There are trees in inner courtyards, some with red stains of worship on their roots and bark.
Monkeys at the temple attracted much attention, as they always do. A small female climbed a metal pole, pulled on a blue nylon rope and finding it secure, lay on it like a hammock. Then she squirmed backwards, making playful progress. Finished with effortless brachiation up the rope to the roof, where she sat and looked bored.
Men sit around an ancient temple that is filthy as high as hands can reach.
Eagles’ feather fingers stroke the air.
Between the mountains and the city stoops, crows and pigeons fly.
Rhogan dhal and lassis on the roof with Matt (Krishnadas) and Nadashri. A pot of mint tea.
Later, talks on my bed. About giving and the nasty feeling of self-aggrandishment that comes. About moving on, letting go, and being invisible.
A Katydid says ‘Cyvet cyvet’ somewhere outside, in that wide jumble of broken buildings and high rooftop gardens. A dog barks.
A lot of houses look dangerous. One not far away leans like the tower in Pisa, but the top stories are lit.
Another in near streets has a bulging wall which is propped with a beam against the next building.
Fallen bricks leave an atrophied wall - the nextdoor section is rubble.
Monday
0430 I am woken from my usual fitful sleep by a strange metallic sound. At last I rise to investigate; a single window is lighted in the four-story building behind my hotel. The sound seems to be coming from there.
I imagine a cutting/mincing instrument of some kind, structured so blades retract as it is lifted, and engage as it is pounded down.
A green bucket and a tin bowl are in the window. Later, when the sound stops, The bowl goes, and water is tipped on the corregated iron beneath.
Crows begin to caw, then sparrows chirp. Windows open to muffled crashes. Far away a flute begins a complex melody. It is joined by a sitar and maybe a tabla.
A rooster crows, answered by another in a different direction- they pass their voices back and forth - another joins in.
A different bird goes cheep-cheep-cheep-cheep rapidly.
The flute rises, then a human voice; a male. Dogs bark. Bells ring, the flute winds, rising and falling, the man’s voice, confident and soothing, sings, overlaps.
Pigeons arrive, preen on the stone window eyebrow between stories. Coo-coo coo, coo-coo-coo, coo-coo coo, they say. They are plump and stately.
The corregated iron rectangle is pushed back from beneath, exposing the lit space with the cylinder that I saw yesterday. I wonder if the woman will come back to flick water from this roof. Now a handbell rings continuously, stops- begins- I see another woman on yet another balcony; she is clad in pale orange, a wrap skirt. Her long black hair is loose. She has a bell, a flame, and a shining pewter jug. She’s lit a shrine light beside a potted plant. Water stains the ledge and drips down the wall.
Now I see another woman moving about in the stairwell of another house, and a black-haired man in a khaki singlet reaches down through the window to place a tin pot carefully outside.
There is the sound again. A pump, I think!
A woman in a green wrap skirt bends from the waist, her wet hair reaching almost to the ground as she sweeps the roof-top opposite me. She uses a whisk, tosses dust and papers over the side.
-chunk-chunk chunk-chunk chunk-chunk on and on…
Another woman, another shrine. Graceful movements concealed by a blue-painted drum on the roof edge. Her hands place something one by one in the pot plants.
The woman opposite has finished sweeping, and moves wearily, her face impassive, as she collects flowers and leaves from her pot-plants. She leans forward to examine them, brushing her hair back behind her ears. It is thin: she is old.
She has two bright brass jugs, one reddish, one golden. They are placed beneath stairs to the right of the roof.
The pump goes on. Music rises, weaves faintly, far away. Birds call. Roosters signal, doves gug grey sounds, metal containers and plastic ones are heard as they are used.
This roof-top world is amazingly diverse. Old brick shingles like scales fall from the edges and are patched with iron, everywhere bricks hold sheet iron in place, sometimes potplants do the job. I wonder how someone could reach them but all are growing. Here, the potted plants are well.
The old woman leans over a blue plastic bucket. Her hand splashes from the water to her face, at first as if she is stitching it with a needle, then with a flat palm. She throws water on the concrete court, hobbles, bent double, with a palm bent for water, to another corner. Then she wanders back. Her feet are bare, and as she holds her skirt up I glimpse a wine petticoat. Her top is beige.
The pump has stopped.
She carries the brass urns carefully inside, following her splashes, bent double. A dog, woolly as a sheep, is tied in the stairwell.
Again the pump. Chink-CHONK…
Bells and pump, birds and voices, flute and sitar blend.
Outside the hotel door, streets are freshly swept, linear arcs from whisks criss-cross. Tiny altars have appeared outside homes, even our hotel. A single stone is cleaned, a circle of ochre made and inside is placed little baskets made of banana leaves containing chilli, flowers, rice,cakes, grains, teeny fishes, and bits of fruit. There are also slow-burning twists of rope, sometimes accompanied by an incense stick.
Red smears are everywhere.
Every shrine bleeds with it. Trees have another bark of red layers. Images are daubed, their faces, knees and bellies sanguine. Even pot-plants are smeared. People also carry red between their eyes, sometimes in startling splats.
I see rubbish collectors, yolked with baskets bobbing (scales of justice) filled with plastic bags and other debris.
Where are the cows?
An ancient stone urn lies on the street. It is a cone, the hole in the middle narrow compared to the thick walls. The road is broken here; I see water flowing under the pavement.
Here's our Bhuddist Cafe.
2245 We had a pleasant day shopping for Matt’s boots and snacking in this cafe containing a shrine.It's one of our favourite places.
The photos came out well! We sent some away to Baz, John, and to Nadashree’s family.Then we took a taxi to BHUDANUTH.
Drove through awfulness: dust crowds fumes degraded land heat noise… Very upsetting.
asian traffic’s
beep beep beep -
the frog pond.
Above this squalor, the rich and serene religious houses, the places of worship, the affluent. (The affluent above the effluent.)
Monkeys at the temple attracted much attention, as they always do. A small female climbed a metal pole, pulled on a blue nylon rope and finding it secure, lay on it like a hammock. Then she squirmed backwards, making playful progress. Finished with effortless brachiation up the rope to the roof, where she sat and looked bored.
Men sit around an ancient temple that is filthy as high as hands can reach.
Eagles’ feather fingers stroke the air.
Between the mountains and the city stoops, crows and pigeons fly.
Rhogan dhal and lassis on the roof with Matt (Krishnadas) and Nadashri. A pot of mint tea.
Later, talks on my bed. About giving and the nasty feeling of self-aggrandishment that comes. About moving on, letting go, and being invisible.
A Katydid says ‘Cyvet cyvet’ somewhere outside, in that wide jumble of broken buildings and high rooftop gardens. A dog barks.
A lot of houses look dangerous. One not far away leans like the tower in Pisa, but the top stories are lit.
Another in near streets has a bulging wall which is propped with a beam against the next building.
Fallen bricks leave an atrophied wall - the nextdoor section is rubble.
Monday
0430 I am woken from my usual fitful sleep by a strange metallic sound. At last I rise to investigate; a single window is lighted in the four-story building behind my hotel. The sound seems to be coming from there.
I imagine a cutting/mincing instrument of some kind, structured so blades retract as it is lifted, and engage as it is pounded down.
A green bucket and a tin bowl are in the window. Later, when the sound stops, The bowl goes, and water is tipped on the corregated iron beneath.
Crows begin to caw, then sparrows chirp. Windows open to muffled crashes. Far away a flute begins a complex melody. It is joined by a sitar and maybe a tabla.
A rooster crows, answered by another in a different direction- they pass their voices back and forth - another joins in.
A different bird goes cheep-cheep-cheep-cheep rapidly.
The flute rises, then a human voice; a male. Dogs bark. Bells ring, the flute winds, rising and falling, the man’s voice, confident and soothing, sings, overlaps.
Pigeons arrive, preen on the stone window eyebrow between stories. Coo-coo coo, coo-coo-coo, coo-coo coo, they say. They are plump and stately.
The corregated iron rectangle is pushed back from beneath, exposing the lit space with the cylinder that I saw yesterday. I wonder if the woman will come back to flick water from this roof. Now a handbell rings continuously, stops- begins- I see another woman on yet another balcony; she is clad in pale orange, a wrap skirt. Her long black hair is loose. She has a bell, a flame, and a shining pewter jug. She’s lit a shrine light beside a potted plant. Water stains the ledge and drips down the wall.
Now I see another woman moving about in the stairwell of another house, and a black-haired man in a khaki singlet reaches down through the window to place a tin pot carefully outside.
There is the sound again. A pump, I think!
A woman in a green wrap skirt bends from the waist, her wet hair reaching almost to the ground as she sweeps the roof-top opposite me. She uses a whisk, tosses dust and papers over the side.
-chunk-chunk chunk-chunk chunk-chunk on and on…
Another woman, another shrine. Graceful movements concealed by a blue-painted drum on the roof edge. Her hands place something one by one in the pot plants.
The woman opposite has finished sweeping, and moves wearily, her face impassive, as she collects flowers and leaves from her pot-plants. She leans forward to examine them, brushing her hair back behind her ears. It is thin: she is old.
She has two bright brass jugs, one reddish, one golden. They are placed beneath stairs to the right of the roof.
The pump goes on. Music rises, weaves faintly, far away. Birds call. Roosters signal, doves gug grey sounds, metal containers and plastic ones are heard as they are used.
This roof-top world is amazingly diverse. Old brick shingles like scales fall from the edges and are patched with iron, everywhere bricks hold sheet iron in place, sometimes potplants do the job. I wonder how someone could reach them but all are growing. Here, the potted plants are well.
The old woman leans over a blue plastic bucket. Her hand splashes from the water to her face, at first as if she is stitching it with a needle, then with a flat palm. She throws water on the concrete court, hobbles, bent double, with a palm bent for water, to another corner. Then she wanders back. Her feet are bare, and as she holds her skirt up I glimpse a wine petticoat. Her top is beige.
The pump has stopped.
She carries the brass urns carefully inside, following her splashes, bent double. A dog, woolly as a sheep, is tied in the stairwell.
Again the pump. Chink-CHONK…
Bells and pump, birds and voices, flute and sitar blend.
Outside the hotel door, streets are freshly swept, linear arcs from whisks criss-cross. Tiny altars have appeared outside homes, even our hotel. A single stone is cleaned, a circle of ochre made and inside is placed little baskets made of banana leaves containing chilli, flowers, rice,cakes, grains, teeny fishes, and bits of fruit. There are also slow-burning twists of rope, sometimes accompanied by an incense stick.
Red smears are everywhere.
Every shrine bleeds with it. Trees have another bark of red layers. Images are daubed, their faces, knees and bellies sanguine. Even pot-plants are smeared. People also carry red between their eyes, sometimes in startling splats.
I see rubbish collectors, yolked with baskets bobbing (scales of justice) filled with plastic bags and other debris.
Where are the cows?
An ancient stone urn lies on the street. It is a cone, the hole in the middle narrow compared to the thick walls. The road is broken here; I see water flowing under the pavement.
Here's our Bhuddist Cafe.
2245 We had a pleasant day shopping for Matt’s boots and snacking in this cafe containing a shrine.It's one of our favourite places.
The photos came out well! We sent some away to Baz, John, and to Nadashree’s family.Then we took a taxi to BHUDANUTH.
Drove through awfulness: dust crowds fumes degraded land heat noise… Very upsetting.
asian traffic’s
beep beep beep -
the frog pond.
Above this squalor, the rich and serene religious houses, the places of worship, the affluent. (The affluent above the effluent.)
Prayer flags show the wind passing. Matt meditates, does yoga on a mat on the roof.
Later we go for food then walk the circle of the stupa, Matt turning every prayer wheel. From darkness dogs come. One nips me on the thigh; they are more interested in Nadashree than me but I think her smell has extended to me also.
Women come forward from the gloom with smiles, to a bier of candles. We are invited to light some. We do. One each, to be polite. Then we are told we owe them money. As we fossick in the dark a grinning woman with a bandage around her head suddenly appears. She raises her eyes to heaven, gestures prayerfully. But oh, her breath!
pious eyes look upwards
over praying hands --
the reek of whiskey
It is much cleaner here, fewer smells, wider streets. Danger and neglect are all around though; Nadashree steps into a deep puddle in the dark, her jandle is wedged vertically in mud and for a while we can’t retrieve it.
Other casual hazards about. Wires on askew posts dangle precariously and look unsafe. These dogs.
This morning, waking to gongs (ever increasing pulses) and chanting, I see two young boys run from the Monastery shed with small white parcels in their hands. They seem excited.
Chanting continues till 0630.
-rhythmic claps - drumbeats, the hum of chants, monks in magenta-wine coloured robes…
Crows arrk arrk caark caark… a plane flies by…
0800 Now sounds seem to intensify as the hazed-out light grows more glaring, and heat begins to rise.
mosquitoes gather
on the inside of our screen -
trying to escape
