Asia Travel - Part 33

Celebrating Chinese New Year

Hong Kong

by Sandra Scott

Kung hei fat choy! Happy Chinese New Year!

I was fortunate to be in Hong Kong during Chinese New Year. It was a wonderful opportunity to learn as much as we could about the traditional celebrations. From our Western viewpoint, Chinese New Year is like Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year celebrations all rolled into one. It is a time to give thanks, celebrate with the family, and look forward to a new year with optimism.

Even though the western solar calendar based is in common usage throughout most of the world, all Chinese people are also familiar with the Chinese calendar based on the cycles of the moon. In a systematic rotation each year honors a specific animal with its own special personality and characteristics. Stores and streets are decorated with many displays featuring the animal of the year.

Hong Kong has one of the most elaborate Chinese New Year Celebrations. It is a city of modern skyscrapers. Most of the buildings have huge neon holiday decorations on the entire side that faces the harbors, some of which are 30 stories high.

“Kung hei fat choy” is the traditional New Year greeting; it means, “Wishing you success and prosperity.” Like all holidays worldwide Chinese New Year is set in tradition. Houses are cleaned to a fare-thee-well and decorated with flowers. A trip to the flower market is essential especially to get a kumquat or tangerine tree, which would be like a Christmas tree in the Western world. Kumquats and tangerines are considered symbols of good luck because they are golden, the color that signifies money. The word for tangerine in Chinese has the same sound as the Chinese word for “luck”. The most common flower for Chinese New Year is the narcissus. If it blossoms on New Year’s Day, it is an indication of good fortune. Every facet of Chinese New Year has a special meaning.

Like Western holidays it is traditional for the whole family gather for a huge meal with fish being the most important food because the Chinese word for fish sounds like the word for abundance. During Chinese New Year it is traditional to give children red envelopes with money inside. These are called lai see envelopes which means “lucky.”

On New Year’s morning we awoke at the Langham Hotel to find a red silk bag on our doorknob filled with New Year goodies – traditional candies and gold covered chocolate coins. To usher in the year there was a Lion Dance in the lobby to bring good luck and happiness in the New Year. The Lion (two people in a lion costume) danced around to the beat of the large drums and clanging of the symbols. One of the most amazing aspect of the performance occurred when the Lion had to stand on his back legs and jump up to reach pieces of lettuce that were hanging from the high ceiling. The word lettuce sounds like money in Chinese. The Lion Dance was very loud, exciting, and concluded some amazing acrobatic movements. The Dance tradition been popular for over 1000 years and most neighborhoods have similar version.

Hong Kong hosts a magnificent parade, which can be watched in a traditional manner from the street, but we were lucky enough to get tickets for the finale. For more than an hour the marching and performing units paraded through the arena pausing to put on a short performance. There were floats and performing units doing their own traditional dances from many countries. The next night we joined thousands of people along the waterfront to watch the amazing fireworks.

Essentially all business comes to halt during Chinese New Year, which lasts well over a week. Even though there are many public celebrations, for the Chinese New Year’s week is a time for family and for some the only vacation of the year, therefore everyone tries to be with their family. We felt especially fortunate to be able to ring in the new year twice – once in the US and once in Hong Kong.

January 26, 2009 begins the Year of the Ox, 4707 according to the Chinese New Year. The ox is a symbol of growth and stability.

Kung hei fat choy! Happy Chinese New Year!

For more information:

First Day of the Year of the Ox falls on 1/26/2009.
2009 is the Year of the Ox, which is also known by its formal name of Ji Chou.
Chinese New Year on Wikipedia

About the author:
Sandra Scott is a retired history teacher and the co-author of two local history books. Scott has been traveling worldwide and writing about her travels since 1990. Her retired husband, John, is her traveling/writing partner. Their travels have taken them to over 100 countries, some several times. Along with several columns, their work has appeared in a variety of publications worldwide.
www.sanscott.com

All photos are by Sandra Scott.

Mysteries of the Hangzhou Night Market

Hangzhou, China

by Rick Neal

A whiff of spicy, fried dumplings and the hum of human voices tell me that I’m close to the downtown night market in Hangzhou, China. I turn a corner and witness swarms of people jostling around a vast array of merchandise strewn across ramshackle, wooden tables. The crowds continue down the road as far as I can see. Undeterred by the cold drizzle, buyers and sellers shriek at each other as they plead, beg, and bargain. Multi-coloured hanging lamps lend the place a surreal atmosphere.

It is the low season for tourism, so other than myself there are only a few westerners out this evening. Vendors beckon with cries of “Hello, hello!” and “CD, DVD!” They are relentless, thrusting cracked plates and crumbling vases in my face as they scream, “Ming Dynasty!”

The downtown night market is the largest of several that appear every evening around Hangzhou, a city of six million situated about two hundred kilometers south of Shanghai. The stalls are loaded with enticing jumbles of collectibles along with the usual clothing, electronics, and houseware items found at other night markets. Pewter incense burners, ancient brass padlocks, and clunky old cameras compete with silk pyjamas, cooking utensils, and pirated CDs. None of it is really antique, but if you’re prepared to haggle you can pick up an unusual keepsake for the price of a dozen pot stickers.

I had ventured out that evening in search of two items: a birthday present for my sister and a wallet for myself.

After an hour of pushing and shoving among the chaotic stalls, I find what I seek: a pile of wallets crammed between a mound of padded bras and stacks of bootleg Austin Powers DVDs. I inspect a black leather model with a “Pierre Cardin” label. I’m pretty sure it’s a knockoff, but the quality looks decent.

“Best quality, best price,” a tall, willowy man croaks from across the table.

I coolly examine the wallet. Finally, I ask him the price. “Duo shao qian?”

He looks a bit surprised by my Chinese, but answers in English. “One hundred thirty renminbi.”

His asking price is twenty-five dollars. If I was a tourist I may have thought this was fair value. But I’m not a tourist. I’m a resident. I’ve recently begun a one-year stint as an ESL teacher. Earlier this evening my co-workers had warned me about the Chinese bartering system. They said that the price quoted to a foreigner is usually four times what is asked from a local. After several minutes of haggling the unsuspecting tourist negotiates a sum twenty percent lower and walks away thinking they have scored a bargain.

With this in mind, I retort, “ San shi kwai.” I’ve offered thirty renminbi, less than a quarter of what he’s asking.

“Ah!” he yelps, recoiling like I’d kicked him in the crotch. He folds his arms and mutters something unintelligible.

He makes a game effort to look offended. His lower lip trembles. He throws an old pocket watch and some fridge magnets on the table in front of me. “These thirty kwai,” he snorts.

It’s my turn to be indignant. I slam the wallet on the table, shake my head, and then walk away.

I’ve gone no more than twenty feet when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

“Okay. Thirty kwai, no problem.” He smiles and nods, as if our previous conversation had been a big misunderstanding.

I return to the stall and pay for my wallet. As I count out three faded ten renminbi notes I can’t resist feeling proud. I’ve stood my ground and won. And I’ve picked up a genuinely fake Pierre Cardin wallet for five bucks.

Buoyed by my shopping triumph, I pick up a bag of steamed pork dumplings from a street vendor and move on in search of something for my sister. A nearby stall looks intriguing. Amongst the clutter of goods are rusty tobacco boxes, wooden statues of goddesses, and worn ivory chopsticks. It looks like the vendor, a squat, older man, has cleaned out the family chest and put the best – or maybe this is the worst of it – up for sale.

He smiles and holds up a glass perfume jar. “This very old! Early Qing dynasty! Two hundred kwai! Okay?”

At second glance I realize that he isn’t overweight. His clothes make him look that way. Everything he wears – his frayed turtleneck sweater, his stained, blue jacket, even his sneakers – are too large for his slight frame. With his wide grin and wire-rimmed glasses he looks like the Dalai Lama.

He nods anxiously. His manner is less aggressive than the other hawkers but none of his merchandise appeals to me. I shrug and walk away, disappointed that I can’t do business with this precocious little man.

To my surprise he runs after me, touches my arm, and then scampers over to the alleyway entrance behind his stall. He turns and motions for me to follow. “Come, please!” he pleads, “Come, look! No problem!”

At first I wonder if he’s trying to lead me into an ambush, where his friends are waiting to rob me. I decide he’s too affable for something so sinister.

Maybe I’m being enticed into a smoke-filled opium den where Chinese drug lords play Mahjong and sexy Chinese girls wear qi paos – satin dresses with slits up the side. My curiosity gets the better of me. I follow him into the murky alley.

He scurries a few feet ahead, looking back every few seconds. Overflowing, stinking garbage cans line the alley walls. A rat darts from behind one, nearly touching my shoe. It starts to rain harder.

We come to a rotting, wooden door. My guide raps on it and hisses something through a narrow crack. A female-sounding voice answers shrilly. The door opens with a creak. He turns and motions for me to enter.

I step inside a small, musty room. The temperature is scarcely warmer than it is outside. A dim light bulb hangs from the center of the ceiling. A rickety table and chairs serve as the only furniture.

In a second room an old woman crouches over a hotplate. A cigarette dangles from her mouth. I recognize the pungent smell and sound of sizzling pork. She pays us no attention. Tinny-sounding music screeches from an unseen radio.

My host (who tells me his name is Mister Lu) brings a tiny, cardboard box from the other room and places it on the table. He opens it carefully, producing an object wrapped in old, yellowed newspaper. I can see his breath as he removes the paper to reveal a small, cracked vase decorated in blue Chinese characters. He offers me the vase. “Ming dynasty,” he whispers.

I grasp it cautiously, turning it over several times. The cracks extend over its surface; their uniformity suggests they were part of the original design, but whether they were made intentionally or not they add to its allure. I have no idea as to its age but I doubt that it’s Ming dynasty. Whatever it’s origin, it is indeed a thing of beauty.

I return the vase to the table. “Duo shao qian?” I inquire.

Mister Lu clasps his hands, grinning and jiggling like a bobble-head. “Two thousand American money.”

I laugh. I have no idea what the vase is worth but I know that his first price will be nowhere near his best.

He twitters like a shy schoolgirl. “Sorry, sorry. Two thousand Chinese money.” He has dropped his price by eighty percent.

I pick up the vase and feign another inspection while I consider my options. If this is an elaborate ruse that he stages nightly he has gone to a great deal of trouble. It’s possible that he really has pulled it from the family chest or even that it’s stolen. Still, I’m not about to lay out four hundred dollars for something that may be worthless. I also worry about getting it out of the country if it is genuine.

“Wo mingtian lai,” I tell him. “Wo mingtian lai wo pengyou.” I’ve told him that I will return tomorrow with a friend.

The next day I relate my encounter with Mister Lu to a Chinese co-worker, Ling. She agrees to return with me after her class that evening.

The night market is already winding down when we arrive. Many vendors are boxing up their unsold products and folding their tables. I lead Ling to the spot where I first encountered Mister Lu, but his table has vanished. We then proceed down the damp alley to the decaying, wooden door I had passed through the previous evening. I knock loudly but there is no answer.

Dejected, I return to the night market, which is now nearly deserted. The coloured lights are gone. Dimly illuminated by a single street lamp, the shimmering road now looks like any other street in Hangzhou.

If You Go:

China Guide: Hangzhou Travel Guide

Private Hangzhou City Tour

The Mostly Recommended Hangzhou City Tour with Authentic Lunch

Eat Like A Local – Hangzhou Night Food Tour

How to get There:
Hangzhou has an airport, but most tourists arrive by train from Shanghai, 150 kms. to the northeast. Speedy trains make the frequent journey to Hangzhou’s impressive new station in about two hours.

When To Go:
The summer months see the largest number of tourists, even thought the weather is unbearably hot and humid. Winters tend to be cold and wet, while Spring and autumn usually offer ideal dry and temperate conditions.

Things To See:

West Lake:
For the Chinese, West Lake is one of China’s most famous tourist attractions. Hordes of tour groups from all over the country descend upon this 3 km. long man-made lake that has become the symbol of Hangzhou. Well manicured gardens and pavilions that are scattered around the lake make for a pleasant daytrip. Early morning is an ideal time to visit, when hundreds of locals converge there to practise tai chi.

Lingyin Temple:
This Buddhist temple, that was originally built in 326 AD, has been destroyed and rebuilt 16 times. Today’s structures are restorations of Qing dynasty buildings. The most impressive is the Great Hall, where you’ll find an imposing 20m-high statue of Siddharta Gautama. Don’t forget to light a stick of incense and say a prayer at the hall entrance.

Places to Eat:
Laiwailou Caiguan is right across the street from West Lake. Famous for its poached fish in sweet vinegar sauce, prices are reasonable if you avoid the really fancy dishes. For cheap eats, check out Yanan Lu near the night market for tasty local cuisine. The Hangzhou and Yintai department stores, located downtown, both have excellent food courts on their upper levels.

About the author:
Rick Neal is a free-lance writer who lives in Vancouver, Canada. He writes short fiction and travel stories. He’s travelled to China, Mexico, Central America, Turkey, and Europe. His dream is to someday write the great Canadian novel.

Photo credits:
Hefang street Hangzhou by David Stanley via Flickr
Chinese night market by Bonkers The Clown / CC BY-SA
Chinese dumplings by Jason Goh from Pixabay
Hangzhou streets by Rick Neal

Confronting Horror: Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum

Phnom Penh, Cambodia

by Lee Beavington

Rusted barbed wire crowns the two walls that enclose the dilapidated school. A few Cambodians stand outside the only entrance. One is on crutches; he holds a cap for change, his leg amputated above the knee. Most tourists walk by without a second glance, lost in their own dismay, having witnessed far worse than the carnage caused by forgotten land mines.

In 1975, the insurgent Khmer Rouge seized the capital, Phnom Penh, and with it the entire country. They restarted the calendar (calling it Year Zero), abolished currency, split up families, and enslaved everyone – including children, the elderly and the infirm – into 15-hour-a-day labour. During the three years, eight months, and twenty-one days they were in power, an estimated two million Cambodians lost their lives from starvation, overwork or execution. Twenty thousand of those were caged within these institutional walls, the school that came to be known as Tuol Sleng, or Security Prison 21.

To visit a country and not pay respect to their people, and what they have gone through, seems somehow discourteous. Too often tourists are armed only with a camera and a long itinerary, and I am determined to do more than conquer Angkor Wat and flee home with a full memory card. Many people flash photos inside Tuol Sleng, ghastly mementos of conditions that would make concentration camps seem almost agreeable in comparison. I take only one shot–so I will not forget.

The first set of classrooms turned prison cells includes iron barred windows, and a single bed with an attached shackle. A blown-up photo of a dead Cambodian, barely recognizable as a human, rests hauntingly above the bed. The very educators that worked in this room as teachers were incarcerated in these hellish conditions. And when they died, in a final act of grievous disrespect, a photo was taken of their emaciated, bloodied body.

Engineers, ministers, farmers, diplomats, even monks were brought here. Interrogated and tortured, they were coerced to follow nine strict rules, including Do nothing. Sit still and wait for my orders and While getting lashes or electrification you must not cry at all. The unfortunate survivors were taken to the Killing Fields outside Phnom Penh and forced at gun point to dig their own graves.

In the school courtyard stands a set of high bars with rope where children did their exercises. Except the Khmer Rouge used it to hang people upside down until they lost consciousness, and then plunged their heads underwater. A playground converted into a gallows.

One exhibit in particular brings me to stunned silence. The room has photos of every victim, a casualty catalogue meticulously recorded by the Khmer Rouge. Each board displays hundreds of black and white photos, arranged like a giant checkerboard–thousands stretch from one room to the next. My girlfriend barely crosses the threshold before seeking sanctuary in the courtyard, too distraught to continue. I console her and then return in stubborn determination. To do what, I’m not sure. But I need to see what these people have seen, even if I can only manage a small glimpse, in the hopes of finding some sense of understanding.

Vacant stares from eyes that witnessed daily horrors follow me as I venture sluggishly around the first room. I move from one dire face to the next: hollow, gaunt, not an ounce of spirit remaining in the shadowed windows of their eyes. Each person bears a numbered necklace, a way for the Khmer Rouge to keep track of every victim. I feel like a scientist, an objective and impartial observer of Cambodian history. Purely a defensive mechanism to keep my emotions at bay, for I know how easily I could be overwhelmed.

From the corner a woman emerges, tears streaming behind the hand on her cheek. I approach the area with trepidation, wondering what greater horror I will find. I move around one display to another. A hundred sets of eyes gaze back at me, their colour and light gone. And yet each seems to be screaming: why? My heart bursts, unable to contain its sorrow and despondency any longer. Tears unashamedly fall, heavy and full. I cannot understand.

Children fill the entire board. One photo after another; a boy that just entered teenagehood; a pre-pubescent girl; countless other toddlers younger than my own nephews. In fact, two thousand children were killed at Tuol Sleng. In the school where they had come to learn, to feel safe, to play in the courtyard, they were instead separated from their families, shackled, tortured, and murdered.

I flee from the room, not with remorse, but with a rising nausea originating from incredulous disbelief. The neighbouring rooms offer no solace, photos of joyless mothers clutching babies to their shrunken breasts, naked men with protruding hip bones. Those little eyes follow me wherever I go, begging, pleading, surrendering. Why?

As I step stoically from classroom to classroom, floor to floor, building to building, my body becomes numb. I see cells made of hastily stacked bricks, walls with layered bloodstains, interrogation rooms with torture devices at which even the most hardened would cringe. Yet I stumble across one alcove of comfort, one place where no tainted remnant of the Khmer Rouge lingers.

Hidden underneath a staircase is a wall of colourful graffiti. Words are scribbled in pencil, pen, or whatever else visitors to the genocide museum had with them.

Never again.

Give peace a chance.

God is love.

It’s not common to find refuge in graffiti, let alone proclamations of hope and faith. But here, in one corner of the former school, are overwhelmingly positive affirmations. I breathe in the soul-lifting messages like a deep-sea diver who has come up for air.

Not all responses are so gracious. One of the most disheartening sights comes towards the end of my gloomy tour. I discover more graffiti, this time on framed photos of members of the Khmer Rouge. One can understand the survivors’ anger – utter hatred – at a regime that eradicated one-fifth of the country’s population. Yet even the men and women whose association with the Khmer Rouge was questionable are defaced by the bold markings of outraged Cambodians.

I go back to the courtyard and find my girlfriend. While we sit in silence, the couple beside us begins to argue. Their words escalate in a petty dispute about itinerary. I can’t help but think, hate breeds hate. If one cannot forgive, then hate endures.

In my visit to Cambodia, I truly cherished the kind-hearted people and their cheerful smiles. Despite living impoverished lives, with polluted water, diminutive houses that sleep dozens, back country littered with land mines, and where a good day is marked by having three meals, they never failed to greet me with generosity and warmth. Tuol Sleng revealed two extremes of the nature of our species: how the power of a misguided few is capable of producing great evil, and the strength of the human spirit in overcoming unspeakable atrocities. Cambodians struggled through a horrendous 20th century, with occupations by nearly every neighbouring country, covert carpet-bombing by US forces for four years, and devastating famine following the Khmer Rouge regime. They have persevered through it all.

If there is one thing I can now understand, it is the smile on the face of every Cambodian.

If You Go:

Tuol Sleng is located in Cambodia’s capital, Phnom Penh. A visit is not for the faint of heart. You must be centered and strong. Be prepared for illustrations of gruesome torture techniques and cabinets full of human skulls. Entrance fee is minimal. Beggars often congregate outside the former school’s entrance. Donations are currently being sought to help preserve the site. When inside, you are asked to refrain from making noise, and to “be concentrated spiritually and physically in order to pay respect to the souls of victims.”

Private Full Day Phnom Penh City Tour
Phnom Penh Highlights
Half-Day Phnom Penh Food Tour

About the author:
Lee Beavington works in biology, toils in writing, swings in dance, dabbles in Buddhism, revels in travel, and specializes in being. His novella, “Evolution’s End”, was published in Writers of the Future XXII. The curious can find out more at www.leebeavington.com. Read his weekly 100-word bioflash!

Photo Credits:
Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum exterior by Clay Gilliland / CC BY-SA
Torture room by Paul Mannix / CC BY
Photos of genocide victims by Christian Haugan via Flickr
Cambodian family by kolibri5 from Pixabay

Rishikesh, India: Neelkanth Mahadev Temple

Rendezvous with Blue-Throat

by Nayna Chakrabarty

My mission was not a covert operation. It was supposed to take place in an open arena, thronged with people. “The exchange has to take place from within” were the explicit orders. And I had given my word. Backing out would be – Let’s not get into that. Before I get into the details of this mission, let me fill you in with some background.

My brush with India was at a superficial level. The world perceives India as a mystical nation-a country of snake charmers, yogis and spicy food. But in this cauldron of various cultures, languages and traditions lies deep within a connection with spirituality. The source of Hindu beliefs goes back centuries where sages wrote down the real Hindu way of life. It’s true; not all Hindus today follow the original doctrine but its tainted versions which are disillusioned with glittering, neon lights of modern thinking.

Truly, the outsiders find Hinduism confusing and often wonder “Is there something that these people don’t pray to?” They have thirty-three million gods and goddesses and still know how each should be revered. Temples of India are the gateway of preserving and understanding the real culture. Their temples are not just monuments defined by a dynasty to show off its grandeur but each has a history that is dedicated and honored to various deities.

Another unique feature of Hindu temples are that many of them do not house man-made idols but they have been formed because God came down on earth. Pure devotion and earnest chantings of devotees had melted the Lord’s heart. He was forced to descend and left his essence behind which have been made into places of worship.

The meeting place for this mission was going to be in one such temple located in Rishikesh, Uttaranchal, India. Lord Shiva, the lord of destruction resides here. He is one of the trinity of gods which defines the Hindu Dharma. Lord Shiva is easily pleased by slightest of devoutness and reverence. He cannot see his devotees suffer and this is the reason behind this temple’s origin.

Several epochs ago, the churning of the ocean, Samudra Manthan was much needed to derive the divine nectar or ambrosia. As the churning started, mystical beings began to surface like Kamadhenu, the wish-fulfilling cow; Kaustubhamani, a rare gemstone; Kalpavriksha, the wish-fulfilling tree and many other heavenly objects. Suddenly, a poison called Halahal was hurled out. The gods were distressed. The magnitude of this poison was tremendous. If it was not controlled then it would destroy mankind. Lord Shiva resolved this crisis. He drank it.

He did not swallow it but let it remain in his throat. The powerful venom turned his throat blue. The Lord Shiva came to Rishikesh to rest. Several gods tried to cool off the strong aftermath of the poison and finally decided to pour water on his head. This is one of the reasons why devotees even today, offer water to the Lord as a part of their worship.

After several years of rest and meditation, Lord Shiva took out the poison from his throat, left it on the mountain and returned to his abode, Mount Kailash (above), in the Himalayas. A temple was constructed around this and became popular as Neelkanth Mahadev. Neel means the color blue, Kanth is throat and Mahadev denotes Shiva as the Lord of the gods.

The road to my rendezvous point is a mountainous height of 1675 meters. One side is high terrain and on the other is a steep drop into the pristine waters of the holy Ganges. Mortals who die here have a confirmed ticket to heaven.

I will drive to the temple, a scenic 32 kilometers. from Rishikesh via Barrage. As I approach my destination, tranquility embraces me; the gentle breeze comforts, and the gurgling, splashing sound of the river slows my heartbeats. The meaning of peace dawns into my being.

In the car park colorfully decorated stalls sell offerings for the deity. My offering plate consists of a sealed plastic glass of water from the Ganges, a box of incense, assorted white flowers, fruits like jujube and Dhatura (a thorny fruit), small piece of red veil with golden border and a photograph of Lord Shiva with the backdrop of the temple.

The approach to the temple is tunnel-like with narrow corridors lined with shops selling souvenirs like statues of various gods and goddesses, Rudrasha beads, and crystal necklaces.

The architecture of the temple is divine. The entire structure is layered with brightly colored idols which explain the legend of Lord Shiva. The gods are immaculately portrayed in the churning of the ocean and in the centre is Lord Shiva.

I join the queue and make my way to the inner sanctum. A life-sized idol of Shiva’s consort, goddess Parvati seated in her grandeur is placed near the entrance. Other devotees waited patiently, chanting the Lord’s name in unison. As I walk further inside, the air became cooler and its stillness gave instant gratification to my soul. The arena around the lingam (the symbol for the worship of Lord Shiva) is inlaid with marble. Intricately detailed etchings on the columns depict the guards or Dwarpals, standing tall with their weapons. Facing the Lord is his mount Nandi, the bull.

Finally, it is my turn to make my offerings. The lingam is encased in silver with an opening at the top so that it can be viewed. I pour the holy water and sit in awe.

I am really here, face to face, so close. Unbelievable.

The priest seated at the sanctum chants holy mantras and helps me complete my worship in the prescribed Vedic manner. He touches the photograph to the Lord’s form and gives it back to me as a blessing.

Behind the sanctum, is a Ficus Religiosa tree colloquially known as the Pipal tree. It is the oldest depicted tree in Indian art and literature. This is known as ‘World Tree’ or the ‘Tree Of Life.’ The roots are long and gangly, like veins combing out of a wrinkled skin. If only this ancient tree could talk it could unfold unfathomable mysteries.

The blessed photograph of Lord Shiva now stands on my mantle. Every time I see it, the grandeur of Neelkanth Mahadev flashes in front of my eyes. I truly believe that if we are sincere in our devotion, then the Lord allows us to come to such places of pilgrimage where we are able to experience the vibrations of his essence and derive the ability to enjoy eternal bliss. My mission has been a success.

Holy Tour To Kailash for 17 Days

If You Go:

The easiest access to Rishikesh is from Delhi. There are daily direct flights to Delhi from every city of India. From Delhi there are two options-by road or by train. If you travel by road, it takes around seven hours or more depending on the traffic. But this is the scenic route. There are two trains from Delhi, one in the morning and one in the afternoon which takes you to Haridwar. From Haridwar, it is around 45 minutes by road to Rishikesh. Taxis are readily available from Haridwar station to Rishikesh.

Private Tour: Ganga Aarti Hindu Ritual in Rishikesh Including Dinner
Rishikesh Private Spiritual Tour Including Lunch
Rishikesh Himalaya Tour Explore the Shiva Temple

About the author:
Nayna Chakrabarty’s writing is influenced by her experiences of travel, curiosity about the paranormal, fascination for adventure sports and illustrious legends. The desire to bring all of these experiences, intertwined into readable experiences, culminated in the publication of her past literary works. Her blog http://nayna.in/blog is a sneak preview of some of the unknown depths to which the human mind can delve into.

Photo credits:
Lord Shiva by Harikrishnan Mangayil from Pixabay
Mount Kailash by Jean-Marie Hullot / CC BY-SA
All other photos by Nayna Chakrabarty.

The Stunning Caves of Ajanta and Ellora

Aurangabad, Maharashtra, India

by Margaret Deefholts

Modern India preens itself as a slick, techno-savvy nation confidently brokering deals on international markets, and racing at top speed along the electronic superhighway. Its cities throb to the beat of Indo-jazz and its glamorous models strut the fashion runway in Bollywood style bling.

But beneath this sophisticated veneer lies another less strident India. One which has endured for centuries—a world of spiritual beliefs and mythology celebrated in an exuberance of cave paintings and temple monuments, spread across the subcontinent.

Just a couple of hours drive out of the busy town of Aurangabad (in the state of Maharashtra), I stand on a high bluff, looking down at a horseshoe shaped basalt cliff pockmarked with entrances to 29 caves (above). Ant-sized people crawl along a paved pathway and in the ravine far below, the Waghur river snakes through the jungle foliage. These are the Buddhist caves of Ajanta, built between 200 B.C. and 650 A.D. Lost to the world until 1819, it was a British Army officer, John Smith, who stumbled on them while on a hunting expedition in the area.

It is a sunny, but pleasantly cool weekend in mid-November when my guide Amod and I arrive at the Ajanta Tourist complex. The area is swarming with Indian holiday-makers—with just a few foreigners in their midst. En route to the spotlessly clean modern ticket office and bus depot, I shrug aside persistent touts selling garish postcards and Bollywood music CDs, but am sorely tempted to linger in a small craft bazaar with stalls displaying bright Indian shawls and readymade garments, jewellery, leather handbags and attractive curios. But time is of the essence so I hurry on.

To keep air pollution to the minimum, no private vehicles are allowed beyond this area. A green bus powered by natural gas, pants to a halt at the depot. A crowd materializes elbowing me aside as they claw and shove their way into the vehicle. I look at Amod and shrug as the bus lumbers out, packed to the rafters with babbling, excited Indians. He grins. “Leave it to me—I’ll get you onto the next one!” He’s as good as his word. He fights to the front of the seething mass of passengers, sits himself down and reserves a spot for me on the seat next to him. Getting off the bus at the foot of the caves, we walk through a landscaped garden rich with bougainvillea creepers and the scent of frangipani blossoms (above).

AJANTA CAVES

As I stand in the shadowy interior of the first cave, I’m reduced to stunned awe. The walls of the hall are a riot of murals that have endured in varying degrees of preservation over the millennia. At the far end of the room a statue of a benevolent Buddha gazes down at visitors. I’m riveted by what is probably the most photographed image in Ajanta, a painting of Bodhisattva Padmapani (left). The elegant prince, bedecked with pearls, holds an open lotus, signifying the awakening of the mystical inner self. With his golden skin, gentle smile and dreamy almond shaped eyes, he radiates a timeless serenity.

The word “buddha” means awakening (to enlightenment) and the Bodhisattvas whose images throng the walls of Ajanta’s caves are those aspiring to attain Buddhahood. Prince Siddharath Gautam, who achieved full spiritual enlightenment in the 6th century B.C. is the founder of Buddhism, and these caves were once inhabited by thousands of monks seeking to follow his eight-fold path of righteousness. Five of Ajanta’s caves were prayer or assembly halls enclosing stupas (symbolic representations of the Buddha); the rest were halls of residence. Buddhists, Jains and Hindus lived in harmony back then, and a great majority of Ajanta’s artistic masterpieces were created by under the patronage of a Hindu king Harishena who lived in the 5th century A.D.

The murals are painted with red, yellow and brown pigments derived from vegetable dyes and from powdered stones such as blue lapis lazuli. Unfortunately many of them are chipped and peeling, ravaged by time and weather. Yet for all that they rivet the eye. Mythical tales, unfurl across the walls, the scenes seething with movement and colour; royal processions of elephants and horses and oxen drawn carts, common folks in everyday attire, beautiful women, languorous lovers and stalwart warriors. The details are exquisite—the sheen of tiny pearls adorning a princess, and ceilings chequered with intricate flower motifs, birds and geometrical designs.

Above the confusion of people milling through the cave, and the chatter of a group of school children, Amod asks, “Can you guess how the artists would have created such beauty, working in these dark caves?” I shake my head. He fishes out a small mirror from his jacket pocket. “They used these,” he says. “Large mirrors were angled to reflect the sunlight pouring into the entrance of the caves.”

Even more astonishing is the fact that several caves were scooped out of the rock with hand held tools, working from the ceiling downwards. In the process, sculptors created free standing larger-than-life sized images of Buddha and detailed bas-relief friezes of worshippers and attendants along the walls.

On the twisting road heading back to the plains, Amod points out a site where a replica of the Ajanta caves is under construction. When completed in a year or two, it will offer cheap tickets for those who merely want to bring their families to romp through the pseudo caves and frolic around in a park setting. The result? Reduced traffic and environmental damage to the ancient site, and an opportunity for genuinely interested visitors to enjoy these extraordinary murals in an uncrowded, tranquil setting.

ELLORA CAVES

Not far from Ajanta, and about 30 km out of Aurangabad is another series of 34 man-made caves excavated from the rock face of the Charanandri hills. They came into existence between the 5th and 10th centuries AD, and although they bear little resemblance to Ajanta’s murals, they are no less astounding.

The caves, 12 of them Buddhist, 17 Hindu and 5 Jain, sprawl over a large area. It takes the better part of day to cover all of them on foot. Amod accompanies me to two of the Buddhist caves, and saves the third, the Hindu Kailasa temple, as the pièce de résistance of the tour. A balmy breeze kicks up small dust devils as we trudge past a series of dormitory caves used by the resident monks, and approach the Kailasa temple, courtyard. The entrance appears to be a modest portal flanked by two large stone elephants.

Amod watches me intently as we emerge onto the inner courtyard, and his face breaks into a huge grin, as my jaw literally drops. India’s wealth of temple carvings, dazzling as they may be, are so ubiquitous that after a while, one tends to become blasé. However, I’d defy even the most jaded traveller to be unimpressed by the extraordinary grandeur of the Kailasa Temple.

Imagine, if you will, over 7000 labourers excavating over 200,000 tons of rock face, with nothing more than hand held tools, to carve from the top down, a monumental central edifice 100 feet high, flanked by 60-foot free-standing pillars and huge elephants. The entire complex is perfectly symmetrical, so the 8th century architect would have planned its layout down to the last mathematical detail even before a single hammer hit virgin rock. It is a feat of engineering unequalled in India before or since. Not surprisingly it took 150 years to complete.

The Kailasa temple (right) is dedicated to the Hindu god Shiva whose abode in the high Himalayas is at Mount Kailash. Designed to resemble a chariot, the temple is in three parts: a dome-shaped sanctum enshrining a Shiva lingam (a phallus shaped stone symbolizing Shiva’s power), the main temple which is a large pillared hall, surmounted by four rampant lions, and a secondary smaller temple just above the main entrance.

I shade my eyes against the sun and crane my neck to look at the outer walls soaring three floors above me. Larger than life sized statues of gods stand sentinel on each corner of the main temple; every inch of the lower section is banded horizontally with rows of bas-relief figures taken from the great Indian epics, the Mahabharata and Ramayana. No room for error here as stone-masons and sculptors would have chiselled into rock face working from the top of the temple downwards to plinth level. Corridors are hewn into the hillside and flank a pedestrian corridor at ground level, but as Amod and I approach the back of the temple, we are dwarfed by an enormous rock overhang. It is squared away but remains an unsupported part of the parent cliff, and I can’t but feel a queasy sensation as I walk below it.

On our way out a little girl steps forward shyly and offers me a marigold flower. Her parents beam, and Amod takes a picture of me standing with the family. Behind us, sitting in the lotus position and tended by adoring elephants, is a large stone sculpture of Gajalakshmi, the goddess of wealth. She is a fitting symbol for the rich historic treasures of both Ajanta and Ellora.

If You Go:

Aurangabad Tours:

Aurangabad Private Tour: Ajanta And Ellora Caves Sightseeing Day Tour
Aurangabad Private 3-Day Tour with the Ajanta and Ellora Caves
Buddhist Caves of Ajanta Ellora
A Visit to the Fascinating Ellora Caves from Aurangabad
UNESCO’s Ajanta And Ellora Caves – A Two Night Heritage Immersion From Aurangabad With Private Transfers

Aurangabad: Accessible by air from Mumbai (45 minutes) and Delhi (3-1/2 hours). The 7-hour journey on board the air-conditioned chair-car on the Tapovan Express from Mumbai costs $10 and arrives mid afternoon. Where to Stay: $75 – $120 price range: The Taj Residency, the Hotel Ambassador Ajanta and Quality Inn The Meadows offer the best in comfort and amenities, but aren’t up to ultra luxurious standards.

Ajanta: Group, or individual tours to Ajanta (about 2 – 3 hours drive from Aurangabad) can be arranged at hotel travel desks, or through the India Tourism Development Corporation office in Aurangabad. Entry to Ajanta costs around $5. A private car and driver may be hired for the day at a cost of roughly $30. Private vehicles are not permitted beyond the Ajanta Tourist Complex; instead affordably priced “green” (natural gas) shuttle buses ply to and from the caves. There is a fair amount of climbing involved, but those unable to tackle several flights of steps may use the services of porters who carry people up in sedans. Negotiate rates ahead of time, and expect to pay around $12+ for four hours. Flash photography isn’t permitted and shoes need to be removed before entering some caves. The caves are very crowded on weekends and school holidays, and closed on Mondays.

Ellora: The Ellora caves are only 30 km from Aurangabad, but if covering all the caves, which are rather spread out, visitors are advised to hire a car and driver for the day. Entry costs $5.00. Ellora is closed on Tuesdays.

About the author:
Margaret Deefholts is an author (“Haunting India”) and an award-winning freelance travel writer and photographer. She is editor of Travel Writers’ Tales and a member of Travel Media Association of Canada and the B.C. Association of Travel Writers. While much of her focus is on the Indian subcontinent, she also writes about her adventures in Britain, Europe, Australia, the U.S. and Canada.
Web Site: http://www.margaretdeefholts-journeys.com
Contact: margaret.journeys@gmail.com

Photo credits:
First Ellora caves photo by VgBingi from Pixabay
All other photos are by Margaret Deefholts.