Ohhh my Godd……
How can I forget this wonderful ride man !!!!!

Ganpatipule Temple

It was damn thrilling experience….. I seriously enjoyed click click during the journey.
Almost 700 Kms to n fro on bike….. we had left at 00:00 hrs sharp with 30330 Kms as ur bike meter reading on those amazing roads, mountains, fog, Western Ghats, Clean n clear sea water, white sand, gr8 resort, Ganpati Bappa, pure veg journey, sleeping on bike, Mahabaleshwar scenery, Mapro Cheezy Pizza n Strawberry Ice-Cream, those jelly candies, Panchgani n its famous schools, table land, n a lottt more…..

Me, Shantanu 'n' his Uni

Superb Roads across mountains

Going zoom oon Clean n clear ganpatipule sea beach

Ganpatipule- Mission Accomplished

The Road signs on Goa Highway are gr8….. They are so meaningful, (p.s.- until driver read them quickly & do not keep thinking over the meaning & forget the concentration)

Manacha Brake, Uttam Brake.
Ati Ghai, Jeev Ghei.
This is Highway, Not Runway.
Gaadi saawkash haaka.

A few stupid incidents to pen down here:
1. Went to a sea beach n didn’t have Fish….
2. It didn’t rain throughout the journey but as we landed in Swarget, Pune
3. offcourse how can i forget my sound sleep across ghats before Chiplun….
4. Mahabaleshwar was a fun… we went to this renowned hill station to see the famous points, but couldn’t see any except tht artificial sunrise point….

This was one of my exciting & cheerful trip.
Go Bikers Go !!!!!

Sohan Dhande
http://sohandhande.wordpress.com

Varanasi from the train (its the blurry strip in the middle).

Arrived  this morning in Varanasi from Calcutta and booked into Hotel Alka over-looking Mir Ghat on the Ganges. Varanasi (or Benares, its Muslim name) is made up of the names of two rivers, the Varana and the Assi which join the Ganges on the north and south borders of the city.

Shasti Brata in his  India The Perpetual paradox,(1985) describes Varanasi as “the oldest continual living city in the world at an age  reckoned to be a little under 3000 years. He calls the city where Hindus “go to die” as the “city of burning and learning, where metaphor and reality interweave to form the tapestry of living history.”

It is believed that anyone who dies in Varanasi will attain moksha or freedom from the cycle of birth and rebirth (samsara) and attain the highest spiritual reality. This is why many old people come here to die and even more will be brought here to be cremated along the banks  of the Ganges.

Originally the city was known as Kashi, the City of Light,  as it was believed that the jyotirlinga,

Varanasi from a boat

Shiva’s fiery pillar of light (a story found in the Shiva Purana, amongst other sources), came through the earth and flared up into the sky here.

The Kashi Vishvanatha Temple is also here. This is one of the most famous and ancient Shiva Temples in India but non-Indians do not have access to it. The security surrounding the temple is very evident with many armed guards at each entrance. Apparently this has to do with raised Muslim Hindu tensions in the area and not a zealous attempt to keep white-skins out.

Old  compulsively-obsessive-temple-destroyer Aurangzeb himself destroyed this  temple too in 1669 and constructed Gaynvapi Mosque right beside it, where the mosque remains  today. The temple had been destroyed and rebuilt many times before this, but the current temple was built by Ahilya Bai Holkar of Indore in 1780.

Panoramic Ganges view from Hotel Alka

It rained heavily shortly after arriving so it wasn’t until this evening that  some sense of Varanasi beyond the labyrinth of narrow alley-ways and Indian  hustle and bustle emerged.

Having just returned and noticed a computer in the lobby I thought I’d  post  something of  one of the most beautiful rituals I’ve seen yet. To those who question the point or purpose of ritual  I say go to this one. It is simply an experience worth having.

Every evening at 7.30pm this  ceremonial offering (aarti) to the river Ganges, considered a sacred mother to all life, takes place. The whole experience,  out on the river; watching the brahmins in brilliant orange and white robes at the ghats perform with  synchronised, almost dance like movements; the gentle lapping of water ;  cool breezes in the darkness;  hundreds of hushed pilgrims and tourists gathered around on boats and steps, made for a mood  of reverential awe. It was certainly helped too by the sacred songs and mantras resonating, unusually,  at a suitably devotional pitch.

Priests offering puja (worship) to the Ganges

There is Youtube clip that has footage of the ritual, though the brahmins were dressed differently that day. You can find it here.

The fires of huge lamps lit up the sky and incense and frankincense wafted through the night as people gently offered their own little  flower lamps to the rippling back of Mother Ganga.

Spectacular fire lamp offering

But  before I wax on too lyrically about the uplifting spirituality of the whole experience, ritual may also serve less edifying ends. A  savvy and articulate youth, Raj, was my guide for the evening. He pointed to one of the  eight or so brahmins lined up on the bank and said with unveiled disgust:

“You see him, the one with the balding hair, he’s not really a brahmin at all. When this puja is over he will go over there and smoke cigarettes and talk to the tourist girls”.

“So he’s a bit of an actor then? ” I said.  ” Do you think he just likes to do this in front of the crowds, to be a bit of a celebrity? “

He laughed saying ” Yes. This one he thinks he is the Michael Jackson of Varanasi.”

I ended my evening back at the hotel restaurant watching  flames seemingly  floating  far out on the Ganges. I asked what it was and the waiter said it was a poor man’s cremation on the opposite  side of the river – one who could not afford a burning on this side.

So as my Ginger and Honey and Lemon tea arrived, I watched from my side of the river what looked like one of the little candle lamps offered this evening far across the water. It flickered and gradually faded as Mother Ganges carried a soul home.

Tomorrow morning I will go out on a boat at dawn to see the sun rise over life and death at the Varanasi Ghats (broad steps leading down to the river for bathing). Then in the afternoon I will head for Prayag (Allahadad) and catch a night train from there to Mathura.

This man can be best described as a “sadhu,” someone who has chosen to live on the edges of society so that they can focus on their personal spiritual development.  A sadhu renounces family, possessions, career and anything else that would distract from the goal of “moksha,” liberation from the wheel of life, liberation from having to be reborn.

That said, it appears to me that this sadhu and many others that I saw in India, was not really escaping distraction.  So many sadhus fill the spaces where tourists are found.  For three days this sadhu spent many hours in animated conversations with young white tourists, mostly Americans while sitting on the steps of the ghat that was the busiest in Varanasi.

In contrast to individuation, moksha seems to be about abandonment of self, of ego.  Individuation assumes becoming more conscious and in the end, more related to society.  But, both the sadhu and the individuant find themselves on the fringes of society.  One as an ascetic, denying self; the other also in his or her own way, holy while celebrating and embracing the union of opposites within.  In the end, both might be the same.  Yet, for me, somehow, there is a difference.  For me, the route of individuation results in giving service in a holistic sense to the collective.  It becomes a journey of making a difference in the raising of the collective consciousness.  Both are about “soul,” about saving and nourishing the soul.  I need to learn so much more.

Libya is a crossroads of history, continents and ancient empires. Home to the Mediterranean’s richest store of Roman and Greek cities – Sabratha, Cyrene and, above all, Leptis Magna – each of which is overlaid by remnants of Byzantine splendour, it’s a place where history comes alive through the extraordinary monuments on its shores. Every corner of cosmopolitan Tripoli resonates with a different period of history. It’s where the Sahara meets the Mediterranean.

Libya is also home to Africa’s most exceptional and accessible desert scenery. The Sahara engulfs over 90% of the country, offering up vast sand seas the size of small European countries. Visit the enchanting oasis towns of Ghadames and Ghat, where the caravans once showcased the riches of Africa. Marvel at palm-fringed lakes surrounded by sand dunes in the desert’s heart. Be bewitched by extinct volcanoes, such as Waw al-Namus, where black sand encircles multicoloured lakes. Go deeper into the desert and experience Jebel Acacus, one of the world’s finest open-air galleries of prehistoric rock art.

One important point to note is that visits to Libya can only be made as part of an organised tour. While those of you accustomed to travelling independently would probably love the chance to do so in Libya, remember that Libya is a vast country and on a tour you’ll be able to cover so much more territory than you otherwise could.

“Music washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life”. (Berthold Auerbach (1812-1882), German poet and author)

I tried several times to make a portrait of my friend Gopal but I was never really satisfied with what I was getting.
However last morning something worked out well, maybe it was because of the turban, or the heat which didn’t allow him to control his expression, I can’t really tell.
Anyway I was talking to him since a while and I started to take pictures.
Gopal has a small music shop at Dasaswamedh Ghat, along the Ganges in Varanasi (Benaras) called “Ganges C.D. Gallery”.
Several years ago I met him as I was walking there in the mist, early in a winter morning before sunrise, he was playing the mesmerising music of Prem Joshua which was connecting to the place and the hour so well.
Ever since he has been teaching me many things about Indian music, classical, sufi, fusion, rock, and most of all Shujaat Husain Khan whome I became addicted to.
He is also proudly showing the last album of Erik Truffaz, “Benares”, which he doesn’t sell but leaves in the middle of the wall in order to show people what means an Indo-Western fusion.

“Without music life would be a mistake”. 
(Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche)

A Physically challanged  person struggles to get the water from ganges, early morning near the Howrah bridge in Kolkata.

De Khajuraho a Varanasi

Para ir de Khajuraho tomamos una rocambolesca opcion de transporte. En la estacion de autobuses nos encontramos con una chica coreana, y luego con un canadiense que tambien cometieron la imprudencia de elegir la misma ruta. En las diferentes agencias de viajes y la oficina de turismo nos habian dado los horarios de los autocares. En cada sitio nos dieron horarios y duraciones del trayecto diferentes entre si. Nos subimos al autocar a las 16.30 h., intuyendo que tardariamos entre 3 y 6 horas en salir de el. La empresa de transporte, segun ponia sobre el parabrisas, era Ansar Travels, la cual imagine dirigida por un carismatico indio con bigote.

La distribucion de los asientos era: un asiento, pasillo y dos asientos. ERROR. Ahi, oficialmente, se sentaban 2 personas a un lado y 3 al otro. El autobus iba lleno. Siguio subiendo gente, e iba mas lleno. Siguio subiendo mas gente, e iba llenisimo. Mas adelante superllenisimo. Despues comenzo a subir gente al techo. Posteriormente pasamos a la fase de HACINAMIENTO (con mayusculas). El revisor iba pasillo arriba, pasillo abajo, empujando a la gente a un lado del pasillo tratando de poner orden con corteses gritos y empujones. Estoy seguro de que ese revisor fue bailarin de break-dance en su juventud y anguila en una vida anterior, porque no encuentro otra explicacion a que alguien pudiera mover algo mas que las cejas en ese pasillo. Para no caer, las personas que iban de pie en el pasillo se inclinaban y se apoyaban sobre los respaldos de los asientos. Para ilustrarlo brevemente, en un alarde intelectual, citare al clasico de la literatura española Francisco Ibañez: “Señora, saqueme el pie del piloro, por favor”.

El trayecto finalmente duro 4 horas de reloj, tal como nos habian dicho (mas de 3 horas y menos de 6). De esas 4 horas, durante tan solo una interminable hora y media, sufrimos la fase mas critica del HACINAMIENTO. El resto del viaje fuimos, tan solo, muy apretados.

Llegamos a Mahoba, de noche, y totalmente desorientados. Nos llevan en rickshaw a la estacion de tren, que esta aun mas en medio de la nada, si cabe. Nada mas bajar, nos rodea un nutrido grupo de curiosos, que nos miran fijamente, en silencio, a una distancia de entre 1 y 2 metros, completando los 360 grados de una circunferenia a nuestro alrededor. Y nos quedaban 4 horas alli! En realidad 4 horas y media contando con el inevitable retraso del ferrocarril indio.

A las puertas de la estacion, y sobre el anden, estaba lleno de gente durmiendo en el suelo, como en todas las estaciones que hemos visto hasta ahora en India. La diferencia en Mahoba estriba en que el anden estaba en obras, y lleno de escombros, lo cual, logicamente, no es impedimento para dormir sobre ellos, en un pais de sadus, ascetas y faquires.

Finalmente viajamos en un buen tren, donde conseguimos dormir, y llegar a Varanasi a media mañana del dia siguiente.

En la estacion de Varanasi, la antigua Benares, tomamos otro rickshaw hasta la parte antigua de la ciudad. El conductor paro a las puertas de las callejuelas donde ya no podia circular, y nos acompaño unos 15 minutos a pie. Si no nos llega a acompañar, quiza no hubieramos salido todavia de alli. Por las estrechas callejuelas, dignas de la medina de Fez, aunque menos tortuosas, fuimos esquivando personas, perros, vacas, sus excrementos, e incluso un cadaver llevado por 4 personas en andas para ser incinerado a orillas del Ganges.

Minutos despues estabamos en nuestra habitacion, en un hotel con vistas al rio Ganges. Miramos el reloj. Habian pasado 20 horas desde que salimos de Khajuraho.

Varanasi: Jugando al cricket en los ghats.

Varanasi

La antigua Benares, constituye, junto al Taj Mahal el punto algido de todo buen viaje a la India. Es la ciudad mas sagrada, a orillas del rio mas sagrado del hinduismo. Es constante la imagen de hindues tomando el baño en los ghats que van sucediendose a orillas del Ganges. La variedad y concentracion de bacterias de todo tipo que posee el rio, hacen que uno no quiera ni siquiera ser salpicado por sus aguas, al mismo tiempo tan purificantes y tan contaminadas.

Varanasi: nadando en el Ganges como si tal cosa.

Asistimos a una ceremonia religiosa sentados sobre las escaleras de uno de los ghats. En la monotona letania de cantos y palmas, la señora sentada junto a mi llego a entrar en extasis. Inconsciente, seguia dando palmas y moviendose convulsivamente, ajena a todo lo que habia a su alrededor, sujetada por su marido y su hija para que no se deslizara escalones abajo y se partiera la rabadilla, mientras le echaban la purificante, a la par que impura, agua del Ganges para ver si volvia en si. Me marche antes de que eso sucediera.

Varanasi ha sido tambien un punto de encuentro y reencuentro. Casualmente nos encontramos con Tom, con el que habiamos coincidido a lomos de un camello por el desierto del Thar. Tambien quedamos nuevamente con Miquel, que lleva varios dias aqui. El muy inconsciente dice que ha cruzado el rio a nado, tardando entre 15 y 20 minutos, y otros tantos para volver. Se hizo una pequeña herida y tuvo que esquivar un cadaver. El lo describio con gran naturalidad: “El rio es enorme y hay sitio para todos.”

Por otra parte hemos coincidido durante estos dias con una pareja de franceses, Vincent y Elsis, que tienen previsto viajar durante un año, y nos han estado aconsejando sobre Nepal.

Cometimos la turistada de tomar un barco para tener una vista diferente sobre los ghats y que nos llevaran a los ghats de cremacion. Se ven mejor desde el rio que desde tierra, y con mas tranquilidad. Esta es una de las imagenes de India que se que recordare hasta que el Alzheimer haga mella en mi. A los lados, se acumulan enormes montones de leña. Los edificios de alrededor tienen las fachadas ennegrecidas por el humo, y la tierra sobre el ghat esta tiznada. Llevan el cadaver, bien cubierto para que no se vea, hasta el Ganges sobre andas hechas con cañizo. Lo bañan con el agua sagrada. Despues lo suben y lo incineran en una hoguera. Solamente los hombres pueden asistir a la ceremonia. Junto a familiares, tambien se ven curiosos mirando. Como contraste, a escasos 20 o 30 metros de las piras, a uno y otro lado, hay personas bañandose o jugando al cricket. Sin duda alguna, una vision totalmente diferente del significado, simbolismo y trascendencia que rodea la muerte.

Salut.

Varanasi: Ghat de cremacion.

Father had a large circle of friends, both English and Indian, in Bombay and Mona got quite friendly with most of them.

One one occasion, she was driving an English lady friend of the family near Dhobi Talao, a 5 road junction downtown near St. Xavier’s High School. It was the end of the monsoon, but the roads were wet, greasy and quite tricky when driving over the tram lines on the road. The wheels of the little Morris car just about fitted the tram lines and when Mona tried to turn to the left from the road centre to avoid a tram, she found the wheels locked! Fortunately, the tram was able to stop just a few feet away. In the middle of the panic, the engine had also stalled and Mona was feeling very shaken.

A number of people had gathered around and the tram driver had also got down to assist. Mona, however, heard a very cultured voice near by: “Can I be of assistance, Madam?”. Mona turned and noticed that an elderly slim, smartly dressed, quite fair complexioned gentleman was talking to her. She explained her predicament and said that she would be glad for any help. The person called to his chauffeur to take charge of the car and drive it to the kerb. He then introduced himself as “Byramji” and asked about Mona. When she said she was a guest of Mr. Tyabji at Bandra, he replied that he was an old friend of the family! He offered to drive the ladies in his car, whilst the chauffeur would take charge of Mona’s car and drive it home. Mona was quite happy at this offer and the two ladies had a very good day – with an excellent lunch thrown in!

Byramji, a Parsi, was apparently very well off, his car an expensive American-type – a Buick, I think. He came into the house and, after a short visit, asked Mona if she was interested in horse racing. When Mona told him that she definitely was very much so, he invited her to go with him to the Mahalaxmi Races next time. He would drive her over, pay all expenses and even give her some money to bet with – if she would help in choosing winners!

During the monsoon, the Royal Western India Turf Club conducted its racing in Poona. This is a city quite close to Bombay but receiving much less rainfall. The climate is very pleasant with the temperature not rising over 80 degrees Fahrenheit during the monsoon. The train service from Bombay was also very convenient as there was a “Race Special” on race days, leaving about 7am and arriving in Poona around 11am.The journey is only about 190 km but it it contains many steep grades and sharp curves – with over 40 tunnels. It also included a “reversing station” at one place where the mountainside could not be made suitable for curve at a suitable grade. At these kinds of reversing stations, the train was taken to the edge of the mountain slope, then the engine at the rear of the train took charge and the train went backward, with the front engine now being the “pusher”! Two engines had to be used for the “ghat” section, a distance of about 40 mines, starting at Neral and ending at Lonavla (about a 2000 ft. rise). The return journey was after the races finished and the race-goers could be back in Bombay by 10:30 pm. A dining car was also on the train so a good dinner and drinks could be had for reasonable prices.

The races moved back to Mahalaxmi in Bombay after the monsoon was over (about the middle of October). On the opening day in Bombay, Byramji called for Mona and took her to the Member’s Enclosure. As the horses were being paraded for the first race, he asked Mona what she fancied. After watching the horses for some time, she pointed to a rather nice looking horse. Byramji laughed scornfully, remarking that this horse was not considered even to come in the first 4! He said that he was going to bet on the favourite! However, Mona persisted that her choice was the better one. So, Byramji laughed and said that he would give her 100 Rupees to bet on her fancy and, if it gave her any money, she was welcome to keep it! To cut a long story short, the horse won by a neck! As the odds were something like 15/1, Mona collected a nice little sum. She offered to repay Byramji but he insisted that it was all hers.

A few days later, besides getting herself odds and ends, Mona invested nearly half the amount in buying the best portalbe “His Master’s Voice” gramaphone and a set of records. These included some classical ones featuring singers like Caruso and others of lighter music. In those days, the best HMV quality records were the “White Labels”, priced at about 5 Rupees each. The next quality down had “Red Labels” at Rs. 3.50 and ordinary dance music, etc….cost about Rs. 2 and had “Cherry Red Labels”.

[ed. This must have been the beginning of our family's multi-generational passion for horse racing...for better or for worse! Incidentally, I'm not sure whether they are related, but the most successful racehorse trainer in Indian history is also a Byramji!]

La mattina sveglia all’alba e poi di corsa in un barcone per vedere Varanasi che si sveglia e la gente che si reca al Gange per i riti del mattino. Migliaia di persone si riversano nel fiume sacro. Assistiamo alla preghiera del mattino, fanno ginnastica e si lavano.
Tempo di rientrare in albergo per la colazione e comincia il mio viaggio mistico nel Gange. Fuori ci sono 35 gradi e umidità oltre 90%. Io sono nella stanza di albergo senza aria condizionata con una tuta, felpa pesante con cappuccio, e i brividi che mi pareva essere in Groenlandia. Le corse al bagno sono state poche, ma la febbre saliva e solo dosi da cavallo di tachipirina mi hanno rimesso in sesto per il giorno sucessivo. Dopo montagne di toast al formaggio e sprite. Intanto la compagnia ha fatto un’escursione a vedere della fabbriche della zona e dei resti. Io in camera a visitare luoghi fantastici e psichedelici, senza mettere giù i piedi dal letto. Potenza del gaaangaaaa.