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Bedecked in gold: The Shwedagon Pagoda

Came an atheist, left a believer

By Aswathy Kumar

It was probably the first thing I saw as I exited the Yangon International Airport. I was nervous. I had bid farewell to my friends and my home back in DC and was stepping now into a mysterious land that I knew nothing about. But something about the 325 foot golden stupa that towered over the entire skyline of Yangon told me that I was going to be just fine. And as long as this gilded shrine stood watch, no harm was ever going to come to me in its land. 

In the days that passed, I saw the Shwedagon Pagoda several times; from the glass window of my hotel room, every time I drove past it to reach downtown and even when I shifted into my new house, almost an hour away away from the Ar Za Nir street, where the pagoda was located. I saw it every single day and I could sense the strange feeling of guilt starting to rise within me. After all, it had been more than a month since I treaded it's very streets, a month since it welcomed me, embraced me and yet I had still not found time to pay homage to the shrine that epotimised the very warmth and serenity that defined the city of Yangon. I knew it was time, time for the much awaited divine rendezvous.

   The Shwedagon Pagoda at 325 feet tall towers over the entire city of Yangon

A Divine Intervention

Though the pagoda is open for tourists from 6 am to 10pm, it is best recommended to see the Shwedagon during sunrise and sunset. Because it is at these times one can see the golden pagoda glimmer in all it's glory, thanks to the 1800 carat (76 being the largest) diamond orb located at the top, comprising 4351 diamonds that captures the rays of the sun, reflecting it beautifully and making the entire stupa glisten in the light. So following my friend's advice and to save myself from Yangon's scorching heat, I arrived at its footsteps at 5.00 pm, almost an hour before sunset. I had waited too long and I wasn't going to miss seeing the shrine at it's very best; just before, during and after sunset. 

   The Shwedagon Pagoda made out of over hundreds of gold

   plates is seen glistening in the setting sun 

Just like most temples back in India, here too, the very first thing we had to do was remove our slippers before entering. But unlike temples back home, here there were no angry guards to yell at me or discard me as a mere sinner when I accidently treaded into its premises with my slippers on. (Even after living here a whole month, the locals' lack of aggression and plentiful amount of patience still seem to amaze me). There was no shouting and no angry stares, but just a polite gesture to remove my slipper and place it in my handbag before I went in through security.

The locals' lack of aggression should never be misunderstood as a sign of weakness and it should always be remembered that the pagoda is a place of worship

Despite the lack of aggression, it must be noted that this place is sacred and must be approached with utmost respect. Though it is absolutely fine to wear jeans and t shirts, one is expected to dress modestly keeping their arms and legs covered and nothing short or disrespectful is permitted. The entry for locals was free, but we had to pay an entry fee of $5 (8000 kyat) each. What was amazing was that despite being one the most visited attractions in Myanmar, seeing over 1000 tourists every day, there were no long queues, unecessary security check points or chaotic traffic jams at the entrance, making the entry as peaceful as the tiled premises encircling the pagoda. 

   With my daughter at Shwedagon Pagoda

There are several entrances to the shwedagon pagoda. If you don't mind a bit of a climb, you can chose between the over hundreds of steps on the south, west, north or eastern entrance (south being the most preferred and having the least number of steps). Though the shopoholic in me, would have preferred to take the eastern entrance that houses a number of souvenir shops, tea stalls and interesting bazaars, the mommy in me decided to stick to the easiest option of taking the elevators at the southern entrance. And though I was a bit disappointed that I missed out on all the shopping, I was glad to find myself right at the footstep of the 150 year old Bodhi tree. 

The 114 acre sprawling land also houses a number of temples, prayer halls and Buddha statues

A total of five Bodhi trees planted all around as early as in the 1926 is regarded with utmost respect and reverence by the locals and the monks alike. And I couldn't help but consider myself lucky when one of the locals handed me a leaf from the Bodhi tree. It was only once I was handed the leaf did I realise that there were hardly any fallen leaf to be found lying around. Thankfully I was able to get just about three more for my friend, my daughter and my husband and couldn't help but think of it as a sign acknowledging and accepting my arrival.

Though one might need a guided tour to completely understand the significance and the story behind each of the innumerable gilded Buddha statues and hundreds of temples spread across the sprawling 114 acre sacred land, our little group of three chose to simply walk around to absorb the sanctity of this architectural wonder and grandeur of the several Buddha idols. But despite having a detailed map of the the Shewdagon and the entire evening, it was still not enough to offer our respects to the various Buddha images (The Padashin Buddha, Saetawmu Buddha, Sun-Moon Buddha, Shin Saw Pu's Buddha, Chan-Thar-Gyi Buddha, Dhamazedi Buddha, Shin Ma Htee's Buddha, and my personal favorite the Jade Buddha carved out of one piece jade and weighing a total of 324 kgs, to name a few) housed in the different prayer halls. 

Just after sunset, one can see the thousands of oil lamps circling the shrine, glimmering to life

However what we did have time for, was to simply marvel the sight of the thousands of oil lamps circling the shrine glimmering to life, hear the silent whispers of the hundreds of monks praying in the the gigantic shadows cast by the golden pagoda that towered over them and listen to the bustling of devotees as they offered flowers and washed the statues asking for forgiveness for their past sins and wishes for a prospective future. 

I was no devotee, my knowledge of the spiritual world rather limited to a few chants and rituals passed on from my grandmother and great grandmother, yet I couldn't help notice the feeling that had begin to well-up within me as I washed the planetary post that represented the day, my daughter was born. I wasn't sure how many times I was to wash the Buddha idol, the image of the guardian angel and the image of the animal that represented the day (I was only told much later that I was to do it 9 times). I wasn't sure which mantra I was to chant. All I did know was that something changed within me as I sat cross legged engrossed in the sheer beauty that stood in front of me. I knew right away...I may have treaded into its premises an atheist, but was leaving a believer. 

Treading the streets of Yangon

By Aswathy Kumar

I still remember the glee on my face when my husband told me we were to stay at a lavish five star hotel for two whole weeks. We had just moved to Yangon.The packing, the travel, the shifting and all the stress that came with a change of location was done. We were finally here and it was time to relax and enjoy all the perks that came with a big move.

I was neither a spendthrift nor a spoilt housewife. Yet I felt no ounce of guilt when I saw my husband swipe his credit card at the hotel reception. I needed it. Felt I deserved it. After all it was only a meager paycheck for all that I had to endure living in a developed nation like the USA. Two years, two long years I had spent mopping, vacuuming, organizing play dates, cooking and what not and it was finally payback time!

I no longer had to cook or make beds in the morning. Instead an extravagant breakfast awaited me every morning at the restaurant cafe. Cinnamom buns, honey glazed croissants, pecan crusted donuts adorned the baker's aisle followed by delicacies from every South East Asian country one could possibly think of. There was the Singaporean Kaya toast, a traditional breakfast dish comprising sweet coconut and egg jam spread over bread, Rice and Maldivian fish curry, Chinese pork dumplings followed by Masala Dosa and parippu vada from my very own home state of Kerala. The sumptuous breakfast was often followed by a movie session and hours and hours of lounging around at the rooftop pool sipping chilled raspberry Mojitos. Life couldn't get any better than this or so I thought.

I had done this routine for three whole days. But then something strange happened. The very same delicacies, the posh lounge bars and the glittery chandeliers began to bore me. The array of different flavored cheesecakes at the bakery, the

free flowing lattes and the mochas or the exquisite teak wood furniture in my master suite failed to excite me. I was bored of the luxury that I so yearned for in the past two years. it was time, I thought. Time to step out of the glitzy shell and explore the streets of Yangon. Time for some reality check, I thought!

    Street eats outside Bogyoke Market

Bogyoke Market

My first stop was obvious being the shopaholic that I was and it's proximity to the Traders hotel that I was staying at. It was going to be the famous Bogyoke Market.

No tourist visit to Yangon is considered complete without stopping by this famous market, also know by it's English name, Scott's market.

Agreed the Aung San Road, where the market is located was way more chaotic than I had expected. Or maybe not!  Maybe It was the clean, beautifully landscaped and snooty pavements of DC that had spoilt me. I had forgotten the noise of honking cars and overloaded buses. I had forgotten the sound of kids playing a game of ball on a lazy afternoon or the sound of an elderly vendor spitting paan on the already tobacco smeared walls.

It was no different from any of the famous shopping streets back in New Delhi, that I had grown up with. It felt nostalgic as I slowly made way through the different vendors selling various varieties of fruits, fried food, old second hand books in Burmese and little tea stalls selling biscuits stored in glass bottles along with a number of other baked delicacies. It was chaotic but I loved it.

One of the scariest part for an expat like me in Yangon was the fact that there was no proper pedestrian crossings or traffic lights and here no one was in a mood to stop no matter how long you waited. So it was a big relief to see that there was a huge bridge for pedestrians to crossover to the other side of the road, leading straight to the market.

   Trying on the traditional Longyi

 Now if it is your first time here, I would recommend starting with the central part of the market. Not only is it cleaner and a bit less chaotic than the other sections, it also houses all that a tourist would potentially want to buy in Yangon. From jewelry made out of different types of stones like jade and turquoise, hand woven lungis and colorful flip-flops to paintings by local artists to my personal favorite; shops selling exquisite lacquerware and wooden and metal religious artifacts.

Ask any woman, what you should pick up while in Myanmar and you can almost be certain that she will answer with a glint in her eyes 'the rubies'. Though there are several high-end and pricey gems and jewelry stores spread out all through the city, the locals feel that the Bogyoke market is equally a great option when it comes to buying authentic rubies. Though one can never be a hundred percent sure in either of the two cases, I would recommend going for the latter especially as I personally believe when it comes to authenticity it is all in the mind. Here you can find beautiful pieces of necklaces, bangles and earrings in rubies, jade and sapphire at a really good bargain. If you prefer, designing your own jewelry, there are several shops on the top floor selling just the stones. 

    My favorite buys! the traditional Myanmar umbrellas 

Unlike the street markets in India where shopkeepers would hover over around you and literally badger you with their goods, here there is no such thing. And I felt perfectly safe walking around in circles with my curious six year old daughter, who made it a point to touch every single artifact displayed in the front of the shops. But here people had no complaints and responded affectionately with a smile or a friendly pat on her tangled curly hair. 

Unlike India, People here are calmer, welcoming and pleasant making it a blissful experience for anyone new. So unlike in Delhi where I would recommend tourists to bring their A-game when it comes to their bargaining skills, here in Myanmar, I would advice you to be gentle and less aggressive. 

   My dream buy, Saphire, Rubi &Emerald Necklace: Vikram are you listening?

A few hours of callously longing around the market and a quick lunch of chicken curry noodles at a nearby Singaporean restaurant for less than $5, it was time to head back to the hotel. As I opened up my plastic bag, exposing a printed blue loungyi, a pair of neon pink flip flops and a sparkly spring bracelet that I had picked up for my daughter, I could see the beige colored walls of the Bogyoke Market through my bedroom window. There was nothing glossy or glamorous about the ancient building; quite unlike the brand new Parksons Mall that lay right adjacent to it. But she was unique, she was charming and full of character unlike any other shopping markets in the city. And I couldn't wait to tread its streets yet again.

The divine kiss

Amidst the crowd, noise and the chaos stands a shrine so tall, one that can only be best described as an epitome of love, faith and serenity. #shwedagon pagoda #yangon

Min. gla. lar. par Myanmar

By Aswathy Kumar

 

It had been four days since I landed in the city of Yangon, Myanmar. Well two if I leave out the number of days I lay passed out in my king sized bed in my hotel suite. And who could blame me? I had travelled over 8000 miles at a stretch for the very first time in my life. I was jet lagged and thoroughly exhausted. I knew that the travel enthusiast in me was more than eager to step out of the extravagant cocoon that I lay in; It's colorful decals, dark wooden paneled walls and printed silk upholstery hardly bearing any resemblance to the chaotic streets of Yangon that lay stretched out in front of me. Except for a brief rendezvous through the glass windows of my pretentious suite, she lay untouched, unexplored and mysterious.

But I knew it had to wait. I had no reason to worry. After all I was no tourist here and my visa wasn't going to expire after 28 days. This was to be home for the next three years and there was no rush. And if Yangon was anything like the grey tarnished buildings I saw through my bedroom window, menacingly symbolic of the turmoil in its past, I knew I needed all the energy I could muster. Understanding her wasn't going to be easy. I could tell.

So after 36 hours of sleep, I was ready to finally find out what the city of Yangon had to offer. I knew she wouldn't disappoint. I had already caught a glimpse of her warmth as I stepped out of the airport into our hotel taxi. There were seven sets of hands that had gathered around us to help load our luggage into the backseat. I had experienced the same eagerness to help, back home in India. But unlike in India, here even clad inappropriately in leopard printed tights and a laced top, I neither felt intruded, threatened nor violated. There was no expectation of a heavy tip, instead just a sheer joy in helping out a foreigner, entering into their undiscovered land.

My faith in the Myanmar people was further reiterated a few days later as I lay by the pool at The Traders Hotel. I was still jet lagged and my daughter insisted on spending the afternoon by the pool. She gleefully splashed around as I lay disinterested glancing through 'The lonely planet'. A few seconds later, I saw that one of the hotel staff had quickly gone to her side to make sure she wasn't alone. He sat beside the pool in his tangerine colored polo and rust-brown shorts. I could tell he couldn't be anything older than 22 and entertaining a six year old was far from his list of duties or priorities. But he was there, crouching right next to her, giving her free swim lessons, fetching the paddle board for the umpteenth number of time and tapping her back as she accidently gulped a handful of the chlorine water? If this was DC, it would have cost me a hefty $30 tip and if it was India, I would have worried if he was nothing less of a perve. But not here. Despite its turbulent history, a strange sense of positivity, faith and trust surrounded me. 

I knew nothing about this serene, raw and spectacular city. My knowledge of the Myanmar cuisine, limited to the salty monk fish balls or Khao swe, I had at a local restaurant; it's language to mere two words, Min ga lar par (hello) and  Kyeizu be (thank you) that I had picked up from a collegue; Of its people, to the smiling longyi (the traditional sarong worn by both men and women) clad, sparsely mustached cab driver at the airport, to the Burmese girl with the thanaka ( a paste made from ground bark to protect the skin from the heat) smeared face selling fried quail eggs outside the Bogyoke Market or the friendly pool assistant who cheered on my little one as she showed off a new dive she had mastered. 

My knowledge of Myanmar was limited, hardly any. But it was enough and I knew I was going to be fine. I was home...Well almost!

Stuck between a nightmare and a dream! Reliving the Nairobi terror

By Aswathy Kumar

I'm stuck in between a nightmare and a dream

I'm paralyzed, Lord, I can't get free

Asleep or awake I just can't walk away

From all of my favorite memories

I'm stuck in between a nightmare and a dream

- Kyle Park

It was like any other saturday morning. The elaborate breakfast on the dining table of bacon, eggs and pancakes proved so. We were rushing. There was a 12 'o clock movie we wanted to catch. And as usual we were running late. 

My husband was in the shower and I could hear my nanny fussing over my daughter as she tried to tame her curls with innumerable butterfly clips. I was busy stuffing my bag with all the baby essentials.

Juice in case she gets thirsty

Biscuits in case she gets hungry

A jacket in case she gets cold

And a colouring book in case she gets bored

The day was going to be the usual. I could tell. First a movie at our favourite cinema hall, an extensive South Indian meal at Haandi Udipi, our favorite restaurant at the food court, a few hours of callously lounging around at the book store, sipping Java coffee and a quick stop at Nakumatt, the supermarket before leaving, to stock up on our weekly groceries.

As always the mall was packed. 'Now this is why I hate coming to this place. Parking is such a nightmare,' my husband complained as he made way between jam packed cars. I could not understand what he was stressing about. We came here every saturday and it was the same old story and we loved it anyway, with all it's chaos and charm.

  

For a change, we parked across the street, instead of our usual parking spot on the top level. There was something going on. I could see white tents adorned with colourful balloons and massive crowds gathered around. 'Must be something for kids,' I thought. I better not let my daughter see it cos she would want to spend the whole day there and I wasn't going to miss my movie.

Though I managed to steer clear of the tents, it was impossible to keep her away from the mini musical carousels that aligned one end of the food court. She had been here way too many times and very well knew where her favourite spots were. My husband made a face. The noisy rides that ate away all his stocked up coins annoyed him. 'We are going to miss the movie,' he warned me.

I knew I had to let her on the carousel. It was her favourite and not doing so would be criminal. 'Fine, I said but just one okay, while I go get the tickets,' I kissed her and my husband.

As I slowly walked away, I could see how ecstatic she was. My husband was loving it too, enjoying their little alone time together. Amidst the loud Katy Perry song that resounded in the background, I could hear the little tune the carousel made as it began to move up and down.I could see she was laughing now. Her tummy must be feeling ticklish and my husband sure must be adding to the fun by tickling it a little more.

That was the last thing I saw. Because then came darkness, a loud noise followed by a deafening silence.

I woke up in the middle of the night covered in sweat. And for the first time in two years, I felt glad that I woke up in my cold apartment in DC, rather than my cosy house back in Nairobi that till date, I had called my home. Both my husband and my daughter lay peacefully right beside me. There was no noise except their silent breaths and the sound of the cicada coming from outside. 

It was three days since I had first read about the terror that broke out at Nairobi's Westgate mall. All our friends back in Nairobi were safe and I was miles and miles away from the horror. Yet I couldn't sleep and the nightmares wouldn't stop. I didn't know why? But I felt like a victim, felt I was right there in the midst of it all.

               

                    (The mini musical play area at Westgate)

When I had declared my feelings to a friend, she had rebuffed my fears, saying these things could happen anywhere and that the world had seen even bigger tragedies. And yes it sure has. But then what was it about this particular incident that traumatized me so much? I wondered. 

Was it the fact that I knew each and every corner of this particular mall? That each corner be it the movie theatre, home goods store or book shop, held a special place in my heart. Was it because it was at this mall, I first saw my daughter jump on a trampoline, the first time I ever gambled at a casino, the first time I entered a ball pit and the place where I bought my very first piece of kazuri jewelry. 

Westage was the first mall we visited after we moved to Nairobi and I still remember the strange sense of relief I felt as I walked into the upscale glittery complex. I still remember the joy I felt as I saw a couple of Gujarati women clad in saris pass by me, how I felt when I heard them whisper in Hindi. The happiness I felt when I saw an American at the next table in the food court being served a massive paper masala dosa or the poster of my favourite Bollywood actor plastered across the walls of the fancy cinema hall. I was miles away from my home in India and yet I felt as though I had a little piece of it, right there with me. 

    (The food court that housed one of our favourite eating joints in Nairobi)

Maybe it was all these memories. The number of gossips and laughs shared with my darling friends Lubna and Zara, innumerable casino nights with Santosh and Gayatri or movie sessions with Lini and Biju. Maybe it was because a little piece of me was still left behind, stuck somewhere in between.

Maybe it was just the fear of 'what if' or 'what could have been' that haunted me. Maybe it was the fact that every time I saw a photo of the ongoing terror, I searched for familiar faces. No one looked familiar, yet I felt like I knew them. The man in the light blue uniform could have been the one who billed me at Nakumatt; the little girl holding the shopping bag could have been the one who smiled at my daughter, the first time she nervously entered the ball pit; the lady in the red apron coud have been the one who served me my very first cappuccino when I first arrived in the city. 

This was my home, my people and always will be.  

I don't know why but I feel like I cannot breathe

I feel so paralyzed, 

As though I am stuck somewhere between a nightmare and a dream...

 (A stop at  Nakumatt, the supermarket and a cup of java coffee to go was always a must before exiting the mall)

Beyond the verses

<<I confirm the subscription of this blog to the Paperblog service under the usernameaswathykumar>>.

By Aswathy Kumar

I recently started volunteering at an NGO that educates and promotes the culture and heritage of Azerbaijan. I knew nothing aboutAzerbaijan and honestly when  I saw the job posting on the internet, I had to literally go online and find out its exact location. Okay! I agree, I am not proud of my ignorance especially since I consider myself to be among the intelligent group of women who literally dozes off in the company of those who can't think beyond their hair and nails. But this time I was guilty. Except for the fact that it was an Islamic country near Turkey, I knew nothing about this place.

So why did I apply? I must confess that the whole reason why I was online looking for opportunities was because I wanted to get out of my house. I was done being a housewife and it was time to get to work. And since I had to wait at least six months for a work permit, volunteering was the only option I had.

'So why Karabakh Foundation?' The director of the foundation sat across me asking me the reason I was there. I had the answer planned in my head. After all, I had rehearsed it a couple of times before my interview. I would brag about my journalistic experiences and the fact that I am a traveler who loves exploring new countries. I would talk about my experiences in Turkey and how it had fascinated me. I would show how desperately I wanted to know about this exotic country, I knew nothing about. But the only answer that I managed to utter was, 'I am fascinated with Islam?' My answer seemed to surprise me more that it seemed to have surprised the director.

As I walked back home, I kept replaying what I had said in my mind. 'I was fascinated with Islam?'  What did I mean?

The following week, I started working. I loved knowing about this new country. I learned about its rich cultural history. I learned all about the great works of Nasimi and Fuzuli. I learned about the Russo-Persian Wars. I learned about Shamakhi dancers depicted in Gagarin's paintings and how he compared these gypsy dancers from Shamakhi to the Indian Devdasis, who used dance as a sign of worship. I learnt all about the interesting Azeri cuisine which I felt had a lot in common with our Indian cuisine. I learnt how Azeris too use several spices like fennel, bay leaf and cinnamon used extensively in Indian cooking. Like Indians, dishes were cooked in earthen pots and copper ware. And both Indians and Azeris marinated their meats in yogurt, lemon and spices. The only difference however was that they did so for different reasons. While the Azerbaijanis believed that doing so would reduce the fat content in their food, for the Indians it was just to add extra flavor (let's admit it...we don't really care about our health now do we?)

In short, I was loving my new job. I was real excited when we had a big event at the foundation where we were welcoming the Ambassador of Azerbaijan to the United States, Elin Suleymanov. I felt happy to be in a work environment and stand with a notepad and a pen taking down notes. I met several interesting people that day and many had questioned my reason for joining the foundation. After all I was the only Indian there.  And every time anybody asked me,the only reason I could give them was that I was fascinated with Islam? I said it over and over again. But this time I could give them my reasons.

Celebrating Eid in Nairobi (2009)

It's true my book shelf was filled with books in the likes of 'The blood of flowers', 'writing on my forehead', 'almond', 'thousand splendid sons' amongst many other similar Muslim stories but there was something else that had drawn me towards it.

A few days later I sat in  an Indian friend's car trying to explain the reasons for my interest. But in just a matter of few seconds of mentioning, I was bombarded or should I say bullied with cliched terms like male dominance, women oppression, dogmas and religious intolerance.

Agreed there are a lot of things about this religion I dont understand, relate to or even agree with. But that goes the same for Hinduism or Christianity as far as I am concerned. When I say Islam fascinates me, it does not mean I agree that a man should be allowed to bring in another wife or I agree that a woman should not be given the freedom to show her face in public. No!

 What many don't understand or realize is that the religious aspect and the dogmas are  just a part of any religion.  But there  is a whole cultural part that many completely tend to ignore. After all isn't this the very same religion that has produced some of the greatest poets of all times like Rumi, Firdawsi and Hafiz. Isn't this the very same religion that has given us some of the most amazing architectural wonders...be it the Istiqlal Mosque in Jakarta or our very own Taj Mahal. Forget history and poetry...isn't this the very same religion that has given us the best of musicians, artists and painters our country has every known.

I am not a muslim and definitely no expert on Islam. And I do agree that there are many aspects about it that I don't approve. But that goes with any religion. I am a Hindu and proud of it. But that does not mean I agree with the whole concept of literally bribing god every time we want something done. Isn't that what happens in the famous temples in our country where offerings are made even in gold so that we get what we want.

Diwali 2011: With Zara and Lubna

For me when I think about Islam, all I can think of is my ever smiling burkha clad Zara back in Nairobi. A mother of three, a Somali yet with a child like innocence I had never seen before. When I think of Islam, I think about my Lubna, scrolling through the beaches of Mombasa clad in her Dolce Gabbana Mini skirt...full of energy, full of life. For all those who use synonyms like hatred and intolerance...let me tell you this...It is these women who taught me the meaning of love, courage, strength and friendship.