INDIA again - 4

The Land of the Mango

India, I have discovered, is the land of the mango.  I love mangoes, and was delighted to discover when I came last year that the mango originated in India, and is widely produced and available.  And not only are mangoes available in abundance at this time of the year, they are available in many varieties.

Mangoes in the tree

In Canada, where we find Mexican or Californian mangoes at the Superstore or Save-Easy, I had assumed that a mango was a mango.  They are imported from warmer climates, and come as a solidly-fleshed fruit with yellow-red skin, a large pit and a tangy but sweet flavour.  Apples, on the other hand, come in varieties: Macintosh, Gravenstein, Honey Crisp, Russet, Delicious (in red, green and yellow), Spartan... the list goes on.  Apples come in sweet and tart varieties, and some are good for baking while others are great for eating fresh; they are green, and red, and green and red, and yellow or russet, and the flesh might be white or yellow, firm or soft, and the apples might be larger or smaller.

So also in India; mangoes come in a great number of varieties.  Depending on who you speak to in India, there are more than forty varieties of mango, or a 140, or over two hundred, or over four hundred, or a thousand kinds of mangoes.  Native to India, the mango was first domesticated in southern India thousands of years ago, and has since been spread around the tropical world in many other varieties.  Grown through much of India, the mango is particularly noted in the states of Tamil Nadu, Keralal, Karnataka and Andra Pradesh, and is the national fruit of India.  The trees are long-lived, some still producing fruit after three hundred years.  The fruit is eaten and used in various ceremonies, and the leaves as well; small branches of both fresh and dried mango leaves sometimes hang over the doorways of homes, especially at special times and feasts; they hang in shop doorways, from the mirrors of trucks, at sacred sites including the entrances to Hindu temples, and they are used as decorations for weddings and religious ceremonies.

India is the world’s largest producer of mangoes, but very few go for export (according to one source, ninety-nine per cent of mangoes produced in India are eaten in India).  And here, mangoes abound; they can be bought at grocery stores, at roadside stands outside the city, at the market, and from vendors who line the city streets or who push their four-wheeled carts through city neighbourhoods.  Mangoes are eaten fresh, used for juice (we had wonderful fresh mango juice made from crushed mangoes for breakfast this morning!), prepared in desserts, made into chutneys and relishes, cooked into side dishes and also made into oh-so-tasty mango lassi, a drink comprised of fresh pulped mangoes, buttermilk and, of course, sugar.

Mangoes available almost everywhere

I have run across over thirty varieties of mango locally in Mysore, including Alphonso (also known by its Indian name, Hapoos), Banganapalli, Sugar Baby, Mallika, Badami, Kesor, Rasapuri, Totapuri, to name just a few.  Last year, I was almost overwhelmed by mango selections, especially because I thought there was only one kind.  However, this year I have determined that I will get to know at least for or five different varieties of mango, and be able to distinguish them by colour, texture and taste from other varieties.  Thus mango-tasting evenings were born in the sitting room of my faculty suite at the hostel.

The first mango-tasting evening included three varieties.  Chelsy and Marina, Corinne and Pascale (with their newly-purchased fruit knives) gathered in my room, and we pulled out the Alphonso, Banganapalli and Mallika mangoes.  We started with Banganapalli, which seemed a little lighter orange in colour; it had a sweet, smooth texture, and an almost floral but rich and scented taste.  Mallika was next, a deep orange with a slightly musky, earthy taste, a more pungent aroma and a lingering aftertaste of orchards in the rain.  The last was the most popular, and most expensive, of the mangoes, Alphonso, which originally came from the state of Maharashtra; outside, green turning to yellow, it was the darkest richest orange inside, very sweet and smooth, almost like honey. 

The second evening we limited our selections to only two: Badami (also known as the Karnataka Alphonso), and Rajapuri.  Both were delicious, sweet, but the Rajapuri was a deeper green outside, and inside the flesh a lighter yellow, the texture so juicy it was almost juice in a skin with little actual eating needed, just a melt in your mouth smoothness with a light refreshing taste.
Maybe a few more will follow in the weeks to come, and yes, we are becoming mango snobs.

Mango Tasting Club: the founding members

It is the right time to be here for mangoes; the season starts in late April and continues through June.  For now, the roadsides have many vendors, and in the market, sometimes the smell of ripe mangoes is so strong it is almost overwhelming. 

The mango, I think, is suggestive of India itself, with its diverse forms and great variety, with deep rich colours and potent smells, its sweetness and, on at least two occasions so far, bring people together in a small celebration of life and its goodness.

And, if anyone would like to sponsor me in a mango-tasting tour of India at some point in the future, I will be sure to mention you in the acknowledgments of my full-colour guide to the tasting notes of the mangoes of India, available soon at the finest booksellers and grocery stores!

INDIA Again - 3

A LAND OF DIVERSITY

India is a country filled with diversity and variety, and of course challenge.  But sometimes those diversities and varieties just come together in wonderful ways.

On August 15th, 1947, when India proclaimed its independence from the British, it was not returning to a pre-British form of existence, but rather forging a brave new future.  The seventeen  different provinces and more than five hundred small principalities and kingdoms were divided into India and Pakistan, and in India many were brought together as one nation.  There was no common language, only a common constitution.  The national language is Hindi, but not even half the population speaks it; English is a common language to many people, but not in rural regions. In addition to Hindi and English, there are another twenty official languages.  From region to region, the languages are different, the food varies, the forms of Hindu belief and practice are not uniform, and the histories are often unique.

While Hinduism is seen as a unifying faith by some, it is the religion of 80 per cent of the population, and has various sects with devotees holding to different practices and placing emphasis in different forms.  Muslims comprise a little less than 15 per cent of the population, and the remaining five to seven per cent is made up of Christians, Sikhs, Buddhists, Jains, Zoroastrians and others.

In Mysore, the language spoken is Kannada.  So far I can say yes and no in Kannada; no is particularly useful when walking, as autorickshaw drivers see non-Indians along the road and seem to always stop to try to get a fare, and no in Kannada seems far more effective than no in English.  The majority religion is Hinduism, as in much of India, although Mysore has an active and thriving Muslim population.  Catholicism is the majority Christian denomination in South India, but the Church of South India and the Pentecostal church both have an active presence in the city. 

at St Philomena's Cathedral, in Mysore

There are religious, ethnic, linguistic and other tensions in some parts of India, but my limited experience in Mysore indicates the great diversity but also acceptance and understanding that can be found.  The south has generally had a better history of tolerance, acceptance and cooperation, and Mysore is no exception to that generalization.  For example, when St Philomena's Roman Catholic Cathedral was built in the early 1930s, the Hindu ruler, King Wodeyar, provided some of the funding, recognizing the role that Christianity played in the city.

 
Last week, I was in the hospital to provide support for a student who was there, and I spoke with many of the staff.  At one point the doctor came into the room with a nurse and one of the hospital administrators, who wanted to ensure that the foreign student was receiving quality of care.  The doctor and I spoke briefly about a variety of things, including India’s history, culture and religion.  Looking at the two other men in the room with him, he said, “I am a Muslim, he (indicating the nurse) is a Hindu, and he (the administrator) is a Christian, and we all speak different languages”, but they shared the common language of English and the common work of healing the sick.

Such is India, but as I reflect, such also is the Kingdom of God.

the student group with me at the Chamundeswary Temple,

atop Chamundi Hill in Mysore

INDIA AGAIN - 2

With brothers and sisters in faith, in India

I went to church in Mysore this morning.  English-language service was early, 8:00 am, at St Bartholomew’s Church.  St Bartholomew’s is a member of the Church of South India (CSI), which is the second largest denomination of Christians in India after the Catholic Church with over fourteen thousand congregations across southern India.  The CSI is a result of a merger, in 1947,  of the Church of England (Anglican) in India with several Protestant churches, including Methodist, Presbyterian, Reformed; in the 1990s, some Baptist and Pentecostal churches also joined.  The liturgy as set out in the CSO worship handbook is definitely influenced by its Anglican roots, although the Ira Sankey hymnbook is certainly a reminder of the evangelical Protestant heritage that is also part o of this denomination.

St Bartholomew’s Church was built in the early nineteenth century, and still displays some of the marks of the old British order.  The service itself, and the congregation, had some elements familiar to my North American church experience, but also some uniquely Indian elements as well.

I went with one student from the Mount Allison group, setting off at 7:15 to either catch the bus or hail an autorickshaw.  We had walked only a short distance to the bus stop when we hailed a passing autorickshaw, which turned out to be wonderful beginning to Sunday: the driver is a part-time minister in a local Pentecostal church, a Mysorean who was raised Christian.  With his limited, but good English, we chatted about his church and work as a Christian in Mysore on the way downtown to St Bartholomew’s.  And the price for the ride was fair.

Entering the church, which must seat two to three hundred people, it seemed like a Canadian church with only a few people scattered around, mostly older.  However, over the next fifteen or twenty minutes, the church filled up.  The service itself started about ten minutes after the appointed hour, and still people were arriving: families, middle-aged couples, young men alone and in pairs, seniors.  The congregation was comprised of all ages, and for a North American used to seeing far more women than men in church on a regular basis, surprisingly gender-balanced.  It was certainly different to see a choir made up of women of all ages dressed in magnificently-coloured saris.

Despite the absence of worship order or bulletin, the liturgy was not greatly different from a North American Anglican church, although simplified somewhat.  The evangelical heritage shone through in some of the prayers, which were not written but offered with earnestness and sincerity suggesting, perhaps rightly, that God is more interested in how we are feeling, what we are experiencing, what our joys and challenges are, than in careful formulations of theological precepts.  Overall, the liturgy suggested a people experiencing their faith and their God in worship, rather than reflecting or thinking about God.  And, as in churches back home, there those who seemed to doze a little during the service, those who followed the sermon carefully, making notes on papers produced for that purpose, or underlining key texts in their bibles, those who sang expressively and those who didn’t.

Notable Indian elements were present; several of the women in the congregation were fulfilling Paul’s injunction to the Corinthians to ensure their heads were covered (1 Corinthians 11:2-16) by drawing their scarves or the ends of their saris up over their heads.  The holiness of the chancel and alter were highlighted by carpeting leading to the altar that contained the ancient Indian symbol of sacredness, an equilateral cross with arms bent at ninety-degree angles, or the swastika.  Worshippers were reminded in a small notice at the door to remove their footwear before proceeding to the altar for communion; I waited to make sure I was doing the right thing, as nothing was said in the service, but as people began making their way to the altar rail to receive communion, I noticed that everyone had removed their shoes, most proceeding barefoot and some in socks to the front of the church.     As communion was served, the congregation sang hymn after hymn, and without announcement everyone knew where to find it in the hymnbook, or just sang from memory.  The singing seemed to me to be much more melodic than harmonic, simple but with great feeling.  And unison readings and prayers were barely that, unison, with everyone proceeding at their own pace and with their own expression to the words, so that an Anglican-based printed prayer in the service book somehow became almost a Pentecostal speaking in tongues as everyone offered the common prayer as their own.

The sharing of the peace was subdued, calm and calming, unlike the exuberant greeting of the brothers and sisters in faith that is present in many Canadian churches.  The instructions in the CSI service book also suggest a unique Indianness to the act: “the sharing of the peace is done with a touch of the hand, the sign of namaskara [the hand signals that convey peace with the Indian greeting or valediction at parting, namaste: either the two hands are placed palm together, fingertips extending upwards, with the thumbs drawn back to the chest, or, using a single hand, the hand is laid flat over one’s heart with a slight bow of the head], or a hand clasp.”  In a culture that does not make significant use of bodily contact, this is the Indian version of the holy kiss.

And peace was extended, in the liturgy, in the nineteenth-century English hymns rich in poetry and theology, in the sense that God was to be experienced in singing, prayer and holy communion.  There are other churches in Mysore, but I think I will go back to St Bartholomew’s, even if worship does begin at 8:00 and continue for more than two hours; there, on Sunday morning, God was present for me.

INDIA AGAIN -- 1

Things I have seen carried on a motorcycle

Last year when I came to India, I think I was surprised by the number of motorcycles on the road.  It makes sense, in a country that is so populated, where there is a need to travel, the distances are not small and the price of gas is always on the rise.  But I continue to be surprised by the uses to which a motorcycle can be put for carrying not only people, but also goods.

So, as promised, here is a recollection of “things I have seen carried on a motorcycle”.

When I first arrived in India, I quickly realized that the roads were filled with many things – buses and trucks, some cars, people, cows, water buffalo, bicycles, and thousands and thousands of motorcycles.  Many of them carry more than one person, and it quickly became a commonplace thing to see three young men riding one motorbike.  Women ride side-saddle on the back in their saris, leaving me to wonder how often trouble or injury occurs from the long flowing fabric of a sari or scarf getting caught in the rear wheel or chain.  I have seen families on a single motorcycle; the father carefully steering with a youngster perched in front, and holding on to the handlebars, while immediately behind sits a wide-eyed child, and the mother at the back holding tightly to an infant or toddler.  Five is the largest number of people I have seen on one motorbike.

Through Hebbal, on the outskirts of Mysore, I have seen tradespeople on motorbikes, presumably on their way to or from a job with an assistant on the back.  The person on the back carries the necessary tools or material for the job.  I have seen, on the back of the motorcycle and in the hands of the passenger: six foot lengths of plastic plumbing pipe, a painter’s ladder, a wooden chest of tools, part of a car engine, rebar in twelve or fourteen foot lengths, so long that it almost touches the road in the front of the motorbike, and again almost dragging on the asphalt at the back – surely that is not safe.  I have seen someone carrying a bicycle, propane tanks, a sheet of plywood so large that the driver or passenger could not possibly see anything to the left.  And then one day I saw, slowly driving through the crowded main road of Hebbal, a man sitting on the back of a motorcycle holding a pane of glass – not just a pane of glass, but a pane of glass about four feet high and six feet wide, so big that the passenger holding it just barely had his fingertips around each edge; surely, I thought, this is not going to end well, but on down the road they went, weaving and dodging around pedestrians, cows and other traffic until they were out of sight.

I have seen motorcycles fitted to hold chicken cages, with live chickens, four or five cages high.  And one day I saw a passenger holding live chickens, two of them, one in each hand.  He had them firmly by the feet, holding them upside down, and as the motorbike darted and dodged its way through traffic, the chickens squawked and fluttered, perhaps signalling the turns to right or left.  I thought I had seen it all, until I saw someone carrying a large, fat pig (to market, to market, to sell a fat pig, home again, home again...).

Concrete in sacks, bricks, carpet rolled up but looking like it might turn into flying carpet, bags of mangoes, plastic ware (buckets and jugs and utensils), cattle fodder or hay tied in great bundles on the back, sacks of rice, chairs and once I even saw a table, raised high above the head of both driver and passenger, passing by.

It seems to be the job of the passenger to signal turns, which surely requires some telepathic understanding between driver and signaller who just seems to know what the driver is doing.

Perhaps most moving of all, one day I was standing outside the grocery store next to a walk-in medical clinic, and a motorcycle pulled up with two young men, one driving and one at the back, and between them, gently cradled in the arms of the young man at the back, an old and frail woman sitting side-saddle.  The motorbike pulled up and the young men got off and carefully helped what must surely have been their grandmother down from the motorbike to escort her to the clinic.

I am sure there is more, but that is maybe enough to describe, except for one more thing: I came out of the grocery store in Hebbal and turned towards the hostel, not quite a kilometre away, and a motorbike slid to a stop beside me and the driver simply said, hop on. I’m not sure who he was or where he was going, but for a short distance, there was one more thing I have seen carried on a motorcycle – me.

Entry 22 - A Passage FROM India

a classic view of the Taj Mahal

One last reflection before leaving India.  As I write this I am about forty hours away from leaving the hotel to travel to Indira Gandhi International Airport, at 2:00 am; we fly out at 5:00 am.  Because Air India is currently in a state of turmoil after a pilots’ job action, all flights to Canada have been cancelled through to the end of October.  About a month ago I made a lengthy trip to Bangalore from Mysore (distance about 150 km, travel time about four hours each way), and spent what seemed like an eternity in the Air India office making alternate arrangements.  At the end of over four hours in the office (by which time I felt like I knew all the employees personally), I had new tickets, travelling back to Canada via Abu Dhabi on Air Etihad.  A short journey of about three or four hours gets us to the Middle East, and after a wait of another three hours, we begin that sixteen hour flight to Toronto.  Then more waiting, then Air Canada will bring us to Halifax; we arrive in the middle of the night local time, and will be picked up by a kind soul who will stay up all night first to meet us and then to drive us back, arriving in Sackville shortly after dawn.  About forty hours of travel.

So forty hours of waiting, and forty hours of travel.  There is, of course, a biblical significance to the number forty – we may be familiar with the forty days and nights of rain when Noah and his family were shut up in the ark with the animals.  We may remember that Moses led the Israelites through the wilderness to the Promised Land for forty years.  And Jesus fasted in the wilderness for forty days.  There are other references too, and so forty comes to represent a time of testing and trial, a time of waiting and preparing, and a time of reflecting and journeying spiritually.  So here, forty hours before my passage from India begins, I pause to reflect as well, especially on this journey which, I am sure, has and will continue to change me personally and spiritually, in profound and subtle ways. 

We have been more than forty days – it has been two months since our departure from Canada, but allow me the image of forty hours as my opportunity to stop and reflect, to prepare to come home, to undertake the journey back to my own “promised land” (which is, indeed, the goal and aspiration of many Indians who see North America, and Canada particularly, as a promised land of freedoms, opportunities, and wealth).  I will continue to reflect, and once at home, may then write further on my own sense of learning and growth, change and transformation, through my experience here. 

For this writing, however, I turn to what may be the culmination of aspirations for many travellers to India, the Taj Mahal.  It was, in many ways, the culmination of our trip at the end of two months, and if travel plans had not been disrupted, it would have been the visit on our final day before heading home.

Located in Agra, about 220 km from Delhi, getting to the Taj Mahal (the Crown Palace) is an undertaking indeed, and in this case, getting there may not be half the fun.  Google map directions are simple: from Delhi, take the Taj Expressway, 211 km and 2 hours, 34 minutes of driving.  However, that expressway is not yet open; it is scheduled to begin operations on August 2nd of this year, just after we arrive home.  We went the old and usual way.

Our day began early, climbing on to the hotel fifteen-seater coach at 5:30 am.  Traffic was light through Delhi at that time of day, and in no time at all (well, almost an hour), we were leaving Delhi behind us and moving out onto the highway at speeds of up to 60 and 70 km/hr in some stretches.  With one stop about the half-way point for a washroom break, we made it to Agra in just under four hours, picked up our tour guide and headed for the Taj Mahal.

on the steps to the platform and doorway in to the mausoleum

Was it what I expected?  Was it worth the drive and the wait?  Did it live up to its iconic and famous status? 

I have to say yes, and then qualify that. 

The first qualification comes from experiencing the Taj Mahal in what is literally the hottest weather I have ever experienced in my entire life.  The temperature in Agra during our visit was 37 degrees Celsius, and it was sunny.  The heat was almost life-taking, especially with the sun reflecting off the white marble of the Taj Mahal, including the platform on which it is built and on which we were walking.  Hemp mats had been provided to walk on, but even through sandals (covered with light booties, like those worn in a hospital operating room) and walking on the mats, one could feel the heat coming up from the marble.  It was almost impossible to walk on the marble itself, and I can only imagine what it would have felt like in bare feet.  And that was not the only heat – it was also humid, and the humidex reading raised the temperature (in the Indian weather forecast, the “real feel” temperature) to a sweaty, deadening, sauna-like 50 degrees.  Yes, fifty.  Five zero.  Within minutes of entering the Taj grounds, I was soaked from head to foot in sweat, as was almost everyone else on the grounds.  Light clothing appeared dark, and colours appeared in darker shades as every shirt, sari, top, pair of pants, appeared as though they had been dragged through a swimming pool or caught in the rain, along with their wearers.  It is, as you can believe and as I can attest, harder to focus on the immediate beauty and magnificence of a place as one moves through temperatures that feel like fifty in the shade, especially when there is no shade.  I think my memory of the mausoleum itself, the room inside the Taj containing the tombs of Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan and his third wife Mumtaz Mahal for whom the structure was built, will be that of smell.  India makes an impression on the nose – it assaults the sense of smell, and the Taj was no different in this respect. Stepping from the intense and humid heat into the huge vaulted room containing the tombs was worse than stepping into the men’s locker room of a Canadian hockey arena at the end of a game; the smell of sweat, raw, heavy, overpowering sweat, threatened to overwhelm me as I very quickly moved around the tombs with crowd, looking up at the huge dome overhead from the inside, and then back out to where I had left one student gasping for breath and feeling somewhat faint and nauseous both from early stages of heatstroke and also the overwhelming stench of so many human bodies sweating profusely in one almost airless chamber.

magnificent white polished marble

The second qualification comes from the crowds.  I don’t know why I didn’t expect such huge crowds; after all, it is the Taj Mahal, and it is India.  But somehow I was not really prepared for the crowds.  Literally thousands of people, all moving, surging, all in one direction towards the mausoleum down the pathways, and then inside and through and around the building, and then back.  I felt caught in a surging tide of humanity, and one simply moved with it at the pace dictated by the crowd.  There was little, if any, opportunity to stop, to step aside, to appreciate the building in my own way, and with the heat perhaps no extra time was warranted.  At the Taj, as elsewhere in India, there were more people than I am used to experiencing.  The Taj hosts over ten thousand visitors a day, and on weekends that number easily doubles, even in the heat.  It’s a far cry from Sackville.

the Taj Mahal. is much bigger than it appears

But with these things noted, and many more things that could be noted, it was still magnificent.  I first saw it from the masjid, the place of worship and teaching through which one enters the grounds of the Taj Mahal.  Entering through a gate built into a tower, part of a surrounding wall, the Taj with its gleaming white marble was in marked contrast to the outer walls and buildings, constructed of rough red sandstone.  Stepping through the tower structure, the Taj then appeared to be so close, just across the gardens, and not as big as one imagined it might be.  But walking down the paths, and realizing how far away the Taj Mahal still was, I started to gain an appreciation of its size and splendour.  Ninety metres high (or three hundred feet), as we climbed up the stairs to the surrounding platform I gazed up towards the great high dome in polished white marble, and realized just what a magnificent architectural achievement this is, especially for a building dating to the middle of the seventeenth century.

excerpts from the Qur'an

Built by a Mughal monarch, the Taj is an Islamic building with Hindu elements, combining the typical middle eastern domed form with Persian and Indian influences.  The gardens surrounding it are typically of Muslim design, and represent the movement from the profane sphere outside the gates to the sacred and powerful centre suggested by the building itself.  There is a suggestion of paradise itself in the lush green grass, the evergreen trees and the water channels and pools.  Even in the presence of death, as the tomb itself declares, there is still life.

inlaid semi-precious stones in the marble add detail

Such a magnificent structure was also a political statement.

  In a predominantly Hindu culture, the Taj – as other Moslem structures in India, including Humayan’s Tomb and the Qutub Minar in Delhi, and the Gol Gumbaz mausoleum in Bijapur, which I also visited – the might of Moslem rulers from the tenth to seventeenth centuries was declared in buildings of magnificent height, solidity, grandeur, size.  This is perhaps echoed in the Arabic texts which adorn the Taj Mahal; selected from the Qur’an, the texts reflect themes of judgement and seem to hint at the need to adopt the submissive posture (Islam means submission) and surrender to the religion that accompanied the conquerors of northern and central India in this time period.

All too soon (and yet not too soon, given the heat and the crowds) we were on our way out.  Electric carts and buses ferry visitors back to the visitor reception area, and from there we found our coach.  I must admit that, after two months in India, I have lost a little of my Canadian gentleness and politness; ambushed by souvenir vendors, which is not unexpected, I surprised both myself and an Indian student from Mount Allison as we walked to the bus.  I was in the middle of a conversation when a vendor came up close to me, thrusting a book or postcards or other printed material almost right into my face; before he even had a chance to speak, I found myself saying, with real attitude, “I’m talking here!” and giving a dismissive wave of my hand.  I think I shocked myself, and I know I shocked the student I was with, who sputtered “I didn’t expect that from you, but that was impressive!”  I didn’t expect it from myself, but in a very aggressive northern Indian culture, the aggressive stance I took served to send the vendor away quickly; no second attempt to sell material to me was made!

After a delicious lunch of northern Indian cuisine (in an air conditioned restaurant), and a shorter visit to Agra’s Red Fort, virtually a walled city and seat of power from the tenth to sixteenth centuries, we climbed aboard the coach for the return trip to Delhi.  After almost two hours we finally got out of Agra, a city of about two million, and after more than six hours we were back in the hotel in Delhi, exhausted and exhilarated.

yes, at fifty degrees it was that hot, and I was that sweaty

So now comes my passage from India, and the first forty hours, or perhaps forty days, in Canada, will be a time of reflecting, processing, re-adjusting and determining how India has changed me.  I have seen some tremendous growth in some of the students; we have had some wonderful discussions about culture, history, religion, and this morning a few of us will take an autorickshaw only a few kilometres through the streets of Delhi to visit the Lotus Temple, a Baha’i worship centre designed in the 1980s by an Iranian-born Canadian architect.  Like the Taj, clad in polished white marble, it is designed to appear from outside like a large lotus blossom opening up.  Inside it is intended as a large, open, place of meditation worship in which silence is strictly enforced.  I look forward to the silence, as I also look forward to silence, open spaces, moderate temperatures and familiar friends in Sackville.  See you there.

surrounded by gardens, the Taj Mahal really is that magnificent

Entry 21 -- Some Random Reflections

the colours of India

Entry 21 – Random Reflections (and there will be more)

Today we leave Mysore, after a little more than six weeks here.  We have travelled around both in Mysore as well as around this city in southern Karnataka, seeing gardens, temples, palaces, and places of religious and historic significance.  We have learned to bargain with the autorickshaw drivers for a good rate (and sometimes we manage it successfully) and we have figured out the bus system and ridden on some very old and very crowded Indian buses.  We have found our way around the city so that we if want pizza or other familiar food we know where to go and how to get there; we have gone to the market and bought oranges mangoes or gifts for ourselves or others, and we have worked out where to get chocolate when we need it. And beyond these life-coping skills, we have learned a lot about Indian culture and civilization, both in the classroom and outside it. 

John at the Institute, week one

I have travelled, with a colleague in history, to Melkote and Srirangapatna, to discover other stories and buildings from India’s past.  I have seen that, here too, the link between religion and political or military life was sometimes close; a temple built on a high hill alongside a main road of commerce from north and south not only attracts pilgrims, but enables authorities to see large movements of people (or soldiers) from a very great distance.  Even in the modern world of paved roads, clouds of dust are raised by animals on the move, and evidence of that movements rises up through the treetops to be seen from miles away.

I have travelled alone to Bengalore, and dealt with the bureaucracy of Air India.  And there, as never before, I have learned patience.  Four hours to change airline tickets, including thirty minutes to actually print them on an ancient (by my standards) dot matrix tractor-feed printer, in which the printer ribbon kept coming out of its guide necessitating a halt to the process while the technical assistant opened the machine and put it back in printing order.  And working with nine young adults, all female, on a twenty-four/seven basis, I have further developed patience.  I can breathe very deeply for a long time, and count to ten, or a hundred, or a thousand.  I made a return trip to Mysore Palace yesterday – a Sunday, the busiest day for visitors – as I really wanted a good picture of the front of the palace without a lot of people in the way, so I picked my spot and waited, and waited, and waited, all very patiently.  And after more than half of hour of waiting, and most of a bottle of water, there was a moment when the throngs of people were not right there, and there were no families and  no couples and no groups of young men vying for the perfect picture of themselves in front of the palace.  And I got my picture, as did an Indian man who had been waiting about fifteen minutes – and he was gracious enough to take a picture with my camera of me in front of the palace as well.

Beyond formal instruction and reading, I have been learning through every conversation, every encounter, every journey out into the city or surrounding countryside.  And mostly I have just learned to be very, very patient, as there are differences in the way some things are done and I just need to let those things happen in their own way; they may not be better ways, in my view, but I cannot impose my Canadian model on this culture; I realize, of course, that I cannot and will not change India.  Although it will undoubtedly change me.

I have learned, as in my trip to Bangalore as well as other places, that white foreigners are often jumped ahead of the queue or given special treatment (as at the Air India office, where my driver could park the car in the shade under the “no parking” sign, the door attendant earning a small gratuity for this privilege); I have learned that with special treatments, a small gratuity might or might not be expected.  But as much as I have learned that I might also get special treatment, I have not become comfortable with it, nor with the expectations that may accompany that treatment.  A white foreigner walking on the street is hardly left alone, as almost every available autorickshaw driving by slows down, the driver looking expectant and hopeful.

I have gained some insight into the life of the autorickshaw driver, who must know the city, and its businesses and institutions and know the shortest or quickest route.  The driver must also have rudimentary mechanical knowledge in case a quick repair is needed to the keep the machine in running order.  I have come to appreciate that these drivers work long hours, and receive little compensation (none if there are no fares), and that some will be fairer than others in the bargaining process, and others will simply use the meter on the cab. 

autorickshaws everywhere

On one occasion, after an evening downtown, I was quoted a rate of 200 rupees (just under four dollars) for the trip back to the hostel for me and one student; the usual rate is between 130 and 160.  After concluding I would not strike a good deal, I ended negotiations, determining to walk a short distance towards the bus station, and either catch a bus (at 9 rupees, less than 20 cents) or find a better bargain with another driver.  After walking only fifty yards, another driver approached me and the student, and perhaps having seen us turn away from the first driver, quoted us only 100 rupees.  A large underbid, in order to make at least a little money on a quiet evening; he gave us good service and was paid 130 rupees, to his delight.

I still have not learned properly when a tip, gratuity or small monetary gift is appropriate, or how much to give.  At the palace, I went on the elephant ride, and the driver (if that is the right word) of the elephant slid down to the ground using the elephant’s ear, and encouraged me to sit on the elephant’s head and drive while he took pictures with my camera.  So I have not only enjoyed riding an elephant in the howdah, the carriage that sits on the elephant’s back and holds up to eight riders, I have learned to “drive” an elephant!  Sort of.  I expected to pay for this, and did, and more than I thought I would have to pay (but it’s his living, and I had fun, so it did not detract from the adventure).  I had left my bag with the man taking tickets at the entrance for elephant rides , asking if he would keep an eye on it for; he did, and I expected to pay something for this, but he refused to accept any money. 

When I bought a pair of trousers, the clerk arranged for me to have them hemmed by his tailor, and I enquired about the process and the cost.  I was simply assured “my boy will come.”  So I paid for the trousers, and then to my surprise they were put in the bag, again with the assurance that “my boy will come”, leaving me wondering the purpose of bagging my purchase if the tailor was going to come to the store.  At this point, the boy did come – from where, I have no idea; it as though the store clerk had suddenly conjured him up from thin air!  The boy was about twelve, perhaps, and led me off down the busy main road at high speed, stopping suddenly to cross the very busy street.  He was actually very good about making sure I didn’t get hit by a car, taxi, motorcycle, bus, truck or other moving vehicle when we crossed the road, and then we made our way through a maze of back alleys – it was very interesting to see the backside of the city, so to speak, including into people’s homes as most of the doors stood wide open.  And we stopped at one home (these are all concrete structures that are joined to one another), and the boy summoned out a man who went and opened a garage-style door.  It was a small windowless room that contained a  bicycle, a calendar from 2008, three treadle-operated sewing machines, a nail in the wall holding a measuring tape, a small wooden bench and a sleeping man.  The man was awakened, and took my leg measurement, and then altered the pants while I waited and looked out on the back entrance to a little temple, with its various comings and goings.  In about ten minutes I was being led back through the maze of alleys to the main road again with my pants, now altered, and a whole forty rupees lighter (about 75 cents). And the boy would not accept any gratuity for the service rendered.

As I think of clothing, I have come to appreciate the rich sense of colour in India, apparent in in clothing but also in the buildings. The women’s saris are magnificent displays of colour and pattern, as is the attire worn by younger working women, the salwar kameez.  This is the outfit adopted by the Mount Allison students, consisting of leggings (the salwar) and a long, loose tunic or shirt (the kameez), and a matching scarf.

beautifully-coloured saris, at the shop -- it must be hard to decide!

Almost every sari I see, I think, is most magnificent one yet!  But there is always another one that is even better.  They are rich in colour and design, and are made of cotton or cotton blend, or silk.  There are floral patterns, and geometric designs, and some with gold embroidery; some are rich and solidly coloured with elegant borders, others have intricate small patterns of flowers or vines or patterns, and yet others have large, bold patterns in abstract forms.  They are worn by women who work in construction, by women who work in offices and stores, and women who are housewives and mothers.  Likewise, the salwar kameez comes in a variety of bright and bold colours, pinks and purples, lime green and gold, brilliant blue and turquoise, and I have even seen outfits that could be described as garnet and gold.  I am afraid that it makes our Canadian office dress – the standard black pants for women and men, with a subdued and solidly-coloured shirt – look positively boring by comparison.

This love of colour extends also to architecture.  The standard Indian home or apartment building is manufactured of concrete, or concrete blocks with a stucco or concrete/plaster facing.  The whole is then painted, in lime green or pink or purple or turquoise, and these houses in such different colours sit beside each other looking like a vivid display of paint varieties available. 

even the homes are colourful

The homes seem to be designed for maximum air flow, with windows that open wide but are often set back under balconies or roof lines so that the sun does not shine directly in.  They are small places, often with space for outdoor living (eating, hanging laundry) on the roof, and many have water and waste water pipes attached to the outside of exterior walls, something we could never get away with in Canadian winters.

It has been interesting to see the various animals that pass through town, particularly through the industrial area where we have been staying and studying, as the shepherds and goatherds and others move them along to different grazing areas, and in the case of cows, for milking.  Water buffalo are not at all uncommon here, and I had a very close encounter with them the other day.  Several times I have been forced to move off the sidewalk or to the other side of the road when a herd of water buffalo come through, but on one occasion, it was the closest encounter so far: I had stopped near Hebbal Lake to take a picture of a small flock of green bee-eaters clustered together on one branch.  The breeze was moving the branch, and I was patiently waiting, and concentrating intensely, on holding the camera stock-still with its telephoto lens at full extent, and also waiting for the right moment when the breeze stopped moving the branch and the picture was framed the way I wanted it.  A herd of buffalo was coming up very quietly, as they were walking on a dirt path, and suddenly I heard a shout – the drover, at the back, trying to move them aside, just as the lead buffalo very gently nudged my elbow with his snout and just kept slowly walking forward.

water buffalo

I stepped back and the buffalo went by; there were about twelve altogether, and they walked on either side of me as I stood still in the middle of them.  The drover came up, dressed in traditional dhoti, kurta and scarf knotted in a turban around his head, with a huge grin on his face.  Although he spoke no English, he stopped with me as though in apology, and I showed him on the camera screen the picture I had just taken of the bee-eaters, as well as some others.

There is, of course, much more to tell, about the wonderful staff at Vivekananda Institute of Indian Studies, about Mysore specifically and India generally, and some more stories will be told, perhaps in blogs and others in person.  Have patience as you wait for more stories, just as I have learned patience, as well as appreciation for all that is here and even more so, for all that I have at home and often take for granted.

Entry 20 -- History and Myth

ENTRY 20– History and Myth

The gardens and mausoleum, Srirangapatna

entrance to the eighteenth-century fortress, Srirangapatna

The well-known writer of the history, meaning and function of religion, Karen Armstrong, gives a very specific understanding of the term myth, as well as explaining its importance.  She writes that as soon as people became aware of their own mortality, they created stories that gave meaning to their existence and explained their relationship to the divine presence; more than this, myths gave instruction about how to live in response to that understanding.  Myth helps people to understand their place in the world and find their true orientation.  In other words, myth has both ontological and ethical power, shaping meaning and action based on that meaning.  Human beings, says Armstrong, have always been myth makers. 
I don’t think we have stopped this recasting of our understanding of the past in mythic terms.  I define myth, following Armstrong, as a story rooted in history that allows an understanding of present reality, offering a sense of meaning or identity; a narrative of the past that shapes a perception of reality, and so an understanding of national or cultural identity.  This allows for both religious myth and historical myth, a way of seeing one’s relation to the divine, and also a way of understanding one’s national or cultural past; and sometimes, of course, these come together.

I was not surprised, then, in my preparations to come to India, to encounter some of the myth-making around the figure of Tipu Sultan, by both English historians of the Victorian era who condemned him, and Indian historians of the twentieth century who would canonize him.  Tipu Sultan is a figure who has long captured my interest, and so it was with pleasure that I realized the historical sites of his life and death lie just outside the city of Mysore, in Srirangapatna, a journey of only twenty or thirty minutes by car.  Sriragnapatna was not on the itinerary for field excursions for the Mount Allison students, which have taken us to Hindu and Jain temples of Chalukya and Hoysala eras, going back eight hundred and a thousand years into the Indian past.  And soon we will visit the massive archaeological site of Vijayanagar in the northern half of Karnataka state, a city built in the fourteenth century but declining, suddenly, in the sixteenth century.  A separate journey to Srirangapatna was in order.

John, in pursuit of history -- or myth

A couple of weekends ago, having made arrangements to hire a car and driver, and to be accompanied by the Head Academic at VIIS, Dr La.Na. Swamy, I headed out to a town I had read much about, and now was going to see, the home of Haider Ali and Tipu Sultan, and a battle that may or may not have changed the course of Indian history (as a side note, I have followed one of the conventional spellings for both Haider Ali and Tipu Sultan, although there are variations, each one accepted as also correct).

In the eighteenth century, a new and short-lived power dynasty emerged in southern Indian, based not in Mysore but in Srirangapatna, just a short distance away from the capital where the ruling kings lived.  Haider Ali, the commander-in-chief to the Maharaja or King of Mysore, Krishanraja Wodeyar II, rose to a position of power and came to dominate the weak king.  Ultimately Haider Ali seized control of the kingdom and, as military commander and, in effect, supreme ruler over Mysore, came to expand the territories of this southern Indian kingdom moving the capital from Mysore to Srirangapatna.  His expansionist activities drew him into conflict with military advances of the British East India Company, ending in conflict in the First and Second Mysore Wars (1767-69 and 1779-1784 respectively).  A shrewd and powerful leader, when Sultan Haider Ali died in 1782, he left his son Tipu Sultan not just a war that was incomplete, but a vastly expanded realm and a reputation of authority and control by force.  The short-lived dynasty begun by Haider Ali and ending with his son Tipu Sultan also marked the return of Muslim rule over a predominantly Hindu population.

Tipu Sultan, also known as the Tiger of Mysore for his expansionist tendencies, his merciless treatment of his enemies, and his absolute control over the sultanate of Mysore, was also a devout Muslim, a scholar, a poet and a linguist; these latter qualities, however, were secondary in history to his desire to expand his kingdom and his willingness to engage in conflict, which led to two further wars with the British.  Following a humiliating defeat to British forces in the Third Mysore War (1789-1792), the British took two young sons of Tipu Sultan as hostages to ensure the payment agreed to under the terms of peace was actually made.  It was, and the sons, a little older, were returned to their father.

Allying himself with Napoleon in the wars against the British, Tipu Sultan was forced into a Fourth Mysore War (1798-99) when the British determined to defeat France and all her allies.  Led by their commander, Arthur Wellesley (later Duke of Wellington, the victorious general at the Battle of Waterloo), the British led a final attack on Srirangapatna in May 1799.  At this time of the year, just preceding monsoon season, the river was at its lowest level and the fortress surrounding Srirangapatna, built on an island in the Cauvery River, was at its most vulnerable.  In a short and decisive assault costing only thirty British lives, the invading force captured Srirangapatna; during the initial fighting, Tipu Sultan was killed in leading his forces into battle, although it was not until later in the day that the British identified his body.  This ended the dynasty Haider Ali had sought to establish, and the British reinstated the Wodeyar monarch on throne of Mysore (albeit under the close supervision of a British policy advisor), thus establishing British influence and control in southern India.

The very brief account above does not, of course, mention the myth of Tipu Sultan; it is simply a narrative of a few key elements of what has become, for some Indians, something of a legend and more, a myth.  The Tiger of Mysore has been remembered by some Indian historians, since Independence in 1947, as something of a national hero.  He is being hailed as the one who stood up against the might of the British Empire and, in an unsuccessful last stand before the onslaught of British power, the one who tried to protect and preserve Indian independence.  Part of the myth of Tipu Sultan is that of the great unifier of southern India; however, the seizing of land and ousting of rulers through militaristic expansion can be interpreted in ways other than nationalistic attempts to unify a people, particularly when considering the time period under discussion.

carved stone on the Haider Ali and Tippu Sultan mausoleum

The evidence of this dynasty at Srirangapatna still stands.  I visited this town and saw the usual tourist sites, as well as some a little further off the usual tourist trail.  I joined the throngs of Sunday visitors to the Gumbaz, or domed mausoleum, honouring the bodies of Haider Ali and his wife, as well as Tipu Sultan.  Entering through an arched gateway, a tree-lined path leads to the mausoleum itself, seemingly in small imitation of that great mausoleum, the Taj Mahal.  For a modest fee of twenty rupees, a shoe keeper will keep watch over shoes as visitors ascend a few steps to the raised platform area that surrounds the Gumbaz; this also leads over to the mosque located just beside it.  Because this is Moslem holy ground, the site of both the mausoleum and mosque, shoes cannot be worn.  Although the shoe keeper’s fee is not large, by walking along the path that leads around the outer edge of this combined structure with its stone pavement on the raised platform, one can leave shoes for free under a bush beside the back steps and ascend there.  Which we did.

A huge dome rises above the bier where father, mother and son are entombed; ornate carvings in the stone of the structure portray leaves and vines and flowers.  These images of nature are allowed on an Islamic structure, as are quotations from the Qur’an; images or depictions of people, who might inappropriately be deified or idolized, are forbidden.  Miniature towers or turrets are at each corner of this perfectly cubed structure, its width and depth equal to its height.  The large dome is topped with the traditional symbol of Islam, the crescent moon.

the Gumbaz, domed mausoleum, at Srirangaptna

Inside, we walked around the walls and look at the place of entombment in the centre, a perfect raised square.  Photographs are strictly forbidden, but my colleague from VIIS pleads special exemption from such restrictions as a recognized historian with the Karnataka Historical Authority, and I am allowed to take a couple of pictures.  I first look up to the interior of the magnificent dome, the architectural feature adopted from the Eastern or Byzantine church of the fourth through seventh centuries, but more usually associated with Islamic architecture as Islam spread rapidly through the Middle Eastern world in the seventh and eighth centuries.  Painted in rich colours in the Muslim style, the inside of the dome is even more impressive than the exterior, which inspires wonder by its size and seeming weight; the painting is filled with motifs suggestive of flowers and leaves, in the fashion of the carved stone on the outside. Beneath the dome, some visitors bow in silent reverence out of deference to one who was Muslim, or perhaps to a defeated national leader.  There are clearly, judging by their attire, both Muslim and Hindu visitors to the site. A rich cloth laid over the burial spot has been covered with garlands of flowers, marigolds and jasmine and roses, and in the warmth of the open domed structure, the scent of flowers is strong.

After the visiting the Dome and the grounds surrounding it – including the mosque, the eighteenth-century stables and military barracks, we reclaimed our shoes and returned to the parking area, filled not only with cars, buses and motorcycles, but stands selling all manner of souvenirs and foods.  Off to the side of the parking area, we paid a brief visit to the memorial monument built to honour Colonel William Baillie, who surrendered with his troops to the forces of Hyder Ali in 1780 at the height of the Second Mysore War; Colonel Baillie was imprisoned inside the fortress at Srirangapatna, and died there two years later.  It was partially due to this imprisonment and death that the British made the decision to undertake another conflict with Tipu Sultan a few years later.

memorial plaque to Col. Baillie, erected in 1816

entrance gate to the summer palace

The memorial was erected by his nephew in 1816, and the relative lack of care and interest in this site suggests the living myth of Indian nationalism under Tipu Sultan; his memorials (both the Dome and the plaque marking the spot where it is said he died) are carefully maintained, with neat pathways and carefully edged grass.  Access to the monument for Col. Baillie is gained by walking through mounds of garbage and a short path overgrown with weeds.

Then it is on to the summer palace, the home and seat of power for Tipu Sultan.  Entrance to the Palace Grounds is through a large arched gateway and admissions office – Indians, 20 Rupees and Foreigners, 100 Rupees – and then into the neat paths bounded by carefully trimmed trees.  The Palace itself was designed for the warm Indian climate, to maximize air flow, to provide porches that give shelter from sun and rain but are still open to the cooling breezes that might come from the nearby Cavery River, and to create an impression of power, wealth and beauty.  The walls are painted with scenes of successful military campaigns filled with soldiers, elephants, banners and glory.  Deeper into the interior the walls are painted with floral patterns in what must have once been bright and decorous colours. The vicissitudes of time and age, of dampness and light and lack of proper care, have worn and faded the once majestic walls.  

Summer Palace of Tipu Sultan

Even now only minimal protection is provided, as bamboo screens are rolled down to prevent further fading from direct sun.  But birds flit inside the open air rooms that have no exterior walls, and stains and signs of damp rot are visible  in the plaster beneath the paint.  While the information and explanatory notes provided, highlighting artifacts and art, suggest a glorious and noble past, as though this alone was the heart of a once proud India (not just Mysore kingdom), the historic palace suggested to me a fading of the past, a desire to maintain a myth without supporting evidence.

 From the former opulence of the palace, we went to the site, marked with a monument, path and neatly trimmed lawn, where it is said that Tipu Sultan was died in battle.  There are, however, two sites for one death: one official and one unofficial.  At the official site, the stone monument simply declares “The Body of Tipu Sultan Was Found Here.”

The official site is open and accessible, suggests a brave fight by the Mysorean troops who battled the British a considerable length of the fort.  The fort itself consisted of ramparts and battlements that stretch around the city of Srirangapatna, with a second palace inside, a temple, and three outer concentric rings of defensive walls with a river running past on all sides.  The official sites highlights the bravery and courage of Tipu Sultan, plunging into the battle at last with the regular troops only to be cut down by a British sharpshooter; in the popular myth, printed in tourist literature and small pamphlets about the historical significance of Srirangapatna, the death of Tipu rallied the troops to fight even more bravely before finally succumbing to the British because they had lost the inspiration and directin of their leader, the Tiger of Myspre.  The fighting here was inside the fort, and in the melee of women and children fleeing, the inability to use their cannons, and without a commander in chief, the British finally prevailed.

monument to the official site of the death of Tipu Sultan

passageway to where Tipu Sultan likely died

The unofficial, and somewhat less accessible site, suggests a different story of a force caught off guard by a British assault from the least likely direction.  The brick and stone walls still bear the marks of assault by cannon; although the river has been altered by damming since Tipu’s time, one can still see the open stretch of marshy land through which the river winds, and can speculate that at the end of a long dry winter perhaps even the marshes had dried to allow not only ready movement of troops but also horses, weapons and equipment.  

The British attacked at dawn in the far north-west corner, at the furthest distance from the centre of power.  We travelled out to that far corner, and saw the remains of ramparts and walls, both inner and outer, and the lookout spot where the first British troops likely entered into the fort. 

Near there, probably in the noise and confusion of battle – with cannonballs being fired from across the river, Tipu Sultan had to act to move his troops into position.  From British records it seems they encountered little to no resistance as they moved into the space between the first two outer walls.  Possibly, Tipu Sultan, coming out to this outer edge to determine what was going on, was surprised to see British forces already filling the narrow passageway, and at that time he was both shot and bayoneted as the troops rushed past him.  It was only later in the day, when the battle was done and the bodies were being retrieved, that it was realized that the Sultan himself had been killed so early in the day, in the heat of battle, in an unlikely place.

Still driving within the confines of the fortress wall or their remains, we had the driver stop the car along a length of outer wall a little further away – almost a kilometre – from the centre of town, the heart of the fort (no longer present) the main entrance gates, the official site of Tipu’s death, and all the stands selling tourist items and temple offerings.  Heading down a short slope, we walked along the stone wall until we came to a passageway leading through the wall to the “inner-outer ditch” – two walls created the ditch, and further outside there was yet another such ditch and another wall. 

remains of the second defensive wall

The walls soar up forty feet high in some places where they have not crumbled, and the ditches are grown up with weeds and scrub vegetation.  After going through the passageway, and turning left (the only option), the walls curve slightly.  One can imagine standing in that spot, perhaps with Mysorean troops coming in behind, and realizing that the British advancing down the ditch as well as over the walls, Tipu Sultan and the troops with him had little chance.  The quarters were really too close for effective sword fighting, and with muskets at the ready, and the short stabbing motions of a bayonet much more effective than the larger motions needing to use the Mysorean great swords, the result would not be surprising.

evidence of assault by cannon from across the river, 1799

After spending time here, speculating, measuring, inspecting stone and earthworks and trying to determine based on construction patterns what had been altered in the last two hundred years, we moved on a little further down the ramparts.  We saw the site where Col. Baillie had been imprisoned, and still travelling the length of walls that stretch several kilometres around their circumference, we came finally to the first place of the British assault.  Now it is has potential to be a scenic spot, but it has not been maintained, it is not easy to walk to the site, and garbage, as in many places in India, seems the dominant feature.  It is worth noting this site, as the British, coming across the strongest flow of the river where it divides around the island, had caught the Mysorean forces off guard and the assault was swift and decisive. Within the space of a few hours on May 4, 1799, the British took Srirangapanta fort, Tipu Sultan had died in battle, and the Fourth Mysore War had effectively ended with a loss of only thirty British lives in this final assault.  Subsequently, the British East India Company with the might of the British Empire behind it, began to take over virtual control of centres of power in southern India; the Wodeyar monarchy was reestablished, and the heir to Tipu Sultan was sent into exile.

And for some, Tipu Sultan stands as a hero for India, not just Karnataka or the Mysore region.  The myths of Tipu Sultan suggest not that he is the son of a man who usurped the power from its rightful holder, and who was known for his merciless streak and punishment in his rapacious desire to extend his realm; rather, the Tiger of Mysore is now the Tiger not because of cruelty, but because of nationalism, resistance to a foreign power, and standing for the Indian people.  The monarch of a small realm in a large Indian subcontinent, standing against the might of the British Empire, story of Tipu Sultan is told like an Indian version of David and Goliath except with tragic results, and the mausoleum and palace, the fortress and mythic site of death, are revered places claim the myth is history.

A Muslim in a predominantly Hindu world, the Tiger of Mysore seems in some ways an unlikely hero, and yet as an Indian in fight against the British, he represents the nation less the India of the past (different monarchies and regions, divided along linguistic lines) than the India of the present, a political union of diverse peoples, religions, cultural forms and languages who need a common bond beyond the Constitution.  A common myth can unify, bond an shape a national identity.  Just as in Canada we have created mythic qualities to stories of Canadian achievement – Vimy Ridge, the national railroad, peacekeepers – and those myths help forge a national identity, so the developing mythology of Tipu Sultan in southern India is nurturing a stronger sense of what it means to be Indian – not Hindu or southern, but Indian.   Myths have the power to divide, to shape identity, to unite, to mould nations.  While the story of Tipu Sultan can be told in many ways, in its mythic form it becomes larger than life, and in so doing gives life to national identity and aspirations.

At the end of a long but excellent day -- sitting where the British began their assault on Srirangapatna