In a quiet suburb of Gurgaon, south of Delhi, Dejan greets me in the household of Harsh Wardhan with two other students learning to play the bansuri, the Indian bamboo flute, with him. As I find out later, Harsh Wardhan builds flutes for Harriprassad Chaurasia himself (http://www.wardhan.com). His son has a gifted ear and has now taken over fine tuning these. Denis 'Juganath,' a professional tabla player from Russia comes to visit for some days and beautiful concerts by him and at least one bansuri player of the family fill the living room each day. On another day, Daniel, a tap guitarist from Belgium arrives and in the evening with his self-built guitar and the household is once again mesmerized by melody.
One day Denis tells us of a concert that is taking place in the evening in Delhi and arranges free entry for us through his connections. Only after we settle in our seats in the auditorium and the vibes start to transpire through skin and bones do I realize that infront of me on the stage is sitting none other than Bharat Ratna Ravi Shankar himself, cross legged holding his sitar comfortably on his lap. I distinguish a marked difference between him and other gifted muscians of the western world. The latter seemingly become one with their instrument, internalising it, as if it were an organ of their body, and in turn infusing their entire being into it, loosing themselves in it. Undoubteldy true musical geniuses of that kind will thereby unify their audience in a single unbroken breath, enthralling, holding, creating soundscapes, unfolding a tale in colorful waveforms. Just so it is with Ravi Shankar. But far from infusing his being into his instrument, losing himself in it, the most astounding tsunamis of sound role forth onto the audience, his hands moving with well-nigh imperceptible speed and agility, while he himself is sitting on top of it all, not touched in the least by the breathtaking exersions of his body, observing the happenings in the theater with supreme aloofness and razor-sharp attention, as if expressing: "Yes this is godlike, I know. You think its special? I'll show you what special is..." and he tripples his extersions - and the audience is lifted another couple of centimeters higher above their seats. He just smiles approvingly. This sound, this being, is indeed music taken back to its spiritual birthplace.
It is time now to progress in material existence as well. Although I continue traveling, from now on I spend the greater portion of time in front of the computer writing applications to Universities and for summer-jobs. From Gurgaon I send my tent and cooking pot back to Europe. I continue to Dharamsala and then Shimla in Himachal Pradesh, where I meet many westerners, among which is, Lobsang, a man from west Australia who left his life as a farmer and became a Tibetan buddhist monk, being inaugurated in the Kopan Monastery in Kathmandu, Nepal. I meet many westerners clad in buddhist monk robes in fact.
However, I decide to make one last excursion deep into nature before I return back 'on-grid'. I head to the remote region of Spiti, south of Ladhak. This is ethnographically speaking Tibet, albeit within the borders of India. Merely an 'Inner Line Permit' is required to travel the highway from Shimla to Tabo. For a considerable stretch it runs only a few kilometers far from the south-western border of the Chinese-controlled Tibet Autonomous Region. Here the climate and environment is akin to that of Ladhak and the culture is barely tainted by Chinese influence. In fact I learn that Spitian Tibetan is of all the Tibetan dialects that which has remained closest to the written alphabet.
I am the first European soul venturing into this lunar landscape . . . at least this year. So I am told at the military checkposts.
It takes two full days on the bus to travel from Shimla to Tabo along gravel roads in steep valleys, winding their way up and down around "hair-pin bends with only centimeters to spare to the cliff edge". In Tabo the bus arrives in the evening of the second night. Snow covers the surrounding mountains. It is well below zero degrees. Along with me two locals also want to continue traveling to Kaza, however no jeeps continue that day. There is too much snow for buses to pass. We stay at the Tabo monastery, where a monk leads me to the old prayer hall showing me some of the best preserved Buddhist paintings world-wide. The monastery was founded in 996AC and the large part of the paintings dates back to approximately this date. I marvel at the many colorful and detailed depictions of historical Buddhas and Boddhisattvas, as well as the depiction of Siddharta's life. In winter there are only some ten monks occupying the monastery.
The following day, once the people's bones and the car's engines thaw down sufficiently at around 10:00am, a car takes me and the two others to Kaza. From here I take a marvelous 4 hour hike to Key Monastery through Spiti valley under the shining sun and cloudless sky. I recall seeing such a dark hue of blue in the sky from airplanes at cruising altitude only. There is not a particle of dust anywhere. I remember signs prohibiting photography in ancient Georgian churches or large public mosques in Turkey. I wonder why there are no such signs here. How perfectly I now understand this prohibition. How I could start campaigning against such people that would feel inclined to take photographs here! If there is a place on earth where there is room for such uninhibited jaw-dropping awe and wonder at the illustrious magnificence of nature then it is here. In no other place on earth have I felt so close to the living cosmos. A higher order of things is expressed in no other place on earth as well as it is here.
A young monk, perhaps 12 years of age, calls me from the ridge that Key Monastery is perched upon, beckoning me to take a shortcut up the mountainside. Deep, droning didgeridoo-like vibrations and long high-pitched trumpet sounds make for a magical greeting as I make my way up the winding path to the cluster of white monastery buildings on the hill above Key village. The last rays of the evening sun illuminate the varnish in orange. A bright half moon shines down on the scene while the sun sets carefully behind the majestic Zanskar range.
This is the largest monastery in the area founded by Rinchen Zangpo, the great translator, during his 6th conscious incarnation in the 11th century. He currently heads the monastery in his 24th reincarnation although I do not have the honor to meet him, since he is in central India over the winter months along with most other monks. Of the 300 monks usually occupying the monastery only some 80 are now present. I witness the ceremonies of Losar, the Tibetan new year. The monks congregate in the prayer hall at 8am, sitting well ordered in several rows and commence an uninterrupted series of prayers of powerful mesmerizing rhythms. Short half-minute breaks are taken to drink special salted milk tea, which is poured into every monks vessel by a few junior monks on duty. The prayers build up in intensity accompanied by trumpets, large and small drums, cymbals and bells and culminate in special prayers of the head lamas and senior monks. At 3pm the younger monks almost instantaneously disappear out of the prayer hall to play cricket on the school ground below the monastery.
One day Denis tells us of a concert that is taking place in the evening in Delhi and arranges free entry for us through his connections. Only after we settle in our seats in the auditorium and the vibes start to transpire through skin and bones do I realize that infront of me on the stage is sitting none other than Bharat Ratna Ravi Shankar himself, cross legged holding his sitar comfortably on his lap. I distinguish a marked difference between him and other gifted muscians of the western world. The latter seemingly become one with their instrument, internalising it, as if it were an organ of their body, and in turn infusing their entire being into it, loosing themselves in it. Undoubteldy true musical geniuses of that kind will thereby unify their audience in a single unbroken breath, enthralling, holding, creating soundscapes, unfolding a tale in colorful waveforms. Just so it is with Ravi Shankar. But far from infusing his being into his instrument, losing himself in it, the most astounding tsunamis of sound role forth onto the audience, his hands moving with well-nigh imperceptible speed and agility, while he himself is sitting on top of it all, not touched in the least by the breathtaking exersions of his body, observing the happenings in the theater with supreme aloofness and razor-sharp attention, as if expressing: "Yes this is godlike, I know. You think its special? I'll show you what special is..." and he tripples his extersions - and the audience is lifted another couple of centimeters higher above their seats. He just smiles approvingly. This sound, this being, is indeed music taken back to its spiritual birthplace.
It is time now to progress in material existence as well. Although I continue traveling, from now on I spend the greater portion of time in front of the computer writing applications to Universities and for summer-jobs. From Gurgaon I send my tent and cooking pot back to Europe. I continue to Dharamsala and then Shimla in Himachal Pradesh, where I meet many westerners, among which is, Lobsang, a man from west Australia who left his life as a farmer and became a Tibetan buddhist monk, being inaugurated in the Kopan Monastery in Kathmandu, Nepal. I meet many westerners clad in buddhist monk robes in fact.
However, I decide to make one last excursion deep into nature before I return back 'on-grid'. I head to the remote region of Spiti, south of Ladhak. This is ethnographically speaking Tibet, albeit within the borders of India. Merely an 'Inner Line Permit' is required to travel the highway from Shimla to Tabo. For a considerable stretch it runs only a few kilometers far from the south-western border of the Chinese-controlled Tibet Autonomous Region. Here the climate and environment is akin to that of Ladhak and the culture is barely tainted by Chinese influence. In fact I learn that Spitian Tibetan is of all the Tibetan dialects that which has remained closest to the written alphabet.
I am the first European soul venturing into this lunar landscape . . . at least this year. So I am told at the military checkposts.
It takes two full days on the bus to travel from Shimla to Tabo along gravel roads in steep valleys, winding their way up and down around "hair-pin bends with only centimeters to spare to the cliff edge". In Tabo the bus arrives in the evening of the second night. Snow covers the surrounding mountains. It is well below zero degrees. Along with me two locals also want to continue traveling to Kaza, however no jeeps continue that day. There is too much snow for buses to pass. We stay at the Tabo monastery, where a monk leads me to the old prayer hall showing me some of the best preserved Buddhist paintings world-wide. The monastery was founded in 996AC and the large part of the paintings dates back to approximately this date. I marvel at the many colorful and detailed depictions of historical Buddhas and Boddhisattvas, as well as the depiction of Siddharta's life. In winter there are only some ten monks occupying the monastery.
The following day, once the people's bones and the car's engines thaw down sufficiently at around 10:00am, a car takes me and the two others to Kaza. From here I take a marvelous 4 hour hike to Key Monastery through Spiti valley under the shining sun and cloudless sky. I recall seeing such a dark hue of blue in the sky from airplanes at cruising altitude only. There is not a particle of dust anywhere. I remember signs prohibiting photography in ancient Georgian churches or large public mosques in Turkey. I wonder why there are no such signs here. How perfectly I now understand this prohibition. How I could start campaigning against such people that would feel inclined to take photographs here! If there is a place on earth where there is room for such uninhibited jaw-dropping awe and wonder at the illustrious magnificence of nature then it is here. In no other place on earth have I felt so close to the living cosmos. A higher order of things is expressed in no other place on earth as well as it is here.
A young monk, perhaps 12 years of age, calls me from the ridge that Key Monastery is perched upon, beckoning me to take a shortcut up the mountainside. Deep, droning didgeridoo-like vibrations and long high-pitched trumpet sounds make for a magical greeting as I make my way up the winding path to the cluster of white monastery buildings on the hill above Key village. The last rays of the evening sun illuminate the varnish in orange. A bright half moon shines down on the scene while the sun sets carefully behind the majestic Zanskar range.
This is the largest monastery in the area founded by Rinchen Zangpo, the great translator, during his 6th conscious incarnation in the 11th century. He currently heads the monastery in his 24th reincarnation although I do not have the honor to meet him, since he is in central India over the winter months along with most other monks. Of the 300 monks usually occupying the monastery only some 80 are now present. I witness the ceremonies of Losar, the Tibetan new year. The monks congregate in the prayer hall at 8am, sitting well ordered in several rows and commence an uninterrupted series of prayers of powerful mesmerizing rhythms. Short half-minute breaks are taken to drink special salted milk tea, which is poured into every monks vessel by a few junior monks on duty. The prayers build up in intensity accompanied by trumpets, large and small drums, cymbals and bells and culminate in special prayers of the head lamas and senior monks. At 3pm the younger monks almost instantaneously disappear out of the prayer hall to play cricket on the school ground below the monastery.
The atmosphere of this place, the sharp mountains, the crystal air, speaks of something primeval. The wars of the last 3000 years pass unnoticed here. It is but a blink of an eye. A different rhythm of breath determines the order here. The mountains stay content. Remembering ages of grand civilization, which came before, they await the coming of the next, which would once again listen to their voice and reply.
