The Price of Onions

The price of onions doubled in December to over Rs.50/kg, causing an agony of hand wringing and finger pointing in the press. What started as a minor price fluctuation became over the course of a month the focus of a national debate. What was going on? Why so much talk about onions?

On the surface, it might appear to be simply about onions but like many things in India, it’s complicated. Onions came to represent deeper issues troubling a rapidly changing society-- inflation, the plight of India’s farmers and a need for agricultural reform. The proximate cause for the onion problem was a lingering monsoon that flooded fields and destroyed much of the crop. The result; prices went up. A variation of this scenario plays itself out every year with differing crops but this time the situation caught everyone’s attention and a host of issues entered the debate.

The first response of government ministers was, a la Captain Renault in Casablanca, to “round up the usual suspects.” In this case, that meant catigating “hoarders,” “middlemen” and “market manipulators.” That always plays well and it may even be true, but no one really believed much would come of it. This was followed by photos of the police confiscating bags of onions from wholesalers’ warehouses. No one clarified exactly who these manipulators were and I'm not the only one who wonders what happened to those bags. A few small voices mentioned how onions can’t be hoarded very well because they dry and lose value within one week, but nobody wanted to hear it.

Vying for the lead with response #1 was the old standby; blame the “incompetent, inept, short-sighted, and foolish” policies of the government in power. “It should have been anticipated!” “Why isn’t more being done?” “The aam aadmi (common man) once again suffers at the hands of the capitalists.” Under verbal assault, the Agriculture Minister gave assurances, deflected blame, and called for reform. The Prime Minister met with his Cabinet and initiated “investigations”. Local administrators ducked for cover.

When outrage showed no signs of abating and prices kept rising, the government put into motion Standard Response #3. It banned exportation of onions (or potatoes, rice, wheat, kerosene, steel or whatever happens to be the shortage of the month). A governmental spokesman said something along the lines of, “If rapacious, conspiring traders are prohibited from selling their onions to greedy foreigners (read: Pakistanis? Americans?), we’ll show them our resolve. Mother India will stand up! We’ll force the traders to sell cheap to the home market.” Traders, faced with a loss, liquidated what they could, spoilage took the rest, and then they simply suspended business until further notice. Shortages ensued. Prices rose.

Finally, things returned to normal when farmers began harvesting the next onion crop. This sequence will be repeated when the next shortage comes, but this time I found it refreshing to see more attention paid to serious, underlying issues. I don’t expect much to be done, but one of these days, enough momentum will be generated to initiate change.

The cost of food has been rising at a 20%+ annual rate for the last few years, far above the national inflation rate in other sectors. Tellingly, prices have not inflated above average for grain. Why? India’s diet is changing as it becomes more prosperous. A rapidly expanding, urban middle class is no longer content with only dhal, rice and chapattis now that it has money to buy a broader array of fruits, vegetables, dairy products and meat. Demand for dairy products, eggs and poultry is fast on the rise in all parts of the country. Indians are growing bigger with each generation as more protein is consumed. Although pockets of malnutrition remain, the general improvement in national health can be attributed largely to an improved diet. When the demand for a commodity rises and the supply is static, prices go up.

The logical response to increased demand, if you want price stability, is to increase supply, but this takes time, investment, planning and incentives to those who grow the food. India immediate need is not to grow more food but to better utilize what it has. Indian farmers produce abundantly but it’s said that 40% is lost before it reaches the consumer, mostly due to poor storage, bad transportation, lack of infrastructure and inefficient distribution networks. Whatever the real number, the percentage is huge and government is unable to address it effectively.

Caught in the middle is the vulnerable Indian farmer. Without proper storage and faced with his crop going to waste, he is at the mercy of middlemen who dictate prices. Since most Indian farms are small, the farmer is usually too poor to invest in his own storage and the government seems unable, or refuses, to step in and build proper facilities. Vast amounts of food sit unprotected from the elements and rot. Most farmers are tenants, paying rent to landlords, and cannot borrow from banks to make their own improvements even if they had the will to do so. Most must borrow for seed and fertilizer and are forced to deal with private money lenders charging usury rates of up to 35% interest. It’s little wonder that farmer suicide is a national epidemic when crops fail.

In India, middlemen dominate, each taking a cut and leaving the farmer with a pittance. Private industry is stepping in some districts to create grocery chains similar to those found in the West, contracting directly with farmers and building their own distribution networks. This eliminates many of the middlemen and raises the prices paid to farmers while at the same time lowering them for consumers. You might think the government would encourage this but it doesn’t. In fact, it restricts it and in some states, grocery chains are banned altogether because of fears about their impact on mom and pop stores and middlemen. These groups are politically connected, belong to the rising urban class and have the ear of politicians, whereas the farmer always comes second. The peasants’ plight is seen as something to be accepted, an unfortunate, eternal fact of nature.

The Indian farmer desperately needs efficient distribution networks, cold storage, warehouses and the many things that can be provided by private industry yet government attitudes continue to inhibit such investment in the agricultural sector to protect entrenched interests. It seems as if even the rural politicians don’t really want change because it might rock the boat and upset their power base.

When a farmer harvests his crop, he is unable to sell it to the highest bidder. Usually his only option is to sell to a small handful of licensed wholesalers who control the vegetable mandis (markets), a legacy of the “License Raj” I’ve written about before. Because they are scarce and give those who possess them control of the food markets through monopolistic practices, the licenses are valuable and awarded to those with political influence. It goes without saying that bribes are paid and those who benefit prefer the status quo. Calls for ending this system go nowhere but at least the latest “onion crisis” has begun to make the public aware of what’s going on.

The future of India points to a huge expansion of its cities, much like what we see now in China. This is where capital is flowing and political influence resides, yet most Indians still live in villages. As cities expand, land prices increase on their peripheries, farmland is diverted to other uses, and food production is pushed further away from nearby, city markets. Every day, thousands leave their village to build the glass towers of Gurgaon, Hyderabad or Bangalore and clean the homes of the those who live in them. Onion prices are pushed higher but even that could be a good thing if the money actually flowed into the hands of farmers, but it doesn’t. Farmers will continue to struggle and India will stumble from one food “crisis” to the next until something changes.

Do I believe such change will come? Actually, I do because the coming generation will demand it and forces are at play that will make it happen in spite of government. Here’s a short story. Our community in the countryside outside of Pune is not far from a good, two lane highway built within the last fifteen years to serve a privately funded, multi-billion project in the hills beyond. The local sarpanch tells stories of when he was a young man and how he would drive his bullock cart along the old road to take his crop to market. At each stream, he would unload his sacks of grain and carry them across the water to the other side where he would reload them onto his cart. In this manner, he reached Pune in five days whereas today, it takes only one hour by truck. All because of a road and transportation. Before, our area was poor but I wouldn’t call it that now. It has been fortunate. Farmers now grow a variety of crops and I’m even seeing flora-culture coming up here and there, made possible because of good roads, education and better technology. Kids all go to school whereas before only a few did. India’s integration into the modern world and the natural dynamism of its people are pushing these changes.

In the days of the Mughals, the policy of the empire was to extract as much wealth as possible from the peasants, leaving them just enough to survive to produce next year’s crop. The British followed much the same policy but realized it would be wiser, and better long-term business practice, to reinvest a little of the wealth into the country’s roads and railways, thereby increasing production and improving their ability to control a vast country. Since those days, India has come a long way but the farmer still gets the short end of the stick.

Gandhi foresaw a modern India that concentrated first upon improving the lot of its farmers and villages. As they prospered, he believed the entire country would rise. Nehru had an alternate vision of a modern India driven by industry, guided wisely by the government. He noted that all modern economies had passed through a phase of industrialization to escape poverty and felt Gandhi’s course to be impractical. Once India had assumed its rank among modern industrialized nations, it could turn its attention back to the land and help those left behind. Who was right? Nehru had a point but now that industrialization has come, I see rural India still waiting.

Community Building--Lessons Learned

On the 23rd, Dharmadas and Nirmala led our annual Christmas meditation at the community in Watunde Village, thirty kilometers outside of Pune. As I sat there, I couldn’t help but gaze from time to time out the window from Swami Kriyananda’s home to the hillside below. It’s changed so much from when I first arrived that it’s hard to believe it’s been only a little over two years. It seems much longer. There were no buildings when I came and now there is a cluster. Seeing my fellow gurubhais sitting in Swami’s home affirmed that the seeds we’ve planted have taken root. A growing community has sprung up, ready to take another step, the building of guest accommodations and up to 32 residential flats. The guest space is already underway and we are in the process of soliciting bids from contractors with hope of beginning the flats next month.

Being part of a construction project in India has definitely been a “learning experience”. I used to joke with my co-workers about paying “fees” to attend the Indian school of hard knocks. “Just another tuition payment” I’d say after finding once again I’d over-paid or been mildly swindled. On the whole, my two years in Pune have been a marvelous (and mostly fun, with a few exceptions) experience of learning the ins and outs of doing business in village India, what to expect, what to avoid, when to be firm and when to keep quiet, when to bargain and when to simply walk away. When I arrived, I hadn’t a clue about local protocols, but I learned the little things that make life smoother. Take time to try to know the person with whom you are dealing, have another cup of tea and make an effort to become friends. Business is more personal in India and if you are “inside” the circle of friendship of another, things will go better. I learned trivial customs too such as how to count money in a cash exchange, how Indians like all the bills to be neatly arranged and not upside down or back-to-front like they‘d usually be when coming from me. I learned to check, check, check everything and to verify transactions or you will be disappointed before long.

In the building of the first cluster of homes, Swamiji’s included, we made many mistakes we hope to avoid in the next project such as how to plan properly and build more efficiently. Some of our troubles were simply due to Biraj’s and my unfamiliarity with local techniques and materials. In America, wood is used heavily and that is what I am familiar with, whereas in India, it is very expensive and used only for specific purposes only such as cabinets, doors and decoration. Houses in India are built almost entirely of concrete, reinforcing steel, bricks, plaster and decorative tile or stone. Almost everything is done by hand with power tools used only for such things as cutting marble or an occasional drill. Mortar is mixed by hand and power concrete mixers are only used for the major pours. Big crews of unskilled labor are the norm, doing the work of machines you‘d typically see in the West. As a “hands-on” American, I tended to get personally involved in the work I supervised but this often raised eyebrows. Supervisors here don’t dirty their hands and the pronounced consciousness of class and the attendant attitudes I found distasteful.

I was very impressed with how hard most of the daily laborers worked, men and women. Some were idlers, but most put in a hard day’s work of heavy labor for a very small wage. Indian crews are very good, or even excellent, with the rough work of reinforcing bar, concrete forming and pouring, and with all things masonry but tend to be “slap-dash” or “slip-shod” with finished details. That was a disappointment which necessitated constant hectoring from me and Biraj to get jobs up to an acceptable standard. Often we were forced to concede that the workers simply did not have the skill, tools or training to do what we hoped, no matter how hard they tried or we badgered. They couldn’t understand “what’s the problem” when we complained and redoing brought no better results. I found this somewhat surprising because I've seen very high quality work in India and the best explanation I heard was that it just isn’t possible to get the quality we want in a remote location such as Watunde Village. What we viewed as substandard, they saw as perfectly fine. We would have had to import special workers from the city at a much higher price to get quality work but we didn’t have the time or experience to do that. We were also told that all the best workers were now working at Lavasa, the a modern, multi-billion dollar hill station coming up 15 kilometers from us, where good workers were being paid handsomely.

Another lesson, subsequently confirmed by Indians with contracting experience, was learning how about the difficulty of getting subcontractors to coordinate with one other. It was maddening. Let’s say Mr. Plumber wants to install a “shut-off” valve for a house. Will he put it where it best serves the needs of the homeowner and doesn’t conflict with other jobs? Probably not. He’ll put it in a place most convenient to himself without thinking how it affects anyone else. If easiest, he’ll put it in the middle of a pathway to be tripped over or where another crew might be laying drain lines. They, in turn, will put the drains in too shallow without thinking of the needs of the following crew who want to place paving stones properly. I’d get so exasperated and ask, “What are you guys thinking?” Obviously, thinking ahead was not part of their job description. Where was the contractor who was supposed to be supervising? Absent as usual. Each crew had absolutely no concern for the others. If an electrician encounters a pipe blocking his wiring pathway, will he take a little extra time to go around it. Noooo! He’ll probably cut the pipe out and patch over the situation in some make-shift fashion without telling anyone!!! You’ll discover his little “fix” only later when you notice the wet spot on the wall. The supposed solution to this madhouse approach is to have the architect draw precise details about every single pipe, wire and conduit and then have an army of supervisors checking everything, but of course, this doesn’t happen. We were thankful to receive plans at all, usually weeks late at best. A second approach is to hire a “Services Engineer” who will take the architectural plans and figure out every little detail for the workers. But that didn’t work either. I tried it for our drainage and water systems and received a set of plans entirely theoretical with little relationship to reality. The fellow didn’t bother to actually visit the site to look at what was being built. I quickly gave his plans the toss and improvised.

In America, when hiring a professional, licensed tradesman such as an electrician or plumber, it's assumed he knows his craft and has experience to deal with whatever comes up. You shouldn’t need to tell him how to do his job and if he has a question, he usually can be counted upon to ask. He’ll know enough of the other trades to do his work in such a way as to coordinate with those who follow. I assumed things worked this way in India too. Wrong, wrong, wrong! Basic rule, “Assume nothing!” Especially in the villages.

“Professional” subcontractors may, or may not, know their trade. If they do, they probably know little of other tradesman’s job. In India, you will find contractors who have never touched a tool in their life. The concept of “working one’s way up the ladder” from apprentice to journeyman to contractor , so typical in the construction trades in the West, is not as common here. I found one excellent electrician who had gone through this progression and he was a joy to work with, but generally, supervisors and contractors skip the step of “on-the-job” training and have little practical experience. The person left to do the job has little incentive to coordinate with the other tradesmen. His responsibility is not to the customer but to the man who pays him, and that guy wants him to finish as fast as possible and move on. If you ask him to do something out of the ordinary, he is likely to say, “Not my scope,” meaning it’s someone else's job, certainly not his. Ah, how I came to loath that phrase. “When you leave, would you please clean up the mess you’ve left behind?” “Not my scope!” “Would you repair the pipes you’ve just broken when digging up the pathway?” “Not my scope!” I heard it so often, I found myself using it too, “Jaya, when passing through town next time, would you do the grocery shopping?” “Not my scope!”

How refreshing it was to find someone who really knew his trade, was particularly skilled or who was willing to take responsibility for doing a job well and right. Such people do exist, thank God and we were lucky to find some. When we did find workers with good spirit and skill, we did our best to keep them on our crew. Often though, working with the villagers was a challenge. I found many of their attitudes and behaviors pretty dark and came to realize why so many Indians want to get away from the villages and move to the cities. Theft is rampant. Anything of value must be locked up or it disappears, aggression and threats are often the first option when in a dispute, status is measured by how much power one has over other people, venality underlies transactions and goras (white people) are charged double. Because moving the work forward, settling disputes and resolving a daily crisis was my task, I felt forced to act in ways I didn’t much like to get the job done. It's hard to be totally non-attached.

We are now in the middle of building six guest apartments for our future retreat programs. These will be really nice and a big boost for events out on the land. Visitors will actually be able to stay out on the land in comfort whereas right now, it’s still pretty much camping. Amol, Sundeep and Dhruv (in the photo) are the Sangha members who are financing and coordinating this project and they’re doing a great job. They’ve been able to streamline the construction process and have found a good contractor/supervisor and architect with whom to work. In another month or two, we’ll begin the building of a complex of residential flats for members who have already made down payments. For this we’ve hired a professional project manager from Delhi to supervise the work relieving Biraj and me of that duty. This time, we won’t be in such a rush and we are insisting upon plans before we begin.. In other words, we’re trying to do it right and learn from what happened the last time. If all goes well, the guest house should be ready by March and the first homes by the end of 2011. (See the photo of where these homes will be built)

Right now, Biraj, Dharmadas and Nirmala, along with a dozen other ashram members (six of whom are monks) live at the community in Watunde. There are another eight or nine staff of cooks, drivers, watchmen, spouses and maintenance men. About one dozen core members of our Sangha live in Pune, driving out on weekends to participate in community activities. Sadhana Devi and I continue to conduct classes, meditation groups and satsangs in Pune city with the intent of building up a local congregation in the city to support the activities out on the land and eventually, when residential space is available, we hope some of these people will move out there.

Sadhana Devi's and my job in Pune is just about done and soon we will move back to Gurgaon to help with the work in the Delhi region. When we came to Pune in 2008, almost half of our Gurgaon ashram also shifted shortly after, putting a strain on those left behind and last spring a number of Westerners in the ashram returned home, reducing the population even further and leaving the Gurgaon ashram short-handed. They’ve responded well with expansive energy by remodeling the ashram basement into a beautiful new temple/classroom and have begun to offer many more activities, drawing loads of new people. As a result, the place is now hopping but without enough experienced members to handle it all. Dhyana, leading the center, has done a fantastic job stirring up the energy and now needs help. So, to Gurgaon we go for our next assignment.

Sadhana Devi and I will miss Pune. It’s a much more livable city than Delhi or Gurgaon. The scale is smaller and the people seem friendlier. It’s a town of young people, colleges, neighborhoods and motorbikes. The countryside is not far away, it’s green half the year, the air is clean, the weather mild and you see less disparity between rich and poor as evidenced in so many Indian cities. People are mostly employed and beggars are few. I think it fair to say it’s also more traditionally “Indian” than Delhi and certainly more so than Gurgaon which is a city of glass towers, fancy homes and shopping malls. To be fair, Delhi too has its charms. Give me time and I'll maybe think of one. (Just kidding.) As the national capitol, it’s important for us to have a dynamic work there and I expect us to expand our efforts even further. With a solid foundation of strong souls already in place, something special in Delhi will come up in the coming years. We’d love to have you visit and see for yourself. You are always welcome.

Wagah

At the height of the British Raj, North India extended from the Bay of Bengal to beyond the Kyber Pass, encompassing a vast swath of territory that had been ruled by a long succession of dynasties, sultanates, and emperors. Because the mountains block the north and deserts are to the southwest, and because the flow of the Ganges is to the east, the natural movement of peoples has been in an east/west direction. This was so for the British too. They settled first in Calcutta and from there, gradually extended their control over the fragmented kingdoms and princely states westward up the Ganges until they reached Afghanistan.

People and trade naturally flowed in an east/west direction in North India, so it is no surprise that well worn routes were in place long before the arrival of the British. Empires demand decent roads, so the British set themselves the task of improving upon what they found already in place, establishing the Grand Trunk Road (GTR) as an artery of commerce and imperial communication. It extended from Bengal to the western reaches of what is now Pakistan and you can travel this same route today as part of the Indian National Highway system.

From Amritsar in Punjab, the GTR headed west to Lahore in Pakistan and is known now as National Highway 1 (NH1). It crosses the border at Wagah, an old village that was bisected by the border created in 1947. I found it surprising that this is now the only road crossing along the entire border from India into Pakistan with the exception of a small post in Kashmir. And, up until a few years ago, all cargo traveling across the border had to be unloaded on one side, carried across the border by an army of porters, and then reloaded onto trucks once again on the other side. Obviously, the Wagah crossing is important for that reason alone, but it has also taken on a symbolic significance in the years since Partition. It is where India and Pakistan officially interact each day and as the years have passed, the rituals surrounding the daily closing of the gates have grown into a ceremonial occasion of unusual proportions, attended by thousands from both sides.

I went to Wagah with a group of friends on a return trip to Amritsar from Dharamasala. I knew nothing about Wagah and wondered what it was about a border gate that could prompt my Indian friends into saying this was a place we should visit. I realized it might be the nearest I would ever get to Pakistan and, because we had a friend in the Indian army able to get us tickets for VIP seating, we all looked forward to going.

Arriving in Wagah, you park about a half mile from the border and walk the last stretch, passing through security checks as you go. There was already a long line when we got there but it was moving quickly. Once through the last check, we made our way to the VIP section and found our seats along the highway. I was surprised at what I saw. On both sides of the border were permanent, concrete “bleachers” packed with spectators. There must have been five thousand on the Indian side and another three thousand on the Pakistani side. Flags fluttered in the breeze: the green crescent and star on white for Pakistan and the familiar saffron, green and white tricolor of India. A.R. Rahman’s anthem from Slumdog Millionaire blared from the loudspeakers as hawkers made their way through the crowds selling tourist guides. When the chorus line came, the entire crowd shouted in unison, Jai Ho! The music got so lively that before long a couple hundred girls were dancing en masse in the roadway, doing those moves you see in Bollywood films. Are girls are allowed to dance in Pakistan? I didn’t see any.

Down on the roadway, there were groups of school kids running back and forth to the gate with big Indian flags, handing them off like batons to the next kid waiting I line. I imagined similar scenes on the Pakistani side.

About an hour before the gates closed at sunset, a guy came out of the Border Patrol office, grabbed a microphone and began leading the crowd in cheers. “Bharata Mata Ki!” and back from the crowd would come “Jai!” Louder and louder. “Hindustan!” and the crowd would reply “Zindabad!” Pretty soon, you could hear from the other side of the fence, “Pakistan! Zindabad!” “Pakistan! Zindabad!” It was like dueling crowds at a big football game. The patrolman waved his arms to encourage the crowd, exhorting it further, directing the cheers toward the Pakistanis. Back and forth it went, everyone having a great time. Flags waving, the crowd yelling, music blaring, girls dancing, the red sun setting slowly.

Finally, a squad of Border Patrolmen marched out of their barracks and took position at the roadside. They looked magnificent, dressed in khaki, polished boots with leggings, and each sporting an impressive red headdress that reminded me of a rooster’s comb. On signal, two smartly uniformed lady guards started the ceremony by quick marching along the roadway to the gate where they took up position, left and right. These were followed by the male guards, aggressively goose-stepping in pairs to the cheers of the crowd until they reached the gate where they were met by their counterparts from the Pakistani side, dressed in black. Each guard was exactly of the same physique, well conditioned and about six foot tall with a mustache. They had all been chosen to match.

Once at the gate, the guards marched back and forth in sync with the Pakistanis. They had their routine down and had obviously choreographed the whole thing with the fellows on the other side of the border. I was told recently that the guards had mutually agreed not long ago to tone down their previous overly aggressive displays so as to give a more peaceful message to the crowd, and for the very practical reason that their aggressive goose-stepping had been causing too many foot and leg injuries. The daily stomping of their feet on the hard pavement had put too many of them out of commission.

After about fifteen minutes of back and forth marching at the gate, the bugles blew and the flags were lowered and furled, exactly at the same pace for each country. The gates then closed, the patrol marched back to their barracks and the show ended. Everyone left happy as they made their way to the chaos of the parking lots.

Indians love ceremonies and really do them well. They have a knack for them and know how to have fun. No American soldier could ever dress like those border guys and keep a straight face, but it looked just right on them. Although they weren’t at this event, if you ever have a chance to view the guardsmen who march with their camels or see a parade where they dress up the elephants, take the opportunity and go. It’s quite a spectacle.

Once again, I noted the patriotism of ordinary Indians. I would guess the Pakistanis are the same and as I was leaving, a thought struck me forcefully, “These really are the same people on both sides of the gate! A line and a fence have come between them but underneath all the politics and discord, they really are brothers and sisters.” Dynasties and empires with their borders have come and gone here for thousands of years. Sooner or later, this one too will be gone and the people will be reunited again.

The Giants Win

As some of you know, I grew up as a sports fan in California and remain, to this day, a fan of the San Francisco Giants baseball team. My dad took me to my first game in 1955 when the Giants played an exhibition game in L.A. against the Cleveland Indians. Willie Mays became my hero and I was hooked. Thank God the Indians didn't have a star player like Willie or I might still be rooting for them after all these years.

In India, from time to time I check out how my old team has been doing and, by gosh, the Giants played well this year, against all odds, and actually won the National League pennant. I couldn't help myself from getting up real early and checking on the internet to see how they were doing in the World Series, which they ended up winning. So, in honor of their victory, I penned a poem with sincere apologies to Paramhansa Yogananda, my guru, for borrowing from his classic masterpiece.

Samadhi! The Giants Win the World Series.

Vanished the veils of light and shade,
Lifted 56 years of sorrow,
Sailed away all dawns of fleeting joy,
Gone, the false playoff mirage.

Richardson, Terry, Maldonado, Spec,
Perished these false shadows on the screen of duality.
Spezio's homer, the '89 earthquake, all the bad trades,
Melting in a vast sea of bliss.

The storm of heartache stilled.
With joy did my tearful eyes weep,
"It's high! It's long! It's outta here!
When Uribe went deep.

Memories from the past, no longer lurk,
Ready to invade my newly found World Series joy.

Lamaster, Ivie, Sadecki, Deer,
Koufax and Drysdale, no more for me,
New names I now enshrine
In my newly awakened memory divine.

Good Johnny, Posey, Cain, Huff,
"Let Timmy Smoke" Lincecum,
Zito, Freddy, Torres, Burrell,
Fear the Beard, the Panda, Ross and Bum,

Candlestick's howling winds,
Hotdog wrappers on the fence,
Freezing my fanny year after year,
How many times in second place?
The Cream and the Clear,
Lariano and Nathan thrown away,
Every hope eventually dashed.
Solomon Torres on the very last day.
Anger, despair, bad to worse, another year's bust,
I swallowed, transmuted all
Into an ocean of joy with this year's win.

Smoldering hope, oft-puffed by another torturous game,
Blinding my tearful eyes,
Burst into immortal flames of bliss,
Consumed my tears, my frame, my all
When Renteria hit the long ball.

Thou art the Champs, I the Happy Fan,
My beloved Giants have at last Won!
Tranquilled, unbroken thrill, eternally thankful I now have peace!
Enjoyable beyond imagination of expectancy, Championship bliss!

Is this but a subconscious dream
Or mental chloroform without willful return,
Have I inhaled San Francisco "herbs," awaiting a fall,
No, it's real. The G'Men have done it. They won it all.

Thank you, dear orange and black,
I can now lay down my mortal frame,
And rest in the arms of eternity,
Where I, the Ever-Loyal Fan,
Will sit with the Immortals ,
Matthewson, Thompson, Hubbell and Ott,
And join hands with Willie, Orlando and Stretch,
Even Barry and Bobby too, and "One Flap Down",
To give thanks to this year's team
For purging demons of the past.

With pitching, hitting, fielding, Bochy-guided dedication
Came this celestial World Series win.

And Sabean also deserves some props,
Oft cursed, but this year blessed.
KNBR too, year after year,
Giving us Lon and Hank, Kruk and Kuip.
Jon Miller at his best,
Painting pictures for loyal fans.
The games stood revealed, shining in our mind's eye,
Till, at last, with Cruz's final swing,
The grosser memories of so many years
Vanished in a vast sea of all-pervading bliss.

In '58 they came, three times they lost, finally they won,
Oceans of sorrow and despair set alight.
The burdens of '62, '89 and '02 gone,
All if forgiven, the world is aright.

Myself, completely content, can now let it go.
Gone forever, fitful, flickering shadows of bad memories.
Spotless is my mental sky, below, ahead, and high above.
The Great Giant in the sky has reached out His hand
To a humble, faithful fan,
Who has suffered mightily, but now
Has finally entered the Giant's Promised Land.

The Golden Temple of Amritsar

It takes less than six hours by train to travel the 450 kilometers northwest from Delhi to Amritsar in the state of Punjab. Gazing out the window at the passing landscape, it’s easy to see why this region has long been considered the “breadbasket” of India, tempting waves of invaders through the ages. Nature has blessed Punjab with fertile soil and abundant water from the five rivers that cross its plains (Punj—ab means “five waters”). This is a land of industrious farmers but unlike those who till the densely cultivated lands along the Ganges and in many other parts of India, here men ride Mahindra and Ford tractors instead of breaking soil with bullocks and hand labor. It’s a wheat culture rather than one centered on rice. The land is drier, fields are bigger, the population is less dense and there is more prosperity. With just a little stretch of the imagination, I could picture myself in California’s agricultural Central Valley.

The stereotypical Punjabi is said to be boisterous, big-hearted, and hardworking. If he has money, Indians say he likes to show it, but I think this may simply be jealousy. He is said to be expansive, self-confident (pushy?), and uncultured, though Punjab has a rich cultural tradition. Does this caricature of industrious farmers sound familiar? When India was partitioned in 1947, Punjab was split forcing hundreds of thousands of displaced Punjabis to flee from the Pakistan side and resettle in Delhi. To this day, snooty old-time Delhi-ites still tell jokes at the their expense. I’ve found Punjabis to be good natured and generous and their food delicious. Physically, they can be robust and because they have been called upon through the ages to defend India against invaders from the West, they have a martial spirit. When you combine all these qualities with personal self-discipline, honesty and religious commitment, you have the Sikhs.

The Sikh religion (Sikh means “disciple”) was founded by Guru Nanak Dev in the last half of the fifteenth century in that part of the Punjab now controlled by Pakistan. In those days, much of northern India was governed by Muslim rulers while the majority of the population was Hindu. From an early age, Guru Nanak displayed an inclination toward mysticism and he is said to have achieved enlightenment at the age of thirty after a deep samadhi of many days. Upon coming back to normal consciousness, his first words were, “There is neither Hindu nor Muslim, so whose path shall I follow? I shall follow God’s path.” Thus the Sikh religion was born. Guru Nanak proceeded to expound his revelation and traveled widely, drawing followers to his non-sectarian teachings of ceaseless devotion to God, honesty and service.

Sikhism in its present form is based upon the teachings of the first ten gurus of the faith, beginning with Guru Nanak and ending with Guru Gobind Singh in the early 18th century. Before his death, Gobind Singh proclaimed the Sri Guru Granth Sahib, the holy writings/teachings of the first ten Gurus, to be the eleventh and final Guru of the Sikh religion. That scripture is worshipped and brought out in procession each day at the Golden Temple in Amritsar, a place of pilgrimage for all devote Sikhs.

I traveled to Amritsar with a small group of pilgrims in early October. It was by happenstance that we found ourselves there because our original intension had been to visit Gangotri, the headwaters of the Ganges in the Himalayas but this year’s monsoon was so heavy and late in the mountains that numerous landslides/washouts of the roads made travel there impossible. An earlier Ananda Italy tour to Badrinath that preceded ours ended up stranded and never did reach their goal. Reluctantly, we canceled our mountain journey and substituted a trip to Amritsar and Dharamasala in its place. In retrospect, I think God’s hand was guiding us to something even better.

Amritsar is a major city not far from the Pakistani border. It’s sometimes said, “If you’ve seen one city in India, you’ve seen them all” because other than one or two notable points of interest, each presents the same dull face of endless small shops, bumpy roads, chaotic planning, bad air and lots of people busily getting on with life. Amritsar is like that too except in the middle of town stands the Golden Temple complex encircling a wonderful pool of water, in the middle of which sits the Golden Temple itself, a beautiful marble structure sheathed in gold. Pilgrims come by the thousands to circumambulate the pool (Amristar roughly translates as “pool of nectar”) and take darshan of the Guru Granth Sahib housed in the temple. There, Sikh elders read from the scripture throughout the day, interspersing their recitation with prayers and bhajans, all broadcast non-stop through loudspeakers. I found it both mesmerizing and uplifting.

The Mogul Emperor Akbar first granted the sacred site of the Sarovar (water tank) to Guru Ramdas, the fourth Sikh guru, in the late 1500’s. There he constructed the first pool. Guru Arjan Sahib, the next guru, laid the foundation stone for the temple several years later and it was finished during the life of Guru Hargobind Sahib in the first decade of the 1600’s. In the centuries following, the temple became the focal point of the Sikh community and has many times been at the center of turmoil. The last such outbreak was in the 1984 when Indira Gandhi ordered a military assault, using armored vehicles and tanks, against Sikh separatists holed up in the temple. Massive damage was inflicted and hundreds (some say thousands) of civilians killed. This led to international outrage within the Sikh community and directly to Gandhi’s assassination by her body guards a few months later.

When visiting the temple, you leave your shoes outside at special stalls provided and cover your head with a scarf or bandana before entering. These are freely available if you don’t have your own. Once inside the grounds, you see the Golden Temple sitting serenely on the water, as if floating. I joined the steady procession of pilgrims circumambulating the pool and eventually made my way to a queue of devotees waiting on the causeway that leads across the water to the temple. There was no jostling and shoving as is so common in an Indian crowd. All was orderly and steady. Inside the temple, reading from the scriptures and recitation of prayers proceeded while the ushers tried their best to keep the pilgrims flowing through. Exiting the inner sanctum, I found a niche by a side door where I sat with other pilgrims while listening to the sounds wash over me.

Food is served throughout the day at no cost and I found a pavilion where one can nap if tired. Taking a dip in the pool is permitted and I saw a number of people meditating and reciting prayers. I sat for meditation next to a fellow doing a regimen of pranayam and received not even a second glance from the crowds passing by. A bit later, I noticed a group of what at first appeared to be rough-looking teenagers following me, all the while exchanging conspiratorial whispers with one to another. I shifted my wallet from my back pocket to the front, just in case, and let them catch up, ready for whatever. Gathering their courage, they surrounded me and breathlessly asked, “Where are you from? Why are you here? Do you like it?” They were a group of schoolboys wanting to practice their English and curious about this stranger who so appreciated their traditions. They hadn’t met many foreigners like me and wanted to know everything about where I was from and where I was going. They were really very sweet and upon parting, we shook hands all around.

Stationed along the pool at regular intervals are khalsa guards. Their dress is a wonderful deep blue, knee length tunic with a bright yellow sash and turban. All sport thick black beards and carry a dignified, authoritative bearing that says, “Behave yourself!” Maybe it’s the six-foot, metal-tipped spear they carry at their side that gives the impression they are not to be fooled with.

Thousands of pilgrims come to the Golden Temple each and every day with palpable devotion. The grounds are never closed and even in the wee hours of the morning, you will find a crowd. Perhaps it’s a function of their being a minority subjected to past persecution from both Hindus and Muslims (before Partition) that has engendered in the Sikhs a bearing of dignified steadiness and strength. I feel an affinity for them. They carry a sense of nobility and by reputation are said to have been the best soldiers in the army of the British Raj. Even today, their martial spirit is legendary.

There is an old joke (I ask my Bengali friends to please forgive me.) that the British used to tell when their capital was in Calcutta. If they wanted to get something important done, they would form a committee comprised of a Chatterjee, Banerjee, Mukerjee and a Singh. The first three names are typically Bengali and they would do the talking and arguing. The last name is that of a Sikh and he would get the job done.

It was on our way to Dharamasala that we stopped in Amritsar. If you should find yourself in this part of India and are inclined, I highly recommend you stop at the Golden Temple. Visit during the day and then come back after dark for a different experience. Stop too at the Jallianwala Bagh and Wagah (I’ll write about those later.) for a memorable experience. I think you’ll enjoy Amritsar as much as I did.

More photos at: http://picasaweb.google.com/dayataylor/AmritsarDharamsalaPilgrimage