india: 26 posts

My travels in Pakistan started in Sindh, the third-largest province of the country. The ancient Persians referred to the land east of the river Indus as hind and the word Sindh was their variation on the Sanskrit, Sindhu, meaning ‘river.’ Wherever you are in Sindh, you’re conscious of the great river that still defines the place, its geography and mindset. I would follow the Indus throughout Sindh, and when I finally deviated from its course, I missed the river and its mighty presence. It cast its spell on me as surely as it did on Alexander the Great who conquered Sindh in 325 BCE and referred to the river as Indós.

I miss many things from Sindh besides the river: the friendly disposition of its people, the stunning historical sites that make ancient Greek ruins seem modern, the bejeweled shrines, the sandstone temples. I also missed Sindhi flavors, the unique combination that reminded me more of refined Persian cuisine than the earthy flavors of the neighboring Punjab.

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My mother-in-law rubbed a piece of pink colored wood on a rough stone until it turned to paste.  My husband and I were about to travel back to Europe, and in the Hindu custom, my mother-in-law performed a puja, an act of worship, to ensure our safe journey. She lit joss sticks around the deities and dabbed some of the paste on the figurines of gods arranged on her small altar and then on our foreheads. The fragrance of sandalwood rose in the warm air. Many hours later as I sat on the airplane, the creamy, floral perfume lingered around me, carrying with it the memory of a caring touch.

In Indian paintings you can sometimes spot curious image of snakes curving sensually around sandalwood trees. According to legend, the tree releases such a beautiful scent that serpents are charmed by it. More than a pleasing aromatic, sandalwood is a means to feel closer to the divine, for all creatures alike. This is the reason why Vedic religious rites, from birth to death, are accompanied by this precious wood.

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“On 5 August last year, I was finalising the itinerary for my upcoming trip to Kashmir. The same day, the Indian government revoked its special (limited) autonomous status, which the Muslim-majority state had held since joining the Union in 1947. The government then imposed a security lockdown, cut communication lines and restricted travel. I’m neither a reckless risk taker nor an irrepressible optimist, but I didn’t cancel my trip. I knew it was foolish to hope that the situation in the Kashmir Valley – a place whose borderland status between India and Pakistan has seen it become a violent battleground over the decades – would stabilise in time for my journey a mere month away, but I was obsessed. The reason? A piece of fabric so weightless and yet so warm that it seems to defy all laws of science. I wanted to meet the artisans and learn how real Kashmiri shawls were made. The escalating conflict only increased my resolve for a glimpse of this rare art that is under threat of vanishing.”

The article “How To Save the Kashmiri Shawl,” which appeared in last week’s issue of Financial Times magazine, is the result of my journey to India. I was determined to use whatever means I could to talk to the artisans and to understand why this craft is so meaningful to them. As I’ve learned, weaving has a venerated status in Kashmir. As a crossroads, Kashmir developed its culture through interactions with other people and traditions, and the Kashmiri shawl is the perfect example of this intricate synthesis.

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La canicule, the heatwave, has reached Brussels, with temperatures in the city these days exceeding those of Delhi. Unlike in India, life in Belgium is not designed for a hot climate. Air conditioners are a rare item in most households. The buildings trap heat. The large windows turn apartments into greenhouses. Last night I was dreaming that I was sleeping on the edge of an exploding volcano. It might as well have been our bedroom.

Trying to retain sanity in this heat, I turned to classical Delhi remedies. Since escaping to the cool mountain resorts in Darjeeling wasn’t in the cards, I made a refreshing fennel seed sherbet, saunf ka sharbat.

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My saris are my personal archaeological layers. The turquoise and saffron one was bought from a market in Pune on my very first trip to India. The magenta one with the border of gold thread woven into the peacock pattern came from a cavernous shop in Gujarat, where I sat in a hot daze surrounded by towering stacks of silks. The hot pink one with the silver embroidery was a nod to Mumbai fashions circa 2005 picked up on a whim, along with matching bangles. The sienna and orange one was given to me on my wedding day by my parents-in-law.

My saris live in a box and I wear them only when I’m in India. Here, in Belgium, they don’t feel right. A sari needs the context–the music, the movement, the heat, the chaos of an Indian wedding. So I spread them out on the furniture to enjoy their colors, but I drape myself in a sari-like perfume of layers and folds. Like Neela Vermeire’s Niral, for instance.

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