Entry 13 - I was a Stranger

ENTRY 13 - I was a Stranger, in a World of Globalization

In his best-selling analysis of the changing global economy, The Earth is Flat, author Thomas Friedman analyzes the changing shifts of the world in terms of globalization, exploring particularly the role of computer technology in shifting the way the world runs.  In an subsequent work, The Lexus and the Olive Tree, he looks at the social and human dimensions of globalization, particularly the tension between the drive for economic advancement at national and personal levels and the longing to hold on to traditions, ways and practices, that shape a national culture and identity.  He writes, “globalization is not simply a trend or fad but is, rather, an international system. It is the system that has replaced the old Cold War system, and, like that Cold War System, globalization has its own rules and logic that today directly or indirectly influence the politics, environment, geopolitics and economics of virtually every country in the world.”

In travelling India, one can see the effects of economic globalization in social and cultural forms.  Familiar corporate names and products are everywhere, from cars (Hyundai, Suzuki, Volkswagen), to personal care items (Colgate toothpaste, Dove soap), and the list goes on.  One can eat at McDonald’s in India (although no beef is served, and the options are veggie burger and chicken burger, which comes in spicy and really spicy), or at Domino’s Pizza (again, with a veg and non-veg option), and of course the ubiquitous Coca-Cola can be bought almost anywhere – in fact, it seems most bottled beverages, including water, are licensed under this company.  In Canada, of course, we can usually find access to an array of goods from overseas, including India, and so items purchased here are no longer so unique or “foreign” in a world that knows so much about different cultures.  The Indian chain of clothing stores, FabIndia, with an outlet in Mysore, also has a web site, and ships internationally, so nothing is really out of reach for those with money.

Perhaps that is one of many troubling aspects of globalization, the homogenizing of the world in some ways.  Cultures are under assault, as are languages, and the uniqueness of peoples, languages, cultures, practices, dress, seems to be disappearing.

There is perhaps one positive to this growing globalization, however, although perhaps it existed before we began using this phrase in the 1990s, and perhaps there have always been elements of it present.  I speak here of the acceptance, and welcome, of one who is obviously a stranger, and I have been the recipient of this acceptance and welcome often while in India.

The biblical injunction in the book of Deuteronomy reminds the Israelites, as they set out the laws concerning life in the new land, that they must care for the stranger (i.e., foreigner) in their midst: “You shall also love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt” (Deuteronomy 10:19). Likewise, Jesus says of the life of faith in action: “I was a stranger and you welcomed me” (Matthew 25:35).   To be welcomed as a stranger is to receive the gift of hospitality, which at a human and individual level breaks down walls between culture in a far more satisfying way that economic globalization; it preserves each person’s identity, and values them, but allows for interaction as people in a shared world.

I reflect on the welcome we have received as strangers in what is, to us, a strange land.  It is more than just the warm and caring welcome of the V.I.I.S. staff and organizers, more than just the welcome from the kitchen staff and other guests and volunteers with the advocacy office in the hostel.  It is also the kindness and warmth that has been directed to me, and to all of us, from countless strangers in so many different places.

I think we have all been conditioned to be cautious and careful in travelling – make sure your money is in a safe place in crowds, watch out for thieves and pickpockets, be careful of people who will take advantage of you, scam you or rip you off in transactions, lead you astray – that we may all be a little on edge, distrustful of almost anyone we don’t know.  But so far we have experienced none of that.  In fact, it has been just the opposite. From the welcome of colleagues at VIIS and SVYM to conversations with welcoming strangers at a wedding; from directions to a store I am trying to locate to directions to the washroom; from suggestions to instructions, to the Air India ticket agent who arranged to have coffee brought to this stranger, twice,  who had travelled from Mysore, and was waiting for tickets to be re-booked (if only the ticket process worked as efficiently as the coffee process) – I have experienced a thousand little acts of kindness, care, welcome and hospitality by Indians, as the stranger in their midst. 

I am definitely the stranger, wandering not completely lost but certainly in unfamiliar territory, and while the territory is unfamiliar, the customs new, the practices and processes sometimes beyond my grasp, the smiles of welcome, the open and engaging people, those I have met and worked with and those on the street who engage me only for a few moments, have been warm.

I remember time spent in Japan, a different but equally foreign experience for me.  What I and my family remember above all else is the warm generosity and welcoming hospitality of the Japanese people, including those I worked with at the University and those we met in the local park and playground.  It was that welcoming spirit that made it hard to leave Japan at the end of our stay.  Only a month into my time in India now, already I can affirm that here, too, it is the people – those who are interested, welcoming, caring, kind and hospitable in ways large and small – who will create in me lasting memories of a warm country when I eventually leave for my home in this global village in which we all live.

Among other things, this trip affirms for me that there is in the human spirit, everywhere, an essential goodness, that humanity in the global village, though different in appearance and language, in manners and cultural forms, that humanity is still essentially good, essentially interested in one another, and at an individual level, can be welcoming and kind.  I think there are two tasks for us: one is to seek it out, and believe in it, and without losing our caution against the potential for evil, to see affirmatively the even greater potential for good. And the other task is to bring that goodness, that hospitality of spirit, that welcome and care of the stranger, to the global and international level.  This is a force that even economics cannot put a price on, nor diminish.

Entry 12 - A Holy House

the gopura at Channekeshava Temple, Belur

Keshsava Temple in Somanathapur

 Entry Twelve – A Holy House

In the ancient near eastern world of the Hebrew Testament, King David longed to build a temple for the worship of Yahweh, the God of the Hebrew people. However, it fell to his son, Solomon, to build the temple, after the military accomplishments of his father gave way to a time of peace in Solomon’s reign.  The writer of 1 Kings describes Solomon’s goal in words given to the king: “You know that my father David could not build a house for the name of the Lord his God because of the warfare with which his enemies surrounded him . . . but now the Lord my God has given me rest on every side; there is neither adversary nor misfortune.  So I intend to build a house to the Lord my God” (1 Kings 5: 3-5).

But such is not unique to Israel, or anywhere; in human history, when warfare subsides and there is peace along the borders, when there is money in the treasury and stability in the Kingdom, kings of centuries past could and have engaged in ambitious building projects.  Certainly this was the case among the Hoysala dynasty, which ruled in southern India in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries; after a time of conquest, defeating their Chola rivals to the east, with peace on the borders and within them, for almost one hundred years temples were built to honour Vishnu through what is now southern Karnataka state.  Under the Hoysalas, the number of followers of Vishnayism (worship of Vishnu) and of Lingayatism (a Shaivite sect, holding to a distinct worship of Shiva) increased, particularly in the twelfth century.  The Hoysalas were major patrons of art and architecture, and under their rule in the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries, as Europe was building its cathedrals, the Hoysalaa were sponsoring widespread temple constructions; hundreds of temples and shrines were built across Karnataka, and even now, over one hundred remain, including seventeen sites that are significant either historically or religiously, or both.

We have now visited two of these key sites, the Keshava Temple in Somnathapur, and the Channekeshava Temple in Belur.  Both are built on a star-shaped foundation and are distinctive by their squat pyramid shape in this star formation.  The Belur Temple was the first built; commissioned in 1116, it may have taken over one hundred years to complete.  Dedicated to the god Vishnu in his incarnation as Krishna (under the name Keshava, one of many by which Krishna is known), one sees carvings of some of the various forms of Krishna, as well as those of another incarnation of Vishnu, Lord Rama.  It is still an active temple, and pilgrims and worshippers continued to make their way through the entrance gate, which as is typical was surmounted with about a seven-storey gopura, or pyramid-shaped tower carved with images of the god Krishna in his different forms, and his consorts.

At both temples, in Belur, which continues as a site of active worship, and Somanathapura, which is now an historical site but no longer active as a temple, we removed our shoes before entering.  A shoe guardian will mind your shoes for 20 rupees, although we had already opted to leave ours in the van that dropped us off at the entrance.  Shoes may not be worn in the holy places, and in some, the gatekeeper may request that leather bags or belts be left behind, for a modest guardian’s fee, perhaps 20 rupees.  Although it is monsoon season, the sun shone brightly both days, and both days, in both places, we visited the temple sites in the afternoon – thousand-year old cut stone paving blocks get very warm on tender, western feet by the time the sun has been on them all day, perhaps an encouragement to move quickly and not linger too long at any one outside spot, unless it has been sitting in the shade for a while.

Hanuman, the monkey god

Ganesha, the elephant god

The fees for entry are modest, especially for Indians; 5 rupees, about 10 cents, is the admission price for Indians.  Foreign visitors pay 100 rupees, a little less than two dollars at current exhange rates. And there are always opportunities to spend more money, usually in small quantities. Floral garlands, with jasmine and marigold, can be purchased and worn, or flowers purchased to be laid on the steps, or altar, or linga (the phallus-like small pillar of stone that represents the presence of the god Shiva in the temple).  There are leaves, and beads, and strings tied for necklaces and bracelets, often in brilliant orange, which are worn as signs of religious devotion and of having made the pilgrimage to the temple.  There may be a souvenir stand, or several, and people pressing postcards on you, and always, always, there are small, physically challenged seniors, or children carrying babies, or women who seem to be bearing the worries of the world on their shoulders and in their faces, and they are asking, begging, sometimes pleading, for just a few rupees.  Knowing what to do can be difficult in the face of the beggars’ sorrowful states; one wonders, naturally, how many depend on the kindness and compassion of pilgrims and visitors, and how many are being prostituted as beggars by someone who will take their handouts from them.  I try to keep ten rupee notes (about twenty cents) in my pocket and handy so that I can discreetly slip the note into their outstretched hands, hopefully out of the sight of other beggars who would immediately swarm to me if they saw my willingness to give.  I feel sorry for the loss of dignity that leads people to beg, whether or not my money is needed by them, whether or not there is a scam at work, and without asking what that money will be used to buy – I only hope that sometimes, when I surrender a small almsgiving to someone who appears destitute, sometimes, it will be well used by someone who really needs it.  Honestly, I think I can afford to take the loss on the others.

People have been coming to these temples for almost a thousand years, probably passing beggars in every year of every century.  And the Hoysalas, it seems, were intentional about where temples were built.  As with the cathedral-building of medieval Europe, it was a boost to the local economy both in the construction of the edifice, and a boost forever afterwards, as they would draw the pilgrims in, who would then require food and lodging, and flowers and spices and coconuts for offering.

The entire temple walls, made of a local soft stone, are carved in detailed and ornate ways, the carvings forming rows or stratifications that rise up the inwardly sloping walls.  Virtually every space, every square inch, of the exterior walls is carved, and no two carvings are exactly alike.  Each tier of carvings depicts something different, beginning with elephants at the bottom, some charging, some playful, some walking in a stately procession, trunk to tail, and yet others seemingly in a more playful mood.  There are 644 elephants altogether around the bottom tier, in Belur, denoting different moods and attitudes and poses, and possibly many more in the bottom tier at Somanathapura.

always elephants

Elephants seem to hold a special place in Indian religious history; strong and steady, they surround both the Keshava and Channekeshava temples as though to lend a solid foundation to the faith that is expressed in the solid stone temple. Joanna tells me I have to ride an elephant before I come home, and others have told me I can’t leave India without riding an elephant.  So far the only real elephants I have seen are those giving rides in the gardens at the Mysore Palace, so I might have to make a trip back there; I could make my way to the Mysore Zoo, where elephants give rides, to make sure I get in my elephant ride before leaving India.
   
While elephants abound in the temples, they are not the only carvings.  Each row or tier has its own theme, both in the temple at Belur and the slightly later temple at Somanathapura. From elephants, one looks to the next level to a series of lion heads, symbolic of courage, intertwined with a course of carved beads.  Above this are galloping horsemen, soldiers and hunters, surmounted with floral carvings, creepers and vines and flowers with pearl garlands as symbols of the beauty of creation.  Scenes from the Hindu epics the Mahabharata and the Ramayana are there: images of the activity of the gods in battle, in creative pose, in sensuous array, and of Rama – another incarnation of Vishnu – who was sent into exile and then entered into a quest with his ally, the monkey-god Hanuman, to save his wife Sita from the evil demon.  Women dancing, and men and women in sexual poses, and singers, and more floral motifs – the tiers continue up over archers and soldiers and battles, and all surmounted by images of the gods themselves, in which Vishnu as Krishna predominates.

singers for the king

An image of angry Vishnu

One of my favourite sights at the temples is the women in the saris; against the hard, grey and black rock walls of the temples, the soft silk of the saris in brilliant colours and patterns seems to flow like air as the women walk against the background of rigid stone, and forms such a wonderful juxtaposition of colour, movement and texture.  I will admit to taking some pictures of these women, for their saris and their colour and life, and it is easy to be discreet at this.  Our young women are often the subject of much interest, especially with their blonde hair and fair skin; this was particularly true when we were at the temples at Belur and Somanathapura, and they were arranging themselves for a group picture.  Most, if not all, of the Indian visitors to the temple site stopped to watch them, and no one was looking at me, so while attention was otherwise distracted, I will admit to taking pictures of Indian people, men and women, in their soft colourful clothing against the hard, dull stones.  I will not post these pictures to my blog, naturally, as that would be inappropriate on this public blog, so enjoy the images of the temple I have added and imagine the people, pilgrims, enjoying the sense of history in these places, and worshipping in what is, to them, truly an axis mundi, a centre of the world in which god can be found. Add to these sights the rich and potent smell of jasmine, flowers, incense burning, and the sounds of prayers and chanting, and it quickly becomes a religious experience of the senses that one enters into, rather than just remaining a place that one visits and thinks about.   

And you can come and visit me when I am home, and I will show you some pictures there.

The temples may be old, and whether active or only historical remains, they still offer a great sense of the long and noble history of India, and they still offer a sense of significance and the presence of the divine in a way that shapes identity and gives meaning.  In their hierophanic import, they open their visitors to a deepened sense of humility in the presence of the divine, and to a deeper pride in being Indian.

that's me, examining the tiers of carving -- "I don't think those people are dancing"

Entry 11 - Past the Angel with the Flaming Sword

Entry Eleven 

 Past the Angel with the Flaming Sword

In the Book of Genesis, after the disobedience of Adam and Eve, they are banished from the Garden of Eden, and then God sets an angel with a flaming sword at the entrance (or is that the exit) to ensure they can’t return.  Brindavan Gardens, near Mysore, is perhaps not quite the Garden of Eden (and certainly there were far more than two people there), but it is a lovely little taste of  paradise in the midst of many things that seem far from Eden’s blissful state.  So last Friday, to mark three weeks in India and to get a break away from the activities and studies at the Institute, and to escape briefly the cityscape of Mysore, we took a little getaway to Brindavan Gardens for a little interlude in which we could relax and be refreshed by calming waters and greenery.

Brindavan Gardens: greenery, flowers and fountains

Brindavan Gardens is located just about twenty kilometres north of Mysore, not an onerous journey at all (about twenty to twenty-five minutes, given traffic, road conditions and the other things that affect driving in India).  The Gardens were built in the late 1920s under the supervision of the Mysore Diwan, or chief officer, Sir Mirza Ismail.  Given his Islamic background, it is not surprising to find a significant Mughal influence pervading the layout and design, although the British garden influences (like many other British influences that linger on here) are perhaps reminiscent of a bygone Edwardian era. 

We arrived in the late afternoon, having arranged a van and driver to take us and return us to Mysore.  After being dropped near the entrance, we walked through what was reminiscent of a fairground filled with booths selling everything from fruit, whole and cut, to Indian sweets, drinks, souvenirs of all manner including plush toys, and vendors selling postcards and parasols and pop.  The Indian culture is certainly more assertive than the gentle, polite Canadian culture, and many vendors refused to take no for an answer: “look at these pictures, very beautiful.”  I reminded the students not to look unless they were ready to buy; “looking is free”, the vendors insisted, pushing collections of postcards towards our hands, but to hold them is, in essence, to commit to buying, because once a postcard has been taken, the vendor will refuse to take it back, demanding only payment.  We got through unscathed, and paid our entry fee: 15 rupees a head, plus 50 rupees each for our cameras (lest we be caught without a ticket that permits pictures, and have to pay a 50 rupee fine – perhaps it is not so much about the money as the clear conscience).

The Gardens themselves are dominated by the high wall of the Krishnaraja Sagar Dam that stretches out over three kilometres, creating the Krishnarajasagara Lake from the Cauvery River.  Begun in 1924, the dam opened and began operation at the same time as the Gardens were completed and opened.  The lake behind the dam is one of the largest in India, although we did not see it, being at the base of a wall rising 125 feet from the Gardens.  The reservoir thus created provides water for irrigation in this region of Karnataka, as well as being the source of fresh water for the cities of both Mysore and Bangalore.  The water released by the dam into the Cauvery River first forms a small lagoon before flowing away in the river, which divides the Gardens into two sites.  In between, we saw many different forms of waterfowl, including egrets, herons, ducks and ibises, while overhead, eagles soared effortlessly on the thermal currents.

an egret fishing

As lovely as the Gardens were, there was a slighly decayed, run-down feel to them, as though they might never achieve the glory of their heyday, compared with what we might find in Canada.  I feel this way about a lot of things in India; it seems a lot of things that have been here for a long time need some money and attention to be restored to even a shadow of their former selves, and those that are new seem often to be incomplete, or unfinished.  I see stacks of bricks, stones, piles of dirt, marring the landscape; sidewalks are not really fully formed except in downtown Mysore; and I have already mentioned the garbage which fouls streets, ditches, and fields. Even in the Gardens, garbage abounded, paint was needed, attention demanded here and there. The beauty that is there, however, it is a credit to the dedicated workers who I saw toiling under hot sun with care and devotion to lawns, plants and fountains.

The Gardens are a familiar site to many Indians who have seen them as the backdrop for many Bollywood musicals and music videos, and while we were there hundreds and hundreds of people came through, many stopping for family pictures. After walking the 150 acres of Gardens, and admiring waterways, birds, flowers and shrubs, we sat by the lawn for a while to relax and enjoy the atmosphere.   The students,  especially those with reddish and blonde hair, must surely have felt like celebrities in this “getaway” evening as we sat and chatted by the lawn; every few minutes a member of an Indian family would be sent to speak to us (sometimes a child, perhaps because they are learning English in school, and the parents speak only Kannada), and permission for photographs with the girls would be requested.  So while I stood and watched, children would be placed in the circle of students, and mothers, fathers, uncles and aunts and grandparents would be grouped around them, and pictures would be taken.  I joked with some photographers that I should charge ten rupees a picture; surely that would have paid for dinner!

John and Hilary, with the Krishnaraja Sagar Dam behind us

Eventually it was time to head out to dinner reservations at the Royal Orchid hotel, which overlooks the whole Garden site; we made our way back to the entrance/exit to find our travel van, which was to take us up the hill to the hotel entrance.  We had arrived before the crowds, and when we arrived, our van was the only one parked in the little parking lot for private vans.  When we left, all parking lots were full, and we walked into the area we had come from, and there were forty or fifty vans there, all exactly like ours!  However, one advantage to being the only westerners there all day was that immediately the drivers of these vans, who were congregated at the entrance to the lot (and perhaps reading the look on our faces) all pointed and in limited English, told us “second van, second van” or “that one, that one.”

In no time we were on our way up the hill to the Royal Orchid, where we were greeted in style and escorted to the second floor balcony, the Elephant Bar, for a drink before dinner.  It was a combination of British neo-imperial decor and thorough and careful attention from the staff.  We ordered drinks, and then an all-too Indian side took over, as forty-five minutes later we were making our way to the restaurant while the last of the drinks was finally delivered to us.  The waiters were attentive, courteous, kind, but ever so slow.  I must note that I thoroughly enjoyed a gin and tonic with an Indian brand of gin, Blue Riband, which was excellent – again, in typically Indian fashion, it was sweet, so very sweet, despite being advertised as dry gin.  Rich in taste – juniper, with a touch of citrus and perhaps coriander in the background – it was full-bodied, almost heavy, and was almost liqueur-like in its quality.  I was tempted to drink it neat, as it certainly could have been enjoyed that way, but almost reluctantly I added a small measure of tonic water and contentedly sipped it until supper time. I may have to make a visit to the duty-free shop in Delhi before I leave!

Supper was a buffet of Indian foods, with both vegetarian and non-vegetarian options, and such careful and excellent service throughout.  It was a buffet, where servers stood ready to serve the diners; how civilized: “some of this please, just a little of that, thank you.”  About the middle of meal, there was suddenly a concern from some students that there was ice in the drinks, and unpeeled fruits and vegetables in the salads, but at a top-rated hotel with a regular tourist trade, I felt we need not worry.  It is a couple of days since, and we have all been fine.  And then, for dessert, ice cream, real honest-to-goodness, pistachio ice cream, and servers who asked, as they cheerfully put yet another scoop in the bowl, “you would like more?”

And all too soon, full of excellent food, feeling a little sleepy and very relaxed, having enjoyed the greenery, the fresh air and walk, the beautiful setting, it was time to head back to the hostel, now ready for a busy weekend and another week of study, learning and discovery.  Back out of the garden, and into where real life is lived.

looking over the gardens with the Royal Orchid Hotel in the background

Entry 10 - This Little Veggie Went to Market

   This little veggie  went to market: At the Devaraja Market in Mysore   
 

As Canada shifts more fully into summer weather, I am sure there are people in southern Ontario giving voice to that old complaint, it’s not so much the heat as it is the humidity.  We are learning to adjust to both heat and humidity here in Mysore, and with the occasional monsoon rain sweeping through, temperatures are somewhat moderate at about thirty degrees most days, with reasonable humidity and often a gentle breeze to keep things comfortable.  But in a misuse of the phrase about the weather, I might suggest that in my experience with India, it is not so much the volume of people, as their constant movement.

Coming from small-town Sackville, where it seems like everybody knows my name, and where there is space to walk, and stop, and engage in conversation on the streetcorner with someone who knows my name, Mysore, of course, is radically different.  In square miles, it is a little less than the city of Moncton, but contains more than ten times the population.  While I have travelled and lived in cities including Hamilton, Ontario, and overseas in Manchester, and Nishinomiya, Japan, I have not experienced the same density of people, and certainly not the movement of people as it is here.  Here, the pedestrian traffic is like the vehicular traffic; it doesn’t so much flow as it surges.  There is an inherent life force at work, and I have not yet internalized the rhythm of pedestrian life and find myself battling against a crowd, or being surged along in directions I have not yet decided I want to go.

However, at the main intersection of two busy roads, I have finally learned how to cross the street;  in Mysore there are no crosswalks outside the downtown area, there are no traffic signals, and there are seemingly no traffic rules.  Crossing the street is an act of faith. There is no point in waiting, because the traffic never ceases to surge by.  So, often with a deep breath, one just has to commit and step forward slowly and intentionally, and cross the road; this, with the faith that the vehicles will stop, or more likely just weave around you as you walk, a taxi passing behind in the spot you have just left and a motorcycle passing in front so close that you can touch the handlebars if you wish, All this is accomplished with much honking, not so much to tell you to get out of the way as a reminder a vehicle is there, sharing the road (yes, you want to shout, I can see you – in fact, I could touch you if I chose to!).  And you just keep moving, slowly and steadily, without moving too quickly or stopping suddenly.  In faith, you get to the other side, perhaps with other pedestrians, while all the vehicles continue in that strange dance of the streets, surging and weaving constantly without ever really stopping.  Traffic here just moves, only occasionally acknowledging that there are rules to the road.  One man here, who comes to North America occasionally, tells me that in Canada he has to wait a few days before attempting to drive; I asked if this was to get used to driving on the right side of the road instead of the left, and he replied, “no, to remember that I have to obey the rules.  For instance, when I come to a stop sign in Canada, I have to remember that I am actually supposed to stop.”
So with this in mind, we headed downtown on the bus last week, disembarking at the main bus station.  And again, there is little point in trying to stop to get one’s bearings, as the crowd simply surges you out of the open air terminal and onto the street, where you hope you are moving in the right direction.   Working our through a massive, surging sea of humanity, we actually managed to cross the road and get to the Devaraja Market, the central market area for the city.  We plunged into the market, with its own narrow lanes and alleys and aisles all established on uneven smooth paving stones and cobblestones that may be original to the early days of the market.  Space is tight, and the air is redolent with a thousand smells.  People are moving, buying, inspecting, looking, carrying bags and leading children, while vendors calling out their deals in Kannada, and Hindi, and English, and some are roaming the aisles trying to persuade consumers to come to their stall on the other side.  And in this mass confusion of thousands of people in tight spaces, where light is dim, I am trying to keep track of nine other people.

The market itself is cramped and old, dating back to the reign of the Moslem ruler Tipu Sultan in the late eighteenth century.  In the market, one can see Moslem vendors, especially at the vegetable stands, their clothing and headgear separating them out from the Hindu vendors.  There are vegetables, on stands, on the ground, arranged fantastically, or just spread out; there are fruits stacked high, with mangoes, bananas, oranges, pineapples, jackfruit, papayas, melons and more.  There is a flower aisle, where you can buy a garland for yourself or the dashboard of your vehicle, or to hang from the roof of the truck over the windshield; there are garlands to wear or put in your hair, or to place put in your home shrine to Vishnu or Shiva or Ganesh.  There are jewellery stands, with more bangles than I knew existed, in more colours than I have seen in one place.  You can get plastic and steel pots in the traditional Indian shape, or the very traditional clay version.  Cutlery, factory made and rough made and carved from wood, is available.  Garden implements, including the Indian curved garden knife, can be bought.  And there are beads – thousands of beads.  Bargaining skills are useful, and starting to walk to another stall to get the same good or product can bring the price down quickly.

After a couple of hours of the market, I was almost overwhelmed with people, and smells, and movement.  It was off to the Karnata government Gift Emporium, a pleasant contrast to the high activity level and volume of people at the market.  We wandered in the expansive and open area of the Gift Emporium, and made a few small purchase.  The orderliness of the operation in making a purchase made  me think of a very old British system; the store itself probably dated from British colonial days, and had a gentle air of late Victorian imperialism about it.  There were sections in the long, narrow store, each selling a different kind of item (sandalwood in one section, teak in another, silk scarves here and stone carvings there), and an item from that section had to be delivered to a clerk at a desk by those goods (and not to the wrong desk!).  To effect a purchase, the clerk at the designated desk would carefully note the prices, and write by hand a sales slip, in triplicate, using carbon paper (I can’t remember the last time I actually saw someone use carbon paper).  Once the purchase had been written up and the price calculated, the customer is presented with the two carbon copies, while the original is carried to the front of the store by another store employee, along with the item or items being purchased.  Thus, with the exception of my carbon copies, my hands were free to continue shopping.  Four or five times I went through this transaction process until it was time to pay up and leave.  I headed to the front of the store and headed to the payment area; I realized I needed to choose the cash or credit card option, but was unsure of my total.  The clerks at each desk would not tell me my total until I had made my payment choice, so after a quick mental tally of amounts I opted to pay cash.  The clerk there dutifully took my receipts, stamped one copy of each for his records, and then with a different stamp, proceeded to stamp my copies.  Money was passed and change received, and I took my receipts and went to the receiving area.  No longer sure what I had actually purchased, I handed over my last receipts, and received a number of small bags, each containing a purchase and each with an original receipt stapled to it.  Somehow very civilized, very genteel, but I could not also help thinking, very inefficient.               
 

After a long afternoon of crowds, and movement, it was time to head home.  Back to the bus station, and soon our bus arrived.  We got on, and people surged on behind us.  I have never been in a bus so crowded in all my life, not even in Japan.  There is no sense of personal space, conversations continued across the bus at high volume, and somehow the conductor managed to move from front to back and then to the front again.  After only a few blocks, the bus stopped, and somehow, more people got on, and then in an act that defies physics, the conductor made his way through again, somehow identifying those who needed tickets. After two more stops like that, I thought there would not be enough air left in the bus for people to breathe, even with the windows open, until finally we reached our stop.  It was with great merriment that the conductor roared out “make way”, a call that was picked up by various passengers at the back, and the crowd somehow managed to part to allow the students at the back of the bus to make their way to the door, and off.    Another day, another experience.  I feel that I should never again complain about crowds in the mall at Christmas time.  Never.

Entry 9 - A Day in the Life: Hebbal

bananas (top) and concrete and rebar (bottom)

A Day in the Life – Hebbal

I have enjoyed reflecting on my India experience so far, but this entry is less a reflection than simply a description; if a picture is worth a thousand words, maybe I should just not write, and add another picture instead.  The description that follows is that of Hebbal, a town centre that has been absorbed into the expanding city of Mysore.  Hebbal sits next to the industrial section of Mysore, and area which has factories, chemical plants, information services (call centres), small hospitals, and the Vivekananda Institute.   Hebbal itself has all the usual features one might expect in a outlying commercial section of a city: bus stops, banks, main roads and side streets, slums, shops and businesses, a temple complex, open sewers, vacant lots, schools.

Hebbal is a place where ordinary Indian urban life unfolds.  The streets are constantly alive with people coming and going, autorickshaws being repaired and drivers waiting for fares, where vendors push their carts along the main roads selling flowers, mangoes, coconuts, and other items.  The streets themselves are full of people, walking, riding motorcycles and in buses, driving delivery vehicles; occasionally a herd of water buffalo, or a cow, will alter the traffic flow.  There are building supply shops but they are unlike our Home Depot or the lumber yards we are used to.  Instead, they are small shops that deal with one or two building materials: there are shops that cut or plane wood beams and planks; rebar and concrete is sold in one, plastic pipe in another, wire or cable in yet another.  Sometimes they are close together, but not always.

There are grocery stores, and they have some familiar items: bottled pop and boxes of apple juice, Dairy Milk chocolate, corn flakes, and peanut butter, much to the relief of some of the students on the trip.  Some items seem familiar at first glance, but on a second look show that they have an Indian flavour (literally!): toothpaste in the same kind of package, but in a different brand (Babool, “with T3 power for strong teeth”); mangoes, since it is the season,

familiar, but different

except there are eight or ten or a dozen varieties on display, each with their own unique flavour; Indian oranges, which are smaller than the ones we are used to – and why do they call them oranges when they are green?  And snack foods, in the usual plain, salt and vinegar, and sour cream flavours, but you can choose other flavours like curry and Naughty Tomato!  Then there are those items that are completely unfamiliar to me; loose and bagged and boxed, I cannot even guess what some of them are.

Stores, too, have their differences that arise from the land and the culture.  There are banana stores in Hebbal, at least three of them, possibly more, and all they sell is bananas.  There are “medical supply” stores where you can buy your personal hygiene needs, shampoos and soaps and disposable diapers, but they are not designed for browsing for various items as we would in Canada, such as gifts, snacks and batteries.  Rather, the items are on display on shelves in the windows, and customers step up to the counter and request the product they want, and it is brought to them.  There are small electrical supply stores, where I bought a plug adaptor – 42 rupees, about 80 cents – using the universal language of numbers displayed on a calculator, since the young man at the counter spoke only Kanada, the language of Karnataka.

And everything is crowded together, and often juxtaposed with seemingly odd things.  There is no sense of space here. There is no space between vehicles on the road (at one red light, I saw a delivery van, an autorickshaw, and three motorcycles lined up in what may have been two lanes, or possibly only one).  There is no space between buildings which are crammed together and whose wares spill out onto what may or may not constitute a sidewalk, and even into the street itself.  Parking is where a vehicle stops.  And, as one student observed to me, not only is there no sense of space here, there is no sense of place; smouldering piles of ashes from burnt garbage sit beside – and almost on top of – roadside tea stands, or medical supply stands.  There is no sense of place evident, where men openly urinate on street corners next to where women shop for flowers or fruit; in the newspaper today, there was an article about a government member who wants to bring an end to public urination and defecation in the next decade, but this in a nation where millions of people do not have access to a toilet, in some cities as much as fifty per cent of the population. 

the school van -- children inside, bookbags up top

Amidst all the differences, it is nice to see some things that are familiar and universal in the global village: I think first and foremost of the children, and their zest for life.  Coming to and from school, in their uniforms, bookbags slung on shoulders, I love their easy companionship with one another, their smiles and energy, evident joy and laughter as they walk in pairs and groups, their faces lighting up in greeting at these strange western folk going by. We have walked through Hebbal as a group a couple of times as well, perhaps the only white people to so in a while; there are looks and stares, mostly kindly intended I think, and occasionally greetings and smiles.  It is interesting for me, as the lone and older male at the back of a group of young women, to note the looks that come their way (after all, no one is looking at me, so I can notice them); naturally, the young men look a little longer and more obviously, but it is the young women who look the longest.

People move all manner of things on the roads through Hebbal, as throughout the areas we have travelled so far, and I think there is nothing that cannot be transported by motorcycle here.  To date I have seen, on motorbikes: a family of five; building materials, like lumber in great lengths; a man sitting behind the driver carrying twelve foot lengths of steel rods; a man carrying concrete blocks; three women in saris on a motor scooter with the two passengers riding side-saddle; crates of live chickens going to market; swathes of fresh cut hay; a small child sprawled across the gas tank sleeping while dad drives; sacks and sacks of coconuts.  Each night, some of our supper arrives at the hostel by motorbike, the rear passenger holding two large insulated bags each with two big stainless steel pots holding hot food.

Hebbal throbs with life.  There is a brand new ice cream shop (North Pole).  At a vacant lot there is almost always a cricket game going on, and at the edge there is a pump where some people come to get their water in plastic pots in the traditional Indian shape.  Several businesses advertise themselves in signs that read “Jewellers and Bankers.”  It is good to walk through Hebbal and sense this life and energy, knowing that this is real India, ordinary people carrying out the ordinary business of life.  And despite the many and great differences, it is good to be reminded of the common elements that bind us in one creation, one humanity, one world.

Entry 8 - For Everything There is a Season

storm clouds brewing, but the rain didn't come that day

bringing in the sheaves

you can just see the rain beginning behind these birds

Entry 8 –  

For Everything There is a Season

When I first moved to Sackville, almost twenty years ago, I was warned about the weather; in a variation on the old saw about Canadian seasons (Canada has only two seasons, winter and road construction), I was told that Sackville has only two seasons, winter and the first two weeks of August.  Apparently, although the actual weather is different in India, the way it is understood is not dissimilar; India, I was told, has only two seasons, summer and hot summer.

It was still hot summer when we arrived in Mysore, the season that begins in April and ends with the onset of the monsoon rains sometime in June.  For the first week, we struggled through temperatures in the mid to high thirties, plus high humidity readings – although in other parts of India, even now the temperatures are in the mid-forties, plus humidity.  It is little wonder that the day begins at or a little before sunrise, and takes on a slower and slower pace as the day unfolds.  During April and May, schools are closed for summer break, and now in June they have reopened, beginning a new school year.  Here in Mysore, monsoon season has brought some relief, but we are still waiting for more rain.

Monsoon season may bring to mind torrential, heavy, relentless rains that raise water levels at an alarming rate, reaching flood conditions and causing all activity to stop.  That can happen in the coastal regions of Karnataka and Kerala states, and sometimes monsoon rains mean that school is cancelled – like Canadian schools because of snow – due to excessive rains and high water levels.

Here in Mysore, and across the Deccan Plain on which Mysore and Bangalore are located, the monsoon season is much more moderate.  The Indian people here were anxiously awaiting the onset of the monsoons, both for a relief from the heat and also for the much-needed water to fill the reservoirs in the state.

Water is needed for the mango orchards, now in full fruit, for the many varieties of vegetables being gathered in, and for the planting taking place; in the first week here, as we travelled in the rural regions around Mysore we saw fields being ploughed in the traditional way, with a wooden plough fastened to the yoke of a pair of water buffalo.  The grazing grounds for cattle, sheep and goats need replenishing as well, and the rains were ten days overdue.

It is harvest season, and grains were being cut in early June.  Heading out of Mysore last week, on our way to visit the thirteenth-century Keshava Temple dedicated to the god Shiva in Somanathapur, we passed mango orchards, rice fields, stands of sugar cane, and coconut groves.  We also saw grains being harvested, and carried in sheafs by hand, on bicycles, motorbikes, and stacked high in the back of two-wheeled carts pulled by water buffalo, often down the very centre of the road.  Perhaps the most surprising sight on the rural roads was the threshing of grain.  In several places, we passed people at the side of the road – mostly women, but also some men, and children, too – with bundles of grain, usually millet.  When there was a break in the traffic, they would spread bundles of grain over the surface of the road, particularly in advance of buses or trucks or other heavy vehicles.  The heavy vehicles, in driving over the grain, would do the threshing, the separating of the grains from the chaff that surrounds it.  Without much regard for the traffic, those at the roadside would rush onto the road as soon as a vehicle had passed, either to add more to the road, or to turn over the sheaves that had been spread there.  Often the speed of the vehicle, and the wind produced, would not only thresh the grain but do some of the winnowing.  Most of the winnowing was done by hand at the roadside, simply tossing the threshed grains into the air to allow the wind to carry away the lighter chaff.  Final separation of grain from bran, and grinding, would take place after a last mechanized winnowing in the local town or village.

But now the monsoon season has begun.  Evenings and early mornings are cooler, and some of the Indian people are dressing in cardigans, hoodies, sweaters and pullovers and sometimes jackets, as the temperature dips down to 23 or 24 degrees.

The rain is important to keep India running.  In Karnataka, as elsewhere, the infrastructure depends on the rains to replenish the nation with water, both to bring water into the cities for industrial and family use, and also to operate the hydro-electric generation plants at the great dams that been built, creating the reservoirs.  Almost 20% of India’s power comes from hydro-electric generation, and without sufficient water supply, the reservoirs are diminished as is the capacity for production of electricity.  This can and does result in brownouts and blackouts on an unpredictable basis.  Those who can afford it will save power, purchasing large home batteries that are charged using the electrical system in the home. In one apartment of a moderate size, two batteries designed for home use sat just inside the front door; each was about the size and shape of three car batteries sitting side by side, and connected through a transformer would provide enough power for lights, refrigerator, and a couple of small appliances for a couple of days.  Such outages and can do happen, although I have not experienced this.

I wonder about the effects of these dams and hydro-electric project on the environment, the wildlife, and the tribal people who find land lost in the creation of huge reservoirs covering many square kilometres.  Solar energy is certainly being introduced, and many homes – and our hostel – have solar panels on their flat roofs which are used to power water-heating systems.

It was with gladness that the Indians in the Institute and at the hostel greeted the first monsoon rains last week.  I sensed the rain was coming.  I could feel the air change, the humidity suddenly plummet, the temperature drop dramatically and suddenly, there was a fresher smell in the air – and suddenly the rain began.  Soft but steady at first, it built up to a steady downpour, beating on flat roofs and parched, dry ground.  The sound sent the staff and residents rushing outside, where they stood, broad smiles on their upturned faces, they looked into the downpour with outstretched arms and great joyful exclamations of delight.

More rain is still needed; showers last an hour or so, and have only come every two or three days.  The weather forecasts promise rain each day, but – as in Canada – the forecasts are not always accurate.  It was the Samaritan woman at the well who was told by Jesus “If you knew the gift of God...he would have given you living water.”  Here it is surely living water, for as everywhere, it provides for life in so many ways, and with eager anticipation the Indians look up at the clouds, and wait for more.

sunset from my balcony; some clouds, but no rain

Entry 7 - An Indignant Nose

An Indignant Nose

In preparation for my trip to India, I did a lot of reading and I spoke with many people who have travelled or lived here.  One theme emerged over and over again: India is an assault on the senses.  That is, I was warned, I might find everything to be in an extreme form compared to what I am used to in Canada.  When we were waiting for our flight to India from Toronto’s Pearson Airport (a twelve hour wait, because of Air India pilots on job action, and rebooking with a different airline), I fell into conversation with an Air Canada flight attendant who was between flights; born in India, she was an immigrant to Canada as a child and makes frequent trips back to her homeland and extended family near Delhi.  When she learned I was travelling to India, she re-iterated the same theme: India will be an assault on the senses.  She went on to say that the assault would begin as soon as the door of the plane was opened on Indian soil; I would immediately be overpowered by the smells of India, she told me, and those smells would strike me on a continous basis as long as I was in India.

the flower aisle at the Devaraja Market, Mysore

She was right.  The sense of smell is definitely under assault, as competing aromas, scents, fragrances, different odours, smells and stinks constantly replace one another, rising up from the ground, drifting in the breeze, emanating from the buildings and animals and crowds of people and traffic on the move.  And the smells hit hard, like a full force assault on the olfactory sense.  One might expect a smell, such as the soft, sweet and rich scent of flowers, when one walks into the flower aisle at the market – but it doesn’t quite work that way.  The smells catch you unawares, and surprise you, even when you think you are ready.  As in the flower aisle, when suddenly the air shifts a little, and in the heated air of close quarters, and the seeming freshness of a just-finished rain, the scent of thousands and thousands of flowers – in garlands, loose, in bunches and heaps and piles, roses and carnations and marigolds and a dozen I have never seen before – comes bursting in, rising in a choking, cloying almost sickly-sweet cloud that overpowers the sense of smell.  It is wonderful, but too wonderful, so much so, that, like trying to eat too much rich chocolate too quickly, one feels nauseated rather than pleasured.

Or in a run-down, poor section of the city, where homes are broken shells of buildings, huts constructed of left-over wood and cardboard and plastic tarps held down by frayed twine, palm thatch and literally garbage, I expected the stench of raw sewage in the open drainage ditches, and that expectation was more than met.  And walking past one drainage ditch, the stench of sewage strong in my nostrils, suddenly, wafting on the breeze, the less powerful but still potent aroma of someone’s supper cooking: spice, and curry, and vegetables, and just as suddenly as it had appeared it was gone, and in its place that ubiquitous odour of burning garbage which I never seem to fully escape.

The smells are diverse, and constant.  The common smells include curry, petrol (as gas is called here, in the British fashion), diesel exhaust, garbage and more commonly, burning garbage, industrial and chemical smells (our hostel is on the edge of the industrial area, and one sign outside a factory declares “Department of Chemicals, Ministry of Chemicals, India” – the smell confirms the wording), sewage, flowers, more flowers, curry again, sweat, people, animal dung left by passing cows and water buffaloes or goats or sheep, tea, spices, roasting corn and popped corn, the charcoal that feeds the fires of roadside foodstands, and fresh mangoes, ripe and over-ripe,  piled high on carts at every corner.  Some are pleasant, others are rank, and all are ever-changing.

kumkum powders at Devaraja Market

Just the other day, I was walking through the Mysore city-centre towards the bus station, which reeks of the diesel fumes of hundreds of buses coming and going each day.  The Krishnaraja traffic circle at the heart of the city is a place filled with traffic, vehicular and human, and filled with a thousand smells.  This area is an assault on the senses, including sight, by so much movement.  One’s hearing is challenged, with the constant sounds of hundreds of people talking and selling and trading, buses gearing up and down and auto rickshaws being started and the incessant honking and honking of buses as they move through the station past throngs of people walking under the signs that declare – pointlessly – “no pedestrians here” and conductors blowing whistles and street vendors shouting for business and beggars calling out for alms.  I had almost reached the bus station, and the smell of burning garbage was being displaced by a not unpleasant but potent scent of fruit – a dozen carts lined up with mangoes in different shapes and sizes (Raspuri, Kesar, Mallika, Banganapalli, Alphanso, Sugar Baby, and more); then the almost fermented fruity aroma was replaced again with garbage, and people, and diesel, and suddenly, just for a moment, the marvellous, rich smell of freshly roasted coffee being ground  – just for a moment, and I swam in that aroma.  It was clear, sharp, unmistakable, and it filled my nostrils, my head, my heart, and I drank in the heady scent of pure, rich, uncorrupted coffee.  It was so good, but just as suddenly, it was gone, leaving the bitter dregs of burning garbage in its place.

I will not miss the smell of burning garbage.  I don’t know who lights these fires, or when, or why; I have not yet seen garbage burning, but I smell it and I see the evidence in small piles of ash and the charred remains of abandoned shoes, plastics, paper and a myriad of other things that pollute the cityscape.  Garbage here does not litter the streets so much as it fills them, fouls them, becomes the cityscape.  Perhaps if it were not burned it would pile to unimaginably high levels and just take over.  It is said the that the sense of smell is the sense that is most closely linked to memory.  I am fearful that, in a reverse of this saying, when I remember India, the smell of burning garbage will come back to me, leaving my nose, as Shakespeare expressed it in The Tempest, in great indignation.

Or perhaps, when I am enjoying a cup of rich, full-bodied coffee one day, I will suddenly be transported back to a crowded streetcorner in downtown Mysore, filled with people, flowers, mangoes, buses, and that literally sensational moment when wonderful richness broke through for just a moment; then I may remember that in a developing nation, crowded with people and filled with challenges, there is a wonderful richness which, from time to time, will break through suggesting the promise of glorious things to come.  “You will smell things decaying and things growing,” said the flight attendant in warning: “you can smell death, and you can smell life in India.”  And in that moment, I will smell life.

Entry 6 - The God of Small Things

The God of Small Things

In fundamentalist Christianity, theologians ponder the grand things of the cosmos; the grand things are resistance to scientific explorations of big bang origins and evolution of carbon-based life-forms culminating in humanity ,and end of the world scenarios, including the Battle of Armageddon and whether a rapture will take place before or after the Tribulation.  But ultimately, fundamentalist Christianity tends to focus on the small things, making Christianity out to be a moral code that is concerned above all else with sex and sexuality.

By contrast, the fascination with the Hindu deity Ganesh (or Ganesha) is a study in a deity who is adored and venerated because of his interest in the small things that are essential parts of life; Ganesh is the deity who appeals to the people because he has his feet on the ground, so to speak, and is involved in the everyday and ordinary things of people’s lives.  Ganesh is not a deity from whom people seek high mystical and spiritual experiences, but one who is ordinary and appeals to the everyday.  This much is apparent in a simple excursion almost anywhere; Ganesh, in one form or another, adorns the dashboard of taxis, vans, and even city buses; his emblem appears in autorickshaws, on motorcyles, and in stores; he visage is not only carved into temples, but is present in ordinary and everyday places: in shops, beside the road, at intersections.

I have previously mentioned the dominance of the image of Ganesh (or Ganesha) in my limited experience of India so far; perhaps it is time to consider this figure a little more fully. My first encounter with Ganesh was shortly after arriving in Bangalore; we were greeted by our drivers, who stowed luggage in one van and us in another.  I noticed that each van had a small figure adhered to the dashboard, as the vans we have subsequently taken on field trips.  Sometimes it is just the figure, and sometimes it is a small clear case that contains a figure; often garlanded with flowers, real or artificial, the figure is always that of Ganesh, the roly-poly man with the elephant head. 

Then I started noticing the appearance of Ganesh everywhere, and who could miss noticing a man with a rotund belly, an elephant head, often with four arms instead of two, and sometimes with a snake wrapped around his waist – these are the usual forms or appearances of Ganesh, in picture or moulded plastic, carved in wood or sometimes stone.  I have seen Ganesh , usually as a colour picture or icon, beside the driver on the city buses.  I have seen Ganesh faces and pictures at entrances to stores and businesses.  Ganesh appears at intersections in roadways, and at entrances to homes and apartment buildings, and at the edge of a town or village.  There will always be a Ganesh at a temple, perhaps an image or two or several dozen, and often carved into the entryway, as into the gopura, the pyramid-like tower that rises above the entrance to the temple.  Ganesh appears on trucks carrying gravel and garbage, and sometimes, on opening a book, Ganesh appears just inside the front cover, looking out ever so mischievously, his elephant head, as always, having one whole tusk and one broken tusk.

Ganesh, I have discovered, is one of the most popular and widely adored deities of Hinduism.  This definitely seems to be the case in and around Mysore, where pictures, images, figures and statues abound.  He is usually depicted in a standing position, sometimes dancing, and occasionally he is seated; he is always depicted looking directly forwards, and always with one broken tusk, which may suggest his humanity, his reality, the cutting away of the illusion of perfection.  In this, he is able to be identified more fully with the imperfect devotees who see an image of themselves in this peculiar god.

The myths of Ganesh are many, but most point to him being a creation of Parvati, the wife of Shiva, made in the image of man to stand guard while she bathed.  When Shiva came to his wife’s bathing house, he was refused entry by Ganesh; Shiva then struck him with his sword, cutting off his head.  Learning only then of his origins, he commissioned his servants to find a new head for him, and they brought back the first head they found, that of an elephant.  Shiva gave it to him, and thus he became Ganesh, the son of Shiva, but forever with the head of an elephant.

The god of all good enterprises, Ganesh is the recipient of offerings made by those who seek to undertake a journey, either real or metaphorical.  Offerings may be made before the statue of Ganesh before setting off on distant travels or just a short trip, and before opening a new business or entering into negotiations for a wedding.  He represents, among other things, the unity of humanity, as individuals, and the universe.  The god of practical wisdom, practical matters, it is Ganesh who brings success and assures worldly well-being.  He has his feet firmly planted on the ground; not a deity for those who seek high and grand mystical and spiritual experiences,  Ganesh is one who is ordinary (as much as one can be ordinary with the head of an elephant), and who appeals to the everyday.  He is, in a sense, the god of everyday life.

Ganesh has emerged in Hinduism as the lord of barriers and obstacles; he places barriers in the way, and he is also the one who removes obstacles from the path of gods, demons, and humans.  This would explain the need for a Ganesh in every vehicle, as driving in India is like a real version of Super Mario Kart racing, and there is a constant need for the obstacles of people, cows, buses, construction work, motorcycles, tractors and more to be swept away, giving a free and open driving experience.  Unfortunately, everyone has Ganesh in their vehicles!

Each time we leave on an excursion, and make it safely back to the hostel, now I feel I owe Ganesh a debt of gratitude, for protecting, guiding, removing obstacles, for being a reminder of the presence of the divine in the ordinary things we take for granted.  And yes, I bought a little image of Ganesh to bring home, to remind me of the presence of the divine in the everyday, to remember that the divine is not just concerned with cosmic plans or great moral codes, but is also the god of small things.