Christmas under the Bedsheets

Happy New Year to all our blog followers. We will miss our friends in India for another year, and sympathise with the local merchants who must be suffering due to the lack of tourism. A good friend who managed to get back to Gokarna in South India says the pilgrims and Indian tourists don’t make up for the loss of another season without westerners. Four-week visas with one week quarantine are not appealing to travelers of our ilk.

Two western friends still in India, live in the Auroville community, which has grown exponentially since its beginnings in 1968. Covid has had little impact to life there. But once again Auroville has erupted with internal conflict.

This time, over a road project to connect the four different zones within the compound. The consequences of this ‘progress’ include the destruction of the forest, its planting begun over 50 years ago. The opposing point of view is ‘leave well enough alone’. Our friends say that if the divisiveness continues, they’re prepared to move on.

Losing a loved one around Christmas adds insult to injury. Two good friends just lost their mothers, stirring up memories of my own mother’s passing at Christmastime when I was eight years old. After her death, we never had Christmas at home again. From then on, my father, brother and I spent the holiday with relatives. I celebrated beneath the bedclothes, singing carols and creating the Christmas I’d lost. One clear Christmas Eve, spotting the evening star for the first time, I was convinced I was seeing the same star that guided the shepherds and kings to the baby Jesus. (Growing up in England, the sky was rarely clear enough to see that star!) Since my mother’s passing, His birthday for me has also been associated with death. And I can imagine my two friends who’ve recently lost their mothers will have similar feelings.

With all the calamity in the world right now, it’s easy for me to miss the beauty that’s right in front of us.

At dusk, the other night, Gerard and I walked through the Boston Common and Garden to see the Christmas lights. How magical the city can be! For a moment the world lost its sorrow in the reflection of the twinkling lights.

Facing Another Winter at Home

After a long winter of Covid, summer arrived with a gradual loosening of restrictions.

Our garden thrived with an abundance of rain, Gerard worked on the house, and I rode my bike and swam in the ocean. Thanks to global warming, the unexpected water temperature fooled me into thinking I was swimming in the Indian Ocean.

Back in July, we took our first real trip out of town since returning from India. A train journey to Philadelphia to see a show of the artists, Soutine and de Kooning, at the Barnes Collection. (Barnes was a private collector in the 1920s).

We both liked Soutine more than we thought, and De Kooning with his pink ladies less than we’d hoped.The more than 400 paintings in the collection were amazing, with the one exception – way too many Renoirs and his pink ladies!

Woman 5, DeKooing
Bather, Renoi

We spent the following day in the Philadelphia Museum of Art with its monumental collection of art.

Countless paintings we’d never seen before but the Van Gogh’s and Cezanne’s were the most memorable.

Mont-Sainte-Victoire Cezanne

Saturated, we took the train to NYC that evening and spent a couple of days visiting friends we’d not seen in many moons. Our last time with Odella was on the beach in Gokarna!

Beachside cafe. Odella in center

On our 49th wedding anniversary, friends took us out to Mela, an upscale and only surviving Indian restaurant in our neighborhood. During Covid, many of the cheaper Indian restaurants that have been here for years, have folded. Sadly, they didn’t have the deep pockets to hang on. As the virus has receded, we have begun entertaining again Our first houseguests in two years, arrived from Canada and stayed three days. It was good to sit down for meals together, chat long after our customary bedtime and visit yet more art shows with them: A collection of six Titians at the Isabella Gardner Museum.

Courtyard at Isabella Gardner Museum

and Albert Pinkham Ryder, one of the innovators of modern American Art, at the Whaling Museum in New Bedford.

Flying Dutchman, Albert Pinkham Ryder

Our day in New Bedford finished with a walk on Horseneck Beach in the late afternoon sunshine.

An upside of the pandemic is we’ve become more comfortable with Zoom. Gerard has continued his memoir with the help of a virtual writing group. He’s made tremendous progress during the last three years, in spite of his dyslexia. He’s fortunate to have the ability to be fully ‘present’, whether painting a picture, writing, or working on the house. My mind suffers from the the more common dilemma of darting off into the future or dwelling on the past. The real solution to quiet the mind is meditation, and with more time on our hands at home, we’ve increased our practice. But not being a yogi, I can’t meditate all day long. Keeping my mind occupied with the NYT crossword puzzle and Spelling Bee is constructive and satisfies my love of words. Reading remains my favorite pastime, going back to devouring stories under the bedclothes with a flashlight at six years old, and walking into street lampposts on the way to school with my head in a book. After a long history of reading groups where we kept having to remind ourselves to discuss the story, I’ve joined an excellent group of senior women on Zoom (the addition of close captions to the screen has helped my ability to participate). Diving deep into short stories compels me to read between the lines, looking for hidden meaning. This has given me both a new respect for short stories and an opportunity to bond with the other women as we share our lives, woven into the discussion.

Wellington Street

Winter is now arriving, the leaves have faded and fallen, carpeting the sidewalk. Halloween is this weekend and the cold wind turns our thoughts toward the warmth of India. The country is opening up again and issuing tourist visas. A few of our friends hope to go as early as Christmas, but I doubt we’ll be joining them. In part, because I’ve reached a point where addressing my hearing loss has become a priority. Although I can manage quite well with female voices one-on-one, I want to be able to hear men again (most of all Gerard), and deal better in small group settings. My initial experience with hearing aids was disappointing. Perhaps because I didn’t give them a fair chance. The only alternative is a cochlear implant. During the long wait for a reevaluation, I joined online hearing loss and cochlear support groups where I was given encouragement. But once again, the evaluation was a let down.

When we met with the surgeon, he wasted no time in cautioning me against the implant. “It should be your last resort.” The implant would destroy the little hearing that you now have and if it’s a failure, you’ll be worse off than you are now. This made sense. So I need to try hearing aids again, this time with a more positive attitude. An encouraging new development in hearing aids is the capability of switching to a remote microphone. When Gerard clipped the microphone to his shirt pocket, I could hear him much better. Whether I choose a hearing aid or a cochlear implant, I know success depends on training the brain to the new reality which will require patience and perseverance. When they said my next appointment for a “fitting” was six weeks away, I said, no sooner? There’s a staff shortage – even at MGH! It seems no one wants to work anymore.

Next Spring, if it’s in the cards, we hope to visit England. I want to see friends and family again (with three new babies to hug). So if we can’t meet with our British friends in India, perhaps we can see them in England.

Letters from India

From India we’ve received personal reports of the second wave of covid sweeping the county with a vengeance. Our family in Delhi has suffered tragic losses: first Bhushan’s brother-in-law, then Kamal’s older brother, and also a dear friend in Bangalore. Death is sometimes welcome, sometimes inevitable…and sometimes a complete shock. To suffer three losses within the family certainly falls under the heading of a shock. Shruti wrote, “We wish we could meet our loved ones and comfort each other.” We share the same desire.

From left, Swarn, Kamal, me, Bushan, Ravi

Our friend Rajiv was more fortunate. His partner, Marina, wrote from England that he caught covid while traveling from Gokarna via Delhi to the state of Uttarakhand. He’d already had one vaccination, and during the journey had five covid tests – all negative. He thought his cough was from traveling and climate change. Then he tested positive and was immediately put in hospital. With few cases in that state the hospitals were working as normal. Later, transferred to a “luxury” hotel, he was checked twice daily by a doctor, then released.

Meanwhile, in Varanasi, people have described the drastic situation. Covid is rampant and the sick are desperate for medical care and oxygen. A business owner complained people are dying due to the collapse of the medical system. “Money is useless; you cannot buy oxygen or a hospital bed. Every one is in the same condition for death…pray for us”

Another friend, a semi-professional photographer sent a link to a BBC News article: Covid in Varanasi: Anger rises as coronavirus rages in Modi’s constituency His photograph of the major cremation site beside the Ganges leads the article. “The prime minister and the chief minister have gone into hiding, abandoning Varanasi and its people to their own fate,” the article quotes.

Uschi, who we met many years ago, in Varanasi, also wrote in reference to the overloaded cremation sites and skyrocketing cost of wood. “Now the Ganges has become the graveyard of the Pandemic, for those who cannot afford to be cremated.” Their loved ones hope the Ganga will liberate their souls. Nets have been spread throughout her waters to capture the bodies.

Up in Himachal Pradesh it’s a different story, sparsely populated covid has not taken hold. Katinka, an English woman, has been in India throughout and stayed in Varanasi until covid started to rage. She retreated to HP where she’ll stay there for the foreseeable future.

Anita and Sulata, whom we met several years ago in Nagar, and later visited at their home in Vrindavan, are also now staying in the mountains and enjoying the quiet of lockdown.

“We have an abundance of nature, can go on hikes and treks and have a lot more freedom to move around.” Sulata wrote. But it’s not so good for the locals who rely on the tourist industry. Only essential stores are open and with no interstate buses running, Sulata feels marooned from the rest of the country. “It’s hard to really know what’s going on up here and there are no reliable Indian news sites.”

Anita in the mountains

At the other end of the subcontinent, Auroville has been in lockdown since the end of March, with strict sanitation, social distancing and quarantine for those returning from abroad. Officially, they declare no covid. Frederic, who’s been living there for the last five years, reported fifteen active cases mild or moderate, without need of oxygen. But no visiting tourists from Bangalore, Chennai and Mumbai means no opportunity to sell their products in the market. It also means locals are no longer needed to support the tourist trade. Frederic wrote of an Indian friend, a carpenter working in Auroville, who built Frederic’s furniture. He recently died of covid at 65. “He was tired of life after many years of hard work to feed his family and then the death of his son. But I will always remember his smile.” Frederic said.

In Auroville, taken by Frederic

A neighbor on our street took a luxury yoga tour in Rajasthan and made a personal connection with the guide. Now many in the group are sending money to the extended family to help them through this crisis. Likewise, Uschi, is organizing distribution of food to poor families in Varanasi. She has a wealth of contacts in the west through her yoga tours and export clothing business. Marooned in Germany with her son, Uschi is working with Rakesh, her business partner in Varanasi to distribute the care packages. 75$ provides basic food supplies for a month with a cash supplement for perishables. Hopefully, this will aid them from not falling into further poverty. So far been able to reach 800 families and plan to extend to 1,000. Rakesh takes a photo of everyone who has received a care package.

As the tragedy of India unfolds it deeply disturbs me. In the midst of so much suffering in our adopted country, thank God for those that we know who are making personal efforts to do what they can. The impact of covid in India affects me as if it were my own family….it is my adoptive family. I should have similar empathy for people in all countries suffering from this disease, but the strongest pull comes from India.

Snowdrops and Robins in the Early Spring

Just before dawn I hear birds singing. The robins and the cardinals are back, the cat birds will soon follow.  In the garden, clumps of snowdrops adorn the barren land, while the lilac is beginning to bud and the forsythia is about to pop. The winter wasn’t so arduous…no long periods of unrelenting cold, no stumbling over hard-packed sidewalk snow. Ironically, New England was more fortunate than Texas that suffered from an unprecedented cold spell that froze water lines and shut down the electrical grid. But in Boston, I was still able to ride my bike whenever the temperature was above 40F (4.5C). New England can surprise us with an April snowstorm. Twenty-four years ago on April Fools Day, we took occupancy of Wellington Street during a huge storm that brought down trees. Now the sun is higher in the sky and we’re definitely on the threshold of Spring.

We were offered the one-shot Johnson and Johnson vaccine and only momentarily hesitated. Was J&J as effective as Pfizer or Moderna? Whatever, we’re happy to be done with it. The vaccination hasn’t made a huge impact to our lives; we still wear masks outside and haven’t gone out to eat. I feel a little more comfortable going grocery shopping and more willing to lean in toward the cashier to try and hear what she’s saying.

Our experience in Covid is typical, spending most of our time in the home. It’s given me a new appreciation for our comfortable house and the neighborhood, where we can still find the unexpected.

That said, both of us are looking forward to expanding our horizons.On an unseasonably warm Sunday afternoon, we rode the subway to Revere and walked the beach. It felt great to feel the sand under our feet and smell the salt air. The amusement park neighboring the beach has long gone, replaced by tasteless high-rise condos. I suggested to Gerard we could move here and enjoy cheap ocean view property. He pretended not to hear.

With my limited hearing, scaled-down interaction during Covid has not been a sacrifice, and now I’m feeling apprehension about becoming socially engaged again. Gerard, of course, is ready to resume his chatty lifestyle talking to any and everybody on the street! His time, however, has been filled with rewriting his memoir. A friend, a published poet, has kindly taken the time to read and provide some major editorial suggestions, which he will incorporate.

I’m not a big fan of Zoom but it has enabled me to communicate with friends in a way I no longer can. An external speaker attached to the computer helps but perhaps more is the fact I can see faces without masks. Every two weeks, I participate in a zoom reading group organized by a local senior center. So far, every short story picked from the New Yorker has been thought-provoking. The news from England is two of my nieces are pregnant with scheduled deliveries the very same week of September! So I’m busy knitting again.

Even though we didn’t go to India this year, we’re staying in touch. Last September, India was overtaking the US to become the country with the highest covid caseload. Four months later, in February, numbers plummeted inexplicably. Has the prevalence of so many other diseases boosted Indian immune systems? As in other parts of the world, infections are now rising again, particularly in Mumbai and they’re poised for another lockdown. How quickly Covid could spread through a slum!

Over the years, I’ve read some excellent books giving focus to the Indian slums – City of Joy, Shantaram, Behind the Beautiful Forevers. A recent novel, I recommend is Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line by a journalist, Deepa Anappara. She addresses the huge number of missing children – as many as 180 an hour. Her heart wrenching story is told through the eyes of a 9-year-old boy who lives in a slum, abutting the railway line. See NY Times book review Who Cares About a Missing Child? 2020/01/31/books/review/djinn-patrol-on-the-purple-line-deepa-anappara.html

Our friends in Varanasi and Himachal Pradesh post Facebook pictures making it look as if nothing has changed. There isn’t a mask in sight. But the economy has suffered a 24 per cent drop during the peak of the pandemic. The country remains closed to tourists. An English friend who managed to stay in Varanasi after the virus hit, recently traveled down to Gokarna, where she found twenty other westerners who like herself had decided not to leave India. For the risk they took, the benefit is they have the run of the beach.

In Delhi , the family tell us the major disruption has been farmer protests caused by Modi’s attempt to eliminate government subsidies. Four months ago, farmers, primarily from Punjab arrived on their tractors to clog the main strets of the capital.

Back in the US, politically things are quieter. The orange thug has left the stage…momentarily, but the immigration crisis on the Mexican border, the murder trial of George Floyd and conspiracy theorists continue to fuel the smouldering embers of discontent.

Looking out my kitchen window, watching our garden slowly come back to life, I feel optimistic.

After Eleven Years, Winter in Boston

As we flew out of India last March, I had a premonition we might not be able to return again the following January. We had little idea at that time how serious coronavirus was and how deeply and long it would impact our lives. Waiting for the plane to depart, our last night in Orchha occupied my thoughts. The town had gone into an abrupt lockdown, the temple closed its doors and the streets emptied. In a pool of streetlight, a small group of beggars sat outside the temple, while our new friend from the Indian military, volunteering with the temple priests, handed out dal and chapatis. The usual hubbub of pilgrims and street vendors had already disappeared into the quiet night. I took a last photograph and silently bid Orchha goodbye. The mood was decidedly melancholy. The next day, we were back in Delhi and franticly searching for a flight to Boston. had to let go of my fantasy of hiding out in the Himalayas, and we boarded one of the last flights out of India.

We returned home to a new reality of social distancing, mask wearing and grocery store queues. But spring was coming and the garden became our refuge. We nursed it back to life, planted anew and weeded. Gerard rebuilt the stone wall and leveled the paving stones.

We lingered over breakfast, drank chai in remembrance of India, and from time-to-time entertained friends sitting six feet apart on the patio.

While self-quarantining, I paced the empty alleys of the South End. Soon I felt confident to ride my bike in the empty streets of Boston and discovered new bike paths in and around the city: beside the Charles River and around the vast, now empty, university campuses of Northeastern and Boston.

When summer came, I could not longer go to Manchester by the Sea; the town had closed the beach to non-residents. Boston harbor became an option; I swam wary of pollution and keeping my head well out of the water. On a sunny weekday, more often than not I swam by myself, looking back toward the city and marveling at my secluded private lagoon. (On the weekend, the crowds arrived and I stayed home)

The social restrictions have not bothered me as much as others. The pandemic has helped me to rein in my restless nature and find a new contentment in a quieter life at home. I never really liked the using the telephone and now, with my hearing loss, I’ve rediscovered the joy of writing letters. Growing up in England, letter writing was expected and something always enjoyed. I lost touch with it through the convenience and universality of telephones. Social encounters, consisting of only one or two people at a time, are easier, although masks and social distancing exacerbate my hearing loss. With the deepening political chaos I’ve spent more time reading the news, national and international trying to make sense of the insanity. And now that winter’s arrived, I’ve taken up knitting again after a long hiatus.

Gerard, who never has a problem occupying his time, stays busy with projects: house repair, furniture refinishing…and painting pictures when he finds time. He’s recently completed two that I especially like. Now, he’s returning to a rewrite of his memoir during the cold dark winter months. He’s never at any loss for words on the telephone, but he misses socializing, whether a casual street encounter, or a prolonged coffee shop conversation with friends. Neither of us have suffered in isolation – fortunate we don’t have to go out to work, have a lovely house and each other for company.

India is never far from our thoughts. Back in March, Modi ordered India’s lockdown with less than four hours’ notice. “Forget what it is like stepping out of the house for 21 days. Stay at home and only stay at home,” he ordered. But he mentioned nothing specific about the daily-wage earners—mostly migrant workers—who make up 80% of India’s workforce. Factory hands, delivery boys, cooks, painters, rickshaw pullers, or vendors standing by the roadside, selling fruits and vegetables, chai and flowers. Migrant women are indispensable as maid servants for the middle and upper class; daily they arrive to wash clothes, sweep floors, cut vegetables and make chapatis. With the pandemic, their income, in an instant, disappeared. We’ve seen horrifying pictures of these migrant workers, fleeing the shutdown cities. With bags perched on their heads and children in their arms, walking down highways in a desperate attempt to return to their villages hundreds of miles away.

Meanwhile, back in Delhi, with few cars on the road, there is one silver lining: the sky has become clear and blue, something rarely seen in one of the most polluted cities in the world.

A crow flies near Rashtrapati Bhavan, the presidential palace in New Delhi, on April 2. Air quality has markedly improved in India’s capital since the country’s coronavirus lockdown began last month.

In the days following the shutdown, we heard stories of foreigners who didn’t get out in time. A friend sent us a video of some English tourists fleeing Varansi to make an evacuation flight in Dehi. The trip was far from smooth, the van driver fell asleep and went off the road, there was a long wait for another van, resulting in just missing their plane. I was envious of American friends, one a Krishna devotee, the other a travel guide, who were both able to remain in Himachal Pradesh. In the mountains, there’s been little evidence of covid. Two other old friends, have both become permanent residents in Auroville. Covid infections have stayed low and their lives seem to be continuing as normal within the confines of the community.

We’ve also kept in contact with our Indian friends. Their stories are quite different. Our hotel in Varanasi, Shiva Kashi, has been closed since March and Sanjiv, the manager, is trying to hang on until they can open again, probably not before next summer at the earliest. Shree Cafe is likewise closed. Santosh, his days freed up, is taking photographs of the shutdown city. Sadly, the demolition work from the Golden temple to the banks of the river still continues with a hideous pontoon mooring to offload tourists arriving by boat. His wife, Seema, has fed the stray dogs and cows on the street almost nightly and sponsors community youth activities – coaching football teams on the ghats, holding competitions.

Rajesh appears to be back at his bangle store near the Golden Temple (though we may be wrong) while still writing beautiful poems. In the photographs, few are wearing masks. In Orchha, our Kashmiri friends were forced to close their jewelry store, but couldn’t get a flight home to Srinagar. We’re still waiting for the final outcome. So many of the Indians we know rely on the now nonexistent tourist business. The Indian government is not issuing any tourist visas and this is unlikely to change as long as covid continues to surge.

Back in the US, the political mess has provided a constant distraction…or irritation. It’s felt like an emotional roller coaster. For a moment, I believed trump was going to leave the stage and he’d no longer dominate my mind with so much negativity. But that’s not trump; good news or bad news, he still continues to take center stage. After the storming of the Capitol, I feel America has deteriorated into a state of complete lawlessness — a banana republic. Wintering in India, we’ve missed recent inaugurations. In hill station, Ooty, we tried to watch Obama with a group of westerners but the TV had terrible reception. Four years ago, we happily ignored Trump’s sign-in as we sat on the beach in Agonda.

As Biden will be inaugurated in a virtual and low key ceremony, trump will orchestrate his ‘triumphant’ departure from a military air base in Maryland…but no one will be watching. It’s easy for me to compare his departure to that of Richard Nixon in 1974. But I like to think Nixon redeemed himself by having some remorse. He later admitted: “I let you down. I let the country down.” I can’t imagine trump will ever feel any similar responsibility.

At present, I’m on overload: too much trump, too much pandemic, too much distrust. Keeping our heads down, we hope for the best. Missing all of you that we will not see in India this winter, best wishes for health and happiness in 2021.

Heading down the tarmac

Our first days in Orchha were carefree, enjoying the peaceful and friendly atmosphere. Then things began to change. The news filtered in slowly how serious the virus was in Europe. A German couple who we’d planned to share a car and driver with to visit Bundi in Rajasthan decided to cancel. The state authorities were making it difficult for tourists to enter. All the while, fewer and fewer tourists, foreign and Indian, were coming to Orchha.

Marion and Jorgen, concerned about their aging mothers, felt compelled to return to Germany early. We still wanted to go up to HP and wait it out in the mountains until May 2nd.

When we learned that not only was the palace no longer open to tourists but even the temple doors were closed to pilgrims and local worshippers, the writing was on the wall. It was painfully evident that we had grossly underestimated the seriousness of this disease. Suddenly, cars were driving around town, warning people over loudspeakers about Coronavirus. In India, the virus is considered a disease of foreigners or Indians who had been outside the country. Now, a few of the locals looked at us as if we were the virus walking down their street. It was time to leave.

Before we booked our railway tickets to Delhi, we made the time to visit my favorite place on the edge of town – a brook bordered by wheat fields and distant monuments. The only sounds were the trickle of water and birdsong and a cow munching grass. A moment of peace.

Back in town, the streets seemed quieter than usual, the traffic less. Hotels and restaurants were almost empty. How long can they stay open with no tourists or pilgrims? We said goodbye to our Kashmiri friends who were considering closing their jewelry shop early and heading back home.

Around the temple, closed but still lit up at night, we saw the poor and homeless sitting on the ground, still being fed by a few kind souls.

Sadly, we returned to an eerily quiet Delhi but with the good fortune of having family, Ravi and Swarn, in Gurgaon who were brave enough to host us for three days. We tried to keep our distance, staying mostly in our room, but by the end of our stay they were sitting and eating with us. Meanwhile, Marion and Jorgen were not so lucky, staying in a hotel in Paharagunj, Delhi where shops and restaurants were already closed and there was nothing to eat.

As soon as we arrived, our host said we should take the first available flight home. I was still attached to the idea of taking a bus and escaping to HP. Gerard took seriously the advice and easi;y convinced me we should go as soon as possible. We didn’t want to wear out our welcome. Unable to reach the online booking agency or airline to cancel our existing flight, we spent all afternoon trying to find a new flight home. Finally, Emirates via Dubai, with an eight hour layover was our best option. Landing in Newark we’d go through customs and screening, before flying up to Boston.

Wanting a walk, I persuaded Gerard to visit the nearby malls – one was closed, the other was almost empty, shopkeepers standing around idle. The few people out and about were mostly wearing masks. With news of the virus spreading, Modi was dominating the airwaves, talking firmly about restrictions including shutting down the metro in Delhi. That evening, we learned that Himachal Pradesh was not allowing tourists to enter any more. Without knowing it, we’d made the right decision. As of now there’s been no confirmed virus cases in less populated HP and maybe, with the shut down, it can stay that way. On the morning news, it was announced starting May 22nd, there will be no more international flights. Our flight was scheduled for the afternoon of the 21st. A narrow escape.

I was relieved to finally leave for the airport, well ahead of time. With long lines of equally anxious passengers, all wearing masks, we entered the fray. After hours of hanging around, as the plane went down the tarmac, Gerard counted over 50 planes lined up idle. A fellow passenger told us that Emirates was suspending all operations world wide starting now. We could be on their last international flight. During our layover in Dubai, we were amused to see groups of Asian passengers covered from head to toe like Hazmat workers…maybe they were the smart ones. We arrived in Newark to find our flight to Boston canceled but had no problem rebooking on one four hours later. There was no real screening…none in Newark or Boston…So now it’s up to us to self isolate for two weeks and take our temperatures daily. Our house sitters kindly shopped for us before they vacated and a good neighbor promises to leave food on the doorstep.


Coronavirus, but not in Orchha

Our original plan was to stay in Orchha only a week and then move on the southern Rajasthan. But the state government of Rajasthan has gone crazy about coronavirus so we’re staying put until we go to the mountains. Not a hardship, it’s an easy place to be at this time of the year, the weather is perfect cool nights and warm days and pollution is relatively low. German friends, Marion and Jorgen, have arrived from Gokarna and we’re enjoying showing them around for the first time.

The historic town of Orchha and surrounding countryside has barely changed since we first visited in 2010. Each year we are surprised at the lack in growth of tourists. Tour groups still arrive here not even for the day and are hustled through the main palace, shunted back on the bus, and gone before the dust settles. This year, there are less but still a few.

Sitting on the banks of river Betwa, Orchha was once the capital of the Bundela Rajput kingdom, one of the largest and most powerful in Central India.

Outside the main complex, the landscape is scattered with crumbling remains of residences, gardens, and chhatris (elaborate tombs for the dynasty). Many are in amazingly good condition, in part because Orchha seldom witnessed ferocious battles. The town reached its peak in the early 1880s and then fell into decline after Indian independence when it lost its city-state status.

However, change is in the air. Namaste Orchha, a three day conference/festival aimed at stimulating tourism, was winding up the day we arrived. More significantly, there’s a clean up campaign – similar to Varanasi. The open sewers running each side of the street are being closed up. The main road through town widened and resurfaced meaning the traffic just goes faster. The fronts of buildings beside the road that extended too far have been demolished and the exposed remaining interior of the vacated building is painted cream white! They’re continually upgrading in and around the palace, the major sites are illuminated at night and the fountain in front of the temple is spouting water for the first time.

Until now we’ve not mentioned Coronavirus to avoid feeding the media-driven paranoia. There are so many viruses in India that a reminder to wash your hands and not touch your face is good common sense. Western tourists are at an all time low, and, each day, India Times provides a news update on the spread of the virus. In a place as large and disorganized as India, you question the degree to which any estimate can be accurate. When we step out on the street, life is as normal in Orchha and we forget about the virus – or we almost do. Fortunately, we are in a small town with only a small tourist influx on a normal basis. But now that is changing. Everyone is talking about it and some are booking flights home early. India has become caught up in the global wave of hysteria.

Friends, Premgit and Sandhya, wrote with a horror story of arriving in a town in the Punjab where the Sikh festival of Urs was being celebrated. First, the hotel told them their reservation was canceled; they finally managed to get a room and settled in. The next morning, six fierce Sikh policemen barged into their room and told them they had to get out. There was no discussion – they had to go the train station and wait for twelve hours for a train to Delhi, where they booked a new flight back to the UK a couple of weeks earlier than planned. The tourist areas of Rajasthan are also in high alert. Tourists are being stopped at train stations and told to go to a local hospital and get a medical certificate before they’re allowed to stay. India Times published a photo of a hospital in Jaipur showed a long line of tourists waiting to to be certified. And just today, we read that India is in lockdown as regards flights in and out of the country. We have now canceled our next destination, Bundi, in Rajasthan, and are staying longer here in Orchha. We do not anticipate a problem in being in HP in the mountains where we plan to spend the month of April. First we must return to Delhi first to pick up our warm clothes from the family and catch the bus to Rewalsar.

We’re making a concerted effort not to get caught up in this over reaction. We can and firmly believe that whatever happens is supposed to happen. Both of us feel perfectly healthy. In this bizarre time, we wish everybody all the very best.

Khajuraho: Temples in a Garden

For years, we’ve passed by Khajuraho but never stopped. Too many tourists and touts. Uschi, a friend of ours in Varanasi, who organizes tours to the major sites including Khajuraho, strongly encouraged us to visit. She recommended us seeing the temples in their beautiful setting. We booked an expensive, by our standards, hotel for the occasion.

We took a sleeper train and arrived early in the morning. The hotel was two km. outside town, sitting in quiet countryside, the rooms white, clean and spacious (especially after our shoebox-sized room in Varanasi) and all with balconies overlooking a garden of palm and banana trees. After resting in luxury, we walked into town. A complex of six temples sits peacefully among manicured gardens, in an area cordoned off from traffic. The best time to visit is late afternoon when the sandstone temples look their best in the soft sunlight.

While waiting, we ate in a rooftop restaurant beneath a gigantic tree adorned with flowering vines. The cafe looked straight out on the temple complex and its lush manicured gardens. Sitting in such idyllic surroundings, leaves gently blowing in the breeze, we agreed that we’ve never been in a place quite like this in India.

Khajuraho’s Hindu and Jain temples were built around 1100 AD commissioned by the Rajput rulers of Chandela Dynasty. After the downfall of the Chandelas in the 13th century, the abandoned temples suffered some desecration by the Mogul conquerors but were protected by their remote location in dense forests. In 19th Century, a British surveyor rediscovered and excavated the site. We spent an absorbing two hours in the main temple complex.

Khajuraho is well known for the erotic sculptures that adorn the temple exteriors. However, only a few of the thousands of the exquisitely carved figures are erotic. Hardly worth a trip if that was your focus! Most depict idealized femininity and the men pale in comparison.

Various legends try to explain the sculptures. The most appealing to me was the story of beautiful Hemvati who was seduced by the Moon God while bathing in the moonlight in a pool in Benares. After conceiving a child, she cursed the God and ran into the forest to raise her illegitimate son alone. However, the Moon God promised her their son would grow up to become a great king. His word came true: the child was the first king in the Chandela dynasty. After Hemvati passed away, she appeared to her son in a dream, asking him to construct temples that would depict human passions.

The next day, we hired a rickshaw driver, hungry for our business with the obvious dearth of tourists to take us out of town.

We passed through a village to find another seven temples which we would never have found on our own. Driving down country lanes, it was money well spent.

An isolated temple amongst the lush wheat fields had a miraculous statue of Lord Shiva.

Our third day, we returned to our favorite restaurant under the tree and spent the afternoon sipping tea and looking again at the beautiful temples.

The guide books say you only need one day in Khajuraho but we’re glad we decided to spend longer in this picture perfect setting. Even the temperature cooperated: cool nights and warm clear days. We’re so glad we took Uschi’s advice!

Bansuri and Ayurveda

One night, we attended a very special event, a private ‘bansuri’ (bamboo flute) recital. Even though they were students, the intimate atmosphere made up for any possible lack of technique. For a minute, we thought we thought we’d entered Satyajit Ray’s film about musicians (the Bengali film producer from the ’50s). The music was not amplified, making it possible to hear the nuances of the tabla normally missed. But in my case, any hopes of being able to hear a flute were dashed because the bansuri played in the lower register.

Unable to participate in many conversations that Gerard has can leave me feeling on the periphery. Only if I’m in a quiet environment and speaking to a woman can I fully participate. When the frustration mounts, I’ve found the forty minute walk up the river to Assi Ghat is a tonic.

After so many years of walking the ghat, I still marvel at what a unique place Varanasi is. Growing up in Totnes on the River Dart, walking along the Charles River and many others, I feel my whole life I’ve been refreshed by rivers, but none that compare to the Ganges.

Last week, Sandhya and Premgit, an English couple we met four years ago here. He’s a photographer working with only black and white film and focusing on religious rituals in India. His wife, Sandhya, has a chronic respiratory condition and finds help here from an ayurvedic doctor. She persuaded me to join her. The doctor took my pulse, inspected my tongue, then prescribed some pills and four sessions of Sirodhara, a therapy to reduce stress. While lying on my back, for an hour, his assistant “gently” drizzled warm oil on to my forehead, from a brass vessel hanging overhead. All I know is, it was quite euphoric, incredibly relaxing and gave me a good night’s sleep afterwards. Problematic was trying to shampoo all the oil out of my hair!

We’ll be moving on soon. God willing, we’ll be back next year and hope not to see further destruction in our favorite city. A reassuring reminder: we’re told that throughout history, Varanasi has been destroyed and rebuilt a total of four times with Modi the cause of the fifth. On a lighter note, he managed to move the cows from the lanes of Varanasi, while the British Raj could not. But there’s still a few around!