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.