Horns, Brakes, Good Luck: Hello India
by Lyn McGettigan
There we were, the motley crew. Newly landed in New Delhi, looking aound, at what we had no idea, through a pollution haze that was definitely not alcohol or jetlag induced. It was the colour of India. We stepped into this soupy maelstrom and took account of each other politely and surreptitiously. Who is whom? Who are the writers, who the sculptor, who the film producer, who the composer, the newbies, the India veterans? Why was each here? Time would tell.
Time did tell. Some knew each other before, some had never seen anyone before. What talent lay latent beneath these memsahib exteriors? The talent was pretty good, the women themselves willing to chance each other and India. A good bunch of Aussie sheilas. But enough of the lingo, on to the serious stuff.
Our Story Hunters journey had two components— the writing workshops with Jan and the cultural experiences with Raymond. Sometimes these two clashed — sometimes the writing won, sometimes the cultural. The two factions were softened by a strumming Indian troubadour who melted our hearts and lifted our spirits with a mixture of traditional music, Elvis and Gypsy folk music. The calming of the waters.
Then we had our own much loved minder — a beautiful Indian sari clad girl who rounded us up with smiling humour tinged with determination. Now, to capture this, was a documentary film maker — a man of exquisite tact and professionalism. Shy, quiet, unassuming. A calm influence.
We summed each other up, sorted ourselves out and began the serious stuff. We wrote in the mornings, then went to visit or were visited by all stratum of Indian society — we learned the caste system and through this knowledge went on to debunk many of the assumptions we might have had before. We have a “wants” society, India is a “needs” society or is the writer too simplistic?
But it was heartening to hear that the stone cutter, who had six toes on each foot, believed they were there for a reason. They sure were. They helped him grip the steps as he carried hewn stone blocks up five stories. A grey man of fifty-five who looked eighty-five, a man who spoke of the joy of his community and the love he had for his family, particularly his grandchildren. The peace on his face mirrored the truth of his words. The tuk tuk driver who overcame alcoholism and drug addiction to be able to send his two boys to private school. The monks and the priest who spoke of each other with deep respect and had the one message for us — love.
We danced with the gypsies. Ah, the whirl of colour, the joy of life, the music, the hospitality — from families who lived in a community of three rooms with twenty-five to a room. To our western children whingeing because they don’t have their own room, I say: come to India! Have a look!
To Varanasi — City of the Dying. City of joy, of acceptance of death as a natural part of life. If we came to Varanasi with fears for our own death we left in peace. Death is closed, taboo in Western society. Young children rarely see a dead body, often are kept from funerals or going to the burial. How natural to see a body, beautifully, colourfully dressed and covered being carried to the funeral pyres by the men in that family after the grieving has been done within the family unit. To see the sprinkling of Ganges water on the shroud covered body before being placed reverently on the pyre, then the final ritual, the ashes sprinkled on the waters. The ashes, the last stage of a life, float down this calm peacefully deceptive river that is a living thing, a moving meditation of life.
How often I sat on the steps beside this river. I didn’t do much, think much, just sat. Somehow it worked its magic on me. I felt calm, peaceful, moved in some deep way, far, far above spiritual. Different. As the Ganges changes its ever-flowing course, I too felt changed.
Many of us left Varanasi changed in some way.
Ah India. I am glad I have lived with you for a short space. I feel your age, I see your coour and feel your joy, I marvel at your resilience. I have gained something. I have left something of myself behind.
© Lyn McGettigan 2023.
Lyn Mcgettigan has spent most of her life running pubs. Her memoir, Behind The Bar Room Door: Tales of a Publican’s Wife, was published in 2018 by Indie Mosh and her recent biography Lucky To Be Here, tells the story of her father’s experiences as a bomb aimer on Lancaster planes in World War 2.
Lyn is a frequent flyer with Writers Journey and attended Story Hunters, India, a 16 day odyssey organised by Raymond Hawkins of Blue Swan Events.
Jan Cornall leads international creative adentures for writers and artists. See pics from all trips here.
W: https://www.writersjourney.com.au/
Insta: _writersjourney
