Week Five (Mayapur: A Religious Disneyland of Vaishnaism)

This week's general theme has been a bit of a spate of bad luck, nonetheless mixed with some satiatingly wacky Indian times and such. While I had momentarily staved off the sickness that seemed to be ravaging our group after our return from Bishnupur, eventually I succumbed and my plans to go to Puri for the long weekend were dashed. There would be no friendly sandy beaches to enjoy or Orrisian signs to confuse, as it was clear I would be confined to West Bengal for the weekend. My health ebbed back to some kind of manageable demeanor, so I joined another student, a former Hare Krishna devotee to the ISKCON (International Society for Krishna Consciousness... ie. Hare Krishna) temple, or rather religious compound in Mayapur, a religious nexus for Hindus situated in a kink in the Ganges a few hours north of Calcutta. Things seemed to be picking up; our train was mostly empty leading to the rather comfy occupation of an entire sleeper compartment by just the two of us, storm clouds brewing outside of our windows, vendors coming along the aisle selling everything from the normative tea and snacks to Saris and bathing Gumpshas, along with most fruits and vegetables. When we finally left this snack-filled palace on wheels in Nabadwip the ominous clouds had become a full-fledged downpour, keeping us hopefully waiting on the overpass spanning the railroad tracks, enjoying a little Bengali banter with a couple particularly amicable fellows who I do believe may have been drunk at the time from the slight pungent twang of whiskey that hung in the air. My particularly favorite comment from the main talker of the two was the rather firm suggestion that I shave my stubble that I admit had grown out a bit too much because I would look much better without it – He pronounced that I would actually look quite nice in fact. However, the stubble had to go according to this fellow who then decided to (we believe) take it upon himself to teach us how to say 'I love you' repeatedly despite our patient yet confused nods. In a flurry of “I love you”s and “Amee tomake bhalobashi”s are friend departed us for his own train, curiously boarding the 'vendors' care without much on his person to vend.

A particularly soggy bike-rickshaw ride to the dock set the stage for my little disaster, all set within a particularly appropriate and all-too-cinematic scene. The dock was made of strapped together bamboo, a throng of people and bicycles pushing their way through 1.50 rupee ticket windows and onto slab-like boats without much more than a lip to keep one from an errant walk into the river, the clouds letting down a constant spray of rain, chunks of debris floating downriver. Somewhere between the ticket booth and about 15 feet off-shore my wallet had disappeared, either taken or dropped or both. A damper most definitely, luckily only leaving me short $60 and a comically jew-fro'ed ID card, rather than stranded in the middle of rural India without any way to pay my way. An advantage of traveling with friends. Though this definitely was a setback, and my own shower of “god damn it”s caused quite a bit of amusement amongst my fellow passengers.

Despite this setback I was determined to have myself a vacation, a respite from the chaos and crunch of Indian urban living, and with this sentiment we arrived at Mayapur, a cross between summer camp, an amusement park, and a temple complex, all of course shaped by a particularly western-centric Hinduism. Despite being a western organization, the entirety of the staff running this place were local Bengali's, as were the vast majority of the patrons and pilgrims of this temple complex. However, the occasional western Hare Krishna family – tiny children traipsing behind Dad on the way to morning prayers in miniature dhotis, little heads shaved save for a lock of often blond-ish hair in a kind of cross between pony-tail and rat-tail – never ceased to amuse as some kind of alternate reality of the American dream played out under the much less friendly Indian sun. In addition to more traditional-sounding prayers and chants, the occasional professionally written variation would emanate from the walls of the temple or along some pathway trailing one parade or another, its pop-sensibilities and sweet chord-progressions whispering reassuringly into my western ear.

It's like I had gone to a little – and albeit very very strange – slice of good ol' Amerika. However, this was an iteration of the homeland filled with hundreds upon hundreds of Bengali's outnumbering the glowingly white Westerners, replete with the tropical lushness of palm-tree groves, a rather shy elephant and the foreboding sky of a monsoon. Furthermore, things, Amerika things, while present were thrown akimbo, rearranged in ways unfamiliar and eerily 'wrong'. The morning prasadum booth – or 'blessed breakfast' stand if you will – sold in addition to a bevy of Indian sweets a kind of rectangular sheet pizza, its cheese unmelting paneer, its unyielding sponginess made yellow with turmeric. The tiny Western children would happily eat their regular morning pizza, their perhaps mid-western accents lending another hand in painting this bizarre picture of particularly strange looking pizza being consumed by small children in the early morning as the din of prayer bells and drums dies down, their parents standing by approvingly of what would normally be a last-ditch bachelor-style breakfast choice.

While there were a number of other strange quirks and characters to this place – particularly memorable being the British-Jamaican devotee whose gold-smeared forehead would crinkle is anguish as he described the 'militant' 'Chinese' 'operation' that he swore was attempting a progressive take-over of his guest-house – the strangest and most upsetting aspect of this place and its resident minority of ruling Westerners was the widespread lack of any local language skills whatsoever. Despite the fact that they were worshiping within a religion of Indian origin, sanctifying Bengali guru leaders, and employing and serving a primarily Bengali constituency, any moment I or my friend opened our mouths and our habitual slurry of Bengali and English came our rather than a clear-cut English we were met with the utmost of surprise, amusement, and of course curiosity by the locals. It became clear that very few of the western devotees had shown any desire to learn either Bengali or Hindi, preferring to remain linguistically distant from most of the religious congregation, in addition to the over-worked and most-definitely exploited help that were serving them. Those working the various services and functions of this religious funland would categorically develop these gleeful smiles after our speaking only a word or two of Bengali, usually going out of their way to help us with what we were after or simply being particularly nice, often obviously hoping that we would stick around for a little light banter. Comical chains would carry the news of our rather paltry linguistic abilities some distance, a small throng forming around one conversation or another, side comments (In Bengali) trumpeting our ability to speak into the near distance, coaxing a few more listeners out of the woodwork. One particularly funny instance was while buying a slice of 'fruit-cake' I was overheard explaining I did not have change by a passing family who immediately began to question me about that nature of my Bengali education. We soon were discussing our relative neighborhoods in Calcutta, the elderly fellow of the family repeatedly punctuating every sentence with a 'thank you', meant only for the fact that I was learning his language, complimenting his linguistic pride and identity in a way as authentic and great as possible. While people in Calcutta often have little enough constant exposure to westerners that they often speak to me in a Banglish without question, and may be mildly surprised when I have some understanding and reply, more often they are only relieved this particular transaction or communication will happen more smoothly than in instances with other foreigners in the past. However, here there was such a strong expectation against any language ability, built up by these unlearning foreign devotees, that the language provided a huge social lubricant, a way to access and interact with the people in this strange place in a way that was both exciting and rewarding. The look of glee, the repetitious conversations about our business here and the nature of our learning Bengali, never got old, each time filling me with a newfound sense of accomplishment, of purpose.

This was it: I had found proof in Mayapur that a year in Calcutta learning Bengali was going to be a good thing no matter what. Even if that pessimistic nag that I will never need Bengali ever again in my life turns out to be entirely true, I will have spent a year in a strange place, far from home, ripping myself out of familiar contexts and ideas, all-the-while able to actually access a people so different and foreign to myself in a way that few people really get to do while visiting a foreign country. Already I realize the cultural variation and detail that using this language to be here has allowed me to absorb, even though my speech is slow and jumbled, my understanding foggy and often largely guessed and contextualized. People open up that little bit more, sharing more through little quips, gestures and the nature of their conversational trajectories and head-wobbles than most books might provide. I'm now seeing this whole process as an investment, not just towards a possible and (I admit) highly improbable future, but more so in the here and now. Through this investment I am simply having a greater experience, more thick with cultural detail, more interesting and confusing and weird, more real and more experiential. I'm ok with the possibility of this having no purpose beyond this year itself, of working hours a day to gain competency in this relatively obscure language only for simple day to day rewards. Sob Thik Acche.