Land of Contrasts: A patchwork of religions

When you think of India, you might think of the huge Hindu population and pockets of Muslims, Christians and Sikhs. But you might not think of Jains, Parsis, Baha'is and Jews.

They are all woven into the textured patchwork of Indian culture, stitched together by mutual respect and spirituality but kept divided by different customs, places of worship and superstitions.

The country prides itself on being a secular religious nation that gives equal rights to all and its people accept that there are many paths to God. This vibrant and tollerant mix of religion and culture characterises the allure of India.

As my grandfather noted in his memoirs:
"Economically , India is a poor country, poor in the extreme for millions. It is, however, very rich on religion. All the people, each worshipping in their own way, add their quota to the culture of the mother land. There are a multitude of shrines, temples, mosques and churches. Anything of real value in the lives of the masses is linked to religion."

There was never a truer word spoken, even 70 years later. The cacophony of festivals and religions rites, so colourful and extravagant, bring the cities and villages to life. And it is true that, for many, the religious rituals enable them to wallow in escapism and forget the unrelenting hardship of everyday life.

Of course, I have only scraped the surface with my encounter with Amma, the hugging mother, being thrust into temples to give puja, feeling intrusive observing prayer at silent mosques, gatecrashing a Jain wedding, being proudly shown a kitsch collection of Virgin Marys in someone's home and being treated like a celebrity by hundreds of Sikh pilgrims on their way up a mountain.

But what is clear is that religion is what makes India 'tick'. It is a livelihood, a fashion statement, a celebration, an arranged marriage, a shared prayer and the foundations of family life.

A helping hand in Himachal

Escaping the hot dust of Delhi, I headed for the Himalayan foothills for a few weeks of volunteering and fresh, mountain air. It was a welcome change from my travelling momentum.

Ispiice is based in Sidhbari village, just 10 minutes from the town of Dharamsala - famed for being the place where the Tibetan Governemnt is still in exile some 60 years on and the visiting place of Buddhism's Dalai Lama. Despite the well established Tibetan community, the village

was primarily Indian and I spent a rewarding time with Ispiice, helping the rural population.

Over the beautiful farm house where we were staying, towered the huge Himalayan mountains. I was overwhelmed by the natural purity of the place after Delhi - my Indian nemesis.

We were greeted every morning by the best looking cow in India (she didn't have much competition) and her shy, clumsy calf. Our resident chef, Neereg, fed us with wonderful food and we were very well looked after by the hard working Ispiice team.
My days were filled with 3 different - but equally fun - projects: in the morning, I helped out at a day care centre for 2 and 3 year olds; early afternoon, I taught English to grades 4 and 5 (ages 8 - 12) at a Government School; and lastly,

I supported a group of young women as they gained computer skills to empower and equip them for the world of work and advancing

technology.

I am not a teacher and I admire all those who are, including my own incredible mum, for the relentless patience they have. At times, the projects were tough and at moments, heartbreaking. Yet, fundamentally, they were a privileged snapshot of India and its patchwork of people.

Day care was held in a dark, damp and sticky room that was bare of toys, and fun. The only sign that it was a place for children were the colourful pictures on the wall, lovingly painted by previous volunteers. When we first arrived, the wide-eyed children were sat with their backs against the wall, looking too solemn for young tots (not to mention grubby). We brought toys, made playdough, sang nursery rhymes, used my bed sheet (!) as a parachute and got them learning numbers and the alphabet - just the stimulation these gorgeous children needed. They soon proved to be far from shy and became our friends, demanding hugs and attention which we gave to them by the bundle.

At the primary school, sadly it was a similar story, teaching English in a classroom that was bare, and barely lit. The children, who had such willingness to learn, sat on the floor on 2 long, narrow mats facing a dusty chalk board.

In India, in my experience, the Government schools are far behind the private schools in terms of academia, facilities, resources and staff. When I first stepped foot in my school, the children were left without work and the teacher wasn't to be found in the classroom (it's also worth noting that the children weren't running riot like you'd expect in an unattended British classroom). It appeared that the lesson I was teaching for just 1 hour a day was the only structured lesson for the children and, while friendly, the teachers were idle and overpaid (some 5 times more than their private school counterparts). It seems that a teacher in India had the choice between being paid a good wage at an underachieving Government school or taking a substantial pay cut to make a difference at a private school. A challenging dilemma in one of the world's poorest countries.

Despite my frustrations, the children's beaming smiles, cheeky giggles and ample 'high fives' lit up the classroom and I was delighted to see all of their English improve during my time there.

My last group was perhaps the biggest eye-opener. These young women were aged between 20 and 30 years old and each had their own reasons for coming to the computer class, which also provided a platform for them to practice conversational English: some of the younger, ambitious ones were there to further their career aspirations; others, particularly the full time wives and mothers, were there to give them an outlet; and there were one or two who I think

were there for a village gossip!

Each of the women, who previously would not have been able to work outside of the rural village, were learning touch typing and we made sure this was interspersed with practice on Microsoft World. We also had the pure privilege of taking the women to an internet cafe for their first ever glimpse of the world wide web. It was a rare opportunity to see those fresh pairs of eyes on the Google home page, realising they had the world at their fingertips for the first time.

During my time with Ispiice, I was also lucky enough to go trekking and camping in the Himalayas and make it up to the snow line - no mean feat! Proving even India isn't as big as it feels, I bumped into some friends from Mumbai around the campfire where, for the first time in the country, we huddled for warmth.

I also journeyed to Amritsar, in the Punjab state. Our first stop was the high-kicking frenzy of the Waghah India/Pakistan border ceremony - a daily extravaganza at sunset where the guards high-kick, stamp, speed march and bawl their way through a choreographed routine. It ends in the lowering of both flags and the slamming of the border gates.

The crowds were swaying and cheering in a way that would supersede the energy of any football or rugby match. I've since heard the guards have had to tone down the belligerent display as it was determined 'too hostile' by Indian officials. Other rumours suggest that the aggressive moves was thought to be injurious to the soldiers' health. I wouldn't be suprised if the latter were true.

We then paid two visits, one by moonlight and the other by sunlight to one of Sikhism's holiest places: The Golden Temple. And gold it was - a beautiful golden island surrounded by water and blindingly white buildings. The temple attracted even more people that the Wagah ceremony, confirming the prevalence of religion above everything in India.

I left Ispiice and beautiful Himachal Pradesh wishing I could stay for longer and hoping I would return in the not too distant future.

A dusty dislike for Delhi

My train arrived over 10 hours late, so Delhi and I did not get off to a great start.

A dusty smog blurred the edges of its highest buildings, choking the city as it frantically prepares to host the Commonwealth Games in October this year. The people of India are eternal optimists; from what I saw and heard, the city will never be ready in time.

Areas of the city could be mistaken as recent war zones, with the fronts of many shops, hotels and houses now heaped - haphazardly - on the streets.

I dusted down and headed for the city's main sights, including the pearly white Lotus Temple of the Baha'i faith, the Taj-like Humayan's Tomb and the spot where Mahatma Gandhi took his final footsteps before he was assassinated - a martyr for peace and democracy. But I could not escape the dust and dirt and it was a feeling a great relief to escape after just a couple of days.

Meeting Mother Ganga

The holy river of the Ganges (Ganga), India's national river, winds through what is considered to be India's holiest and oldest city: Varanasi.

Hundreds of pilgrims come to bathe on its banks every day, which is thought to absolve all sins. Others come to burn their dead as is the wish of every Hindu that their remains enter the river, meaning they will take a straight path to Nirvana and be liberated from the cycle of birth and death (reincarnation).

I was confronted with this reality before I'd even reached my hotel. While negotiating my bags though the tangled streets of the old city, large groups of men appeared out of no where, processing their dead to the river on a elaborately decorated stretchers.

The next morning at dawn, we took a small wooden boat down the river to witness the Ganga in its best light. We sailed along the side of the ghats (endless series of steps leading down to the water, divided into different groups), past the day's first pilgrims, the holy men engaged in a cocophany of chanting and morning puja and the dhobi-wallahs - the laundry people - who slap the wet cloth with gusto on stones at the water's edge.

The pilgrims and locals were performing a series of tasks including bathing, yoga and cleaning their teeth - with nothing more than their finger and the water Mother Ganga provides them.

Seeing the river in the pale, morning light did help me to understand its spiritual appeal and significance, but I certainly had no future plans to brush my teeth in it! Sadly, praised initiatives to clean up the holy waterway seemed to have fallen astray as we saw noxious, filthy water being incessantly pumped into it - just metres from large groups of bathing pilgrims.

Of equal concern are the 'burning ghats'. There are two of these in Varanasi where millions of people gather every year to cremate their loved ones, with up to 300 ceremonies per day. They appear to operate in a physical and financial tiering system, still based on 'lower', 'middle' and 'upper' caste boundaries. The ghats are scattered with huge stacks of wood and the family of the deceased, according to their means, buys one of the many funeral packages. These include a certain quantity of wood based on the weight of the body (sandalwood is considered the best wood, and is naturally the most expensive) and other ritualistic paraphernalia including ghee (clarified butter).

After being dipped in the river, the body is placed on the pyre. The priest and family perform holy rituals, ghee is poured on and the pyre is set alight as the men of the family watch on. Women are not allowed at the ceremony as sorrow and tears are thought to obstruct the deceased's ascension to nirvana, and widows have been known to throw themselves on their husbands' funeral pyres as it is thought to grant them sainthood.

A few hours later, the ashes and bits of bones (rather grimly, the chest bone of a man and the hips of a woman don't burn) are gathered by the eldest son or senior male of the family and consigned to the waters, where 'untouchables' (a group from the lower castes feared by many) dredge up the ash and mud, hoping for a gold tooth or nose ring that has survived the fire.

Not everyone is cremated in this way though. Children under 5, lepers, sadhus (Hindu monks), pregnant women, and cobra bite victims are offered directly to the river.

Despite witnessing this up close, I was coerced into joining the pilgrims the following morning and taking a fully-clothed dip in the Ganga. I felt very uneasy about not being able to even see my hand a few centimetres below the surface, let alone the bottom, in the murky water. The river bed was uneven and sharp (I imagined from human bones) under my gingerly placed feet, so I preferred to swim than stand and was relieved to hop in the shower shortly afterwards.

Meeting Mother Ganga is not something I'll forget in a hurry and after a few days I began to appreciate its mysticism - bones, bodies and all!

Lucknow, for Grandad

Some of my grandfather's greatest Indian moments were spent in Lucknow, the capital of Uttar Pradesh. Off the travellers' trail, this was a place I felt compelled to visit and take some time to read his stories of India.

On the train into Lucknow, we passed through Kanpur - where my Grandfather was based for 2 years. I couldn't begin to contemplate how he was thrown into a more hostile and uncivilised India, still in his teenage years. But it also made sense of the great and humble man he became and following in his footsteps was the ultimate show of respect and admiration for him. This is what brought me to India.

He wrote in his memoirs: "India is a place where patience is a necessity, not a virtue" and never was that more true than in Lucknow.

Without the usual Western frills for tourists, the city was difficult to negotiate. Limited English was spoken by the general population and the rickshaws were constantly heaving with locals. Some of the rickshaw-wallahs from the tourist cities should really consider relocating!

I took myself and my grandfather's memoirs to the huge Botanical Gardens, to find that they only opened from 6am - 8am every day - classic India! By some act of fate, I ended up wandering to The Residency, the ruins of the old British Raj that were besieged in 1857. As I sat reading, I realised my grandfather had enjoyed this very place on more than one occasion with his friends. He wrote:

"There were a number of ancient Muslim temples to see, formidable and awesome in size and structure. We joined the throng on one occasion in our stocking feet, with our shoes left lying in the entrance."

70 years on, and there I sat. I felt an overwhelming connection to one of the most important people in my life.