Maya
"In Hinduism, God is thought to be made up of three gods. This holy trinity is known as the Trimurti. The three forms of this trinity are the gods Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva. Hindus believe that the gods within the trinity represent ... creation, preservation, and destruction."Welcoming Committees
"In the beginning, while Vishnu slept in the infinite coils of the great serpent Sesha, it is thought that he dreamt up the creator god, Brahma, who emerged from Vishnu's navel already seated upon a perfect lotus flower. Brahma then began the work of creation, starting with the four yugas ... Each of these ages repeats 1,000 times in each cycle of creation, known as a Kalpa, which is then followed by the disillusion of the universe, known as Pralaya. It is believed that this all takes place within Vishnu's dream, which is our reality.
Thus, everything we know is maya (illusion), or merely a figment of Vishnu's imagination."
Upon deboarding my Hong Kong-Mumbai flight, I promptly made my way to the restroom, where I struggled to understand how to flush an Indian toilet. I gave up after several minutes and used my elbow to push my way out of the swinging door, ignoring the pleas for a tip from the frail, sari-wrapped restroom attendant, a gift-wrapped welcome present, my first official Indian acquaintance.
My traveling companions and I stumbled from a flurry of government forms and coolies chattering in Hindi into Mumbai’s slippery night air. Mangy dogs roamed the parking area, their tails curled like question marks, just like I imagined them. We clambered into a cab, and my first taste of India was the intense scent of marigolds and body odor. I kept the window rolled down for the duration of our ride to the hotel. My glasses fogged and Mumbai was veiled in a dense mist. It smelled of fish, fresh earlier that morning, left to spoil in the abandoned street markets, turmeric, chilies, and curry, wafting out through open windows, and cow dung heaped in holy piles on the side of the road. I was overwhelmed by the urge to vomit.
That night, I went to bed in the Hotel Grant, trying to stifle sobs on a worn-out mattress covered in itchy linens, of which I questioned the cleanliness. The street outside was lined with rubbish and beggars, whose moans I now imagine must have risen in through my barred window, but I did not care to hear them that night.
Yet, after several days, Hindi started to sound like musical notes tinkering off the tongues of train passengers, especially late at night when the words danced through the cars, left in the care of bony men beating out ancient rhythms on drums they held between their knees.
Rains
“It is said that good and evil forces are always battling for control of the world--the gods work to preserve the good, and the demons work to spread evil. Vishnu’s role in the great trinity is that of the invincible protector. Generally, when all is going well, good and evil are in balance. When things fall into chaos, however, Vishnu takes a trip down to earth to preserve justice. Sometimes he comes as himself, a blue four-armed
god ...”
I spent the fifth evening in the Hotel Grant hobbling between the restroom and my bed, my stomach retching with little success. A fever sent chilly tremors through my body while sweat soaked through my nightclothes.
I felt well enough the next day to venture out with my companions to the other side of the city, where we were to spend the evening with a family whom we had become acquainted with throughout the week. In the midst of our visit, the fever returned. I felt my body temperature climbing out of the confines of my punjabi suit. Despite the ever-present heat radiating through the thin walls, the chills set in, and I noticed Shakuntrala watching me from across the room.
The old family matriarch was perched on the bed with the end of her blue sari draped over her head. She smiled and patted the space next to her, the universal motion for inviting someone to sit beside you. I went. The tiny woman took my hand and drew it to her lap, placing her other hand on top of mine. Shakuntrala gently rubbed my hand, starkly white next to her leathery skin. She murmured to me in the language that I did not understand. I stared out the window and watched the monsoon, there to preserve the fertility of India's earth, drip down the leaves of the Banyan tree. The sunlight filtered through and diffracted into miniature rainbows, and India opened herself up to me. Or, maybe I opened myself up to her.
Elephants
"Shiva is one of the oldest gods of India and plays many important roles. He is a devout meditator and yogi, a cosmic dancer setting the rhythms of the universe, a benevolent protector and husband ... Some think that when Shiva finishes dancing, the world will come to an end ..."
We were traveling by rickshaw through Dadar, an area of the Mumbai that was popular with the city's upper-middle class. The air was so thick with moisture that my legs kept sliding off of the vinyl seats. As usual, our auto was stopped in a traffic jam, and I occupied myself by watching the foot traffic. There were men trickling in and out of a Hindu temple, from which a symphony of finger cymbals and chanting was pouring out onto the sidewalk. I strained my neck to see inside. It was about that time that one of my traveling companions shook my arm.
"Wasn't that elephant awesome?" he exclaimed.
"What elephant?" I said, searching the street for a sign of it.
"It was just right there," he motioned to the intersection before us. "Yeah, some guy was riding it through the street, for money I guess. It was painted."
I tried not to let my disappointment show. The temple elephant had been one of India's iconic images for me. I imagined what he must have looked like. He would have been gilded with golden paint, which would have woven an intricate design, like henna on a bride's foot, up from his hoof to the fuchsia, crushed velvet saddle on his back. There would have been giant, elephant-sized anklets jingling around his feet. His name would be Ganesha, for he would have been the son of Shiva, bringing luck to his devotees. He would have been a fairy-tale brought to life, but I had missed him.
Several days later, we were visiting an old palace of one of India's fabled maharajas. It was a well-known tourist spot, complete with a pair of camels and an elephant, available for rides around the palace grounds. I eagerly purchased my ticket and climbed the shaky ladder up to the elephant's back. The saddle was more like a cage, and it was not made of crushed velvet, fuchsia or any other color. His tusks had been roughly trimmed back, and they did not glisten like glossy ivory, but rather like yellowed teeth. There were cracks in his hide, and he trudged around the circular trail without barely lifting his magnificent head. I was suddenly very aware of the heavy camera around my neck and the traveler's checks stuffed in my pockets, my burdensome tourism that he bore around the countryside. When the ride finally ended, I climbed down with my own head, far less magnificent, hung low. I silently asked Ganesha for forgiveness.
That night, the trains were not alive with dancing.
"Thus, everything we know is maya (illusion), or merely a figment of Vishnu's imagination."
