provide such enjoyable spots along the ghats! And how simple – I immediately wanted one in our own garden back home (wherever that is ... been a long trip).

From this position, the sound deepened and softened (much the way I would modify music with my own quality-sound gear), which gave the big explosions a pleasantly enhanced effect. The ganga flowing by... it certainly is a weird place, Varanasi.

But there was more to follow. Fifteen days after Diwali, there is another festival called Dev Diwali: the Gods’ Diwali. This is highly celebrated in Varanasi, as we were to discover. On the night, we took the (free) hotel owned boat into the busy river. Boat hiring jumps from Rs200 to Rs4,000 for this night, as multitudes cram in to see the evening spectacle where hundreds of thousands of small ghee lamps are lit all up and down the ghat steps and banks, extra music or religious events unfold at the main ghats, and every light imaginable is turned up full while millions of people come out with their families, in their best clothes, to stroll the Ganga banks.

Above and within this cacophony of sound and light, fireworks exploded in brilliant colours. It was truly a phantasmagorical scene, a brilliant extravaganza of Diwali for the Gods.

[Michael]

Dalhousie Postage

We had one parcel and a large envelope to post in Dalhousie. We tied and taped up the parcel, then Julie and I headed off to the Post Office at Gandhi Chowk, which we had seen on an earlier trip – a large and official looking place. Surely it should be fairly easy to prosecute our small task in this place.

The clerk behind the Multi-business window told us there was no wrapping at the PO, but we could get wrapping and the wax sealing done at the Emporium shop across the Chowk. He also said we had to wrap up the large envelope as well, as it was really a parcel. In India all parcels have to be wrapped in calico cloth and sewn up. This is usually done by a tailor or often parcel wrappers sit outside Post Offices (but not in Dalhousie). Then the sewn seams have to be sealed with wax. They light a candle and liquefy a stick of wax in it, smearing the seam in a spot with the wax and pressing with some kind of seal, which may be just a flat piece of metal. I was surprised they couldn’t treat our large envelope as an envelope, but then, this is India, so wrap it we must.

The Emporium said no – couldn’t do that there. So I went to the next shop – same story. Then in the fourth shop they told me there was a tailor "downside", but we had to buy the cloth from him. We decided to just find the tailor and see if he had cloth. Sure enough, on a small street that wound down from the Chowk we found a very noble tailor who indicated ‘no problem’. It’s such a relief to find someone who says “No problem” in India, and often adding, “Why not?” as if it’s the commonest thing in the world to fulfil your request after you have been traipsing for hours or days to get something done.

I had forgotten my felt pen, which I had thoughtfully remembered to bring from Australia. You have to write the addresses (From and To) on the calico with a felt pen. But I’d left it back in our little cottage. Julie and I went back to get, and I returned alone to complete the simple task of postage. The tailor indicated he couldn’t do the sealing. “Upside” he gestured. I asked the PO but they again told me the Emporium would do it.

No, the Emporium couldn’t, so again I went next door (“No”) and next door. “Yes. Why not?” said the man, “Take a seat”. So I sat in his shawl-and-sari shop while he and another man set about the sealing task. It was quite pleasant, and took about half and hour. They were very thorough, in-between receiving old friends and talking with a bunch of men sitting together with their hands under a common blanket, over a fire pot or heater I assumed. Turning the parcels over and over to find any remaining spots that needed sealing. When it was done I said, “How much?”. “No money” they said with the characteristic head and hand wave (palm upwards and twisting) which Indians do when they mean, ‘it’s for free’ or ‘I haven’t a clue’.

I then realised being in the cloth business each of these shops always sent parcels off, and as such did their own wrapping and sealing. The first two shops couldn’t be bothered, but the third didn’t charge because it wasn’t part of their main business – they were just happy to help me out. It is funny how often Indians will spontaneously act out of no self-interest, just as they will try to rip you off if they can. All depends on how they feel, or who you meet.

Back to the PO. I had to fill out a form they said, as I juggled my parcels, and spoke to the same man who was now at a different counter – the ‘Savings Bank’ window. He wandered aimlessly around the office for some time, looking through the door to something noisy happening there, then seemed to remember me and dived into a few drawers with the help of two other men, at a different counter. All the time I was trying not to show my apprehension – surely the next obstacle won’t be insurmountable! It nearly was.

“We have no forms.” He said. “Only this one, and you need four – two for each parcel.” He added as he held up a faded crinkled piece of paper he had dug from the back of some drawer. “Take this and photostat three more.” “Where?” I said. “Outside.”

Juggling my parcels I asked the Emporium. “Downside” they said. Down the lane again, and found a photo-printing shop. “No” they nodded, “next door”. Please let this be easy I prayed – surely it won’t all come unstuck now. Next door the attendant said “Yes, come in.” Thank Hanuman I whispered, as I entered their little shop. Then began an exchange between him and another man who was standing on his chair lighting some incense in a high-up tiny shrine typical of such shops. “No,” They turned to me, “it’s broken.” Bummer. “Where?” I asked. “Backside” they said and indicated they meant along a lane which runs off level behind the Chowk.

Up the lane I went, and once again dodging with my parcels between two of the three different games of cricket that were been conducted on the Chowk, I walked along asking for ‘photostat’. “At the end of bazaar.” Someone told me. I reached the last few shops and there was a computer game shop which looked promising, except this man had been useless on a previous occasion when I was trying to have train tickets printed out from a memory stick, plus he had some angry dog in his section of the shop which was behind glass doors, so I was not feeling hopeful.

I entered and opened the glass doors – dog was gone, thank Hanuman. "Yes, why not?" he jiggled his head, and directed another man there to do the job. This guy took my form and we went next door into the pool-table shop, behind the players and lo-and-behold, there was a big photocopying machine, which did the job. I got four copies – couldn’t bear to leave the PO without at least one parcel posting form, for the next poor unfortunate poster.

Back to PO, forms in hand. The man was now at a different counter again. He told me what to write on the form, and after three goes, back and forth across the empty Post Office to adjust details, we both agreed it was correct. He weighed them up, printed tickets (could he possible print from a memory stick I thought, but put that insane idea aside) and pasted them on the parcels. At which point he stressed I should write ‘Parcel’ after ‘Air Mail’ on both parcels. For Hanuman’s sake I thought, surely they can see it’s a parcel? Could he borrow my felt pen to write it on? Yes of course – anything to complete this bizaar experience successfully.

Next he had to write the postal ticket numbers and PO name on the parcels, but unfortunately his biro wouldn’t work. “Could I borrow you pen?” he mumbled in broken English. “Sure.” I pulled it out – anything more you’d like for me to do to help me get this place to operate? I felt like saying. But actually, I sensed the blood of success very close, and didn’t dare deviate from task-focus for a second. Anything could still go wrong!

But no, he finished off his part, handed back my pen, and went about his business. “Is that it?” I asked, in trepidation. “Yes, why not?” he replied. “All done.”