33. THE VAASTU READER

The Reader is in! He's a regular at his Vaastu stall in any holistic fair in town.

His assistant looks familiar - where have I seen her before?

Yantras with Mantras

Many fellow travellers and I have crossed paths. Some stayed long enough to become firm friends and they have supported me in my service work in India. I pick up the phone to arrange a chat over a meal and they are always there.

One special person is a most unusual fellow. He's Chinese but he's probably the only vaastu consultant in town. Vaastu is Indian feng shui and John does it so well, it has become his weekend job. Many Indians consult him - a Chinese reader of Indian feng shui! And of course, loads of Chinese look him up.
I keep meeting colourful, interesting people on my life's journey. I learn so much from them and they have become good friends. At a recent meeting, John revealed to me his talismans for success from Indonesia. To reveal more might lead to my Catholic friends giving me a wide berth - they will think I'm possessed by the 'devil.' (Who? Me?)

For the uninitiated, take a peek into - allaboutvaastu.com

32. STRANDED IN LUCKNOW...........

This tiny auto ferried 10 children to school, piled one on top of the other, their bags hung to both sides of the 3-wheeler. It was comical to see the kids tumbling out, I did'nt expect to see so many - it was like watching a magician pull out his many tricks from his hat! The kids were smiling and laughing broadly - the discomfort level in India can be very great but their people handle it with such equanimity.

....well, almost. On a long train ride from Mumbai, the train stopped in Lucknow, capital city of northern Uttar Pradesh state. I was told the stop was a long 30 mins.

Friends from Lucknow came on board to visit me and their brother, who was travelling with me. I made a spontaneous decision to get off the train and spend some time in Lucknow.

I grabbed a suitcase and jumped off the train as it was starting to move. Typically Indian fashion.....the stop was only 15 minutes! I waited on the platform but as the train picked up speed, there was no friends with the rest of my lugguage.
Several curious heads popped out of the windows to look at me - I must have looked forlorn standing on that platform looking at the train as it left the station.

Thank goodness for cellphones - my friends told me to stay put, the next stop was 10 minutes away. I sat on my suitcase. Everybody who walked past, stopped to stare, like I'm the Elephant Man. If language was'nt a barrier, they'll bombard me with why? how? what? where? They'll terribly curious people.

It was chilly on that platform, being winter. The station was drab and dreary, stank of urine, filthy with litter. The vendors, beggars and porters were all gone in 60 seconds, it's clear the next train won't be due for a long while. The platform became deserted within minutes. I was thankful it was'nt the middle of the night.

The 30 minutes wait seemed like eternity. Was I glad to see my friend's husband coming to collect me, smiling broadly - the Indians have some of the most beautifully straight, white natural teeth. I could have hugged and kissed him but the embarrasment would have caused him to faint even though there was nobody around.

Apparently, my friends in trying to retrieve the rest of my lugguage, pulled out the wrong ones from under the seats. The owner, a cranky country bumpkin of a woman, created a ruckus, calling my friends thieves. They defended themselves vigorously so there was much drama on board, which I may have missed but can imagine as I've seen such exchanges many times before.

'Two roads diverged in a wood, I took the one less traveled by and that has made all the difference' - Robert Frost

31. THE MALAY DILEMMA

 

My love affair with the sarong is the Malaysian in me. When I attend dressy occasions, I choose my sarong kebaya over a gown. Other times, I love a Chinese qipao or a gorgeous sari or shalwar kameez. My cotton sarongs travel everywhere with me.
I'm the original SPG (Retired) - Sarong Girl not a Party girl.

I lived 20 odd years in Malaysia. I was born and bred there and studied the Malay language as my 2nd language. I grew up with Malay school friends and had Malay families as neighbours.

Every year, at Hari Raya - their New Year at end of the fasting month of Ramadan, I did the usual rounds of visiting them during open house and enjoying their warm hospitality and yummy home made cookies.
There was much warmth, give and take and mutual respect. Life was simpler than, minds less polluted - it was an age of innocence. The 1963 racial riots between the Malays and the Chinese did not affect my State nor my neighbourhood although the grown-ups in my community were fearful....but they continued to go about their daily grind. I did not skip school - some classmates did as a precaution.

A good many mongrel strays shared our neighbourhood. My Malay Muslim neighbours were accepting of the dogs in their midst, they fed them food scraps, so did I, so of course the dogs stayed.

They looked after our homes, bikes and scooters. They barked at every person who was not a resident - the newpaper vendor, the roving barber, the food hawker, cigarette seller and ice-cream man. When the residents came home, Malay and Chinese, the dogs welcomed us all happily.

Our strays were like the small kids in our kampong - pure and innocent - colour and race blind.
The dogs knew their place and would not enter the homes of the humans who fed them. They kept their distance and slept never far away from our doorsteps, never intruding onto our verandahs or patios as some houses were built elevated from the ground with steps leading up to the verandah.
There was a co-existence not common today.

My Malay neighbours respected life and did not hurt the animals nor tried to get rid of them by getting the authorities to round up the strays, which in those days, the animals were shot by dog shooters. We did lose a few when these shooters came on their regular rounds. I cried at each one lost.

In Turkey, one of my favourite countries, the Turkish Muslims love their dogs. Everywhere one goes, in cities and villages, dogs were part of the family. You'll see them in the bazaar stalls sitting by the owner's side, you'll see them inside the family-run cafes and grocers and out in the fields with farmers and shepherds. They are well taken care of with beautiful shiny coats. Many are pedigrees which go to show how much they love their dogs.


My experience with Indonesian Muslims and my friend's dog, I've related in 'Borobodur Revisited.' Many wealthy Indonesian families have live-in Muslim servants who lived with large fearsome guard dogs in their midst, fed them and cleaned their kennels.

The Malays of my youth were not into headscarves in a big way. Only newly married women and elderly ladies donned them. Today, I note that the more prominent Malaysian Malay women and often, members of Malay royalty, go without headscarves. These are the confident self-assured ones who are aware that covering up does not prove anything.

Too much has been placed on the form, not enough on the substance. It's the classic blind leading the blind.