Before we had left the States, even before we planned the trip at all, Saali had often told us of traveling to India. I remembered, apart from her general enthusiasm for India, being struck by her frequent mention of Amritsar. Whenever she would mention it, I would sense a change in her, as if the very thought of it had a transforming effect, and it began to seem to me that we were planning two distinct journeys. One was simply a trip to India, a physical journey to a foreign country, with places to go and things to see. The other was to Amritsar, a journey of a different kind, perhaps an inner journey. We had to make the first journey before we could make the second, and while there were obvious practical reasons for this, I had begun to think that we must in some sense become acclimated to India before being ready for Amritsar.

As we approached, our plane flew over vast green fields of wheat and mustard stretching to the horizon. The sun had risen during our flight, and cast long shadows and golden light over a land so lush it was as if we were descending into Eden. Mahavir was at the airport to meet us, and before too long we arrived at the house, where we were greeted by Mr and Mrs S. in the garden. We exchanged pleasantries before sitting down to breakfast, which like all meals we shared in Amritsar was eaten outside on the patio/verandah. We discussed plans for our visit. My only wishes were to take some photographs, which I could do in conjunction with any activity the ladies wanted to plan, and to try to buy some drawing pencils I had seen in Ahmedabad. Mr and Mrs S. suggested we should see the Pakistan border ceremony, and the Golden Temple. Saali and Flo wanted to shop for shawls. And of course it would be necessary that we eat from time to time.

After breakfast, Mahavir drove Flo, Saali, and myself into town, and hovered to make sure we didn’t get lost. The ladies wanted to buy Ampapar, a leather-like confection made from dried tamarind. Saali had a particular vendor in mind, and we spent half an hour there, sampling the various dried fruits and other items they were selling. It was a father and son business, centered around a wooden cart that they parked in the shade of a large tree. They were kept busy with many high school students buying snacks on their way to school. When the ladies had trouble deciding what to order, the father handed them over to the son, who had more English, while he dealt with the regular customers himself.

Across the street I noticed a stationery store, and went to look for my pencils. The shopkeeper showed me some, and I asked whether they were made in India. He looked a little concerned and said that yes, they were made in India, but that they were made to European standards. I tried to explain to him that I wanted them because they were made in India, not despite it, but he seemed puzzled by this. Luckily, he did have the pencils I was looking for, and I bought a good supply. Further along the street we came to a Jalebi vendor, and watched as he filled a piping bag (really, a piece of cloth with a hole in it) with a loose batter, and extruded it directly into a pan of hot oil. He made complicated circular motions as he did this, causing the jalebis to assume a donut like shape.

When they were done, he lifted them from the oil and dunked them in a nearby vat of hot syrup, after which they were ready to eat. I’d seen these in Indian markets in the States, but had never tried them. They’re very good, something like a kind of crunchy donut dripping with syrup. Like much Indian food, they’re usually eaten immediately, although we’re told they can be eaten the next day as a breakfast treat with scalded milk.

After we finished shopping, we returned home, and Mrs S. served us cold beer and crudites before lunch. Our plan was to drive to Wagah in time for the closing ceremony at sunset. Mr S. would accompany us to the border, so we needed a vehicle large enough for four adults. Mr S. had engaged a driver with a mini van for the trip. We made the journey, and as we approached the border a cop diverted us into a parking area by the side of the road. There were hundreds of cars already there, as well as some tour buses. We continued on foot, and shortly came to the end of a long line of folks who had arrived earlier. It turned out that the viewing area was already full, and we would have to come back another day. As we walked back to the parking area, a cop wearing a bright red turban asked me where we were from. I replied that we were from America, and he said “America is Heaven. I wish I could live in America.” I ventured that there was much to be admired about India, but he shook his head dismissively and would have none of it. As we drove back to Amritsar, we passed roadworks, and a sign which stated with characteristic Indian brevity: “Inconvenience is regretted.”

The next day, in order for us to see the ceremony without having to stand in line for hours, Mr and Mrs S. arranged for us to park closer to the border and wait in the car. When we arrived, instead of being diverted to the parking area by the side of the road, we were waved through and were able to wait just a short walk from the security point. All around us were wheat and mustard fields, and a few buildings clustered either side of the road for dealing with import/export between India and Pakistan.

After about fifteen minutes, someone signaled that was time, and we began walking towards the checkpoint. Behind us, those waiting in the general parking area had also been released and were hurrying towards the checkpoint. Some were running, and quite a few passed us by. Mr S. was hurrying us along as well. We wanted to run, because the others were running, but also to walk, because running seemed undignified. When we got to the checkpoint, we were separated by gender to be searched and metal detected. We arrived at the viewing area, amidst much confusion. We were again separated by gender, and had to wait among separate crowds to be allowed into the bleachers. I waited with Mr S. and had lost sight of Flo and Saali.

Eventually we were let in, and we found a seat close to the roadway. The women were in a separate seating area, and we couldn’t see them. Shortly after we sat down, a border guard indicated to Mr S. that he and I should move to another seating area much closer to the border gate. Here we found ourselves among foreign tourists; apparently the best seats in the bleachers are reserved for foreigners, and the men and women sat together. Mr S. and I made our way to seats up high in the bleachers, where we saw Flo and Saali sitting.

This was about 90 minutes before the ceremony was to take place. The bleachers filled rapidly, and hundreds who didn’t make it had to content themselves with pressing up against a gate and peering through at the ceremony. This would have been our fate if we had stayed on the previous day. We sat and waited through the entertainment portion of the “show.”

And what a show it was. Opposite where we sat was a building used by the border guards. In front was a raised platform, with steps leading down to the roadway. The road continued about 100 yards to the west, to our left, where the border gate was. The gate was in two parts, one on the Indian side, and another on the Pakistan side. In between was a no-man’s land about 10 feet wide. Both the gates were closed. As you approach the border gate, from either side, you see a large flagpole on your right, bearing the appropriate national flag. Milling about by the gates were the border guards, in impressive ceremonial uniforms. Beyond the gate, we could see the viewing area on the Pakistan side. Their bleachers were mainly empty, but gradually filled as the time for the ceremony approached. The Pakistanis were noticeably more subdued than the Indians. All the women wore head coverings.

On the roof of the building opposite where we sat were large speaker boxes, which continually blared out Indian (and on the other side Pakistani) patriotic music. It was as if they were conducting an audio arms race. Sometimes they seemed to take turns, with the music coming from one side or the other. Other times, they both blared at the same time, which was irritating. Once the bleachers on the Indian side were filled, a number of young women from the crowd came down onto the roadway and formed a line, under the direction of the border guards. The guards handed them large Indian flags, and they ran in pairs as fast as they could while carrying the flags, right up to the border gate, about 100 yards to the west. When they got there, the guard at the gate held up his hand, and turned them back. Then they ran as fast as they could back to the line, where the guard would take the flag, and hand it to the women next in line. The crowd, the guards, and the women waiting in line all seemed to enjoy this ritual immensely.

At length, a man in business clothes came out of the office of the border guards with a microphone in his hand. He seemed very slick, like a TV personality. He was the equivalent of the person who warms up the studio audience during the taping of a game show. Generally he would ask the crowd to cheer, and then mime that he couldn’t hear anything and they should cheer louder, which request they were happy to oblige. Sometimes he would indicate they should just yell and cheer by making a vigorous upward gesture with his arm. When they began to cheer he would mime being deaf, not hearing them etc., and then point towards Pakistan. The meaning was clear: Make sure they can hear you in Pakistan.

There were three call and response chants led by this spruiker. Firstly he would shout into the microphone “Hindustan”, to which the crowd would respond “Zinda bad”. This means something like “Long Live Hindustan.” They would repeat this three or four times, each time with increasing enthusiasm. Next, he would shout “Vande”, and the crowd would respond “Mataram”, meaning “I salute the Mother”. Finally he would shout “Bharat Mata Ki” and the crowd would respond “Jai”. This is roughly “Victory to Mother India”. All of this made the crowd very happy, and raised the energy level considerably. Meanwhile, another group of young women from the crowd had come down onto the roadway and were dancing to the music. One particular song seemed to lift everyone’s spirits to the maximum. Mr S. explained that it was called something like “Lift India” and concerned the need to wake India from its slumbers to become a world power. I hope I haven’t butchered this explanation too horribly.

I’m not going to describe the ceremony itself as there is plenty of video available on the net. A couple of aspects stayed with me though. FIrstly, before the ceremony began, the border gates were briefly opened and the guards from both sides reached across and shook hands. Then the gates were closed again, and the ceremony took place. From video I’ve seen on the web, sometimes this happens at the end of the ceremony, but the day we were there, it was at the beginning. Secondly, the ritual is about closing the border for the day, and lowering the flags, which as I mentioned are on opposite sides of the road. Before they are lowered, each guard stands at the foot of the flagpole and takes hold of the rope that controls the flag. They then each walk to the other side of the road, so the ropes cross in the middle. The flags are lowered slowly, and cross each other half way down. At this point, the crowds on both sides cheered.

Many folks seem to think the whole thing is ridiculous, and there is something surreal about it I guess. Apparently there was an attempt in 2006 to tone down the aggressive gestures, but the Pakistani side kept it up, and now they are both doing it again. It’s clear that people like this symbolic aggression, and I think that’s why they like it: because it’s symbolic aggression rather than actual aggression. It can’t take place without some degree of coordination/cooperation between the two sides. Whether this coordination is overt or ad-hoc, I have no idea. Perhaps I feel a little like a man without a country, because I found myself envying these people their sense of collective identity, and I found the ritual quite moving.

Home we went, to make plane for the next day’s activities. We had drinks in the living room, and Mr S. and I enjoyed a glass or two of scotch. Did I have too much? In the house, there’s a curved staircase you have to walk underneath to get to the room we stayed in. At one point, I got up to get my camera from the room, as I wanted to show Mr S. a photograph I had taken. On my way back, I was looking down at the camera, and didn’t see the staircase. I walked directly into it, banging my head quite hard. For a moment I thought I would pass out, and I saw stars for a minute, but I continued on and sat down with the others. Perhaps the other-worldly experience at the border, in conjunction with this blow on the head, somehow altered my perception of the events of the next day, which began as usual with breakfast on the patio. Before we ate, Flo took advantage of the Masseuse engaged by Mrs S. and had a foot massage.

Mrs S. wanted to take us to see the Golden Temple. In fact, she wanted us to see it twice, once in the morning, and again at night. In order to go in to the ’sanctum sanctorum’ of the temple, we needed to arrive early, as it tends to get crowded. Supposedly, it’s India’s most visited site, and even though we arrived early, there were already large numbers of people present. Simply describing what we saw and what we did will be inadequate for conveying what the experience was like, but I’m afraid that’s all I’ve got. Words seem impotent.

Since we were planning to make two trips, and the building was said to be quite impressive at night, I decided to leave my camera at home when we went in the morning. This would leave my hands free, and in general allow me to be more directly engaged with what we were doing. We arrived, and checked our shoes into the facility they provide. To gain entry, the feet must also be washed, by walking through a trough of holy water set in the ground. I noticed some pilgrims would stoop to wash their hands, throw the water on their head and shoulders, and even scoop it up in their hands and drink it. This water is connected to the artificial lake that surrounds the Temple building.

The Golden Temple at night

This foot washing ritual was one of many threshold rituals that were practiced at the temple. When passing from one area to another, there would be a marble threshold; the pilgrims avoided stepping on it, touching instead it with their fingers, or in some cases kneeling down and touching it with the forehead. We began by walking around the perimeter of the lake. The whole place is paved with beautiful inlaid marble, in patterns that reminded me of the Federation tile patterns I knew from Australia. I’m a bit obsessed with these patterns, and have been working on a computer notation for describing them. I grabbed Flo’s camera and took dozens of pictures of the floors as we walked around the lake. I don’t know if there is a heaven, but I’m pretty sure that if there is, the buildings there are decorated this way.

We gradually made our way around the lake, all the while immersed in a sense of peace and tranquility that I had never experienced before. The area surrounding the Temple was filled with beautiful early light, and all around us pilgrims were standing in contemplation, walking quietly, bathing themselves in the holy water, and so on. There was music coming from somewhere, and as we walked it would fade in and out of my awareness. On one side there was a large area for providing meals to anyone who was hungry. These are prepared and served by volunteers, and paid for through donations. In the Sikh community, service to others is considered one of the most important duties, although they seem to view it more as a privilege than a mere duty.

After circumambulating the Temple, we came to the bridge that allows one to cross over to it and enter. There were some rituals regarding making offerings at the temple that I didn’t fully understand, but which were being devoutly attended to. For the whole time we were there, I never felt like an outsider, and was included in everything that was happening. After more threshold rituals, we found ourselves among a crush of people at the doors of the temple, where the music seemed louder. We gradually made our way inside, and through the crush of pilgrims to the front where there was a protective railing around a central area occupied by clerics. We stood and watched for some time before climbing to the second story to view the proceedings from above.

The source of the music turned out to be three musicians kneeling on the floor. Two were playing harmoniums, and the third was playing tabla. All three were singing verses from sacred scripture, and I found the music very beautiful. In the center of the protected area was a large stone container, shaped like a rectangular box with a domed lid. Apparently this houses the Holy book that is sacred to Sikhs. Draped over the box were various richly embroidered cloths, and cleric was sitting on the floor behind it, continually engaged in an ongoing ritual. Assistants would pass him items to be blessed, he would perform a blessing ritual on them, and then pass them to other assistants on his right.

The blessing ritual consisted of placing the items on top of the box that contained the holy book, brushing them with a device that looked like a wand with fur or feathers attached, and reciting blessings. If the item to be blessed was a cloth, as was common, he would unfold the cloth and drape it over the box containing the book, carefully smoothing it down as if to ensure it made proper contact with the box. Then he would rub it with the feather-stick and recite the blessings. I watched this process repeat multiple times, mostly uncomprehending of what was occurring. I felt somewhat like Parsifal visiting the Grail castle for the first time. I became increasingly aware of a sense of being transported to another realm, a place where time and space seemed distorted. I had never had this experience before, yet it seemed familiar to me, and was accompanied by an unexpected sense of belonging.

After we left the sanctum sanctorum, I felt deeply affected by it, and was not really able to talk to anyone. We walked towards the exit, and I felt as though on the verge of tears multiple times, as if I had to struggle to hold on to reality, and if I was to yield to.. something.. I would be gone for a long time. Gradually, as we made our way out, these sensations passed and I was able to resume normal relations with the world, and the people I was with. Outside, we found a store selling souvenirs, and I bought a Kara to wear to remind me of the Golden Temple.

After the Golden Temple, Mrs S. took us to see Jallianwala Bagh which is of central importance in the story of Indian independence. Disorienting experiences were beginning to accumulate, and I had not sufficient time to process them all. In Ahmedabad, we had seen the Gandhi Ashram. Then the ceremony at the Pakistan border, and now, some kind of religious experience at the Golden Temple, followed closely by visiting Jallianwala Bagh, which memorializes a disgusting act of unspeakable cruelty perpetrated by the British. It was hard to experience at the time, and now a month later as I attempt to write about it, I find the same feelings coming back. In the case of Jallianwala Bagh, those are feelings of bitterness and anger towards the British, mixed with shame at ever having been part of their ‘empire.’ I wish I could see this historical event with the equanimity I witnessed among Indians, and wonder where on earth they find it. I remember little more until that evening, when we returned to the Golden Temple to see it illuminated. This time I bought my camera and took a few pictures, but we did not go inside.

Since we had arrived in India Saali and Flo had wanted to buy some shawls, and I was interested in finding a fine woolen scarf for myself. Mrs S. had advised us to wait until Amritsar to shop for these items, and the next day she took us to visit Mona, who runs a business exporting them. Her business is housed in a converted private home, where the main room upstairs serves as a showroom. It’s a large room facing the street, and about one third of the floor is padded like a mattress so that customers can sit comfortably and examine the shawls. On the shelves there are thousands of shawls and scarves of great beauty and variety.

As we examined the shawls, Mrs S. sat and chatted with Mona. An assistant immediately began removing shawls from their packaging and tossing them on the floor in front of us. Before long, we were surrounded by dozens of shawls, and it rapidly became overwhelming. In vain we struggled to reduce our selection to some sane quantity, but it was a losing battle. Between Saali, Flo, and myself, we must have bought a couple of dozen shawls and scarves of various styles. The quality of the materials and workmanship was outstanding, and we came away feeling greatly enriched.

Everywhere we went, food was never far away. Mr and Mrs S. took us to their favorite places for snacks or dessert or dinner. Here, Saali, Flo, and Mrs S. share Chat, which as far as I can tell has no equivalent in the west. On this occasion, it served as afternoon tea on the way from somewhere to somewhere else.

Another favorite was a place we went for dessert at night at least three times. It was a dingy, shady looking place, but they served outstanding Gulab Jamun, a confection made of milk and sugar. These were small ones, about the size of grapes, not the more common ones that are the size of ping pong balls. They served them in a little paper dish, and we ate them right there, standing on the sidewalk with motorcycles and rickshaws whizzing by. They also took us to another suspicious looking eatery for tandoori one night. It’s not a place I would have been caught dead in under normal circumstances, but Mr and Mrs S. assured us the food was excellent, and by this time we knew them well enough to know that when it came to food, they knew what they were talking about. The tandoori was heavenly. This restaurant doesn’t normally serve fish. However, Mr S. wanted us to experience the local river fish, and bought some from a nearby restaurant. He bought it back to the tandoori place and had them cook it for us.

Our last day in Amritsar was taken up with last minute shopping and getting organized for the train trip back to Delhi. I had wanted to find a post office to buy a sheet of stamps with Gandhi on them. We went to the post office on the way to the station, and Mrs S. attempted to explain to them that I wanted an entire sheet of stamps intact. This seemed difficult for them to understand, and it took an age for them to produce the stamps. While we waited, a man showed us a display of first day covers on the wall, proudly telling us all about them. He was a stamp collector, yet even he thought it quaint that I would want to frame an entire sheet of stamps as a souvenir. Eventually the stamps were produced and we proceeded to the station.

Mrs S. had suggested that we take at least one train journey while in India, and I also thought it a good idea. Saali and Flo were not convinced, but went along mainly to be agreeable I think. At the station we were all sad as we said our goodbyes to Mrs S. and boarded the train. Mr S. had been unexpectedly called away on business and was unable to see us off, so we said goodbye to him over the phone. The train left Amritsar exactly on time and soon we were among the green fields of the Punjab. The sun, which had risen during our trip from Delhi to Amritsar, went down during the return journey, It was late at night when we reached Delhi.

Here are some more pictures from our time in Amritsar. You can click them to see them in higher resolution.


Typical traffic in downtown Amritsar, if it can be said to have a downtown.

Rickshaws near the Ampapar vendor.

Pillar box, Amritsar.

The line of visitors at the Pakistan border, waiting to see the ceremony.

An apartment above a shop, Amritsar.

Mustard fields and farmer at dusk, Amritsar.

It’s a beautiful 3rd story apartment overlooking gardens, with lots of light and air. By coincidence, Vivek and Mitul were in the US while we were in India. In fact they stayed in Saali’s apartment in New York City, so it was only fitting that we stayed in theirs. The next morning, I took this picture from their living room. It shows the gardens, and two birds perched on the balcony. The one on the left is a crow, and the one on the right is what’s called in Australia an Indain Mynah. Don’t know what they call it in India, but seeing it made me all nostalgic. These were by far the most common birds we saw in India. Saali and Flo and Vikram had planned a busy day for us, sightseeing and shopping, and the next morning we were to fly to Amritsar.

We met up with Vikram, who turned out to have an endless supply of facts, many of them true, about Indian history and the various monuments and ruins we were to see. Namaste, Vikram. First off he took us to Purana Quila, a vast, partially ruined fort famous in Delhi. We saw various old buildings with beautiful carved stone and inlay work. Some, including the one in this picture, were undergoing restoration. When we arrived, we saw some laborers, both male and female, transferring crushed rock up a scaffold.

I watched as one woman piled a load of rock onto her head, and carried it over to the scaffold where it taken up by other workers. We climbed some crumbling stairs cut into the stone to see what was above, and saw these men putting the crushed rock down as pavement. Shortly after we climbed up an annoyed looking man came and ordered us back down. This was not surprising as the stairs, hundreds of years old, looked quite unsafe.

While Vikram showed Flo and myself around Purana Quila and the surrounding gardens, Saali was elsewhere getting a manicure, and our plan was to meet her, do a little shopping, and then go for lunch. It’s worth mentioning here that between the four of us, we had three cars, each with its own driver. This is not normal, but since Vivek and Mitul were away, we had both their drivers available, as well as Vikram’s. So, one of them drove Saali from her manicure appointment to the market, and another took Flo, Vikram, and myself. The third just tagged along in case we needed to split into three groups.

After Purana Quila, we went to see the India Gate, built by the British, and said to be India’s national monument. I was quite surprised by the India Gate. Specifically, I was surprised at how proud Indians seemed to be of it. Here, students on a field trip congregate at the gate.

I had somehow acquired a fantasy that I would find Indians full of resentment against the British, considering the rough treatment they suffered. In fact though, I never met anyone in India who had negative things to say about the British at all. I used to work with an Indian engineer in the US who was full of bitterness towards the British, and seemed to extend that bitterness towards me, as if being from Australia somehow made me complicit. Perhaps in my mind, I also extended his individual bitterness to the whole country, assuming I would find it everywhere. But it was not so. According to Vikram, who’s well informed about everything, when the British came they replaced one kind of occupation with another, and if nothing else, the British occupation had been preferable to what came before.

From there we drove to Khan Market to meet Saali. It was not exactly flush with parking spots, and having three cars between four adults did nothing to improve this situation. Lots of interesting little shops to explore, but not enough time. We bought a new memory card for Flo’s camera. She was doing much better than I was, and had already filled her memory card. Then we went to a bookshop, where she bought a book, “City of Djinns,” and I bought a CD of Indian “classical” music. It’s hard to know exactly what they mean by this term, but it seems to connote any music that features traditional instruments and musical forms. I particularly like Tabla, and found a CD of Flute & Tabla music. Vikram bought a CD of Rabbi Shergill, of whom more later.

After indulging our shopping, Vikram took us to lunch. This was at the canteen of the Andra Pradesh state house, and was something of an adventure. Inside, it was absolutely crammed with people, and in the lobby was a ‘line’ of people waiting for tables. In India, a line of people waiting for tables means everyone crammed into the smallest possible space, shoulder to shoulder, all talking at once. Think noisy, crowded subway car. Vikram made his way to the front and put our names down, and while we waited, we joined a different queue of folks waiting to wash their hands. We achieved that, and gradually inched our way towards the front of the main line, when our table was called and we were seated.

Then followed furious activity as approximately a zillion waiters descended on our table, cleaning it from the previous occupants and slamming down all manner of little metal dishes with frightening looking contents. This operation was carried out with almost industrial efficiency. The set menu was all you can eat south Indian, and the waiters kept bringing more and more idli and rice and sambar. There was some kind of meat, maybe lamb, that was quite spicy. Everything was delicious, and soon the crowds and noise became less worrisome, and I even began to feel energized by the frenetic activity surrounding us. I had my camera, but I was eating with my fingers and they didn’t feel clean enough to use it. It wasn’t until we arrived in Delhi that I really began to feel my appetite returning, mainly at lunch, and this meal was surprisingly welcome.

From the canteen, we all drove to theLodi Gardens which were simply beautiful, a treasure of which Delhi is rightly proud. When we arrived, we noticed a fragrant aroma of wood burning, and could see some smoke in the air, but couldn’t see any fire. This aroma seemed to follow us around, now catching our attention, now fading away. Birds were flying, insects were buzzing, and ducks were quacking.

There were beautiful trees and lawns in abundance, and plenty of people enjoying them, having picnics, or just lying in the sun. The peace and tranquility in the gardens belies the tumultuous history of conquest and occupation that characterizes India’s past.

We walked quietly among the buildings for some time, the aroma of burning wood wafting in and out of our awareness. My favorite structure was the Sheesh Gumbad, which apparently means ‘Glass Dome’, so called because glazed tiles were used in it’s construction. This material seems to resist weathering better than others, and the beauty of the original structure is still evident.

It’s said to be the tomb of an unknown family, built during the reign of Sikander Lodi, second ruler of the Lodi Dynasty. Before coming to India, Flo and I had watched Michael Wood’s documentary The Story of India in order to have at least a sketch of India’s history in our minds. On our travels, we did hear names and places from the series mentioned, especially Ahmed Khan, after whom Ahmedabad is named, and Akbar. But I have a bad head for history, and in general I just remember a jumble of titles and locations.

The picture above was taken from near the Bara Gumbad, or ‘Big Dome’, which with its attached mosque was built in 1494. This helps me locate it temporally by remembering 1492 as the year of Columbus. It’s sobering to realize that at that time, when “civilization” was still 300 years in the future for North America, it was already ancient in India.

But for Vikram, such matters are of little import. Here he’s trying to convey to Flo the size of a fish he claims to have almost caught once upon a time. Earlier, we had come to a circular stone structure set in the ground. It looked as though it were a fountain, or decorative pool, but there was no plumbing visible. Vikram explained that it was a sun well, or a time well, and that it would indicate the time by the position of the shadow cast by its rim. I liked this story, and stood on the edge of the structure trying to determine how it worked.

It was a little puzzling, because it was divided into 16 equal sectors which is a strange number for a clock. And on a sundial, the divisions are not equal, because shadows cast by the sun do not progress at a constant rate throughout the day. As I say, I liked this story. It was certainly a more interesting explanation of the circular structure than the true one, which is that it was a place for washing the feet. I’m indebted to Vikram for quickly recognizing this prosaic reality and substituting a more entertaining story for his guests.

At length we began to make our way out of the gardens as the sun set. The smell of burning wood grew stronger, and suddenly we saw its source. A tall thin man was walking nearby, and his head was on fire. Or at least so it seemed. On his head, he carried a metal contraption from which the smoke emanated. He was calling out something as he walked, but we couldn’t quite understand it. From time to time, he was stopped by a passer by. He carefully took the contraption from his head and set it on the ground. He opened it up, and there was fire inside. He unpacked some other paraphernalia and proceeded to cook up a snack for the passer by, who paid him and walked on. The snack-wallah then packed everything up again, put the brazier back on his head, and continued on his way, leaving a trail of wood smoke in his wake. I have no idea what it was that he was selling, but I just loved the idea of it. It seemed mad to walk around with a container of burning coals on one’s head, yet it was a madness whose lack I regretted in my normal surroundings.

After the Lodi Gardens, we stopped to shop for resais, which are a kind of light weight cotton quilt popular in India. For whatever reason, they are not common in the US, yet they are immensely practical, especially for warmer parts of the country. For a large bed, you use two so each sleeper can adjust their own covering without disturbing the other. We’ve had a pair for some time that Saali bought for us on a previous trip to India, but we wanted to get another set, and Saali and Vikram also wanted to buy some.

They tend to be printed in bold colors as you can see in this picture, which shows only a fraction of what was on sale at the store we visited. Flo and I immediately became paralysed trying to choose, and it began to feel that we would be there for hours. I liked mostly the blue ones whereas Flo preferred warmer colors. I was also anxious about how we were going to get them home, and it was clear we would need another suitcase for the return journey. But eventually we chose, and left the store with our bundles. We parted with Vikram at this point and went back to the apartment for dinner, and to pack our bags again, this time for the flight to Amritsar at the crack of dawn the following day.

My stance is made more complicated by my introverted nature, and often I’ll avoid taking a picture because I feel uncomfortable asking for permission. Perhaps I’m agreeing with Saali in a sense, because to ask permission seems to carry with it the need to have a good reason for taking the picture. Perhaps those times when I feel uncomfortable asking are times when I’m not so sure about my own motivations for taking the picture.

In India, these questions seemed to subside for me, because people tended to respond to me as a tourist, and probably assumed that my motivation for taking pictures was uncomplicated. Perhaps they thought my pictures were snapshots or souvenirs. For whatever reason, people I encountered in India seemed surprisingly willing to be photographed. Of course, sometimes this was because they wanted to make some money out of it, but in those cases I never took the photo. One or two times, I did pay for a photo although no payment was requested. Usually though, I had established some kind of relationship with the subject, for example this man who sold me a wallet in Mumbai.

I had paid for the wallet, and before leaving the store, I asked if I could take his picture holding it. He was happy to do so, but as I left the store he said “Thank you for my picture”. This happened on a number of occasions; subjects behaved as if I honored them by taking their photograph. I felt that he honored me by agreeing to be photographed. There’s generally some kind of power relationship that complicates the issue. In this case, I had immediately agreed to the first price he offered for the wallet, rather than pushing him for a lower price. Did that put him in my debt?

As we were about to leave Mumbai, I asked for permission to photograph Dharmsingh and Vijay, who had taken such good care of us while staying with Mrs S. Well, to be more precise, I asked Mrs S if it would be OK, and she directed them to make themselves available.

Once again, there’s a power relationship overlaying whatever other relationship there might be between me and them in taking the picture. I can’t imagine it was even possible for them to refuse, when directed by Mrs S. And, given that we were her guests, I can’t imagine they could have refused if I had asked them myself. But really, that’s what I would ideally want: for them to agree to the picture in the absence of the overlying power relationship. Given the situation, this would be difficult to negotiate.

In Ahmedabad, we were taken to Gamthiwala, where the ladies were once again overwhelmed by the range of beautiful textiles available.
This was the only place we visited where permission was denied. This was also one of the few places where I neglected to ask permission.

As I raised my camera to photograph the fabrics and the salespeople, one of them said not to take the picture. I lowered my camera, and he said he didn’t want to be photographed, but it was OK for me to photograph the shop and the fabrics. I noticed Saali in the corner inspecting some fabric, and took this photo instead.

In many places where traffic was congested, we encountered beggars especially women and children, who would walk among the traffic, tapping on windows, pointing to their mouths to ask for money. We were given various advice which amounted to “Ignore them, don’t make eye contact”, but it was nevertheless unsettling.

I saw this girl working her way towards us in a line of stopped cars, and decided to make a picture. I prefocussed the camera, and waited, my face turned away from the window. When she came to my window and began tapping, I lifted the camera from my lap and quickly made the picture. I have mixed feelings about the result. On the one hand, I generally abhor pictures that situate the poor as other. There are millions of such pictures made by tourists every year, and the world doesn’t need yet more of them. On the other, I think this one is at least partly redeemed by foregrounding the social context. Clearly I’m in a car, protected by the closed window, further distanced by the interpolation of the camera. Rich/poor, inside/outside, closed/open, dark/light, safety/danger. The powerful create structures that protect them from the powerless.


Beggar in traffic, Mumbai.

We went to Ahmedabad on the recommendation of a friend in the U.S. who shares an interest in textiles and design. Among other attractions, Ahmedabad is know for is the Calico Museum of Textiles, which was the focus of our visit. No photography is permitted anywhere at the museum, so I have nothing to show. However, I can say that the museum alone is reason enough to visit Ahmedabad. They have a vast collection of ancient textiles from all over India, and a very knowledgeable guide who can go into great detail about the items on display. Astonishing is a word that quickly comes to mind when attempting to describe it.

Go there if you ever have the opportunity, and stay at the House of MG, a partially restored mansion that’s an experience in its own right. We hired a driver for the full day, with instructions for him to take us to the Museum first thing in the morning, drive us to interesting places throughout the day, and then to the airport for our flight to Delhi. This turned out to be an excellent plan, and we had a great time there.

Traffic, especially in the outskirts, had a less frenetic rhythm to it than elsewhere. You find yourself sharing the road with elephants and other livestock, and in general the patterns of rural life dominate. Here, we’re held up by a herd of cattle. The driver honked at them, and they made way for us. Coming in the other direction we encountered some buffalo. They paid us no heed, acted as though we didn’t exist. The driver said that the cows understand traffic and honking, but the buffalo seem less intelligent, and don’t learn the modern ways. Or perhaps it’s because they’re more intelligent.


Traffic, Ahmedabad.

We drove around the old city, and saw ancient mosques, and found a south Indian restaurant for lunch. Saali was happy because they kept bringing sambar as quickly as she could eat it. If it’s possible to be addicted to sambar, Saali would be the poster child. After lunch, we drove to see the step well. Who wants to go see a well? Well, our driver assured us that it was Ahmedabad’s best attraction, the thing he’s most proud to show visitors, so we trusted him, and went along.


Step well, Ahmedabad.

Once again, the word astonishing comes to mind. Most of the structure is below ground, and crammed with beautiful stone carving at every turn. You descend to the water level by a series of steps connecting the different levels of the structure.


Elephant frieze, Step well, Ahmedabad.

While there I spent time getting to know our driver Sayed. He showed us a guide book he had published with a friend, listing all the interesting things to do in Ahmedabad. I had asked him for his address, so I could send him a copy of the photo below, and he gave us a copy of his book, which contained his website and email address. We put the book in one of our bags as a souvenir. Later he asked for it, because he wanted to point out some places we might shop, and somehow it got left behind in the van, meaning I may not be able to keep my promise to send him the picture.


Sayed at step well, Ahmedabad.

This picture was taken towards the end of our tour in Ahmedabad, and in the intervening time I felt I had gotten to know Sayed a bit. He had been our teacher and guide, revealing much interesting information about the history of Ahmedabad, and the people of Gujarat.

In addition, I felt I had established a further connection with him, something universal, or timeless. At one point, one of the ladies had been fussing about something, and both were taking an inordinately long time to be ready. I was growing irritated, impatient to get going, and looked towards him, rolling my eyes. He smiled, and winked at me, and it was clear that he knew the situation exactly. I imagine that men anywhere would understand, and would be able to connect in this situation. We talked about our families, and he laughed as told me how his daughter had taught him how to speak english to tourists. She told him that if questions from tourists got too complicated, he should wave his hands as if he was communication something important, and they would be satisfied.

I liked Sayed a great deal, and thought I could make a good portrait of him. At the step well, I found this location where there the light from above was soft while the background was in shadow, and asked him to pose for me. He agreed. I was intending to ask him to fold his arms, but he did that of his own accord. It helps avoid an inaccurate sense of openness that might result from a smile, or from standing with arms by his sides. When I showed him the photo in the camera LCD he seemed pleased with the result. Regardless of his reaction, I am happy with it. It works as a simple portrait, and feels somehow clean, unencumbered by the complexities of motivation evident in the other photographs.

We planned to spend today shopping, and visiting one of the family businesses with Priya. She sent her driver to fetch us from Chez S and drive us there. He took us through a series of narrow winding streets, and we were ultimately admitted through iron gates into a compound that used to be a textile mill, but is now being transformed into a film and TV production facility.

Priya, who is a cinematographer by profession, has been working on this project, managing the renovations as well as the production business. When we arrived, she greeted us with tubes of cream and directed us to apply it to our skin. I thought it was sun block, but she said it was to protect against malaria carrying mosquitoes. This was one of many similar moments we experienced in India: moments which make you think “we’re not in Kansas any more”. Later we learned that she had recently contracted malaria, and was very ill with it, so it makes sense she would be vigilant.

Another such moment came when I learned that her brother Vikram had recently contracted Dengue fever. He shrugged, saying it’s quite common and generally not that serious, and he’s probably right. It just sounds so exotic, which is OK for dancers, but not for diseases.

So we dutifully applied our mosquito repellent, and Priya began to show us around the facility. There are multiple buildings in various stages of transformation. Some are already in use for shooting TV shows. In one building, we encountered these construction workers taking a meal break in one of the partially renovated buildings. Notice that no-one is wearing jeans, or any clothing bearing a logo. We were impressed by this everywhere we went. In another building, we saw a TV show being filmed. We tiptoed in past a bored looking sound guy at a makeshift mixing console, with cables snaking across the floor into another room where they were shooting what appeared to be a soap opera.

Our tour was interrupted from time to time as Priya took phone calls, or men (Priya seemed to be the only woman present, apart from an actress) came up to consult with her about the renovations. It was quite hot outside, though cool in the shade. We were given bottled water to drink, and Priya showed us a vegetable garden that had been put in at the request of Mr S. Business is business, but in India it seems food is never far from one’s thoughts. Saali loves weeding, and eyed the garden wistfully, but managed to restrain herself.

At this point, our tour was almost over, and we were to go to lunch. Priya had some business to attend to first, and Saali and Flo had wandered off somewhere. I stood in the shade of a large tree and waited. Two women approached me, with a little girl in tow. I guessed one was the little girl’s mother, and the other perhaps her grandmother.

They were all dressed beautifully in bright colors, and came right up to me as I stood waiting. The little girl looked at me, and said in perfect English, “How are you today, Uncle?”. It was quite disarming, and more than a little bewildering, and I’m sure I paused for an impolite length of time before I responded that I was well thank you, and asked how she was in return. After a slight prompt from her mother, she said she was well too. Then they took their leave, and walked on. Outside the gate, a man rode by on a bicycle calling “Needle-Wallah Needle-Wallah Needle-Wallah”. Once again, that “not in Kansas” feeling.

Priya took us to lunch at Gajalee, a popular seafood restaurant where we ate crab and tandoori pomfret. The waiter bought the crab, still alive, and the pomfret to our table for us to judge their freshness before they were cooked. The food was delicious, especially the pomfret, a Mumbai specilaity. Afterwards we did some more fabric shopping before going to see Priya’s new apartment. Here, Flo amd Saali rest while Priya arranges for them to be tortured by a Thai masseuse.

Their massage was to take about an hour, and we decided that I would use the time to walk around the area to take pictues. The spa was in a very crowded mixed business and residential district. It was late afternoon, and the streets were jammed with people and traffic. I was still far from comfortable taking pictures, and once again overwhelmed by the sheer visual complexity of the surroundings. Normally I find such complexity and chaos a source of creative energy, but as had happened the previous day, I had to walk around and concentrate hard before I began to see it properly. I shot a dozen or so frames, but only a few were keepers. If you click on these larger images, you can see a higher resolution version.


Chaos in Mumbai. Glossy canopy of auto rickshaw, A.K.A Tuk-Tuk, in foreground.


Same location, public transport.

At one point, I was leaning against a building, and felt something touch my hand. A small boy was standing close to me, with his fingers touching my wedding ring and feeling the sleeve of my shirt. There was something furtive about him, something creepy and unsettling. Like the little girl had earlier, he addressed me as “Uncle”, but there was nothing respectful about it. He asked the usual questions: Where are you from, first time in India, how long have you been here, etc. He wasn’t begging, didn’t seem to want anything and soon left me alone. Shortly after, I saw him again, by the stall of a street vendor. One man held him down on the ground, while the vendor went through his pockets, pulling out items he had stolen.

All around were stalls selling shoes, clothing, trinkets, and all kinds of unfamiliar eatables. All the food stalls were crowded, doing brisk business. The man below approached me, wanting to shine my shoes for 20 Rupees. I didn’t want them cleaned, and was feeling mistrustful after the pickpocket. He was very insistent, and stayed a while asking me the questions, telling me his story. I liked him.


Shoe shine man, KFC franchise, Mumbai.

I kept saying no, and he eventually he gave up, said he would pray for me, and walked off. I regretted that I had become so defensive after the pickpocket brat, and wanted this encounter to end differently. So I called him back, offering him 50 Rupees to pose for this picture.

Traveling to India is a challenge. If you are in Los Angeles and ask how to get to India, the correct answer would be the wry “you can’t get there from here.” You have first to go somewhere else, and then go to India from there. In our case, somewhere else was New York, where we were to be joined by Flo’s sister Saali, who knows people in India, and who indeed was the driving force that got us to India at all. We owe her a mountain of gratitude.

So in Rushdie’s sense, we began in a state of disorientation, and then mother nature blinked, and the entire east coast of the US was covered in snow, including certain locations important for international travel. For example, airports. Our plans were thrown into disarray, our departure was delayed by a few days, and instead of a 15 hour direct flight from the east coast to Mumbai, we had first to go to Frankfurt. You can’t get there from here.

I’m far from the world’s most seasoned traveller, and by the time we were in this transit lounge in Frankfurt, I was exhausted. Flo seemed tired but nevertheless awake. Saali and I attempted to nap while waiting for the connecting flight. Still more than 8 hours to go.

Our original plan had us arriving at night, so we could go to sleep immediately and wake to a full day. Instead, we arrived in Mumbai just before dawn. My first impressions: heat, immigration & customs very crowded but crowds polite and orderly, and a peculiar smell of burnt dust in the air that Saali said was characteristic of Mumbai and made her happy. We lugged our baggage to the curb, where Saali recognized Mahavir, the driver dispatched to meet us. By the time we reached our accommodations, the eastern sky was full of light.

Our hosts while in India were Mr and Mrs S and their family, and it must be said that if we owe Saali a mountain, then to them we owe all the Himalayas. They have made Saali part of their family, and she is godmother to two of their grandchildren. Throughout our stay, they were the exemplars of hospitality. Originally they had planned to be at their country home in Amritsar around this time, but they changed their plans and stayed on in Mumbai in order to meet us when we arrived. Because our travel plans had been delayed by bad weather in the States, Mr S had to leave for Amritsar before we arrived, and it was Mrs S who was our host and guide for the first few days.

In Mumbai, they have a 3rd floor apartment overlooking the ocean and facing approximately west. There is not enough room to accommodate three adult guests, so Mrs S arranged with her upstairs neighbors, Mr and Mrs N, to provide us with a lovely private room, with our own bathroom and a view of the ocean.

When we arrived, Mrs S was about to take her morning constitutional, which consists of either a walk along the sea front or a walk around the racetrack, followed by tea with a group of old friends at RWITC, the Royal West Indian Turf Club. We were invited to come along, and were treated to what we thought was a delicious breakfast (only to learn that our actual breakfast was still to come) and pleasant conversation in the garden at the turf club.

According to Mrs S, this group meets here every morning before work, and consists of doctors, lawyers and people in business. They joked that during these meetings, the doctors would dispense legal advice, and the lawyers medical. Bottom right in the picture is Mrs S, with Saali’s face partly visible at the top left.

It was all very pleasant, with uniformed waiters, endless tea, melba toast, and samosas. Jockeys, owners, trainers milled around. We were quite close to the track, and from time to time a horse would gallop by in a training run. The weather was delightful, and it’s hard to think of a more pleasant way to greet the sun.

Above us, birds of various kinds circled. Some were Kites, and there were many Crows, abundant everywhere in India. They are beautiful black birds, with elegant grey necks, about the size of the ravens in California, with an inquisitive personality like the Magpies in Australia. Whenever I saw them, I smiled. They love to carry objects in their beaks, and can often be seen with bits of wire or other man made materials. Once in Delhi, I saw one carrying a plastic drink cup.

In India the cars are small and the drivers expert. We needed two cars to get the four of us back to the apartment. Saali was keen to catch up with Mrs S, so they took a taxi, while Flo and I were driven by Mr and Mrs A, a couple from the tea group, both doctors.

We arrived back at the apartment to be greeted by a table set with a full breakfast, dal, roti, yogurt, toast, tea, eggs. This was to set the tone for our entire trip, which developed into more or less continual feasting punctuated here and there by the occasional shopping or sightseeing trip just to maintain the illusion that we were tourists on vacation. But the feasting was central.

Saali had tried to warn us of the onslaught of eating we were about to experience, but in retrospect I think nothing could have prepared us. It was clear that Saali was keen for the shopping portion of our journey to get underway, so as soon as breakfast was complete, we set off into the wilds of Mumbai. Mahavir was our long suffering driver, and Mrs S our guide. Flo and Saali were after Kurtees and fabric by the yard. I wanted to take some photographs. So while they shopped, I wandered around outside with my camera, and experienced another kind of disorientation which manifested as an inability to see what was around me in aesthetic terms.

While the ladies examined every single article for sale in two stores at this location, I wandered forth and back attempting to see something that wanted to be photographed.

I noticed my attention was drawn to the red cloth hanging above the sidewalk at the end of the block, and came back to it a few times to photograph from different angles.

It seemed as though I had forgotten how to work my camera, and I had a lot of trouble with clipped highlights in the beginning, and then problems with underexposure. I was feeling tired and awake at the same time. I had had no sleep for more than 24 hours, yet here I was in dazzling sunlight somehow simultaneously awake and asleep, bewildered and disoriented. A continual stream of hawkers approached me wanting to sell trinkets of various kinds; obviously I looked like a tourist, and I imagined that I stuck out like a sore thumb. A young man dressed all in white attempted to give me something, but I refused whatever it was. He kept insisting that it was free, that he was a holy man and it was some kind of religious offering, and that it would bring me good luck. But I felt very mistrustful, and too timid to take his photograph.

I never felt unsafe, but began to feel besieged by these fellows. I took another picture of the red cloth, just to try and get myself into the process. As I was reviewing it, a street vendor right next to me (visible at bottom right in the picture above), leaned over to look at the picture as well, and I was suddenly disarmed. Somehow his innocent assumption that I would want to share what I was doing began to open me up, making me feel less afraid.

In the two weeks we were in India, only one person refused to be photographed, and most were keenly curious to see the picture I had just made. When he saw what I was attempting to photograph, he motioned to the vendor at the end of the block, the owner of thee red cloth, and apparently told him to arrange it properly because I was trying to photograph it. I quickly signaled him to leave it as it was, and finally made the following image, which I guess is good enough.

It’s more the way I see things, anyway, a kind of chaotic balance that I find intriguing. I walked back to the store where the ladies were shopping, and took some photos inside the store, still trying to feel comfortable photographing in these unfamiliar surroundings. Here, Saali in a kurtee buying frenzy.

During our outings, Mrs S was frequently on the phone. This I later learned usually meant she was giving instructions to the cook for the next meal, or maybe the one after that. Here, Flo is in the mirror, selecting fabric to make pyjamas, and Mrs S at right, on the phone almost certainly talking about food. Flo is wearing her blue kurtee, which, alternating with her similar red one, was what she wore for the entire trip. Both of us packed all the wrong clothes, and ended up not wearing most of them.

I walked outside again, and noticed for the first time the front window of the store that was currently being emptied of all its kurtees. A very simple window design, with tessellated pavement reflected. Right up my alley.

After this shopping expedition, it was time for lunch. Mrs S took us to a South Indian restaurant. I was convinced that we stopped at the cricket club, but everyone assures me that I’m wrong about that. In any case, the service was somewhat overwhelming, and barely had I popped some morsel into my mouth when a waiter appeared and replaced it with two more. Every time they would bring a new dish, they would offer namaste, usually while I had a mouth full of food and hands covered in curry. I’m a rather messy eater when I use a knife and fork, and it’s perhaps best not to imagine how I cope when eating with my fingers. It’s not a pretty sight, that’s for sure. The food was unlimited in quantity and variety, and, to borrow the favorite superlative of Mrs S, was superb. At lunch we also met Priya, the younger daughter of Mrs S.

I can’t remember what happened during the rest of this first afternoon. I know we made arrangements to spend the next day with Priya, and that at some point we ended up at Chez S. Presumably we had tea, and I seem to remember some discussions about dinner we would have. I also remember going upstairs to our little apartment to “freshen up”. I’m pretty sure the sun was still up at this point. The next 15 or so hours are now stuck in my memory like scenes from a David Lynch movie, in which it’s difficult to discriminate between dream and reality.

The apartment building is architected as a rectangle, as far as I can discern. The narrow side faces the street, and the long side goes back into the property. Running down the length on each floor is a straight corridor, with apartments opening off it. The apartments are large, with multiple bedrooms and bathrooms, and large kitchens. The apartment of Mr and Mrs N seems to occupy the full width at the back of the building, as well as a good proportion of one side. Consequently, this apartment has two entrances. One, the main entrance, is at the end of the corridor, and leads into an entry hall from which you can access the other rooms. The other is located about half way down the corridor, and opens into a large open utility room, which has one wall completely of floor to ceiling windows, and a sliding glass door that opens further onto a large balcony. In this room there is a shrine, a large TV, and some space for ironing. Let’s call it the laundry room. The spare room in which we stayed also opens off this room, with its own locked door. So to get into our room, we had two keys. One opened the door from the corridor into the laundry room, and the other opened the door from the laundry room into the spare room. We were asked to keep both doors locked, which I diligently attempted to honor. Perhaps you are by now wondering why all this detail about rooms and keys. Fear not.

So on this first evening, I took both the keys from Flo, and went up to prepare myself for dinner and more socializing. I had now not slept for perhaps 36 hours, and felt my reserves of energy were very low. I spent some time figuring out how to plug my camera charger into the diabolically designed electrical outlet, and then lay on the bed, just for a minute I swear, and immediately fell into a profound sleep. I think at some point, Flo came in to tell me it was almost time for dinner. I was feeling extremely disoriented, hardly knowing where I was or what time it was, or even what day it was, but felt obliged to go down and make an appearance, and I believe I said I would do so in a few minutes. Flo left me to go back downstairs.

The next thing I remember is someone knocking on the door. I struggled to wake myself, and opened the door to see a man completely unfamiliar to me, who spoke no English. In retrospect, I realize it was a servant of Mr and Mrs N, but at the time I had no clue, other than that he was some member of that household. He never attempted to speak. Instead, he pointed to the outer door, the one that opens onto the corridor, and made a highly articulate mime of unlocking it with a key. This was very confusing to me, because as a member of that household, he could just use their spare key if he wanted to open the door. Did this mean they had no spare key, and yet needed to open the outer door from time to time? What would they do if we were out, and they needed to open it? Did Mrs get it wrong, when she said we should keep both doors locked? Very unlikely, knowing what I know of Mrs S. With these thoughts adding to my state of confusion, and still groggy from sleep, I stumbled over to the outer door, and attempted to open it with the wrong key. Fumbling some more, the servant observing me with that look of pity one reserves for the mentally incompetent, I managed to open it with the other key. I thought what he wanted was just to have the door open, so I showed him it was open, but didn’t open it wide, or look out. I began to stumble back to bed, thinking something had gone wrong with the arrangements regarding the doors and keys. The servant however, opened the door wide, and looked out into the corridor. There was nobody there. He looked at me confusedly, and closed the door again. Since it seemed they wanted it unlocked, I kept the key, and went back to our room, falling asleep again immediately, but filled with anxiety that someone needed to understand there was a serious problem with the arrangements. In my disoriented state, this problem took on epic proportions, but I could not understand how to fix it.

I believe what happened next, was that again I heard a knock at the door. Struggling to my feet, I opened it to see Saali standing there telling me that dinner was being served, or perhaps asking whether I was alright. To me it seemed many hours since I first came upstairs to freshen up. It was quite dark, and I had no idea what time it was. I knew however that I couldn’t pull myself together enough to make conversation, and certainly could not eat anything, so asked her to convey my apologies, and that I was exhausted and needed to sleep. I also tried to make her understand that there was something wrong concerning the key, and that it was very important. It seemed to me that civilizations might fall if it were not sorted out, but I was unable to convey the urgency to her. She left, and I’m sure she gave me the same look I had got from the servant earlier, as though I had taken leave of my senses and would soon be in a mental institution.

Time, apparently, passed. Yet another knock at the door, and there was Flo, with some kind of metal contraption in her hand. Mrs S had become concerned about me not eating, and had sent up some food. There was soup, some fried okra, and chicken sandwiches, all stacked in cleverly nesting metal containers held together by a wire clamp. Apparently, dinner had finished and Flo was coming to bed. I had missed a highly convivial evening with much laughter and happy conversation that she would tell me about in the morning. I made one last, desperate attempt to make known the serious problem regarding the keys and doors, telling Flo that it was really, very important that she understand me, and alert the authorities. But I failed, and she told me, all the while stifling giggles, that it was alright and she would explain in the morning.

But you have to wait, while they assemble on stage, tune their instruments, and the audience get themselves sorted into their appropriate seats. Fortunately, there’s some system at work that makes sure there are at least enough seats for all the audience members, which I’m sure avoids some difficult confrontations with angry patrons. But I digress. Having arrived early, we waited, Flo and I, for the music to start, and I got to thinking about some alternative arrangements for a performance with an orchestra and an audience. At the time I shared these with Flo, and her vigorous lack of enthusiasm for them convinced me I was on the right track. What I present here are instructions for two such performances.



Performance piece with Orchestra and Audience #1, by Neil Baylis.

Copyright 2009, Neil Baylis

Raw materials:

1st Movement: Larghissimo.

The concert hall is empty, and both the house lights and orchestra lights are on. The orchestra is admitted and take their seats, but the audience is kept outside. Once the orchestra is seated, the audience is admitted. Important: They will ask about the purpose of the cheesy instruments. Under no circumstances may they be told what the purpose is. The movement continues for however long it takes the audience to assemble.

2nd Movement: Grave, Misterioso.

The conductor arrives on stage, and faces the orchestra. House lights go down, and orchestra lights intensify. The conductor begins, marking time with the baton, and occasionally looking towards particular members of the orchestra as the movement progresses. They make no sound, except for spasmodic, random coughing, but not so much as to seem deliberate. For the duration of the movement, they sit with their hands folded in their laps. About 7 minutes total.

3rd Movement: Allegro appassionato.

The orchestra lights dim, and the house lights intensify, so that the audience is more brightly lit than the orchestra. Without warning, the conductor turns to face the audience. He lifts his baton, and looks at various parts of the audience. He continues this until the entire audience is riveted on him, and beginning to feel slightly uncomfortable. He begins, with an emphatic downbeat, furiously waving the baton about for a bar or two, then stops and glares at the audience. He gestures to them to pick up their cheesy instruments. If they do not comply, he may pull a kazoo from his pocket and give it a toot. The movement ends when some critical mass of audience members are cowed into picking up the cheesy instruments.

4th Movement: Agitato, con bravura.

The conductor begins with a melodramatic downbeat. From time to time, he gestures towards some random section of the audience, in the forlorn hope that they will play the cheesy instruments. As soon as any audience member in the house makes any sound with their instrument, the orchestra members break into fits of uncontrollable coughing. The conductor stops, turns to the orchestra and glares at them until at length they fall silent. Repeat this sequence until about 15 minutes have elapsed.

5th Movement: Agitato A piacere.

The conductor faces the orchestra. The orchestra members pull their own cheesy instruments from their pockets. They lift them into playing position, and wait for the conductor’s signal. The conductor begins, but the orchestra makes no sound. However, as soon as any audience member coughs, one or more of the orchestra members answers the cough with a sound from a cheesy instrument.

Throughout the movement, the conductor alternately faces the orchestra or the audience, encouraging them to play. When anyone in the audience plays their instrument, the orchestra responds with coughing. When the audience coughs, the orchestra plays the instruments. Continue long enough that the audience gets the hang of it.

Then suddenly, using a prearranged signal, the conductor faces the audience, and the orchestra members leap to their feet. The conductor and orchestra proceed to engage in wild, ecstatic applause and yells and whistling directed at the audience. The applause grows in intensity. Orchestra members begin speaking in tongues, flailing their arms about, writhing on the floor. Some pass out and have to be carried off stage by paramedics, but the movement continues. They continue in this manner until it seems they are all possessed by demons.

The movement ends, as does the entire concert, when the female stage hand comes on stage with the jug of water and towel. She throws the water in the conductor’s face, at which he comes to his senses, and the orchestra falls quiet. The conductor reaches for the towel, and she hands it to him. He wipes his face, and everyone leaves the stage in an orderly manner.

Important: the audience may not have their money back.



Performance piece with Orchestra and Audience #2, by Neil Baylis.

Copyright 2009, Neil Baylis

Raw materials:

The performance begins like any other. As the audience files in, the orchestra comes on stage in dribs and drabs, wearing their cow costumes and carrying their instruments. They tune up in the usual manner. Then the soloist comes on stage and bows to the audience & the orchestra. He carries a lariat, but no instrument. He squats expectantly, and adjusts his hat, gets ready to use the larriat.

The conductor rides on stage on his horse, and faces the orchestra. They begin, playing some pastoral music, with the conductor standing in the stirrups to conduct. Everything seems normal.

At an appropriate moment, the soloist lassos one of the musicians, and attempts to drag her off stage. The conductor notices. They switch to some chase music, like the William Tell Overture, and the conductor adopts a posture more like a jockey in a race. He has a riding crop, and pretends to whip the horse, but the horse must remain standing still. Be sure that the horse is not orchestra-shy.

The orchestra members grow restless, and move around as a group. The soloist attempts to lasso more of them, and they start to mill around chaotically as they play. The conductor takes out a gun, and attempts to shoot the soloist with one hand while conducting with the other. Eventually, the piece ends when the orchestra members trample the soloist underfoot, and they finish the music in relative calm.

When they are done, the conductor turns towards the audience, and rears the horse up on its hind legs, firing shots in the air with his gun, and waving his cowboy hat in the accustomed manner.

Sounds exciting, doesn’t it?

My first enlarger, cobbled together in my bedroom when I was a teenager, used items salvaged from a model railway and a telescope. A section of track served as the column (the enlarger was laid out horizontally instead of vertically). I can’t remember what I used as a light source, but I remember the lens was the objective lens from a telescope, and was mounted on an open box car from the model railway. I would move it forth and back along the track until the image was in focus, and then put some photographic paper at the appropriate location for exposure. It actually produced recognizable images, though none of them survive. This would have been some time in the 1960s.

More recently, I must have received a blow to the head, or perhaps someone laced my tea with LSD, because it suddenly occurred to me that it would be a good idea to learn to repair cameras “in my spare time”. At the time I had been grimly resisting what I perceived to be a lemming like rush toward the cliffs of digital photography, holding on for dear life to the old equipment and the old ways of doing things.

To this end, I did some research and found a suitable candidate camera, the Pentax ME. In short order I had a collection of these, all non-working, which would serve as sacrificial lambs. I bought some essential tools and set to work.

To begin with, I tackled a couple of lenses. At a swap meet, I found a Pentax 24mm lens that was completely clouded by internal fungus on multiple elements. Otherwise, it was in excellent condition. I disassembled it until I had access to all the affected elements, and was able to clean them almost completely. The fungus had left no permanent damage, except that it had removed some the coating on one internal surface. I put it back together, and found that it would no longer focus to infinity. Disassemble and reassemble. Again. Now it would focus to infinity, but there was a fingerprint on one of the elements. Disassemble, clean, and reassemble. Third time was the charm, and I sold it for a good price. That was encouraging.

Another lens was a 28mm Kiron that someone gave me. There was something wrong with the focusing mechanism, making the barrel impossible to turn. Other than that, it seemed very clean. I pulled it apart and found that the lubricant was all gummed up inside. I cleaned out the old gunk and re-lubricated it, and it was right as rain. Another success.

But that’s about as far as it went. I put my dead cameras aside while I worked on other projects, and gradually forgot about them. I bought a working ME  from a pawn shop, and had it cleaned and calibrated. I wanted to use it for a while to see if it would serve as the basis for a complete SLR system. I collected a few lenses, and it seemed to be working out fine, until I took it to NYC one long weekend.

On my return I discovered that the meter was on the fritz, and had ruined most of my shots. I had also begun to resent the time spent at the color lab, dropping film off, waiting for processing and picking it up again. And I was growing frustrated with hours spent numbering and filing negatives, laboriously scanning them, removing dust specs in photoshop. I was painfully aware that I wouldn’t have to do any of it if I would just switch to digital.

So began the process of getting rid of all my film cameras. I’m not done yet, but getting there gradually. This week I finally sold my collection of dead Pentax ME bodies, and now only a few bits and pieces remain. Goodbye ME, and goodbye waiting in line at the color lab. Goodbye cutting negatives into fives and numbering them. Goodbye scanning, and goodbye spotting. Goodbye loupe and lightbox. Goodbye film.

I think I’m starting to get the hang of this new Leica.