Orissa Images

There are places embedded in the deep recesses on my memories; places not known except in myths associated with first awakenings of early childhood. Orissa is part of my earliest memories and for years I have resisted stepping into dream haunts.

I remember vividly a long corridor and walking to a doorway to stand in front of glass jars - one of them contains raisins. A big person in orange reaches out and hands me these raisins. My parents tell me I was just 2 years then and what I recount is in Ramakrisha Muth in Puri where they stayed when I was little. And, yes, I was very taken with raisins that I was fed by a 'sant' in the ashram. This person predicted that I would become a judge, when I grew up - very far from truth actually, except that I have often been advised not to judge people or events too harshly.

Then there are a whole lot of imagined memories from stories of 'Bhaskar' - a man servant who worked in the joint-family when I was very young. He was from Orissa and his stories revolved around his fields, his family, his woman left behind in order to earn a better living in Kolkatta. Here Orissa was in water-color greens, earthern browns of the land, brown people in brown homes. These images were permeated with his sorrow, his awaiting his next trip home.

And finally Orissa was painted with sounds of a flute. He was young. I forget his name. I was older - and I thought he was beautiful. Again a man servant in the family home, who got to use the area of the coal storage(we called it a 'khancha') for his space. It was barely two and a half feet wide, about 10 feet deep, and at the end there was an area for coal. He got to use the passage as his home. Late in the afternoon, when all the work was done, he bathed, got into clean clothes, ate the leftovers set aside for his meal and then he propped himself 3 feet off ground, between the walls of his tubular home and played his 'bansuri'. I was usually in my room, after college, reading. Sometimes I would go and stand, watching him play. He merely smiled and continued playing. He painted Orissa in undeciphered longing with slow, long notes, dark brilliant eyes. I remember asking him, only once, whether he would marry. He laughed and said, yes. His folks were looking for a match for him. Would he still work in the city. Again, another Yes - someone had to send money home.
I recall his face clearly as I type - yet a name escapes me.

Orissa has since played a recent havoc in my life. Its part of what I am, and what I think needs to be done. POSCO, Vedanta, mining rights, forceful evictions, police firing, and strings of promises from MoEF - undelivered.Orissa has also been on my wish list as an avid traveller - I wished to witness the annual migration of Olive Rideleys to Orissa coastline, the birds on Chilka lake, the ancient temples, and cave monasteries. I left my conscience behind when I visited Orissa, avoided those - whose rights occupy my days. I went as a spectator, a foot loose traveler with my daughter and a friend to wander its coast, lakes, temples, caves, watch weavers create masterpieces and dancers seduce Gods...I saw all this and experienced much much more...and found all of it worth fighting for.

Borobudur

There are some places in the world that defy words. Borobudur - the largest buddhist temple in the world, is one such place. Suffice it to say that its scale is stupendous, the artistry extravagant, the imagination that guided the climbing of each successive tier leading from a life of kama and moha to the ultimate realisation or enlightenment, absolutely inspired. We walked the steep steps to the last highest level, conscious, wondering, and silent.

Prambanan

We reached the temple complex of Prambanan when the evening was turning a golden shade, the searing temperatures had mellowed, and the air shone with mirror clarity. Our drive was accompanied by a view of the majestic Mt. Merapi - a very active volcano on outskirts of Yogya, breathing out its smoky breath into the intense blue evening sky.

The temples of Prambanan were built in the 10th century by the powerful Mataram kings, and are the greatest hindu monument in Java. The temples are dedicated to the hindu trinity Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh and are each accompanied by a smaller temple dedicated the vehicles Hamsa, Garuda, Nandi. Most of the temples were destroyed by a series of natural disaters and are still in process of being painstakingly reconstructed towards their original grandeur.

My Sisters and I...

We sped on four motorcycles, my sisters and I, climbing steadily in early hours, braced by chilly wind, a suggestion of soft drizzle, inadequately clothed in windcheaters and sweats, big, stupid grins pasted on our faces. We were having a time of our lives. No husbands, kids, families, cares, worries, responsibilities, duties... in fact, no nothing! We were in Java to celebrate my 50th birthday and had immediately transformed into our childlike states. We were busy playing, having fun.

On that particular day, we were racing to visit the ancient hindu temple sites of Candi Ceto and Candi Sukh situated on the slopes of Mt. Lawu, outside Solo. The setting of the temples was spectacular within mist-hung mountains, with temples being organised in various levels culminating at the top in a flat pyramid structure. A lot of the imagery, as often is the case in Hindu sculpting of bygone eras, was charged, erotic, leading to many an exchanged glance, wiggled eyebrows, uproarious laughter. Here are some photos!

In Tana Toraja

Some say that their ancestors were seafarers who came upstream along the Sadan river to settle in the dense jungled lands of central Sulawesi. In order for their ways to not be forgotten, they made houses on stilts with roofs that resembled their boats. To this day the people remember the ways of their ancestors, build homes with boat roofs, practice ancient rituals of sacrifice and purification, elaborate funeral ceremonies to appease the dead, mount their dead in hanging graves protected by Tau-Tau or life sized wooden effigies of moving limbs, crafted to resemble the dead. Mystery and macabre combined irresistibly compelling me towards Tana Toraja.

We sped between emerald rice fields, my sister and I, sitting on motorcycles behind our Toraja guides. Villages appeared in distance like fleets of boats,rising out of green seas. Homes with bamboo and bale roofs sheltered incredibly carved ornate homes in distinctive Toraja motifs of buffalo and fowl, pig, sun. The designs were detailed in mineral colors of white, black, ochre and red, while the fronts hung with tall rows of stacked buffalo horns signifying the family's importance in the village hierarchy. Walks past village led to burial sites in caves or carved into rock faces guarded by rows of Tau-Tau with blank wide eyed glares, while piles of bones, skulls spilled out of caskets shaped like pigs. Families were buried together along with their possessions like a favorite pipe, telephone directory, a bottle of arak, a favored dagger, a snuff pouch.

We walked through darkened forests, carrying our bundles of sugar and a large pouch of arak, towards the site of a house warming ceremony. Our approach was heralded by unbearable high pitched screeches of sacrificial pigs. Soon the forest path upwards to the clearing was covered with rivulets of blood crisscrossing under our feet. Sounds of great excitement and clamor accompanied guests bearing gifts of sacrificial pigs carried on highly colorful towers borne on shoulders of strong young men. We were told that a new home was inaugurated when covered fully with pig blood. We were offered some glutinous rice and banana wrapped in leaves that we ate with both suspicion and great reluctance, cleaned it down with an arak gulp, and fled!