Return to Rajahmundry

I had the best day, and the worst day all at once. It was the best day because I was presented with a truly unique experience, that pushed my comfort levels, and shattered some of my fears. But the events that followed however pushed me too far. I'm a relatively private person, and am told often by my loved ones that I keep too much inside. That day I found myself in rare occasion of genuinely wanting and needing to talk to someone, but was in a place where no one could speak enough English to really listen to what I had to say. It was a horrible feeling to have no choice but to keep everything inside. Although it was only a day I had to wait before I could talk about it, the hours passed painfully slow, each thought and each second tainted with confusions, shock, and anger.

My research has been geared toward learning about the death rituals of the Hindus. This research involved many interviews with ritualists, and other people involved in the practices of the Hindus. Some of my research allowed me to observe and document some of these practices, including observing a cremation.

The man who oversees the cremation

Krishnayya's Aunt and a photo of her Late Husband

On Monday I returned to Rajahmundry to continue my research that I had started on my first trip to Rajahmundry. The first few days were full of interviews with ritualists, workers at the cemetery, and the wife of the chairman of Kailasbhoomi (the Hindu cemetery I am studying). On Wednesday, the site director Krishnayya returned to Vizag so he could continue making final preparations for his trip to America in a few days.

The usual Hindu Cemetery

Kailasbhoomi

It was recommended by the Chairman of Kailasbhoomi that I spend some time at the cemeteries and observe its workings, so I chose to stay in Rajahmundry for another day or two, to do so. Thursday morning I went to the north side cemetery first. Already two bodies were being burned, which as odd as it sounds, I was happy to see. The families were in the designated area for them to wait and watch, as is usual. Not much would be more distracting than a random white girl walking by, so I stayed on the sides out of respect for the ceremony that was taking place.There was some construction still taking place in the area I was standing. Two men approached me, saying they were the contractors, and we conversed briefly. They saw I was watching, and told me I could go closer. I was hesitant still, because they families were still in the "observatory" (the best word I could use to describe it), and I wasn't sure how they would feel about me getting any closer, especially when I have a large camera strapped around my neck. The contractors saw no problem with it, and took me right up to the burning area. This alone was a very rare thing to be able to do, as there is much left undone on research of the Hindu death rituals. Again, I was surprised when the contractors encouraged me to take photos--Krishnayya had told me to not take photos if there was a cremation going on, which is completely understandable. I confirmed with them that it was okay, and they in full confidence said it was okay. I snapped away.

These photos and experiences are more graphic in nature, and so to be sensitive to my followers who may not wish to see these things, I created Abusurd Alacrity Uncut as a way of publishing the parts of my research and photos that are more mature in nature.

Being forced to hold everything in, I want to lay everything out, the way things were and are still. 'Uncut' is a blog that is completely open and blatantly honest in my thoughts and experiences as they occurred, and can contain some mild swearing and content of sensitive subject matter, and mature in nature. These are the things that do not belong on my original blog.

I would not want to push any of you, my reader's, boundaries or comfort levels. I would only encourage you to read the other blog if you feel comfortable with it. If you feel that you are, you can click this link: http://absurdalacrityuncut.blogspot.com.
On a final note I would like to thank my readers. Thank you all your support and interest in what I've been doing for the last three months. I only have 3 weeks left, which is hard to believe. Time has never flown by faster. The rest of my time here is going to be filled with studying for my Telugu final, and a final hurrah by making a trip to Darjeeling next week. It should be quite a final adventure, and I'm excited to tell you all about it.

Krishnayya's Uncle in the slums of Rajahmundry

One of the most pitiful street puppies I've seen yet

Krishnayya's "never wife" who is now married to his Uncle

The Proposal

Here I stand in front of 200+ college age Indians hooting, and before me a Nepali boy kneeling, with one hand holding a microphone and the other stretched out to me. How do I get myself into these situations? Oh, I remember now.

Four other students and I made a trip to Kakinada, a city 200 km away from Vizag, as special guests of the Vice Chancellor of Jawaharl Nehru Technological University-Kakinada. The Vice Chancellor, Allam Apa Rao, is an incredibly generous man, and a good friend of both Krishnayya, and Dr. Nuckolls (program director). For every batch of BYU students that have come on this program he has invited them for an all expense paid trip to Kakinada. As special guests, we stay in the University guest house, where each room has Air Conditioning, and hot water (a rare thing anywhere in India). I could say without apprehension that I was excited to go to Kakinada.

It's Thursday and the day has come for us to go to Kakinada. I wasn't the only one excited to go to Kakinada either. One of our cooks, sixteen year old Silazaa is from Kakinada. Silu is cousins with our washerman Razu, so when circumstances required it, her mother took her out of school and sent her to Vizag to work in the program as a cook. She, for the past couple weeks, had been missing her mother dearly. So Krishnayya promised that when we made our trip to Kakinada, that she could join us to visit her mother.

She had dressed up in her nicest Salwar Kameez, and was directing our driver through Kakinada to get to her home. Her excited face brightening up as we neared her house, and saw the familiar faces of her neighborhood. I was happy to see that she lived in what looked like a much better than decent area of town. The car stopped in front of an alley that led past a half dozen houses, and at the end, a hut, her

Home and Rajahmundry

Home is a fluid concept. For me, home can come in the shape of the pan handle state, or the hills of southeast Washington, on the road in a small two door Toyota or in the embrace of a loved one. Right now, home is on the opposite side of the world I know. Its taken the shape of a mosquito net, in a neon green house in the middle of a city bursting with a population of 3 million. Home is a place where the red soil is so bright it looks orange. The sewers are open, and available as public restrooms, the mangy flea-ridden street dogs number in the thousands, and I always have to watch my feet to be sure that I don’t step in poop (dog or human). At the end of the day, my skin is covered with a black film from the pollution created by the nearby steel mill. But that is India. My India. My Vizag.

I’ve found another home. This last weekend the group made a trip to Rajahmundry, a smaller city about 200 km north of Vizag. Rajahmundry is on the grand Godavari river, and is the hometown of our Site Director Krishnayya, and also happens to be the location where most of my research will be taking place. I immediately loved it for it’s less chaotic atmosphere and its riverside deliciousness.

Priests on the Godavari River

On our first full day there, we took a trip through what Krishnayya called “the green-belt” of the East Godavari district. For 2 ½ hours we drove through villages that farm mostly rice patties with some other unfamiliar crops. The drive was amazing, and soooo incredibly gorgeous. The air was untouched by steel mill pollution and filled with the freshness of agriculture. I would love nothing more than to spend a day with the villagers working in the rice patties, and watch more of their life-style. That also would have given me the opportunity to actually take pictures—pictures from inside a car don’t really work too well.

After driving for a while, we stopped at a sweet shop to watch how kaja is made. The sweets in India are, like the rest of the country, unlike anything else I’ve eaten. One of the most popular is Burfey (pronounced barfy), a sweet so rich and heavy that it makes me want to barfy. Clever I know. Kaja is made by rolling thin dough, then cutting it, so each piece has a billion layers, and then fried. I’m not entirely sure where the sweet part comes in, but I know its there somewhere. Many of the girls were freaked out by the number of flies that crawled