VARANASI

There is nothing that prepares you for Varanasi. Except within either memory or imagination, neither of which is fully reliable, this city defies any conventional description. Formerly known as Benares, it is the holiest of the sacred cities in Hinduism, and serves as a major hub for religious belief. In the sacred Vedic Sanskrit hymns, the Rigveda, the city was called Kashi, "to shine"; The City of Light. Renowned as a place for learning, it is also thought to be where Buddha presented his first sermon (after enlightenment), in nearby Sarnath. Founded by Shiva, according to Hindu mythology, it is part of the Sapta Puri, one of the seven Holy cities that can give liberation. It is auspicious to die here, and many make arrangements to be cremated along the bank of the Ganges. Temples, shrines, mosques, and old palaces crumble together along the banks of the river, looming over, and entwining with the Ghats, which serve as gathering places for everyone. Only at the hottest time of day are they lightly populated, and even then, the beggars, chai sellers, tourists, cows, and dogs are in attendance. Varanasi never sleeps.

My arrival from Delhi on the new high speed train, mid afternoon, heat of the day, proved to be non problematic.  I realized right away that I was in a different station than last year, but I was not worried about getting to my hotel. I have come to rely on my faith and sense of well being, and sure enough, an older man came quietly up and asked if I needed a ride. I gave him a piece of paper on which I had written the name of the place I was staying, he nodded, said he knew it and would take me there. "How much?" "350 rupees" A fair price for a local, this wins my trust immediately. I followed him through the crush, the heat outside the station took on a dimension of its own, and the tuk tuk with plastic covered seats was like a sauna. Off we lurched into the cacophony, the energy that is unique to this city. Horns blaring, people yelling, loud music, all manner of vehicles competing for space to move in any direction. My driver yells at an old bicyclist, almost hits someone, loudly berates a clump of walking children. The ride is very rough, my butt bangs repeatedly on the seat, as I grip my camera bag, make sure my backpack does not go flying out of the doorway. Sensory overloaded in every way, the ride physically invasive, loud, visually chaotic, the smells overpowering, in an assault so complete and alive, I realize that I am incredibly happy. This is the India of my dreams.

Each morning at 5:30, I climb the unopened gate. It's too early for the proprietor. I tiptoe past his sleeping self, gently hoist myself up and over with almost no noise. The early coolness is refreshing to me, but the few locals are wrapped head to foot, swathed in heavy scarf. I pick my way through the most difficult section, avoiding moving objects, mounds of shit, garbage, burning piles of leaves. Men sit at a stand drinking chai, reading the paper, talking quietly. Dogs howl, chickens flap, a small child drags a goat by a rope. Bicycles and quiet motor bikes sneak up on me, sometimes barely avoiding a sideswipe. In my unsteady self, halting abruptly is an art, a necessity. My exterior awareness is demanded in a uniquely present flow of energy, like I have another as yet undiscovered sense, an ability to "see" 360 degrees. Not normal vision, more like prescience, intuition, my body takes on a weightless glide that keeps me from harm. Vendors shout from laden carts, children yell "hello!", and keep it up until I respond. One very small one gleefully reaches out to touch my hand, and laughs in excitement when I swipe fingers. A shrine is tended each morning by a group of small women who light incense and tiny lamps at the base of a large tree. Encroached by both road and building, it has somehow survived, limbs cut away from the trunk, holes for candles and flowers hacked into the side, a meager top still branching, still flowering in this time, another Spring. A cow mourns loudly, and often. The dust stirs in a wind that jumps over the wall along the river. Shadows are being born in yet another rising sun. Assi Ghat harbors the faithful in the morning ceremony that comes to a close just as the sun shows itself across the Ganges. The older people stand and pray, covering themselves with fire and smoke, go along their way. A gentle ritual, it is difficult to ignore, no matter who you are. Lemon chai sellers labor with cups and a giant kettle, set atop a brazier. I am offered a boat ride countless times. A hundred people spread out on carpets, participate in yoga breathing and asanas led by a Brahmin, onstage, through a microphone.  Music, a sitar and tabla, enfold the already dense atmosphere with sound that transports; I am in another century. I close my eyes, and breathe.

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What a wave looks like...

I waded into the gentle surf at the boulder end of the beach with the intention of photographing just the surface of the water, close, abstract. I watched the incoming waves very carefully, so as not to put the camera in danger. But waves will get you. This one slapped the camera mid exposure. I tried not to panic, got out to dry it off. It's not weather sealed. I got mad at myself for being careless, but there was nothing I could do. The lens stopped working, the camera was fine. I went back later to my hut and tried to see if there was a solution, but no, I had to accept that I ruined my only 28mm focal length. I chalked it up to a very expensive lesson, but refused to let it get me down. It was on my birthday.
I wrapped it up, put it in the camera bag, went on about my work. A couple of days later I pulled it out, put it on both cameras just to see, and it has worked just fine ever since. Lucky me. Lesson learned, and I got an interesting sequence of it happening as well. All in all, it was for the best.

Goa and Hampi

 This is the south end of Agonda. If  you look closely on the right you will see the woman I posted about last time.

Sunset, Agonda

The ruins of Hampi, in Karnataka, India, still embody the magnificence of the last great Hindu kingdom in South India, despite the fact that the Muslims sacked it over four centuries ago. My arrival, at dawn one early March morning, was not only greeted by the sun, but also by pilgrims singing praises in the Temple, cows loitering in the common parking areas, and monkeys, eating bananas. Incense and smoky fires create an atmosphere made even more mysterious by the crumbling architecture; the royal complexes, temples, shrines, and pillared halls. Nestled amid boulders that form a natural continuation of the structures themselves, the ingeniously designed layout covers over 16 square miles. My intention to climb to an honored destination in time to witness the sunrise is part of the quintessential photographer's dream. We are always chasing light.

I am stilled drugged from sleep; my rushed coffee and 20-minute car ride have done nothing to prepare me for this. I shove myself forward and up, over cut blocks of granite that are deceptively slippery and of such erratic height that I have to lean forward and pounce. The urgent appointment with the sun blots out any hesitation; I plummet on. My reward upon finally reaching the top is a 360-degree view of a significant portion of the ruins, including a lake, the river, rice fields and the main Virupakshya Temple, a glowing limestone beacon far below. Much to my relief, the top is flat, and accommodates about 20 people, mostly Westerners, young, dressed in the typical fashion of part Indian, part hippie. A young local is selling chai, doling it out in crushed plastic cups. There are places to sit near the edge, no one is talking. When the sun peeps out from behind a rock mount, we watch in a reverent silence for 20 minutes.

The hills are covered in a smoky haze that seeps horizontally. Some of it seems impenetrable, a soggy yellowish blanket that weighs itself down between the boulders. The edges then break apart in diaphanous waves that bounce the light, revealing copses of palm trees, rice fields an impossible green in this sultry atmosphere. The sun is bloody neon, an entity worthy of all possible worship from human millennium. Imbued with substantiality, it rises fast, changing bright reds to orange gold that skims the rock and temples, leaving the lower ground a dusty indigo that hints of shape and form, not substance.  The world is floating in layers of deep blue/grey, blue green, subdued yellow, burnished as if from a pile of still vital coals. The wind is fresh, the silence complete.

I have my photos, so I am content to be still, cross-legged and peaceful in the warming air. I have plans and destinations for the rest of the morning, but here in the quiet camaraderie of those who climbed, I am content. If I do nothing else today, I have this.

Then I have to climb back down.

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GOA

For the last few days I have been staying in a little beach hut in Agonda, Goa - bed, mosquito net, bathroom and shower with on demand hot water, Internet (spotty)- in short, all the comforts one could ask for, particularly in the middle of nowhere. I did not bring the laptop, so I won't include photos this time. Written each morning, the following are random thoughts and observations...

The ocean is a blue I have never seen - an indigo/teal, tinged with a lighter green closer to the shore. I'm facing West, so the early morning light is making its way from behind me. Still soft, becoming more brilliant, lighting up the yellow sand, it promises a tropical day ahead. Aside from countless little booths selling clothes, jewelry, leather, instruments, incense, perfume, boat trips, etc there is little to see without renting a scooter. Being here is enough.

Pariah dogs patrol the beach, barking at some criteria, chasing each other, a nuisance. Some attach to various guests, following them, resting in their shade.

The horizon is hazy, a color slightly lighter than the ocean, the water line a darker seam along the edge of the sky. No shells, no seabirds. So calm it looks like a painting. Fingers of land probe the distance on both sides of this beach, creating a half bowl. They are green and brown, not jungle, not palm trees, but cascading in layers, color fading into space.  A fishing boat is suspended, barely nodding. The raucous voice of a dusty black crow- primordial, as though the world has just begun.The wind has come again. Non existent this morning, now a heady presence that channels sea, cooking, smoke, incense. My awareness is on gentle overload. Tourist talk, a language I can't hear or understand, strangely soothing, like classical music in the background.

Now mid day the ocean is a bright teal blue, white capped, less compelling in its restlessness. A clear cirrused sky has given over to light blue, a fuzzy baby blanket. Midges congregate and swirl in a beam of sun breaking through foliage. Coconut palms, hibiscus, bird of paradise and scraggly pine vie for space and nourishment in the sand. The sky is now waves breaking upside down. Birds industriously haul material for building or repair. Two French girls cavort on their little porch with iPhones, their generous bodies covered in long dresses, bare feet, curly hair somewhat tamed in buns. Their enthusiasm is infectious.

The Arabian Sea. Stretched between this subcontinent and Africa, it reaches up into Oman, the Persian Gulf. Calm and clear, very salty, I can see the bottom in a depth over my head. The sand is clean and filled with ridges and the occasional trough that I bounce in and out of, swaying in the gentle waves. A pleasantly cool temperature at first, the water turns silky and warm once I acclimate. Clumsy and tottering on land, I become a less awkward sea creature. The rise and fall makes me keenly aware of the physical, a place I can live in for the moment.

At the south end of this little bowled beach there are big boulders, in and out of the water, craggy with barnacles and slippery with sand from human feet. Monolithic, they form a little crescent that harbors a set of outriggers, brightly painted with names.
There is a thin muscular woman, older than me, with long gloriously curly hair. She stands in the meager surf, dancing a strange ritual, complete with ablutions that don't include getting her hair wet. She completes her activities, climbs aboard a large flat topped rock, stretches out.

An older man, perhaps European, builds a space each late afternoon, chopsticks for boundaries, then creates a mandala in the hard sand. I passed him yesterday, putting on the finishing touches. When I wander by later, a wave has taken half of his design. He obviously is performing some kind of devotion, reverent in his sincerity. He doesn't want his picture taken, and I find this out after I have already photographed him, bent over, perfecting one edge of the mandala. The quiet snick of the shutter is drowned in the noisy surf, and he hadn't noticed me. The guilt of ignoring my ethics attacks me for a second, and I am in, yet again, some kind of moral quandary. I should have asked first.

A boat far from shore floats on a path of blinding silver light. It is so black, so inundated, that it's structure dissolves, a mirage under the perfect sun. It glides out of the onslaught, regains a familiar form. I watched a man pulling out a cast net. He trundles it up on the sand and shakes free the meager amount of little fish he managed to snare. They flop about weakly, he nudges one back into the general pile. I am mildly disgusted at such a poor showing. If the net were bursting, perhaps it would have been a worthy sacrifice, but it seems a waste; maybe one meal for one person....but then, what do I know? I hope he is feeding them to his kids for breakfast. I raise the camera, then lose enthusiasm. I realize I am being judgmental, and move on.

Another perfect morning. The ocean is flat, a slightly darker shade than the sky. The headlands, misty, smoky, stretch out, and disappear. The horizon is a magical line, beckoning with promise and mystery. It has always been so. An embodiment of countless dreams, it has an unusual power, playing upon the imagination and hope of mankind, and has, since conscious thought, created a lust for conquest of the unknown. We stare, seeking solace, regain our equilibrium, kindle passions dormant, waiting for the spark that frees us from fear. Stable and unchanging, it tips us over the edge of ourselves, drawing from us reserves of as yet unregistered courage, to explore, change, grow, recognize.

 I sleep deeply, heavy in my body, which flies away in dreams. I am inhabited.