Mount Mary's Candles

The neighborhood I live in, for those of you who don't know, is called Bandra, and it is the second or third suburb out of Bombay to the north, just after Mahim and Matunga, both very crowded middle-class Maharashtrian suburbs. Bandra juts like a hand out into the Arabian Sea to the west, and as recent as a hundred years ago, it was mostly farmland and populated almost entirely by Koli fisherfolk, the same people who called the seven islands of Bombay "Mumba," or "Mumbai" -- the city of Mumbadevi, the patron deity of all Indians who dip their nets into the ocean and live off the bounty of the sea.

These days, there is a different patron -- she's called Our Lady of the Navigators, and her statue is perched on a tree-lined hill towards lands end, the outstretched pinky finger of Bandra's hand, near the swanky Taj Hotel. The Portuguese brought Catholicism to Bombay in 1543, and handed over control of Bandra to the Jesuit missionaries in 1570. In 1640 they built the Castela de Aguada, or Bandra Fort to defend against Maratha raids, and in the same year, Mount Mary's chapel took her post on the hill, 30m above the blue sea. The church was destroyed, depite their efforts to protect it, in 1738, and the statue of the virgin was recovered from the sea by fishermen and temporarily installed in St. Andrews Church, which is right around the corner from my apartment, before being shifted to the rebuilt Mount Mary in 1761.

All that is interesting, I suppose, but the real reason I'm here today, boys and girls, is to talk about Mount Mary's candles, which are unlike any I've seen in a Catholic cathedral. If anyone knows anything about this devotional tradition, I'd love to hear a history (extremely detailed, of course) or an explanation.

And for now, you can also read about Mount Mary's from two wittier, artsier Bombay bloggers, just by clicking here and here.



The candlse you can buy come in many moulds. They are shaped like cars, airplanes, disembodied legs, arms, hands, stomachs, brains, and even full bodies, couples, or pregnant women. Your hand hurts? You buy one of Mount Mary's hands, put it on the sacred fire, and pray to the Mountain Mama. Want a baby? Pregnant candle. Want a new beamer or to find a cheap Cessna on eBay? You get the idea...

I found the candles to be, I dunno, ghastly... Very pale and smooth, and strange in part because they so often represented physical objects, material desires, and not spiritual ones...



I think this picture captures what I mean by "ghastly"...



More disembodied limbs, shadows...





Prayer-vendors:





The extensive collection...



Family portrait...



In memoriam...



Across the street from the candlewalas, we have the Jesuswalas, selling Jesus in every form, pose, color, and mood imaginable...





And an entirely different sort of candles...



And a flock of crucifixions...



And this is the old basilica, where the 17th century statue is still standing. Rumor has it that Arab pirates stole Our Lady's hand in 1700 because the had some sort of "gilt object" in it. What was it? A ring? Brass knuckles? Roach clip? I wanna know...



Here's a devotee, standing in front of the sacred fire with the wax that dripped in hissing drops to the grate below.



And further, to illustrate the passage of time in this posting, I spent a whole Wednesday after work at Mount Mary's, counting rosary at the mass with the whole mumbling congregation, until the moon came out over the balustrade...



And nighttime descended on Land's End...

Holi, Holi, Holi

Us: Sir, what will you do to celebrate Holi?
Indian man: Children, I am holy every day!

Yesterday was the Indian festival Holi, and it was probably the coolest street festival I've ever been part of. The only contender is La Batalla del Vino, in Haro, La Rioja, Spain, which I attended in July or August of 2002 with my buddy Ben. At that festival, we celebrated an economic bounty -- the amount of wine produced in the La Rioja region -- by drinking all night, then having an early morning water gun fight, only it wasn't water (it was cheap red wine) and we didn't shoot each other with guns (but with leather wine skins). For Holi, some among us (I'll not say who) ate bhang, then smeared each other with "colour" -- or fine, oil-based paint powder in diffeerent pigments, threw water baloons at each other, doused each other with buckets of blood-colored water, and shot waterguns as well. Either festival, the result was the same. We came out completely stained pink, intoxicated, and thoroughly satisfied. That's Erin, up above showing off her rainbow skin, who took all of these pictures, by the way, because she was the only one willing to risk her camera. So she gets the flagship photo for this post.

So the deal is this. We're celebrating various things. Spring, first and foremost, but I don't really understand that because the difference between one season and the next in India is so negligible -- it's hot, then it get's hotter, then hotter, then it rains, then it's hot again -- that it's unclear why the ancients would need a Spring festival (praying for cool weather, maybe?). We're also jamming because of this mythological figure called Prahlad, who was really into Vishnu, and who thwarted his heinous father King Hiranyakashipu by resisting a totally bogus execution at the hands of his skank sister Holika by chanting Vishnu's name over and over again. Got it?

This guy, who stood, dazed, outside of one of the housing complexes in Mahim where we played holi (you "play holi" by smearing colour on people, then dousing them, then dancing in the streets to Marathi songs), mumbling "Photo, photo..." -- undoubtedly too busy thinking about Prahlad and Vishnu to do or think of anything else.



These guys are generously demonstrating the transformative spiritual powers of bhang, the aerated balls of marijuana that are ground into paste and powder and mixed with lassi or thandi, both delicious cold dairy drinks, to produce a mixture that gets you LOADED and in the proper spiritual fram



Here's my friend Jocelyn getting smeared, early on in the revelry --



We played holi in Erin's neighborhood of Mahim, which has a huge Maharashtrian population (as opposed to the dozens of other Indian ethnic identities that exist in other pockets of Bombay). That meant lots of Hindus, and therefore lots of Holi as opposed to the Catholic neighborhoods of the city, like mine, where Holi ain't so big. Kids like these were getting really into it (to the point of violence, almost), as well as singing songs in Marathi and in one strange case, shouting Shiv Sena slogans at me. Damn cute, though, aren't they?



The kids were having battles -- one housing society versus another, lobbing waterballoons over the divisions. It was great fun...



A bunch of cheeky girls hit me and Benji pretty bad, so we launched a counter-ambush with all the boys on our side. It was like camp, except I never went to camp, but was like what I imagine camp was sort of like...



I'm gonna call these guys The Ghouls. They were allies.



After soundly routing the nefarious girls, we joined the silvery Ghouls in an impromptu dance party which featured that guy in the middle singing lead vocals on some Marathi folk songs, and lots of Bollywood style pelvic thrusts. We were all guys, thrusting at one another, but believe me, it was cool.



There was a sort of George Romero feel to the whole afternoon, and I'm going to end with a few photos that are particularly Zombie-like. This is Erin, me, and Jocelyn, walking Reservoir Dogs-style down the middle of the empty streets, looking for live flesh...



This is Erin looking cancer-faced...



And this is me, feasting on Jocelyn's brains RAAAAARRRGHHH!!!...

Ghoom

Just outside of Darjeeling is Ghoom, home to the Yiga Chholing Monastery, which I believe is the second-biggest in India. It was built in 1875 by Lama Sherab Gyatso. We took in a day of idols, bright colors, prayer bells, prayer wheels, and incense fumes.

The following photos are beautiful, but were taken by neither me nor by my camera. All credit goes to Benji. Enjoy.

The main idol, called the Maitreya Buddha, devoted icon of the "Yellow Sect":



The Buddhist paraphernalia, which looks a lot like an extensive tea set...



The books, which contains the words of the Tibetan Lamas. Each of these books is handwritten on parchment and wrapped in several layers of silk. It took the monk about 10 minutes to unwrap the book and show it to me. He was happy to oblige, though...



Prayer flames...



Paper lamps, Urns, Dalai Lama...



A backward glance at the gate...

D-Town

“My darling Darjeeling, oh what can I say,
Since you’ve been gone, the skie’s been Earl Grey,
Where’d you go, my pekoe? So spicy, so sweet,
Without you, I’m drowsy—I’ll crawl back to sleep…”

- Sour Mash Bandits

Yeah, I did it. I quoted my own band. But I wrote that song a long time ago, long before I thought I'd ever actually go to Darjeeling. I just liked the "Darjeeling" flavor of Twinings tea, and thought it sounded cool in rhythm with a Civil War-era fiddle part. I hope you guys did, too -- those of you who heard that particular song.

Some facts about Darjeeling Tea:

- Tea is sold there in grades -- the best being FTGFOP ("Fine Tippy Golden Flowery Orange Pekoe"). Sounds silly, right, like I'm making that up? I'm not. I bought a whole bunch of it.

- The tea is also organized like virgin olive oil or wine vintages -- in the order that the plant of origin emerged in the season... but it's misleading. "First Flush," or the first tea buds to appear on the bush, is actually of a lower quality than Second Flush, the buds that appear after the first are picked.

- The proper way to judge the quality of one's tea, like there's a quality-judging method for wine is to hold a handful of loose tea leaves up to your mouth, crush it in your fist, and blow hot air into it, then smell. Then you can say things like, "Mmmm, earthy!" or "Wow, can you smell the strawberry/oak/chestnut aroma?".

The day after we got to D-Town, we had a meeting in the schoolyard of the Red Cross school, where Tom (pictured below, center), the organizer of the Rickshaw Run, explained to us the proceedings of the day. There would be a parade. There would be a marching band. We should stay in line. Afterwards, there would be a soccer game against the local teenagers. We would lose. There would be tea and cakes afterwards.




The people of Darjeeling, unbelievably warm and friendly as they were, lined the streets and the apartment balconies...



They shouted from the roofs...



We made our way triumphantly out of the schoolyard...



Up the road, all 35 rickshaws...



Traffic jam...



Benji, lounging on the roof...



Me, as such...



We picked up hitchhikers, who threatened us with serious physical bodily harm until we let them ride with us, then eventually drive. They subjected us, in addition, to loud, out of tune singing of the "Dhoom Machale" theme song from "Dhoom 2: Back in Action," the Bollywood blockbuster. That last part might have been me, actually.



The band marched gloriously...



And continued to strut long after things ended...



Then, this dirty-minded Frenchman debauched Sally by putting her in a horrid, anatomically-incorrect pose with his rickshaw. Note the fluids dripping out of the wrong side of Sally.



For an article about the Run, check here. I'm on the far left, wrapped in a blanket, eating cake and drinking tea.

Also, if you'd like to read my article about (among other things) the soundtrack to Bollywood blockbuster "Dhoom 2: Back in Action," click here.

Love,
Robbie