Cultures of Non-violence, and Blackflies

I have been enthralled by those Hindi and Buddhist adherents who would be aghast at killing even a cockroach. 

When I was on posting in Delhi, whenever the High Commission got too crazy with multitudinous political problems, I would take a three-wheeler down to the old city. I would wander the back streets of Chandni Chowk, and the alleyways that encircle the Red Fort. Early in my posting, during one of these rambles, I looked into a small Hindu temple, nestled in the very shadow of the Red Fort. 

In the main sanctum, before a small alter composed of images of gods and avatars (Hanuman, Shiva, Khrishna, Deva, and others I did not recognise) stood a beautiful bull, quietly chewing his cud. The Sishya (resident disciple of a Guru) greeted me in Hindi, and I responded in English. Through gestures, he invited me into his quarters, a single room behind the sanctum proper. 

The furniture consisted of a small cot, hot plate, and fan. Several pictures of his Guru adorned the sand-coloured walls. An older woman appeared to make strong milky coffee for us. This she served with powdered cardamom sprinkled on top. About a dozen men were seated on the floor, smoking pungent Indian cigarettes, and occasionally passing around a chillum (funnel-shaped clay pipe) filled with a mixture of tobacco and charas, a form of hashish (which I later learned came from the mountainous area around Hrishikesh). 

A sidenote at this point: it appears that the temple was dedicated to, and the Sishya an adherent of,  Shaivism (in which, simple put, Shiva (Siva) is the main deity). Many devotees of Shaivism use hashish to enhance their religious experience, and, supposedly, to see more clearly their path through this incarnation. This was the heyday of the American War on Drugs, but I refused to take the view that these gentlemen were drug addicts, intent on getting stoned and dangerous. 

Some of the Sishya's backroom guests fortunately spoke English, and I was able, over the next three years, to learn much about their religion, and practices. Crossing the floor was a column of large black ants, with massive mandibles. They were about 3 cm long, and looked extremely aggressive. I asked a man next to me why they didn't get rid of the ants. He laughed, and spoke at length to the Sishya, who also laughed. The man then explained to me, as to a child, that the ants, as well as Sahib, our Canadian guest, has reason to seek the refuge of Shiva's temple, and may well be atoning for evils accumulated in a previous existence. Hence, he continued, we do not kill our brothers. 

Works for me, although mosquitoes and blackflies have sinned far too much in previous lives, so I hurry them on to their next incarnation with much glee. 


Peace, and namaste

Bucharest Spring: 1982

Strains of gypsy violins
floated, in aural rhapsody,
on the sumac scented air
of Floreasca Park.
Other lovers
also strolled,
but we were elsewhere-
a place out of time,
where we existed
     only in our eyes.

Cherry blossoms burst
in vernal excitement
in the gardens
of the old Bucur Restaurant.
The open window
by our mezzanine table
with its guttering candle,
admitted a subtle miasma
that focussed our world
     to this eternal moment.

The rain-washed cobbles
of Calea Victoriei
echoed reflected fairy lights,
illuminating the enchanted night.
The Arcul de Triomphe
loomed from the mist,
a monumental signpost
on the magical journey
that would lead us, spell-bound,
     into our shared future.

Beijing Morning

                 

The dragon awakes. Stretching,
with a rattle of scales, he yawns.
The sun, rising
in the east, is red.*

At seven in the morning
the Imperial City is alive
beneath the lifting night shroud
of coal smoke
Japanese cars have replaced
ten million bicycles.

The stone lions keep watch
over Tien-an-min;
in their snarls, surprise
at Chang’An traffic.
The masses sport Gucci,
Dior, where once blue ruled.
Hot breads, tea, and tai chi
still prevail.

In the Western Hills
the Buddhas watch, bells tinkling,
a delayed Industrial Revolution
struggling, growing.

In the compounds and factories
where once loudspeakers preached
Party lines, headlines in low fidelity,
CD stereos play.
MTV replaces the Red Book.
Children march in day care centres:
sailing the educational seas
no longer depends on the Helmsman.*

The dragon,
eyes weak with sleep,
cannot yet see beyond his lair.
Hunger rumbles in his vitals,
and soon he must roam
beyond his hills.

—James D. Fanning
* In the 1960s and early 70s, two of the songs heard most frequently over public loudspeakers throughout China were The East Is Red, and, Sailing the Seas Depends on the Helmsman (a reference, of course, to Chairman Mao). jdf

Abu Dhabi Mosaic

The Corniche skirts
the bath-warm waters of the Gulf,
jewelled with elegant,
pristine office towers
that caress
a sere and scorching sky.
Mercedes and Lexus,
adorned with gold-plate trim,
sedately chauffeur
the descendants of the Bani Yas
through what, only a few decades past,
was a collection of tents
and mud huts
sprinkled across
the unforgiving sand.

At the Gold Souk
black-garbed women seek
golden adornment
that will remain hidden
beneath voluminous abbaya,
while their dark and canny eyes
flash through gold-threaded
full facial masks.

At the Sheridan,
a doorman folds back massive doors
that permit access
to yet another gold-plated Merc.
The occupant joins colleague
on an arrangement of embroidered cushions
on the marble floor
of the air-conditioned lobby.
A brazier of coals heats coffee
offered in traditional and ancient
desert hospitality.

Sparkling new pickup trucks
transport contemptuous dromedaries
whose racing skills will be tested
at the evening camel races.
To the south the hypnotic dunes
march relentlessly towards
the Rub al-Khali, the Empty Quarter,
where hides Uban,
the fabled lost city of Arabia,
beneath its timeless sands.

A Drive to Tangalle Bay

The road from Colombo,
an olfactory hallucination,
ambles south
in a cloud of curry spice,
the saline scent of breaking surf,
and the humble miasma
of coir,
drying in the sun.

Past the neo-hippie haven
of Hikkaduwa,
jewelled with topless bathers,
glass-bottomed boats,
and the elusive, sweet,
suggestion of cannabis
on the warm breeze.

Through the old Dutch fort
of Galle,
roadside vendors
offer drinking coconuts,
hot samosas,
and tasty, dark
jaggery fudge,
made with palm sugar.

Buddhist temples
and images
sprinkle villages
with sanctuaries of calm
and contemplation:
respite from the wave
of tourists
who somehow impart
a garish patina of crassness
upon this gentle land.

At night,
from Tangalle Bay,
stars cascade
into a southern sea,
and are answered
by the bobbing lanterns
of night fishermen
in outrigger dugouts.
Mature waves break
on sandy shingle,
while their kindred march,
unimpeded,
to Antarctica,
eight thousand miles away.

Gaia's Dream

The Goddess dreams:
     they swirl like clouds
     of dark matter
     filling cosmic emptiness
     with something unknown,
     but profound.

Her children have long deserted her
     to create new,
     invisible gods
     with commandments
     more lenient,
     less stringent,
     absolute and terrifying,
     than hers.

We poison her seas,
     foul her air,
     soil her earth.
     We strip her foliage,
     kill her beasts,
     plunder her resources
     with no thought,
          no thanks,
          no care.

The Goddess dreams;
     a violent dream
     of punishment,
     of decimation,
     in which she waits
     in barren, airless splendour
     until her time is,
     again.

Shiva's Essence

Shiva’s Essence

The early-morning train, scudding across the flat dawn landscape, was something out of a latter-day Raj. Patches of green, fields of cane and rice in all stages of growth, alternating with the drab dun and ochre colours of the huts and shacks, combined in a complex and exotic mosaic. The train containing the time-travellers passed through an alien landscape for which no travel yet experienced had prepared us. The sight of multitudes of individuals squatting beside the tracks voiding their bowels made one query whether the country had been given a collective purgative. Our family group was en route to three days and two nights at a whitewater rafting camp on the upper Ganga (Ganges) River. I was a officer of the Canadian Department of Foreign Affairs and International Trade, working as Senior Systems Administrator at the Canadian High Commission in New Delhi. My wife, Terry, was Personal Assistant to the Economics Counsellor. Our son, Geoffrey, was seven and our daughter, Siobhan, was three. Our friend and ayah, Venus, whom we brought from Guyana for our tour in India, was with us to keep an eye on Geoff and Siobhan, while mummy and daddy do crazy things in a rubber raft.

Geoff’s questions punctuated the visual tapestry. My neck was sore from its’ constant bias toward the window, and I had discovered that I was keeping my breathing shallow in an unconscious tribute to the majesty and timelessness of the scenes outside. Dusty country roads are populated by water buffalo and Gandhi impersonators wearing longhis and riding ancient bicycles that seem as old as the time-worn landscape. Women, in colours as bright and surreal as a Ken Kesey acid flashback, spot the rice paddies and the cane fields, gathering an eternal harvest untouched by northern seasons. Small handmade clay smokestacks belch clouds of grey smoke, while within their warm wombs simple bricks bake and dream of reincarnation as yet another hovel. Trestles cross rivers whose banks are alive with yet more butterfly saris, their wearers pounding piles of laundry washed in mud-brown waters against the patient rocks. Scabrous stray dogs fight, forage, and procreate oblivious to their surroundings. Happy children play naked amongst the filth, with their future sex not yet determined: only later would they assume their preordained roles and take their places in the eternal struggle (or is it perhaps the eternal celebration?) that is India.

That afternoon we were introduced to the holy Ganga River where it flows through the sacred town of Haridwar. Hindu mythology has it that the Ganga springs from Shiva’s head while he sleeps in the Himalayas. Outside of the railway station at Haridwar, a fountain depicts this. Geoff wonders why Shiva is blue. Reflecting upon this variation on the Daddy-why-is-the-sky-blue? theme, I answer that it was to distinguish him from mortals. Shiva’s dreams would later transform, for us, into a nightmarish cascading maelstrom into which we would be voluntarily swept. Not just once, but many times!

The first day started with our young guide, Clayton, a 23-year-old New Zealander, giving us our briefing (caveat emptor!) And training us on survival techniques and what to do while IN the water! Our raft group is diverse, not to say eclectic, ranging from a British banker to an Indian university student. With the exception of the banker and his 14-year-old son, none of us had any rafting experience. At this point I had absolutely no intimation of what was to come. Sure, I reasoned, it’s whitewater rafting, but the “white” part surely must refer to several sets of rather small rapids picked out especially to give each raftload of novices a shiver of excitement and anticipation without any actual danger! So much for my flawed and naive reasoning.

The rapids over the first day’s thirteen kilometre stretch from our campsite to Rishikesh, were frightening, but we all managed to cling tenuously to our existence, personified by a 12-foot patch of feeble blue rubber. Joy at safely transiting one stretch of insane water quickly gave way to full realization that our collective folly was not yet complete. The soles of my feet developed a Crazy-Glue-like substance that kept me bonded with the bottom of the raft. My mind constantly reviewed my life, and I believe I entered a state of fear-induced Nirvana, becoming one mentally with the river with which I was certain of becoming one physically. Geoff joined us for the gentler bits, and I rejoiced at seeing my son again after our trial by water.

Rishikesh (Hrishikesh) is a holy town on the Ganga, populated by guesthouse owners, pilgrims, neo-hippies, and holy men (sadhus). It is perched upon the sides of Himalayan foothills, and is a cacophony of sight, sound, and scents. The sweet smell of hashish and incense hung over the town like a benediction. This was where the Beatles and Donovan came to study with the Maharishi. As is my custom, I perused the faces of those denizens of Rishikesh whom we passed in our diesel-fume-filled carriage, and tried to imagine what strange vistas their insane and staring eyes beheld! Were their mental universes populated by the gods on whom the garish temple images were modelled? If that were the case, little wonder that they dedicate their lives to serving these gods! As an aside, I do muse on the fact that, unlike Christian artists depicting the different and varied faces of Christ, ALL the millions of images and statues of Shiva, Krishna, Hanuman, Vishnu et al, are constant in their representations. Is this meant to divulge to us some universal truth? Who, in fact, are the pagans?

The second day on the river we started by busing twenty kilometres up the river. We had been told that we would be going through such ordeals as Daniel’s Dip, and the Wall. Oh good. What strange, wondrous and distant drums could prompt a man of 55 well-lived years to do this testosterone motivated, male-ego building, death-wish fulfilling river thing! Feeling that his crew was experienced enough, our guide decided to take us through each set of rapids the hard way. Although we appreciated his confidence in us, I suspected that his decision was based on wanting a bit of excitement himself, rather than feeling complete trust in the virtuosity of his crew. We paddled on.

The feeling of approaching a geographic feature that roars and leaps high into the air while passing in a dizzying foam-drenched rush through cliffs of granite, and is possessed of hidden eddies that can suck one down to the jagged rocks just beneath the surface, can only be described as a controlled terror. First the noise, then the increasing speed of the river, and then the rapids, hidden from view until it is too late to scream “noooo!,”suddenly are before and below us, tossing spumes of white water three metres into the air! When you are committed (a word I use advisedly) to the rapids, thought is suspended and placed into a wet, white, noisy place where the taste of fear is the taste of the Ganga. Paddling furiously in response to the fervent exhortations of our guide, we are tossed into a washing machine from hell. The stern of the raft goes down and suddenly is at a 45-degree angle behind and below me. The entire raft rushes toward a rock wall while we assume a tilt of 40 degrees on our axis: nothing exists but the mad, fear-induced digging of the paddles, while the psychotic river attempts to wrench them from our puny grasps.

Daniel’s Dip claims two casualties. Terry gets hit in the nose by something unseen (a river sprite!), causing a brief nosebleed, while Clayton bashes himself in the mouth with his paddle, which does nothing to enhance our faith in him as the omnipotent guide: if this can happen to him, what, pray, might happen to lesser mortals?

A peaceful hiatus while our puerile comrades in the two other rafts enjoy themselves by splashing each other! A return to the safety of childhood prompted by the trauma of water psychoses. We feel smugly superior to them, as we took the more difficult routes through Daniel’s Dip and the preceding rapids, while they took the easy way. In our raft each of us is quiet and contemplative, reflecting on our feelings as we went through Daniel’s Dip. A certain inner peace descends upon each of us, perhaps as a result of the incredible adrenaline rush we had all experienced just minutes ago.

Like a visit from psychic forerunner, the Pink Floyd tune “The Wall” gives me mental goose bumps, and plays non-stop in my head. In the distance the sound of the Wall dominates all, reducing the mountains to insignificance, dulling the sunlight into insane rainbows, and forcing us all to see the river as though for the first time. Our senses focus, awareness is heightened, and our hearts provide the sluggish yet pervasive bass beat demanded by the Wall’s psychopathic symphony. We round a bend, and there, in front of us and dropping rapidly as it rushes by a solid rock face, is our Nemesis, the Wall.

The controlled terror that I feel shifts into high gear, and my entire existence to this point is focussed upon Clayton’s voice, screaming at us to “paddle, paddle, paddle!” Time stops. The feeling possesses me that an oar has broken the right lens from my sun glasses, will the river suck the moccasins from my feet as a token tithe demanded by the unforgiving river gods? I MUST start swimming to the shore, else be shredded against the cliff face. I am on my back looking UP at the surface of the water. My oar, still in my hand, is being buffeted by the angry river. Surfacing, I see an oar handle stretched toward me and I fight to reach it. Success! With no grace and a distinct lack of elegance, I am pulled aboard. Stunned and disoriented, I say to Terry, who was thrown across the raft into my seat, that I think I lost my sunglasses. They are still safe in my anorak pocket, and I have been through the Wall.

At night, the stars are only 10 feet overhead. The year is 1997, and the Hale-Bopp comet hovers slowly above the mountains, and all of us are affected by the cosmic majesty. Unseen trucks labour around the dark mountain roads high above our camp. The monkeys come down to explore the edges of the camp, while the children are afraid to pee in case they encounter a monkey while visiting the camp toilets. The campfire offers an ancient and symbolic protection against the forces of darkness, against the intrusion of the unknown, against the forces of Chaos. I feel strangely reborn, whether from surviving, or from drinking of Shiva’s essence from his holy river, I do not know. Yousef, the camp manager, plays an excellent guitar rendition of Pink Floyd’s “Shine on, You Crazy Diamond,” and Cat Steven’s “Moon Shadow”: he breaks into an old Robert Johnson-style blues number, and the spirit to the river moves me to sing my own ad hoc words for the riff, which the ranks of the river-initiated around the fire receive in kind approbation. I am alive. I am well. My long-quested state of peace and tranquillity is as near to me now as it will ever be.

Geoff talks to Venus all the way home. The excitement of living a childhood adventure drama has animated him as only video and computer games have done previously. From Haridwar to New Delhi railway station he stops only to swallow his train meals. Siobhan is tired, and is prevented from becoming cranky solely by the presence of her “blankie,” a faithful, if somewhat tattered blanket, and loyal companion and confidant since birth. Terry, Venus, and I continue to be impressed by the meals we receive on the train. It is fairly simple fare, but with exotic flavours and textures that enhance the experience for us. Excitement has found a fertile home in a young boy who has rafted on the holy Ganga. Exhaustion has wrapped in compelling arms a young girl who has played in sand ground by a sacred river from the Himalayas.

A midnight rain has polished the dusty streets of New Delhi as we drive home from the station. The children fall asleep quickly without the usual stories and songs. Terry saves her diary entry for the morrow. I do not sleep immediately, but savour an inner contentment that will stay with me as long as the memory of this experience lasts. I have drunk of Shiva’s essence. Part of the wonder and mystery that is India has become part of me, and I feel that I have gained something intangible that will enhance the remainder of my life.

Relativity

In a reality of the limitless space
of an expanding universe,
where galaxy sized clouds of dark matter
move at right angles
to logical expectation,
how unimportant is the fact
that the neighbour’s dog
defecates on my lawn?

Desert Campfire

Outside the myopic circle
of light,
the Range Rover crouches
like some cubist sculptor’s tribute
to the humped beasts
the vehicle seeks
to replace.

The stars, just inches overhead,
act as ancient signposts
to the fabled secrets
of the Rub al Khali,
“The Empty Quarter.”

The restless dunes
huddle close,
then sprint for the horizons
of a very different reality.

The sand, coaxed by the night breeze,
sings its abraded song,
of death, of renewal,
of eternal change.

Echoes

This is based on a lady I saw going through the airport a while back.


The youthful twinkle,
through rheumy eyes,
belies her hag’s body
that transports vibrant spirit
through dwindling days
of this long journey.

This same spirit broke hearts,
and caused her young men
hot and fevered dreams.
She walked with pride,
and the secure knowledge
of who she was
and what she could do.

Memories of birth, death,
tragedy and joy,
were behind her now,
and her eyes reflected
the person she once was,
and, to her,
would ever be.