After his last movie on the sports dream of a Kashmiri youth, Inshallah, Football, was dragged into a year-long legal battle with the Central Board of Film Certification, filmmaker Ashvin Kumar has this time decided to bypass the Indian censor board altogether. Since midnight, his new movie entitled Inshallah, Kashmir: Living terror about stories of torture that ex-militants suffered at the hands of the Indian forces has been released online on Youtube. It will remain available for 24 hours (Mashallah!) before, presumably, India’s Internet laws might bring it down.
By Erik Wilson
Image: Flickr user aNantaB, CC license
Over evening khana on my most recent trip to Nepal I listened as a friend expressed his concern regarding the study habits and priorities of his young nieces and nephews. Members of what he deemed the ‘Facebook and Twitter Generation’, their sights seem to be set more on motorbikes and cosmopolitan material comforts than studying or creating a plan for their futures. He, along with others I’ve talked to, are concerned about the future of Nepal due in no small part to the increasingly outward and international aspirations of many in the younger generations. Unlike in Western countries, he laments, the only social safety net in Nepal ‘is the Gulf’, referring to the exodus of Nepali youth seeking employment in the Middle East. How is Nepal to prosper and develop when the youth are perceived to be disinterested?
If there is any doubt as to the desires of today’s Nepali youth, one only needs to stroll past the passport office where, day after day, rain or shine, the queues are overflowing with people waiting for their travel documents to be processed. If you’re still not convinced, head over to the American embassy around mid-morning and check out the crowds that gather outside the fence and across the street waiting for visas.
Stories of undisciplined teenagers with misplaced priorities in search of an easy way out are a dime a dozen, and not only in Nepal. So instead of reflecting on this somewhat universal truth, consider for a moment another factor that might contribute to this contemporary ambivalence and resultant ‘brain drain’ – education.
The spring of 2010 found me in Bajura district working with an organization that reunites trafficked children with their families. A colleague and I were conducting observations at a local boarding school and were asked to sit in on a level 10 English class. Upon discovering my US background the teacher proceeded to inform his students that I would impart to them the critical importance of learning English. However, the Sir didn’t stop there, going on to tell his students that Nepal is a terribly backwards country, that the West is an unequivocally better place and that they as students need to adopt Western ways if they hope to achieve anything in this life.
The teacher was, in his own way, echoing sentiments that I have heard many times before. Be it the taxi driver who talked about how bad the traffic and culture is or students at other schools that said to me “our schools are very bad, yes sir?” – they all speak to a certain engrained negativity. Discussed once, such an idea will vanish, but discussed endlessly, such an idea will transform a society. Take the American counterpoint as an example. From an early age children are told that America is the greatest country on Earth and that many aspects of our nation and culture have far-reaching influence. Granted, holding our country in this high regard seems to have bred a certain questionable hubris, but at the same time it contributes to Americans staying in America.
In much the same way, Nepalese youth are a product of their upbringing. Writing them off as disinterested is of little value. When I hear members of older generations discussing today’s youth and their lack of motivation or interest in Nepal, I want to stop and point out that an enculturation and schooling based on the negatives and difficulties of life in Nepal can only be expected to produce these results. Instead people should be asking why. Why are they disinterested? Why aren’t they serious? Why do they want to leave Nepal? Only when these questions are answered or discussed in an open fashion can there be progress.
By Erik Wilson
Wen Jiabao drops in to Kathmandu
Lathi charge on Tibetan protest in Kathmandu. Image by Flickr user Buddha's Breakfast.
Saturday’s visit by Chinese Premier Wen Jiabao came as a surprise to many in the Kathmandu Valley. The Nepali Government announced the visit only an hour before the Premier landed at Tribhuvan International Airport, and Kathmandu woke up to increased security measures, particularly in the Tibetan areas of the city. The subsequent meetings with Prime Minister Baburam Bhattarai lasted just over 4 hours and resulted in the Chinese pledging more than US $140 million of assistance for everything from finalising the peace process and improving the police forces to assistance for a new international airport in Pokhara and 3 large hydropower projects. US $20 million is to be given immediately for the peace process, with a further US $120 million over the next 3 years.
By now, discussions of China’s increasing influence in Nepal and the inherent interplay and conflict with Indian interests are well hashed out. So are the acknowledgments that much of Chinese policy towards Nepal is contingent on the Nepalese Government taking an unwaveringly pro-China stance on the issue of Tibetan refugees. Indeed, Premier Jiabao was originally scheduled for a 3-day visit to Nepal in December that was cancelled in no small part because of the threat of protests and the potential for self-immolation by Tibetan activists. It has also been noted that Saturday’s whirlwind visit just so happened to coincide with the Buddhist Kaalachakra initiations being given by the Dalai Lama in Bodhgaya. Many Tibetans travelled to India for the event, and upwards of 200 of them were detained on the return trip. This is in addition to the many Tibetans that were detained around the valley on Saturday. These events come as no surprise as the Nepalese Government has been anxiously awaiting the Premier’s visit – and the promise of financial support – since December. So with all of this in mind, what new insights can we take away from the Premier’s trip and China’s monetary pledges?
Let’s start with the numbers. China’s Ministry of Commerce lists the value of China’s overseas non-bond investments in 2010 at USD $57.9 billion (the numbers have yet to be published for 2011). China’s pledge of USD $140 million to Nepal represents a mere one-quarter of one percent of China’s overall foreign investment in 2010. The point here is not that China should be investing more in Nepal, but that distinct consideration should be given to the amount of influence China is able to wield for such a relatively small sum of money. Nepal definitely needs investment, especially if it is to become a successful bridge between India and China, but the societal cost of that investment should be weighed carefully.
Nepal has suffered under the specter of poor security and volatile foreign investment since 1996. The country is finally starting to emerge from this shadow (as evidenced by the recent lifting of the US travel warning and the return of the Peace Corps). What Nepal cannot afford right now is renewed insecurity. A definite catalyst for conflict has been and continues to be ethnic marginalization. Aggravating Tibetan communities will only stir the pot, not to mention drawing unnecessary attention from countries in the West where many hold a romantic view of Tibetan culture.
Saturday’s events and the actions of the Nepalese Government suggest that crackdowns and arbitrary arrests are likely to continue. Investments like those made by China will help Nepal provide for its citizens, make essential improvements and push the boundaries of development, but citizens must also trust their government. The Government of Nepal therefore must walk a fine line between creating the conditions for a cohesive society and meeting the demands of donors, a process that could have, but unfortunately did not, begin on Saturday.
Restoration of reverence
The ancient stupa of Sanchi is restored to glory.
By Vinita Agrawal
On a cold December morning, I set out for Sanchi from Bhopal. Bhopal is the capital of Madhya Pradesh; the ancient town of Sanchi is 45km from this state capital. Most of the distance is a comfortable straight road through the countryside, on the outskirts of Raisen district. When I had met him earlier in Delhi, K K Mohammad, Superintendent of the Archaeological Survey of India, had told me about restoration work at the ancient stupa, carried out by a team he led. Now I was here – excited and keen to experience the fresh breath of life that had been infused into a monument built by emperor Ashoka in the third century BC.
The domes of two of the magnificent stupas loomed into my vision through the car windows about 5km before I reached the spot. It was a breath-taking sight! Soon the car took a gentle right turn and entered a narrow tree-lined road that led up to the incline of the stupa’s mound. Before ascending however, I halted at the Archaeological Museum at the base of the mound. Manoj Dubey, a scholarly man in charge of the four-galleried museum, was waiting at the steps, and suggested that we visit the museum before proceeding to the stupa. I agreed readily.
My host pointed out that the pretty bungalow to the left of the museum belonged to Sir John Hubert Marshall, who had worked on the restoration of the stupa from 1912 to 1919. Now the bungalow is a proposed site for an interpretation and information centre.
As a background to the treasures housed in the museum, Dubey narrated the life story of the Buddha, a favourite story of mine even though I had heard it innumerable times. There I stood in the bright December sunshine, in the light winter breeze, listening to the story of Buddha’s birth in the sal grove at Lumbini, his princely life in the kingdom of Kapilavastu, his momentous renunciation of worldly life, his ascetic resolve that brought him enlightenment under the Fig Ficus tree at Bodhgaya, his subsequent teachings about suffering and emptiness and his great parinirvana in Kushinagar at the age of 80 in 483 BC. All this came into sharp focus once again in this quaint little place nurtured exclusively by one of Buddha’s greatest followers, Emperor Ashoka. Ironically, for all the divine presence that one feels in the place, Buddha himself never set foot in this part of India.
He had however sent his closest disciples – Sariputta and Maha Mogallana. The relics of both these enlightened souls were found at Sanchi in Stupa 3. Every year for three days, from 26 to 28 November, the relics are taken out of a three-vault iron store and displayed for the public. People from all over the world arrive for a glimpse of these precious caskets containing ashes, cowries, gold leaves and lapis lazuli stored in thirteen layers of packing. On request, the authorities even allow devotees to touch the caskets to their head. Now that’s about as close as one can get to receiving blessings from the Buddha 2600 years after he graced the earth! It was acutely disappointing to discover that I had missed such a momentous occasion by only a few days.
Once inside the museum, the first thing that catches the eye is the lustrous four-lion head of the Ashoka pillar. Made of sandstone, it is prominently displayed at the far end of the main hall. The other two parts of the broken pillar lie near Stupa 1. A pair of swans is carved beneath the lions – symbols of love and peace. ‘Vigilant Bravery with Loving Compassion’ was the core of Ashoka’s philosophy; the thought came unbidden to my mind.
The museum has many statues of the Buddha dating back to the period prior to the 4th century BC. One statue of Gautam Buddha is particularly noteworthy. It is said that there 32 visible signs of greatness on the human body. The Buddha was apparently born with all these signs – a raised knowledge chakra at the apex of his head, joint eyebrows, a round mark on his forehead, three rings on the neck, chakras on fingertips and toes, long arms that touched his knees and many others – and this statue has depicts the signs of eminence on Buddha’s person.
The museum also houses a number of other figures of popular deities like Tara, Bodhisattvas like Vajrapani, Padampani and other well known figures like Yaksha, Kubera, Chunda (from whom Buddha accepted his last meal, which became the cause of his death), and Nairiti – the goddess of accidental deaths. Exquisite carvings on doorjambs and door-heads of those times also find pride of place in the museum. The gleaming ochre sandstone lids of the relic caskets of Sariputta and Mahamogallana are particularly mesmerising. I wanted to reach out and feel them but they were protected by a glass box.
A place with a soul
As we drove up to the stupa, my host told me the story of how it was built. After the tragic battle of Kalinga, Ashoka visited Vidisha, an ancient town near Sanchi. He subsequently married the daughter of a rich merchant there. The daughter, whose name was Devi, was an intensely religious person. It was she who urged King Ashoka to build the stupa here. It is said that he also had the relics of Buddha dug out from original stupas and embedded them in all the major stupas that he had built. By that logic, the stupa at Sanchi must certainly hold a portion of his relics as well. But strangely, these relics have never been found. I remembered K K Mohammad mentioning lightly that perhaps the relics still lie hidden somewhere in the stupa, unfound, undiscovered. Was that the reason Sanchi had such an incredibly positive vibe to it? At least that was what I wished to believe. It gave an added impetus to my visit. Sanchi was a place with a soul.
As we proceeded to the stupa site, my host told me about the amazing depictions of the Jataka tales that I would see at the gates of the main stupa. The Satavahana dynasty is credited for installing the four magnificent gates around the stupa. He explained that the Jataka tales contained stories of the 547 past lives of Gautam Buddha. Out of these, five Jataka fables – the Chaddanta Jataka, the Sama Jataka, the Mahakapi Jataka, the Alambasa Jataka and the Vessantara Jataka – are engraved on the architraves of the gates.
The sight of the main stupa and the cultivated greenery around it is absolutely splendid. It is a gratifying icon of the restoration work that has been carried out at this UNESCO World Heritage site. The surroundings are lush green, and the hills on which the stupas rest are covered with perfectly manicured lawns. The restoration of reverence becomes obvious at the sight of these verdant, nurtured surroundings. On the left rests a modern rectangular structure where the relics of Sariputta and Mahamogallana are housed. The path to the main stupa is dotted with numerous tiny stupas with minute Buddha images. These are manavti stupas – mini stupas given in donation, or danam, by people whose wishes had been granted at the spectacular main stupa in bygone days. I was told that a pond of swans and lotuses had also been created and a cage containing rabbits had been constructed to engage children who might be too young to enjoy the joys of a historical monument.
A short climb later we stood before the magnificent north gate. Three architrave ribbons of ochre sandstone stand supported by a pillar on each side, all richly carved with animals, plants and human figures. A chakra is engraved at the end of each horizontal beam, symbolic of the wheel of life perhaps, or a cyclical rendering of the cause and effect of life resulting in numerable re-births. About twelve feet behind the north gate, on a berm separating it from the stupa, is seated a statue of the Buddha, a bit desecrated and chipped but utterly moving to behold.
The carvings on every gate and pillar around the stupa are breathtaking. Wherever the Buddha is referred to in the carvings, he is represented by a smooth rectangular stone slab – the sila – symbolic of his teachings, of the sal tree, of his birth and parinirvana, and of a footprint, a symbol of his everlasting presence. He has never been depicted as a human figure in these artworks. This was done to emphasise that his teachings were greater than his personality and his attributes greater than his body. The body may perish but the wisdom it taught lives on. The Buddha in his own words said, ‘The Dhamma and the discipline taught by me and laid down for you, are your teacher after I am gone.’ My host pointed out a particular inscription in Pali that stated that the artisans who carved these amazing stone gates were the same workmen who had great skills in ivory carving – one of the most delicate arts of the chisel and the hammer in the world.
The stupa itself is a rock-solid structure, a circular arrangement of small stone slabs to make a dome measuring about 16 metres tall and 36 metres across. The stupa is crowned by three stone chhatris, umbrellas symbolic of the divinity of this sacred place. All around the dome where stones had come loose due to the age of the structure, plaster had been slapped on to keep them together. I was informed at this point that in ancient days a special plaster was made using everyday things like jute, batashas (an edible flat white disc of sugar) and jaggery syrup to make a plaster strong enough to rival modern plaster made from harsh chemicals. I wondered fancifully if Buddha’s relics lay buried somewhere beneath this great structure, closed my eyes in reverence to the thought and took a deep breath to absorb the wonderful positive vibrations emanating from the stupa.
To the right of the north gate, one level below where we were, were the ruins of an excavated monastery where monks resided in the days that the stupa flourished as a major point of Buddhist worship. The two-piece remnants of the great Ashoka pillar lie adjacent to the east gate in a shed-like structure. I felt these pillars and was amazed at the granite-smooth feel that they still had over 2000 years after their construction.
At one corner of the site, towards the south gate, is a flat-roofed temple, a remarkable piece of Gupta architecture. There is no image inside the sanctum, but a faint image of the Buddha can be discerned in its lower portion. Significantly, this is the most ancient temple discovered in India. I walked inside the small sanctum of this structure and ran my hands along the alna, or alcove, on the left wall where butter lamps used to be lit. It still bore black marks of soot and smoke and caused a shiver to run down my spine.
A high, battered terrace runs along the stupa. It can be reached by a double stairway flanking the south gate. The terrace affords a marvellous view of the carvings on the south gate as it brings one almost eye-level with the lofty strips of stone. The carvings of the six-tusked elephants – a depiction of the Chaddanta Jataka tale – are superb. Beyond the gate lies the beautiful valley spread out sleepily below.
The west gate completed our circumambulation of the stupa. The bright light of the afternoon sun seemed to bring into sharp focus not just the engravings on the gates but an entire bygone era of days resplendent with the divinity of the Buddha, when he graced the earth and made undying disciples out of mere mortals, days when he taught fellow beings the path to nirvana, when he described how desire was the root cause of all suffering, when he ruled the hearts of great emperors like Ashoka, who did everything they could to spread his teachings far and wide and built stupas such as the one at Sanchi to lend splendid tangibility to a divine flow of deep reverence transcending the boundaries of time.
~ The author wishes to express gratitude to the Archaeological Survey of India, Bhopal Division for the pictures taken inside the museum and acknowledge the scholarly support of K K Muhammad and Manoj Dubey on this trip.
~ Vinita Agrawal is a Delhi based writer. She writes on spirituality and culture and can be reached at vinitaagrawal18@yahoo.co.in
- By Vinita Agrawal
The ancient stupa of Sanchi is restored to glory.
The main stupa
On a cold December morning, I set out for Sanchi from Bhopal. Bhopal is the capital of Madhya Pradesh; the ancient town of Sanchi is 45km from this state capital. Most of the distance is a comfortable straight road through the countryside, on the outskirts of Raisen district. When I had met him earlier in Delhi, K K Mohammad, Superintendent of the Archaeological Survey of India, had told me about restoration work at the ancient stupa, carried out by a team he led. Now I was here – excited and keen to experience the fresh breath of life that had been infused into a monument built by emperor Ashoka in the third century BC.
The domes of two of the magnificent stupas loomed into my vision through the car windows about 5km before I reached the spot. It was a breath-taking sight! Soon the car took a gentle right turn and entered a narrow tree-lined road that led up to the incline of the stupa’s mound. Before ascending however, I halted at the Archaeological Museum at the base of the mound. Manoj Dubey, a scholarly man in charge of the four-galleried museum, was waiting at the steps, and suggested that we visit the museum before proceeding to the stupa. I agreed readily.
My host pointed out that the pretty bungalow to the left of the museum belonged to Sir John Hubert Marshall, who had worked on the restoration of the stupa from 1912 to 1919. Now the bungalow is a proposed site for an interpretation and information centre.
As a background to the treasures housed in the museum, Dubey narrated the life story of the Buddha, a favourite story of mine even though I had heard it innumerable times. There I stood in the bright December sunshine, in the light winter breeze, listening to the story of Buddha’s birth in the sal grove at Lumbini, his princely life in the kingdom of Kapilavastu, his momentous renunciation of worldly life, his ascetic resolve that brought him enlightenment under the Fig Ficus tree at Bodhgaya, his subsequent teachings about suffering and emptiness and his great parinirvana in Kushinagar at the age of 80 in 483 BC. All this came into sharp focus once again in this quaint little place nurtured exclusively by one of Buddha’s greatest followers, Emperor Ashoka. Ironically, for all the divine presence that one feels in the place, Buddha himself never set foot in this part of India.
He had however sent his closest disciples – Sariputta and Maha Mogallana. The relics of both these enlightened souls were found at Sanchi in Stupa 3. Every year for three days, from 26 to 28 November, the relics are taken out of a three-vault iron store and displayed for the public. People from all over the world arrive for a glimpse of these precious caskets containing ashes, cowries, gold leaves and lapis lazuli stored in thirteen layers of packing. On request, the authorities even allow devotees to touch the caskets to their head. Now that’s about as close as one can get to receiving blessings from the Buddha 2600 years after he graced the earth! It was acutely disappointing to discover that I had missed such a momentous occasion by only a few days.
Once inside the museum, the first thing that catches the eye is the lustrous four-lion head of the Ashoka pillar. Made of sandstone, it is prominently displayed at the far end of the main hall. The other two parts of the broken pillar lie near Stupa 1. A pair of swans is carved beneath the lions – symbols of love and peace. ‘Vigilant Bravery with Loving Compassion’ was the core of Ashoka’s philosophy; the thought came unbidden to my mind.
The museum has many statues of the Buddha dating back to the period prior to the 4th century BC. One statue of Gautam Buddha is particularly noteworthy. It is said that there 32 visible signs of greatness on the human body. The Buddha was apparently born with all these signs – a raised knowledge chakra at the apex of his head, joint eyebrows, a round mark on his forehead, three rings on the neck, chakras on fingertips and toes, long arms that touched his knees and many others – and this statue has depicts the signs of eminence on Buddha’s person.
The museum also houses a number of other figures of popular deities like Tara, Bodhisattvas like Vajrapani, Padampani and other well known figures like Yaksha, Kubera, Chunda (from whom Buddha accepted his last meal, which became the cause of his death), and Nairiti – the goddess of accidental deaths. Exquisite carvings on doorjambs and door-heads of those times also find pride of place in the museum. The gleaming ochre sandstone lids of the relic caskets of Sariputta and Mahamogallana are particularly mesmerising. I wanted to reach out and feel them but they were protected by a glass box.
The modern structure housing relics.
A place with a soul
As we drove up to the stupa, my host told me the story of how it was built. After the tragic battle of Kalinga, Ashoka visited Vidisha, an ancient town near Sanchi. He subsequently married the daughter of a rich merchant there. The daughter, whose name was Devi, was an intensely religious person. It was she who urged King Ashoka to build the stupa here. It is said that he also had the relics of Buddha dug out from original stupas and embedded them in all the major stupas that he had built. By that logic, the stupa at Sanchi must certainly hold a portion of his relics as well. But strangely, these relics have never been found. I remembered K K Mohammad mentioning lightly that perhaps the relics still lie hidden somewhere in the stupa, unfound, undiscovered. Was that the reason Sanchi had such an incredibly positive vibe to it? At least that was what I wished to believe. It gave an added impetus to my visit. Sanchi was a place with a soul.
As we proceeded to the stupa site, my host told me about the amazing depictions of the Jataka tales that I would see at the gates of the main stupa. The Satavahana dynasty is credited for installing the four magnificent gates around the stupa. He explained that the Jataka tales contained stories of the 547 past lives of Gautam Buddha. Out of these, five Jataka fables – the Chaddanta Jataka, the Sama Jataka, the Mahakapi Jataka, the Alambasa Jataka and the Vessantara Jataka – are engraved on the architraves of the gates.
The sight of the main stupa and the cultivated greenery around it is absolutely splendid. It is a gratifying icon of the restoration work that has been carried out at this UNESCO World Heritage site. The surroundings are lush green, and the hills on which the stupas rest are covered with perfectly manicured lawns. The restoration of reverence becomes obvious at the sight of these verdant, nurtured surroundings. On the left rests a modern rectangular structure where the relics of Sariputta and Mahamogallana are housed. The path to the main stupa is dotted with numerous tiny stupas with minute Buddha images. These are manavti stupas – mini stupas given in donation, or danam, by people whose wishes had been granted at the spectacular main stupa in bygone days. I was told that a pond of swans and lotuses had also been created and a cage containing rabbits had been constructed to engage children who might be too young to enjoy the joys of a historical monument.
A short climb later we stood before the magnificent north gate. Three architrave ribbons of ochre sandstone stand supported by a pillar on each side, all richly carved with animals, plants and human figures. A chakra is engraved at the end of each horizontal beam, symbolic of the wheel of life perhaps, or a cyclical rendering of the cause and effect of life resulting in numerable re-births. About twelve feet behind the north gate, on a berm separating it from the stupa, is seated a statue of the Buddha, a bit desecrated and chipped but utterly moving to behold.
The carvings on every gate and pillar around the stupa are breathtaking. Wherever the Buddha is referred to in the carvings, he is represented by a smooth rectangular stone slab – the sila – symbolic of his teachings, of the sal tree, of his birth and parinirvana, and of a footprint, a symbol of his everlasting presence. He has never been depicted as a human figure in these artworks. This was done to emphasise that his teachings were greater than his personality and his attributes greater than his body. The body may perish but the wisdom it taught lives on. The Buddha in his own words said, ‘The Dhamma and the discipline taught by me and laid down for you, are your teacher after I am gone.’ My host pointed out a particular inscription in Pali that stated that the artisans who carved these amazing stone gates were the same workmen who had great skills in ivory carving – one of the most delicate arts of the chisel and the hammer in the world.
The stupa itself is a rock-solid structure, a circular arrangement of small stone slabs to make a dome measuring about 16 metres tall and 36 metres across. The stupa is crowned by three stone chhatris, umbrellas symbolic of the divinity of this sacred place. All around the dome where stones had come loose due to the age of the structure, plaster had been slapped on to keep them together. I was informed at this point that in ancient days a special plaster was made using everyday things like jute, batashas (an edible flat white disc of sugar) and jaggery syrup to make a plaster strong enough to rival modern plaster made from harsh chemicals. I wondered fancifully if Buddha’s relics lay buried somewhere beneath this great structure, closed my eyes in reverence to the thought and took a deep breath to absorb the wonderful positive vibrations emanating from the stupa.
To the right of the north gate, one level below where we were, were the ruins of an excavated monastery where monks resided in the days that the stupa flourished as a major point of Buddhist worship. The two-piece remnants of the great Ashoka pillar lie adjacent to the east gate in a shed-like structure. I felt these pillars and was amazed at the granite-smooth feel that they still had over 2000 years after their construction.
At one corner of the site, towards the south gate, is a flat-roofed temple, a remarkable piece of Gupta architecture. There is no image inside the sanctum, but a faint image of the Buddha can be discerned in its lower portion. Significantly, this is the most ancient temple discovered in India. I walked inside the small sanctum of this structure and ran my hands along the alna, or alcove, on the left wall where butter lamps used to be lit. It still bore black marks of soot and smoke and caused a shiver to run down my spine.
A high, battered terrace runs along the stupa. It can be reached by a double stairway flanking the south gate. The terrace affords a marvellous view of the carvings on the south gate as it brings one almost eye-level with the lofty strips of stone. The carvings of the six-tusked elephants – a depiction of the Chaddanta Jataka tale – are superb. Beyond the gate lies the beautiful valley spread out sleepily below.
The west gate completed our circumambulation of the stupa. The bright light of the afternoon sun seemed to bring into sharp focus not just the engravings on the gates but an entire bygone era of days resplendent with the divinity of the Buddha, when he graced the earth and made undying disciples out of mere mortals, days when he taught fellow beings the path to nirvana, when he described how desire was the root cause of all suffering, when he ruled the hearts of great emperors like Ashoka, who did everything they could to spread his teachings far and wide and built stupas such as the one at Sanchi to lend splendid tangibility to a divine flow of deep reverence transcending the boundaries of time.
~ The author wishes to express gratitude to the Archaeological Survey of India, Bhopal Division for the pictures taken inside the museum and acknowledge the scholarly support of K K Muhammad and Manoj Dubey on this trip.
~ Vinita Agrawal is a Delhi based writer. She writes on spirituality and culture and can be reached at vinitaagrawal18@yahoo.co.in
The melodies of Muharram
Face to face with blood and beauty on the day of Ashura in Old Delhi.
By Rachel Firestone
Dust could be seen curling up through the glare, and the thin, hard winter sunlight gave the crowded lane leading up to Old Delhi Railway Station a pearl-like sheen. Imran was on the corner of the lane, between a red motorbike and a clump of men sipping chai beside a nearby stall. Over his shoulder could be seen a sea of people dressed in black, walking in procession.
It was the last of 10 days of mourning, the day of Ashura, also known as the Muharram, after the Muslim month in which the festival takes place. Several tall alams (symbolic flags) rose out of the crowd with the embossed black-and-red panja (‘claw’ or ‘palm of a hand’) emblems glinting gold at their tops. The men were quiet, milling around a peevish white horse speckled with scarlet pain, shaking its mane in their midst. A few metres away, others circled a raised casket bearing the figurative body of Hussein, grandson of the Prophet Muhammad, whose death and martyrdom at the Battle of Karbala in today’s Iraq was being commemorated.
Amassed since the morning, the procession thinned at the time of the afternoon call to prayer, after which the men trickled back into the main thoroughfare in twos and threes. Some of them had bandages over their foreheads, while others bled openly from their heads and chests, displaying marks of self-flagellation, devotion and grief. Every few minutes, small groups of people would gather and, together, pass beneath the palanquin or the white horse to receive blessings from the effigy of Hussein’s martyrdom.
Although Imran, a friend and colleague, is a Kashmiri Sunni, and does not celebrate this primarily Shia holiday, many of his Kashmiri Shia friends were participating in the parade. Together, we followed the crowd as it moved down the road, thickening with new entrants and forming circles of rocking, chest-beating, water-doused, blood-dripping men. Singing filled the air, as one circle and then another chanted in appeal and response to each other through songs of mourning sung traditionally during the Muharram. Melancholic, harmonious and redolent of West Asia, they reminded me of the melodies of my own European Jewish community, of the songs we sing during the Jewish Hallel service, a special set of prayers reserved for particular holidays, harvest festivals and the coming of a new month.
On the fringes of the crowd, women in black headscarves and burqas lined the curbs, leaning against or sitting on stools in front of closed shops, while the lacy white niqabs worn by little girls shone bright against their dark shadows. In contrast to the loud chanting of the men, these women recited in murmurs, their hands gently tapping their chests almost as an afterthought to the voracious pounding taking place within the circles of men.
The men, singing in the circle directly before us, were from Kashmir. Imran, though Sunni, sang with them, closing his eyes during the crescendos. ‘And she will be left alone,’ he kept repeating, simultaneously translating the chorus of the main melody that echoed all around us. Despite knowing most of the story, I let him go on, and without his usual shyness he eased smoothly into the theatrics and pathos of the drama. As he outlined the narrative behind the poetic recitations and passion plays being staged around us, explaining the first commemoration of Hussein’s martyrdom by his sister Zainab, the personal connection the participants felt with the story was palpable.
The husseina
A short while later, Imran, who had been with the crowd since the morning, headed off for home, and I turned towards some of the narrower alleys, hoping to catch the procession at its front end. After meandering through the spiralling tentacles of Kashmiri Gate’s Motor Market, I met the procession again at a sunlight-spattered T-stop. Following the crowd through a twisted galli for a few moments, the throng before me suddenly thinned and disappeared. The gaping doorway of an engraved community structure yawned to our right, apparently the procession’s final destination. A husseina, a guard later informed me, was a space dedicated to the singing of dirges and mourning melodies during the month of Ashura.
Once inside, the hot heaviness of the air and the intense, entranced gazes of the singers were unnerving. Lined three people deep, the balcony above was as crowded as anywhere else in the building, but being surrounded solely by women and children had a calming effect. Families sat in groups eating biryani and dates, while toddlers lay sprawled on the floor, asleep with their eyes half open, their full, round bellies exposed as they dreamt. Melodic recitations reverberated against my ribs, and the crowded courtyard below ebbed and flowed in sync with the deep percussion of flesh hitting flesh.
Being at the centre of a sprawling, three-story building brimming and dripping with the same song, being covered, saturated, painted by the emotion of a narrative different from my own – the effect was transportive. I was suddenly in a completely different time and place. Despite the differences between myself and the others standing on the balcony, I was beckoned, even welcomed, into someone else’s story.
On my way out I took a wrong turn and came down a different staircase, at the opposite end of the building. Finding myself in the middle of the courtyard, I was suddenly surrounded by self-flagellating men; the air was warmer, and filled with a distinct scent I could not name. It dawned on me that hundreds of men were striking themselves with blades, bleeding all around me. I could not get out, I could barely see, and I was standing in a pool of human blood. Suddenly this ‘other person’s story’ felt too different, too far from my comfort zone. The frenzied ‘I must get out’ beating within my head mixed eerily with the sorrowful ‘And she will be left alone’ echoing all around. And then, suddenly, a doorway appeared, a young guard in kurta ushered me out. And then, just as quickly, my mind cleared.
Contemplating the day on the way back to the metro station, I was interested by my sudden change of mind. I saw within myself the ease, ferocity and aggression with which we humans can suddenly see our peers as something negative, something foreign, sometimes without our even realising it. In the husseina near Kashmiri Gate, I was a guest – welcomed to partake in the reliving of a neighbouring community’s stories despite lacking sufficient background information or historical context for any kinds of judgment.
Stories are told of men in mosques in Isfahan and Baghdad, dripping tears onto their prayer books as they sing in memory of Hussein. Such physical outpouring of emotion, demonstrated alone, by an individual separated from the group, might strike some as farcical or confusing. But here, in the gallis of Chabiganj, on the day of Ashura, in the power of human assembly and through community concepts of history, these groups of men, beating their chests and chanting, created an overall aura of commemoration – a non-duality between blood, violence and sanctification.
Joining them quietly, on the side, was an old, wrinkled woman sitting up against the wall. Slightly on the fringe, wrapped in her own quietness, she sang softly to herself along with the men, scenes of Karbala flitting across her closed eyelids.
~ Rachel Firestone is an American currently living in Delhi, who has worked on sustainable development, community empowerment and gender issues across India for the last four years.
By Rachel Firestone
Face to face with blood and beauty on the day of Ashura in Old Delhi.
Images: Rachel Firestone
Dust could be seen curling up through the glare, and the thin, hard winter sunlight gave the crowded lane leading up to Old Delhi Railway Station a pearl-like sheen. Imran was on the corner of the lane, between a red motorbike and a clump of men sipping chai beside a nearby stall. Over his shoulder could be seen a sea of people dressed in black, walking in procession.
It was the last of 10 days of mourning, the day of Ashura, also known as the Muharram, after the Muslim month in which the festival takes place. Several tall alams (symbolic flags) rose out of the crowd with the embossed black-and-red panja (‘claw’ or ‘palm of a hand’) emblems glinting gold at their tops. The men were quiet, milling around a peevish white horse speckled with scarlet pain, shaking its mane in their midst. A few metres away, others circled a raised casket bearing the figurative body of Hussein, grandson of the Prophet Muhammad, whose death and martyrdom at the Battle of Karbala in today’s Iraq was being commemorated.
Amassed since the morning, the procession thinned at the time of the afternoon call to prayer, after which the men trickled back into the main thoroughfare in twos and threes. Some of them had bandages over their foreheads, while others bled openly from their heads and chests, displaying marks of self-flagellation, devotion and grief. Every few minutes, small groups of people would gather and, together, pass beneath the palanquin or the white horse to receive blessings from the effigy of Hussein’s martyrdom.
Although Imran, a friend and colleague, is a Kashmiri Sunni, and does not celebrate this primarily Shia holiday, many of his Kashmiri Shia friends were participating in the parade. Together, we followed the crowd as it moved down the road, thickening with new entrants and forming circles of rocking, chest-beating, water-doused, blood-dripping men. Singing filled the air, as one circle and then another chanted in appeal and response to each other through songs of mourning sung traditionally during the Muharram. Melancholic, harmonious and redolent of West Asia, they reminded me of the melodies of my own European Jewish community, of the songs we sing during the Jewish Hallel service, a special set of prayers reserved for particular holidays, harvest festivals and the coming of a new month.
On the fringes of the crowd, women in black headscarves and burqas lined the curbs, leaning against or sitting on stools in front of closed shops, while the lacy white niqabs worn by little girls shone bright against their dark shadows. In contrast to the loud chanting of the men, these women recited in murmurs, their hands gently tapping their chests almost as an afterthought to the voracious pounding taking place within the circles of men.
The men, singing in the circle directly before us, were from Kashmir. Imran, though Sunni, sang with them, closing his eyes during the crescendos. ‘And she will be left alone,’ he kept repeating, simultaneously translating the chorus of the main melody that echoed all around us. Despite knowing most of the story, I let him go on, and without his usual shyness he eased smoothly into the theatrics and pathos of the drama. As he outlined the narrative behind the poetic recitations and passion plays being staged around us, explaining the first commemoration of Hussein’s martyrdom by his sister Zainab, the personal connection the participants felt with the story was palpable.
The husseina
A short while later, Imran, who had been with the crowd since the morning, headed off for home, and I turned towards some of the narrower alleys, hoping to catch the procession at its front end. After meandering through the spiralling tentacles of Kashmiri Gate’s Motor Market, I met the procession again at a sunlight-spattered T-stop. Following the crowd through a twisted galli for a few moments, the throng before me suddenly thinned and disappeared. The gaping doorway of an engraved community structure yawned to our right, apparently the procession’s final destination. A husseina, a guard later informed me, was a space dedicated to the singing of dirges and mourning melodies during the month of Ashura.
Once inside, the hot heaviness of the air and the intense, entranced gazes of the singers were unnerving. Lined three people deep, the balcony above was as crowded as anywhere else in the building, but being surrounded solely by women and children had a calming effect. Families sat in groups eating biryani and dates, while toddlers lay sprawled on the floor, asleep with their eyes half open, their full, round bellies exposed as they dreamt. Melodic recitations reverberated against my ribs, and the crowded courtyard below ebbed and flowed in sync with the deep percussion of flesh hitting flesh.
Being at the centre of a sprawling, three-story building brimming and dripping with the same song, being covered, saturated, painted by the emotion of a narrative different from my own – the effect was transportive. I was suddenly in a completely different time and place. Despite the differences between myself and the others standing on the balcony, I was beckoned, even welcomed, into someone else’s story.
On my way out I took a wrong turn and came down a different staircase, at the opposite end of the building. Finding myself in the middle of the courtyard, I was suddenly surrounded by self-flagellating men; the air was warmer, and filled with a distinct scent I could not name. It dawned on me that hundreds of men were striking themselves with blades, bleeding all around me. I could not get out, I could barely see, and I was standing in a pool of human blood. Suddenly this ‘other person’s story’ felt too different, too far from my comfort zone. The frenzied ‘I must get out’ beating within my head mixed eerily with the sorrowful ‘And she will be left alone’ echoing all around. And then, suddenly, a doorway appeared, a young guard in kurta ushered me out. And then, just as quickly, my mind cleared.
Contemplating the day on the way back to the metro station, I was interested by my sudden change of mind. I saw within myself the ease, ferocity and aggression with which we humans can suddenly see our peers as something negative, something foreign, sometimes without our even realising it. In the husseina near Kashmiri Gate, I was a guest – welcomed to partake in the reliving of a neighbouring community’s stories despite lacking sufficient background information or historical context for any kinds of judgment.
Stories are told of men in mosques in Isfahan and Baghdad, dripping tears onto their prayer books as they sing in memory of Hussein. Such physical outpouring of emotion, demonstrated alone, by an individual separated from the group, might strike some as farcical or confusing. But here, in the gallis of Chabiganj, on the day of Ashura, in the power of human assembly and through community concepts of history, these groups of men, beating their chests and chanting, created an overall aura of commemoration – a non-duality between blood, violence and sanctification.
Joining them quietly, on the side, was an old, wrinkled woman sitting up against the wall. Slightly on the fringe, wrapped in her own quietness, she sang softly to herself along with the men, scenes of Karbala flitting across her closed eyelids.
~ Rachel Firestone is an American currently living in Delhi, who has worked on sustainable development, community empowerment and gender issues across India for the last four years.
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