British Formal

One of the earliest impressions I had of India was the intensity of colors that grace a table, a market place, and each individual. The colors are the richest of rich even on the poorest of poor and I am surrounded by rainbows and pots of gold at every turn. I knew it would be relatively warm in Bangalore, and so I brought my classic professorial attire of summer weight suits. The six or so suit jackets have not left the closet. It is just entirely too warm to wear them. I have, however, been unwilling to shed my skirts, light sweaters, and heels—the style, I have learnt, that is called British Formal.

Whilst I have grown accustomed to spelling like a Brit and eating like an Indian (“Nana ge Masala Dosa beku,” I can now say in fluent Kannada to order my favorite morning breakfast treat), I am in brain freeze as surely as if I had eaten an Indian ice cream parfait far too quickly when it comes to shifting my mode of dress. Straight away I requested of my hosts to take me shopping for Indian women’s wear and straight away I purchased two Salwar Kameez, the tunic top and balloon-style pants with scarves in shades of brilliant green and fuchsia. They sit, however, on the couch, where I gaze at them lovingly and imagine what a stark raving idiot I would look if I walked down the street. I’m not talking about risking something as dramatic as the Sari, which requires some serious amount of abdominal work before you take that one on. I’m talking about colorful tops and slacks, and yet there is just some strange and fearful thing about what amounts to me as trying to look Indian when in my estimation, I would be exposed as a fraud.

In comparison to the people in southern India, I look like an albino, pale and starkly washed out. Although I have many people look me over on a daily basis here when I walk around in British Formal, at least the clothing is to what I am accustomed, which is my little mantra of justification. Little prepared me, though, for our trip last weekend to Shravanabelagola, the pilgrimage site of the 58-foot tall monolith, Jain deity Bahubali. Better than any ride Disneyland could offer, the drive into the countryside kept me in a constant running monologue of reflection about dharma and karma, for it felt that at any moment one’s life could end.

Ravi, my driver, is exceedingly skilled at manoeuvering in classic Bangalore style. If the road has three lanes, he drives down the white line of one, whilst abreast us as many as five or so additional vehicles speed too. In the first week, I had grown accustomed to this highly conventional mode of being, Indian style, but highly unconventional mode, Western style.
“Aren’t there traffic laws, Ravi?”

“Madam, they are guidelines,” he replied.

Several of my new Indian friends have reported that if they lived in the United States for a while, it was fearsome to drive once again in Bangalore. We frequently turn a corner at full tilt and come to a screeching halt because one of my adopted cows has taken up residence in the middle of the road. Indians exude patience. No one honks. No one yells. No one jumps out to guide the cow out of the road. We simply wait. And wait. And wait. Meditation has replaced my acerbic Los Angeles angst. During my first few days in Bangalore, I would query, “Where is that cow going?” I now replaced it with the question, “Where is that cow not going?”

As we sped out of the city and into the country, palm trees, rice fields, and ox-drawn carts outnumbered the buildings and the rickshaws and the 5,545,000 Bangalorans. The road was principally two lanes, and quite newly-constructed, Ravi said, but as I came to find, could transmogrify into a dirt stretch or a small city or village with utterly no warning. When we could drive at approximately 120 or 130 kilometers, Ravi would speed down the middle of the two lanes or take the opposite lane, leading you to believe we actually had full control of the road—that is, until a bus or large truck appeared, compelling us to move behind or in front immediately. The adrenaline rush exhausted me and I attempted to fall into that meditative state to which I had become accustomed in the city and simply ignore it.

As we approached Shravanabelagola, the roads narrowed and traffic came to a standstill. Every twelve years is the important Head Anointing Ceremony of Bahubali that is called

Mastakabhisheka, and although I had arrived several weeks into it, the festivities were still in full swing. Feeling a bit like the Pied Piper, men hawking souvenir postcards and miniature Indian deities, along with begging children, followed me toward the base of the mountain. The swelling crowds of people, many dressed in brilliant orange, climbed the 700 granite steps. Those who came down off the mountain were frequently drenched in a sauce of buttermilk, honey, and tumeric. Whilst I photographed people, I became the object of great curiosity. Large groups of individuals, particularly children, would simply stare. British Formal was nowhere in sight and neither did I see nary a soul who even remotely resembled me. Ravi insisted that I should not walk the distance myself, but rather be carted up the hill in a bamboo carrier. Whilst hesitant about having four men haul me up a mountain, the prospect of doing so in bare feet in the blazing sunlight intimidated me and so I agreed to pay the 150 rupees, which amounted to less that $3.50 USD.

Because of the festival, scaffolding with large platforms had been carried up the mountain and erected earlier in the year so as to give seating to the thousands of pilgrims who would view the many ceremonies; thus, whilst from a distance I had seen the massive monolith, I had no unobstructed view until I made my way through a labyrinth of pipe and plywood and stone walkways. Bahubali is the tallest known monolithic statue in the world carved out of a single huge granite boulder nearly one thousand years ago. It appears that the statue is part of the hill, sculpted by removing portions of the hilltop. The statue includes creepers, coiled snakes, and anthills, and is completely free of clothing, a Jain precept that represents utter sacrifice and selflessness, and one that is practiced by some of the followers. Ravi explained that there are naked Jain followers—holy men—called Digunbara and then there are normal naked men called Betaleh. I explained to him that in the United States no naked man on the street is considered normal, but rather subject to arrest. I asked where the naked women followers were. Ravi, who by this point had grown accustomed to my outrageous questions, merely laughed goodheartedly.

I arrived in time to see the faithful anointing the head of Bahubali with gallons of purified water, which at its base was captured in brass pots and given to the pilgrims. People sat around, chatted, and performed various ceremonial acts. Jainism suggests that as we are captured in our bodies at present, that it is difficulty to comprehend true reality. A pilgrimage such as one to Bahubali, may result in samyak darsana, which is Sanskrit for rational perception. If one attains this frame of mind, emptying oneself of preconceived notions and prejudices, then one can discern the true nature of things, which in turn leads to ethical conduct, and ultimately to salvation.

As I walked amidst the followers, many asked to take photographs of me and whether their children might touch me. I was more than happy to oblige, for I recognized that these many hours from a major city I was likely the only Westerner these lovely people had ever seen in person. Indians are curious people. I had read before I arrived to expect a good lot of staring and questioning, which is considered acceptable and appropriate conduct in a society that places high premium on relationships, be they personal or professional. What I had not anticipated was that regardless of my own mask, my own costume of dress, the individuals whom I have met accepted me regardless, for it is not a matter of differences being either better or worse, but rather simply being different. After seeing a few more remarkable temples, Ravi and I headed back to Bangalore. By the end of the day the Digunbara—the naked Jain holy men— had outnumbered the British Formal two to one.

You may learn more about the preparations for the Head Anointing Ceremony of Bahubalil at http://www.deccanherald.com/deccanherald/Feb82006/index204745200627.asp