I’m in Edirne now, close to the border with Greece, this is, a girl named Ipek, türk word for silk, has hosted us in her flat during some days and nights. Ipek, a skinny girl with long black hair, very straight manners and a bit temperamental; a friend of friends from Greece that I lived with in London, a fan of the Peter Murphy kind of thing, Bauhaus, The Cure, Smashing Pumpkins, and her boyfriend, Doğan, more into the local rap thing, Sagopa Kajmer, Allâme, and a certain Cem Filiz, (the “C” you read “J” in türk), stage name Cem Adrian, chosen after Adrianople, the original name of Edirne in ancient times. And, as it goes, I get to know that the brother of Ipek is in Berlin at the moment, living at the flat of friends, friends that also know me from places. So, after some days dwelling around a pot of weed, stories about friends stranded in different European cities, some of them without documents, runs to the local market, the “en yakın bakkal”, to buy oranges, eggs, bread, cheese, beer, some tahini, and a lot of çay and türk kahvesis on the side, now here we go, already pushing through the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, watching all those fancy stalls selling cubes of exotic sweets, embroidered jewelry, pots of spices and scents, and also the hodgepodge of rugs there on the back, watching us. So, as we go through, teasing the store/stall keepers, scaring the tourists, we manage to get something for free. Further, on the way out, some kids ask us money, and I give them stones, and then, there we go… along some alleys that make me feel as if we are still in the medieval times, something like that, maybe the browns with weevil… or perhaps, the waxed yellows, and then, as we get into some more squares with mosques on the right and on the left, and a quarter of each mosque, almost always, looking not visible. And so, it is late now, the shops are closing down, but they still invite us to see this or that. Then, we can hear the call for praying coming from the various hills around, speeches running over each other in a sentimental redemption kind of manner, some of them up-tone, plus the quaint scratches from the rudimentary sound-systems. Then, two travestis approach us, offering free sex, and so there we go inside one of those mosques, rolling on the carpets, disappearing into the tracery. Back to Eminonu, there is a harbor here, and I wanted to know what sea is this, but they say this is not a sea, they say this is the Haliç, a channel, and I ask from where is this channel coming from and they say something I can't really understand. Then, I read in wikipedia that “There were three notable times when the chain across the Golden Horn (Haliç) was either broken or circumvented. In the 10th century the Kievan Rus' dragged their longships out of the Bosphorus, around Galata, and relaunched them in the Horn; the Byzantines defeated them with Greek fire. In 1204, during the Fourth Crusade, Venetian ships were able to break the chain with a ram. In 2 1453, Ottoman Sultan Mehmed II, having failed in his attempt to break the chain with brute force, instead used the same tactic as the Rus'; towing his ships across Galata over greased logs and into the estuary. And so, here we go again, already crossing Galata bridge, jumping over the fishermen’ fires… then, going up the Galip Dede Caddesi, experimenting all that middle-eastern instruments from the many music shops along this steepy street debouching at the beginning of İstiklal Caddesi in Beyoğlu (son of a Beg/prince), an uptown part of the city. Now opening my way through the clusters of dark eyed people walking in both ways, expressions full of drama, boredomness and over excitement. Easterns, westerns, southerns, even some nordics, trying not to attract too much attention, but failing in their intention. I advance quickly throwing looks to this multitude of faces, but without losing too much time with any of them. Then, in a corner of a transverse street, I see a rotten building with a graffitied rabbit saying “hype”. Further, I surpassed the police squad in front of the Swedish embassy. I bypass the onlookers. I overtake some pale tourists staring at the showcases with Turkish delights. And now, on my left, there is an interesting attraction, that is, sited on the floor, an old man, a peasant, is surrounded by cats of several colors and creeds, and in front of him is a white scale, so, the cats are going over it and weighing themselves and the man are actually speaking with the tailed ones while throwing animated looks to the passer-byes. Iphones registering the situation. Coins rolling through the floor. And me, again, rolling among the mob, trying to get out of it, an impracticable attempt. And so, yes, I’m so sure as you that most of these people are Arabs, but Arabs from several kinds. Fat ones, from Dubai and Saudi-Arabia, oil exploiters accompanied by their princesses with colorful scarves on the head and that kind programmated shyness on their eyelashes. Iranian escapees, trying to pass as indelibly as possible. Russians coming here only for gambling. Haunted Europeans. And disguised Americans, slightly surprised with the debauchery. Then, we can see ice-cream sellers making odd percussion noises with their metal pincers, and garbage collectors making poses in front of it. “Buyrun–Buyrun–Buyrun - come in - come by - and how big is your desire for meat?”, someone from the kebab shops means to say… and I, ignoring all this, winking my eye to the chestnut and bagel sellers, their trolleys covering the facade of modern bank agencies. Then, one more ultrachic commercial center with I don't know how many tea houses that also sell disturbed chicken. And one more Baklava shop with an exchange-money store attached, and a guy playing the clarinet at the entrance of it, and on the side, a couple of guitarists misunderstanding what is rock-n-roll. Further, in the passage under the Pera museum, gypsy boys with their darbukas and this mustached old man, a bone bag, Armenian I guess, playing the kamanc(j)a, like a flea. I superpass him, I surpass the French consulate and finally I find myself at the Taksim square. I stare at the people entering taxis and I go around the Cumhuriyet Anıtı (Republic Monument), a statue designed by the Italian sculptor Pietro Canonica, I read here, portraying the founders of the Turkish Republic, with prominent depictions of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, the founder of the republic, İsmet İnönü, a statesman, and Fevzi Çakmak, a field Mareşal. The monument has two sides, the side facing north depicts Atatürk in military uniform during the Turkish War of Independence, while the side facing south (towards İstiklal Avenue) has Atatürk and his comrades dressed in modern Western clothing. So, as I turn around the statue I find a guy leaning against the fence of the monument, I look at him and straight way he bends down and starts unpacking some stuff he wanna show to me, so, this is, inside the cardboard boxes there are some small flasks, and he is showing it to me now, I see, it’s fragrances: fig blossoms with jasmine, rose blossoms with citrus fruits, saffron blossoms with cloves… things like that… then he starts to say something in turk I can't understand… and I leave the place. Down Beşiktas I go until the water, then I turn left and pass under the First Bosphorus Bridge, officially known as the 15 July Martyrs Bridge, someone tell me, onbeş Temmuz Şehitler Köprüsü, one of the three bridges over the Bosphorus connecting Europe and Asia, and this someone also tells me that if I keep going straight thirty kilometers after I will reach the mouth of the Bosphorus, and the black sea, so I’m a bit confuse now, how many seas does Istanbul have afterall? I ask myself… But I keep going, walking by the water, and after a while I reach the Naile Sultan garden, so, I jump inside and there I find the gardener leaning against some kind of tree, an empty bourgeois house on the back, and some lame dogs around. It turns that the gardener speaks french, and he begins by telling me about a couple of adjacent grooves to this garden, the Naciye Sultan Grove in the north, the Halide Hanım Grove in the northeast, the Emin Vafi Grove in the south, and the Portakal Slope in the west. And so, about this garden where we are now, he tells me that Naile, was the daughter of a pasha, then exiled abroad, and the grove, which is still private property today, is not open to the public, so I should not be here, and then he present me some cypresses, some mahalebs, some buckthorns, some linden, flowering ash and turk magnolias. Further I pass by the Rumelihisarı, also known as Rumelian Fortress, a medieval Ottoman fortress with the goal of cutting off maritime military and logistical relief that could potentially come to the Byzantines' aid by way of the Bosphorus Strait, hence the fortress's alternative name, "Boğazkesen", "Strait-cutter'' Castle. And it has a older sister, called Anadoluhisari (Anatolian Fortress), that sits on the opposite banks of the Bosporus, and more I get to know that the two fortresses worked in tandem during the final siege of Constantinople, and then, after the Ottoman conquest of the city, Rumelihisarı served as a customs checkpoint. So, in the meanwhile I get in a conversation with a girl from this middle class neighborhood, Bebek, she lives here but also has a house in one of the prince inlands, “Burgazada, do you know it?”; “yes, I have heard about it…” and then I tell her that my name is Giotto and I’m from Malta, the Mediterranean inland, and she frowns, with stupefaction, saying that this is the first time she meets someone from Malta. And after she wants to know more about the street life, and I ask her about this book of Orhan Pamuk she have under her armpit, and she says that the protagonist, an Istanbul lawyer named Galip, finds one day that his wife Rüya ("dream") has mysteriously left him with very little explanation, and so, he wanders around the city looking for his clues to her whereabouts. “Hum, I see…” I say, “but is it a dark story?” I ask and then she tries to explain, but I can't get it, cause a couple of tourists are coming by to ask questions, and then they leave and I ask this girl again, her name Gabriella, I ask her about the plot of the book but she seems reticent in telling me anything, she rather tells me that “You can borrow me the book when I finish it, and then you can see it with own mind”. But I say no thanks. “Actually I don't like to read”, I confess. “Hum, so if you don't like to read, why are you asking these questions?”; “Well, I like stories, that is, I like images I guess, I like to watch people, I think I prefer movies more than books...”; “I see” she says, and then she asks me “What's your favorite movie?” and there we go, talking about movies and mixing it with real life, while passing under the Second Bosphorus Bridge, the “Fatih Sultan Mehmet” Bridge. Then, together we go to visit the Sait Halim Pasha Mansion, “being Halim Pasha a Ottoman statesman of Albanian origin, who served as Grand Vizier of the Ottoman Empire from 1913 to 1917, one of the perpetrators of the Armenian genocide and later assassinated as part of the Operation Nemesis” she says, “a retribution campaign to kill perpetrators of the Armenian genocide”. And more, the guy at the reception says that this Mehmed Said Halim was born at the palace of Shubra in Cairo, Egypt, to another Muhammad something, the founder of the Khedive of Egypt and we discuss what is in fact a Khedive… Then I leave them with their historical suppositions and make my way to Kireçburnu bay, which is already part of the Sarıyer neighborhood, the last neighborhood of Istanbul before reaching the black sea. So, I wander through this karmaşık green area called “Milli Parklar Kuş Gözlem Kulesi” this is, “Bird Observation Tower hill”, I go down, I go up, I lose myself and finally I reach Garipçe (strange makers)... a small isolated village at the mouth of the Bosphorus. So, I wonder about the ruins of the old fortifications by the sea. I go down the cliff to the water, and I say my prayers, I make a friend and then, and then, I lose him… so, I come back to the village being followed by black eyed dogs and then, I sit on the esplanade of an old cafe with a view over the port, staring at the men moving the containers, down there… while getting drunk. And then, it’s late, it’s night, so the bar is about to close, but the barman, a skinny man with a thin mustache, getting aware that I’m the last client here, decides to invite me to his house, and so, there we go… together we drink rakia all night long while speaking about women, and, at the same time, playing some kind of table games, mixing the pieces, recreating the rules, changing the symbols, exchanging the amounts… This is, in the morning I manage to cross the mouth of the Bosphorus on a small fishing boat and once I get in Poyraz, I instantly get a ride with a gas delivery man, a funny guy that will drop me close to the Kuzey Marmara Otoyolu, a big motorway going east. And so, as I walk on it, I get a ride with another car. The driver introduces himself as Mustafa, a retired police officer now running a chicken farm. And there we go, talking about eggs, chicken, cocks, turkeys and the reason why Turkey is called Turkey. And so, one thousand kilometers later, we reach the Sümela Monastery, in the Altindere Valley National Park, by the Karadağ (Black Mountain), and I don’t know what happened exactly here but next morning I’m waking up in a posh room with a disconcerting hangover. And now, I’m looking around, there are carpets on the walls with geometric-abstract motives and Arabic lettering, and a huge golden candelabrum is actually hanging from the roof, right over the bed, moving slowly. It can be an illusion but I don’t know… I'm getting afraid that this thing may fall straight over my head or over my chest… So, instantly, I jump out of the bed and there I go, running out of the room, and into the toilet I go, vomiting. But, there is no materia coming out, just that disgusting yellowish fluid. And then, I get back to the living room, still cleaning up my mouth and blinking like someone that has just awakened for the new world. That is, there is too much light entering this rich furnished room enclosed with geometric labyrinth patterns. And so, here I am, sitting on a luxurious sofa. On my front, a well presented man, with a thin mustache and a knot on the collar of his white sleeve shirt, talks without looking at me, looking to the walls, in a soften polished tone, as if he got honey under his tongue. “Haji Bektaş Veli, the Sultan of Hearts, the Derwish of the Dervishes, the pilgrim saint, a descendant of the seventh Shia Imam Musa Kazim, also called Abul Hasan, Abu Abd Allah, Abu Ibrahim, al-Kadhim, the one who controls his anger. Haji Bektash Veli, our spiritual father… before the world came into being.... in the hidden secrets of the nonexistence, I was alone with your oneness... and I’m becoming folded in garments made of the elements... I make my appearance out of fire, air, earth and water... I came into the world with the best of men, this is, I’m of the same age as Adam... and the blessed rod I gave to Moses… I became the Holy Spirit and I will come to Mary…. I was a guide to all the saints. To Gabriel the Faithful I was the right hand companion... Into this world of "being annihilated by God" I have often come and gone… and I have rained with the rain and I have grown as grass. I have guided aright the country of Rum. I was Bektash, who came from Khurasané”. And now, as he says these things, I’m feeling sick again, so I run back to the toilet coz I feel like vomiting again. And then, already inside the toilet, I’m now looking at my paleness in the mirror, and from here I still can hear that pastiche voice, this time even more groovy “Seek and find… coz, to search and investigate is an open exam... because a path without knowledge will end in darkness... and so, be in control of your hands, tongue and loins... and whatever you do, do it for the Truth... coz there exists in you a “there is” to replace every “there isn't.”... and the one that walks the Path never tires... because, there is no rank or station higher than the Friend's heart... and the one who is wise but doesn't share his wisdom is ignorant, and death will pursue him, because, there is no repentance of repentance.... so, let your heart and your hands be open to others.... look for the key to the whole within your deepest being... and, whatever you seek, do not forget that your enemy is also a human being... Think about this…The beauty of human beings is the beauty of their words... and so, If the path appears dark, know that the veil is in your own eyes... All blessings upon the one who overlooks another's shortcomings.... All blessings upon the one who makes a secret of secrets... Do not hurt others, even if you are hurt... Hand-in-hand, hand in Truth... One hour of meditation is better than seventy years of piety... Never desire fame, fame is disaster...” and then, as he finalized his speech, he turns his head to me and in a different tone, more humble, he says “Gunaydan”, this is “good morning”, and I say “Thank you for your kind words man, I liked them, even if I could not understand everything... but yeah... thank you for your advice... but tell me please,. where are we right now? And what I’m I doing here?”; “hum, the thing is, some friends brought you to me… they said you fell from the mountains and… and maybe you hit your head, but now you look better… anyway, you should go back to bed... I will bring you something…” And then, as he says these things, I stand up, tie up my shoes and begin to run around looking for a way out or so… and yes, I find it… so now, there I go, coming back the main road, but I will not walk for long time, in the meanwhile I get a ride in a old fashion Kuba motorcycle that will take me close to Trabzon, and then, once I passed Trabzon, I get another ride in a small car, a Mazda, with a young Greek/Turkish couple, we cross the Tea-Growing region of Rize, and later, when we reach the border with Georgia, they leave me there and so, I have to cross the border walking, and once again, already inside the Georgian territory, I get another ride with a camion driver, and the driver, also a turk man, will tell me a lot of bullshit about turkish politics and then I get off, and get another ride in a car with the driving wheel on the right side, and the driver, a Georgian middle age pop-eyed man, explain me that Georgia is a major re-export hub for cars. Dealers purchase second-hand cars from Japan and Europe, ship them to Georgia and then sell them here or transport them to neighboring countries, “that is my job”, he says with his weird throat sounds, proper from the Georgian language. And so, once in Tbilisi, I get the sensation that I'm in some northern city of Greece, I see Georgians as shy Greeks with a touch of the Russian thing, that’s my first impression of these people. And then, I end up in the sulphuric baths, in Abanotubani, a hill on the suburbs of the city, where according to a legend, the falcon of the King Vakhtang Gorgasali have fallen, this, leading to the discovery of the hot springs and, subsequently, contributing to the founding of a new capital. This area, not to be mistaken with the Iberian peninsula of Portugal and Spain, coz, in the Greco-Roman geography, Iberia was an exonym for the Georgian kingdom of Kartli, known after its core province, which during Classical Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages was a significant monarchy in the Caucasus. And so, at the top of the hill, on the back of Sulphuric baths, I manage to find some young Russians making a pik-nik, and so, I join them and we will talk about European-Russian politics while smoking that grass with sulfur. Then, someone asked me if I wanted some chacha, a kind of Georgian vodka, and we all drank it and then, down the mountain we went, until reaching the Kura River. And then, I find myself in Ganja, the third largest city in Azerbaijan, and in the meanwhile I get to know that the name “Ganja” derives from the Persian word gan, meaning "treasure" or "treasury". And again, I go digging into the wikipedia, and it says there that according to medieval Arabic sources, the city of Ganja was founded in 859–60 by Muhammad ibn Khalid ibn Yazid ibn Mazyad, the Arab governor of the region during the reign of the caliph Al-Mutawakkil, and so, he called the city like this because of a treasure unearthed there, that is, according to the legend, the Arab governor had a dream where a voice told him that there was a treasure hidden under one of the three hills around the area where he had camped. The voice told him to unearth it and use the money to found a city. He did so and informed the caliph about the money and the city. Caliph made Muhammad the hereditary governor of the city on the condition that he would give the money he found to the caliph. However, the Persian origin of Ganja's name suggests that there was an older pre-Islamic town there. According to some sources, it changed hands between Persians, Khazars and Arabs even in the 7th century. Historically an important city of the South Caucasus, Ganja has been part of the Sassanid Empire, the Great Seljuk Empire, the Kingdom of Georgia, the Atabegs of Azerbaijan, the Khwarezmid Empire, Il-Khans, Timurids, Qara Qoyunlu, Ak Koyunlu, the Safavid, the Afsharid, the Zand and the Qajar empires of Persia and Iran… and then, the people of Ganja experienced a temporary cultural decline after an earthquake in the eleven hundred century after Christ, when the city was taken by king Demetrius I of Georgia and its gates were taken as trophies which are still kept in Georgia, and again the same happened after the Mongol invasion in thirteenth century. And so, the city was revived after the Safavids came to power in the sixteenth century, and incorporated all of Azerbaijan and beyond into their territories. The city came under brief occupation by the Ottomans between 1578–1606 and 1723–1735 during the prolonged Ottoman-Persian Wars, but nevertheless stayed under intermittent Iranian suzerainty from the earliest 16th century up to the course of the 19th century, when it was forcefully ceded to neighboring Imperial Russia. And so, after some days moving around the harbor area of Baku, I managed to get aboard some crappy ship made of rotten cans, and then we moored somewhere on the Türkmenbashi Gulf, the west coast of Turkmenistan, that is, Awaza, that before was part of the Khanate of Khiva, now a deserted tourist zone commissioned by President Gurbanguly Berdimuhamedow who sought to imitate Dubai's development boom and Las Vegas pedantry. And so, now I wander around this area with piramidal hotels in the middle of nowhere, and then, as I enter one of them, I speak with the receptionist, a bored man named Pürli. He tells me that Awaza is finished, all these modern hotels will be demolished and the land will be converted into cotton fields, as part of an agenda to boost exports. And so, I managed to escape from there during the night, got in a camion transporting gas to Iran, the driver’s name is Şaja, and as it goes, we talk about flagellation and other mortification practices and then we compare these practices with the American wrestling shows. So, later, Şaja even tells about the Twelver Shīʿism, also known as Imāmiyya, the largest branch of Shīʿa Islam, comprising about eighty five percent of all Shīʿa Muslims. The term Twelver refers to its adherents' belief in twelve divinely ordained leaders, known as the Twelve Imams, and their belief that the last Imam, Imam al-Mahdi, lives in occultation and will reappear as the promised Mahdi, soon. Then as we drive by the border between Iran and Afghanistan, I see the wall and tall control towers on the Iranian side and I remember about the exiled Afghans I met in Greece. They were right when they commented that their country is actually landlocked by Iranian walls, and then I remember about the addresses they had given me back in Athens, addresses from family and friends I could visit. So I cross the border and manage to get into Herat, and so, I go around the city looking for Gul, Lal, Taj, and Shaista, but the police comes and takes over of me, saying that I can't wander around alone, this city. So, they escort me all the way through the country and I end up in the jail in Kabul, naked, my body scars being inspected by ex-talibans. Then, I’m lucky, a policeman decides to take me in his personal car into Pakistan territory, and as it goes, along the way he even asks me if Europe and America are actually close to one another, and I say yes, there is just a small branch of water between the two continents. Then, once in Islamabad, I get hosted by in the family house of one of the guy I met in Athens months ago, and they take me to the Lok Virsa Museum, also known as the Heritage Museum or the National Institute of Folk & Traditional Heritage, a museum that has also a Sufi section, where we go now, and here there are pictures of musicians standing in performing postures, that is, the sufi saints Lal Shahbaz Qalandar, Shah Abdul Latif Bhittai and Sachal Sarmast, among others. And so, I have heard about it, so I ask about these saints, that is, I ask about what have they done to be called saints, and they tell me that “Lal was a contemporary of Rumi, he traveled around the Muslim world and settled in Sehwan, close to the Manchar lake, where he performed his miracles… and Shah was a poet and musician” they say that he made his instruments talk, that was his miracles… and then there was Sachal Sarmast, that wrote poetry in seven languages, like: Sindhi, Siraiki, Persian, Urdu, Balochi, Punjabi and Arabic… and they tell me about his famous book Shah Jo Risalo, that is, "The Message of the Truthful", a book with thirty Surs, accordingly named: Kalyaan; Yaman Kalyaan; Khanbhaat; Suri Raag; Samundi; Sohni; Sassui Aburi; Maazuri; Desi; Kohyari; Husain; Lilan Chanesar; Momal Rano; Marui; Kaamod; Ghattu; Sorath; Kedaro; Sarang; Asaa; Rippa; Khahori; Barwo sindhi; Ramkali; Kapati; Purab; Karayal; Pirbhati; Dahar; Bilawal and Sur Kamod. And more I got to know that, these Surs contain Bayts, which Shah Latif used to sing in a state of ecstasy, were concerning the life-stories of his heroines, Suhni, Sassui, Lila, Mumal, Marui,Nuri and Sorath, which the Sufi Poet in the state of "Wajd" or ecstasy, used as allegories to express their mystical experiences. Then I’m aboard a dugout flowing along the Tawi River that crosses Pakistan into India, and so, I’m actually being taken by a pair of boatmen who transport exotic goods between the two countries. In the meantime we reached the suburbs of Jammu city, and from far away, right on top of a hill, I can already spot a huge pink building with some black spots, and so, as I approach it, the upper part of the building get more and more evident, and so, what I thought to be big windows, are actually holes, big holes on the pinkish walls and a burned kind of roof. Then, as I ask around, I get to know that actually, this building in ruins is called Mubarak Mandi. And so, the word Mubarak is not strange to me, I already knew that “Barak'' comes from Arab and means something like “blessed”, but now, it was needed to find out the meaning of “Mandi”. So, I decide to ask in the streets around, and someone tells me that “Mandi” actually means “rice”, others tell me that it means “dew”, and then someone tells me that it actually means “market”. So, yes sir, now I see, this crumbling pink building must have been some kind of royal market, or rather a palace with a Victorian touch, certainly hosting a market with worldwide products brought from east and the west. Then, as I approach the city, someone tells me that this building indeed, had been the royal residence of the last Rajah of Jammu and Kashmir. And so, this old man that informed me about the Mubarak Mandi, also helps me to find the City Chowk, this is, the city market in the city center. So, here I’m, now going along some alleys with a series of tiny shops with their merchandise sprouting out of the front windows, that is, barbershops, fruit shops, colorful plastic stores, clothes shops and steaming foods, etc. And then, I get into small conversations with the customers queuing up in front of a street vendor stirring a yellow paste inside a large silver pot. This is Halva, a dessert that I already knew from other countries in the Middle East, but here it has a more yellowish tone, and they add roasted sesame seeds and pistachios to it, and almond and vanilla. “The halwa is cooked in pure ghee”, clarified a man with gold teeth, approaching us; and then the clarification continues like this “The ghee is made with buffalo milk, not cow's milk”, he says turning to some kind of tourists on his front and then to me, and I look away. That is, without wanting to know, I find out that these tourists are actually on their way to the Vaisho Devi, an important Hindu temple located about fifty kilometers to the north, in the Trikuta mountains, these mountains being considered the second home of the goddess Durga. Result: I drink mint tea, eat roasted onions with caramel and soon I'm at the bus station buying a bus ticket to Delhi. And so, as I get in the bus, I find a book by a certain Mushtaq Ahmad Mushtaq, a writer originally from Srinagar, and then, as the bus take-off, I begin to read a snippet from the book, actually a snippet from a short story entitled “The Scar”, and it goes more and less like this: “...for the third time Piari climbed the ladder to clean the floor from the porch, meanwhile Saeb left his room to come here and sit for a while. Piari was irritated, but even though she threw him an angry look, she didn't say a word and went back inside. It was late afternoon and the compound was covered in evening shadows, and only the top of the bush, a pomegranate tree, was bright with the setting sun, the lower part was devoid of foliage and flowers. And many times Piari insisted with her husband to remove that thing looking more like a battered scar, but Lala Saeb refused. Piari used to have discussions with Lala Saeb about almost every petty issue, like cutting the withered bush, even though they lived in the same house… Lala Saeb had been retired for over twelve years. That is, initially, after his retirement, he used to leave almost on time from the office. And, in addition to taking care of many household chores, he would go to the library to read the newspapers, or gossip in the barber shop, paying thoughtful visits to all his relatives, as well, or even help his wife in the kitchen… But then, when his wife died, he contracted the "sugar disease" and eventually would become weak to the point it was impossible for him to move. Still, he couldn't get the state to give him a pension. So, he would usually either stay in his room relaxing, or sit quietly on any other side of the house. And occasionally, he would turn on the TV to entertain himself a little, or else he would sit on the porch and watch this withered bush, the branches of the pomegranate tree. So, under the setting sun, Lala Saeb had the momentary illusion that the withered bush would sprout again and become a bright flame with its red flowers. And it reminded him of a scene from another time, when a pomegranate orchard had blossomed around his old mud house. There was even a house party because, finally, a boy was born after three daughters. And before the baby was old enough to go to school, he used to play and play with his sisters and cousins by the same pomegranate grove. They called him Shahzadah, the prince. Lala Saeb and his wife felt that they had achieved all the joys of life; they were neither deficient in anything nor helpless in any way. Shahzadah continued to grow, and Lala Saeb's brothers decided to build their new houses where the old one was, starting by cutting down the pomegranate bushes. Saba Lala had been the first to build her separate house, then Ghulam Rasool, and finally Lala Saeb, who spent whatever he saved, after marrying off his daughter, on building his present home so that Shahzadah would never feel poor compared to his cousins. And all the remaining pomegranate bushes were cut down when the house was built; and the current bush, withered in a corner of the compound, was saved by Lala Saeb's wife as a keepsake. The bush had been blooming every year, even though it was close to the cement fence, yet strangely enough, it began to wither shortly after his wife's departure for the heavenly abode. Lala Saeb's eyes were now fixed on the withered branches of the pomegranate tree, and he was lost in his ruminations. Suddenly, Piari turned on the TV inside the house; it was the evening news bulletin. Lala Saeb was startled when he heard clearly: "Nomination orders have been given to two hundred youths today for compassionate reasons." So the government finally started to do something, he thought, and “God willing our Shahzadah will also settle down in life. Each day of my old age is as heavy as a mountain, and I would rather leave for the other world right now than stand all this… but what will happen to him? He that has just opened a store, but was not successful in it. I would like him to get a job soon, so that I could take my last breath in peace.” With these thoughts he cast a glance again at the withered bush, and twilight was almost done, so the cluster of dried pomegranate leaves really did look incongruous with the green grass and the beautiful variety of flower beds. Then, letting out a deep sigh, he pushed himself up against the wall and walked into his room. Shortly after, Piari came in to ask if he had run out of medicine, but Lala Saeb said nothing about the medicine, instead he asked if she had heard the news. “The government is said to have issued appointment orders for two hundred youths'' she said with a frown. “Then why don't you tell Shahzadah Lal to get some money and start his life. It would make my death easier”, said Lala Saeb albeit shyly. “What nonsense are you saying? Those two hundred jobs were distributed to those people who lost a relative during the riots” Piari says, and giving a tug, she continued: "Altamash, do you know that friend of Shahzad's, who also got a job contract, his father, was killed in a shootout while he was on his way to the bank to collect his pension. Not only did he get a job, but also got an ex-gratia compensation of one hundred thousand rupees" she said, and as she said it, she gave another shudder and left the room. Lala Saeb, having heard what Piari said, his whole body was now drenched in cold sweat. He was stunned, and began to feel as if some kind of ax was trying to cut down the dry pomegranate bushes…” And so, after leaving the Jammu and Kashmir department, we go through the Himachal Pradesh state, and we pass cities like Chamba, Kangra, Sundar Nagar and Shimla, named like that from Shyamala Mata, a fearless incarnation of the goddess Kali, and then Chandigarh ਚੰਡੀਗੜ੍ਹ, Kurukshetra कुरुक्षेत्र, Karnal करनाल, Panipat पानीपत etc, and some hours after we reach the New Delhi metropolis, and so, because the JKSRTC bus-station is in the south part of the city, we have to go onto the Mahatma Gandhi Road that circulates around the city, and so, from here, we can see now a jumble of buildings and sheds, some of them new and colorful, others with poles and gear on the roofs, etc. And then, on the southern part of the city, we reach some kind of historical building with a garden, and someone tells me that is actually the Humayun’s makabare, a small tomb-palace dedicated to Mirza Nasir-ud-Din Muhammad, the second emperor of the Mughal Empire that ruled over the territory that is now Eastern Afghanistan, Pakistan, Northern India, and Bangladesh, someone tells me. And then, finally, we reach the bus station, and that someone that had explained me before about the Humayun’s makabare tomb-palace, a middle-age man called Ajit, meaning “unconquered” in Sanskrit, he actually helps me to get out of the station and to direct me to the part of the city I need to go, that is, Asola, actually out of the city, about twenty kilometers distance from here. “Asola is an over-populated and poor neighborhood, but also has an extensive green territory, more to the south, with several enclosed farms and posh dwellings… a green area reaching the border with the Haryana district, in fact” he says. And so, as I turn around trying to understand where the city center is, he is already arranging a conversation with a rickshaw driver “that will take us to the Lajpat Nagar Market” he says, “only five kilometers from here, to the south, in the direction you need to go…” he adds. And then, already on the going, the motor from the rickshaw producing that characteristic hollow sound that motors do inside tunnels, because we are actually passing under the Baba Banda Singh Bahadur Setu road, a branch from the motorway that circulates around the city, Ajit tells me, as we squeeze against each other. And after the tunnel we turn right and advance along a narrow road covered by large trees producing mystical shadows over us, and the rickshaw driver now turning his head back and smiles at us with that shadows dancing on his face. And then, as we advance, Ajit explains to me about the neighborhood where we are actually going “Lajpat Nagar is named like that in honor of Lajpat Rai, an Indian freedom fighter, politician, and author, generally known as Lala Lajpat Rai… also known as 'Punjab da Sher' which literally means the Lion of Punjab…” he says, and “are you also a Punjab?” I ask, and “yes sir” is the answer. So now, already going down through some gated roads, I see a sign saying “Siddharta exit / Pocket C / Gate nr 3” and there are some brand new tiny red tubes scattered through the floor, under the sign, and then kids are picking it from the floor and blowing on it, etc. And so, as we go along these gated roads I see some small cars parked in front of the dwellings, and some of these cars are actually covered with big towels, certainly to protect from the reddish dust that circulates around. And then, as we go though, we reach some train line, but before passing under it, I spot on my left side what looks to be a Shiva temple. And so, inside this small chantry I see three figures, one next to the other, female figures, it looks, all alike dressed with pinkish dresses, crowns on their heads, and big fans on the back. So, I ask Ajit why three figures, and why are they so alike and he tells me “...despite being so alike, they are not the same… the three heads express different aspects of this manifold deity, on the left side there is normally a smiling female, on the center the unisex one normally corresponding to a benign male, and finally on the right side, a violent male correspond to Shiva's powers as creator, protector, and destroyer”; “but the one on the middle doesn't look like a male at all… it is dressed with a large pink dress, as the others… why?”; “ahahah that is complicated yes… this is, historically, the Shakti tradition conceives God as a female but other Bhakti traditions of Hinduism have both male and female gods… and in ancient Indian mythology, each masculine deva of the Hindu pantheon is partnered with a feminine who is often a devi… have you heard about that?”; “yes, devi yes, but… isn’t it the root word for the “devil” concept?”; I say. “Perhaps, yes, who knows… everything is connected… you know…” he says. Then once again, we pass under some train line, and this time we catch a bigger road and so, along this road we wander between cars that seem to be coming towards us but move away just in time, and this way of driving (acting) looks extremely hindi to me, as I think about it, it looks like some principle, something like “threat and give space to be threatened…”. And so, there we go, crossing the Jal Vihar neighborhood now, and in the meanwhile I see some teens playing cricket in a park and then, after some more turns, we reach the Lajpat Nagar Market, our destination. So, as we get off I get to know that actually there are many Afghans living in this neighborhood, and Ajit tells me that they travel to New Delhi as medical tourists, owing to the presence of affordable quality health care in the capital, and so, it is common to see individuals from different parts of India and Afghanistan in this neighborhood… And then, as we go through the market, Ajit even presents to some shop owners, and they react as if we are friends from long term, and I see that, this mainly a clothes market, but I don’t wanna buy any clothes, I have enough… and so, there we go, watching the merchandise, mainly accessories, sarees, suits, lehengas and other Indian ethnic wear, but also household items… and then I know, I should buy something, so I buy some headscarf, or kerchief with scorpions stamped on it, and then I offer it to Ajit saying “give it to your wife!”; “but why?”; “say that this is a present from Krishna…”; “but scorpions from krishna?”: “Yes man!”. And then he buys something for me too, some kind of tiny underwear with carrots stamped on the frills, and as he passes it to me he says, “this is for your wife… give it to her and say that this is a present from Jesus…” and the situation follows like that, me and he buying stuff and more stuff, and offering it to each other saying things like “this is a present to your mother… this is a present to your sister… this is a present to your untie…” etc. And so, after leaving the market I keep going in the direction of Asola, but first I have to cross the Hauz Khas neighborhood, and then I pass the IIT Campus, officially the “Indian Institute of Technology”, and so, I find a couple of students at the entrance, and I get into a conversation with one of them, a conversation about science, I say something like “the rigor of science makes our spirit fall asleep”, and he says something like “science is a present from the gods”: “which gods?” I ask. “Hermes!” he says, “but isn’t Hermes greek?”; “No, Hermes is Indi…”; “Ok, so how many arms and legs does Hermes have?” I ask, but get no answer. Then I leave this place and wonder between some other landscaped spaces, where there are other university complexes, and then, in the middle of all this, I find some kind of huge minaret with rough surface, and so, I ask around the people I meet the name of this minaret and its function, and someone tells me that this is called Qutb Minar, also spelled Qutub Minar or "victory tower" a UNESCO World Heritage Site. “But why victory?” I ask, “because victory is the best you can get in life”; “it looks ok, but the concept of victory also implies the outcome of a war…” I say. “Hum, that is true… but… koee baat nahin” he says, and then, he wants to take a selfie with us two in front of this tower, and we do it… Then, I keep going, so, I pass the Mehrauli and the Chhattarpur neighborhoods, I keep going along the Main Chhatarpur Road, a dusty road with garages, farms and atelier-houses on both sides, and then I’m in Asola, and here I can notice that the residences inside the farmhouses are bigger, and I see many janitors, gardeners and other kind of queer personages wandering through the courtyards, and finally I find the address, and there is my friend Satya, that have been wanting for days, and so, as we meet, the first thing he want to do is to present me to his father but instead I shake hands with the janitor and then his sisters… and then his mother, and then we pass through the garage where I see some kind of temple, and a small fountain, with some budas around, and this thing looks more a chinese thing to me, but then we are in the back of the house, and they want to show me the fields behind the house. And as we go through, I see a plantation in the background, in the back of some big trees, not a big thing, more like a garden. And so, I ask what they are growing there and the janitor is the first to answer me “Sweet potato, mustard, beetroots, cherry tomatoes and some herbs…”; “which herbs?” I ask, “come and see with your eyes” the janitor says, and so, there we go, in the direction of the crop. And on our way, the janitor even presents me to the gardener and the gardener presents me to the errand boy, and the errand boy wants to know who I’m and from where am I coming from. And “from Africa” I say. “África!” the errand boy exclaims. “Yes, África” I repeat. “But which country in Africa?”; “I don’t know, that is not important… we all are coming from Africa, don’t you know about that?”; “No, we are not all coming from Africa, I for exemple, I came from the Himalayas…”; “Good for you” I say. Then, coming back to the house, Satya is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, with his three sisters, Anika, Riya and Navy. Anika, the older one, heavily loaded eyebrows, tells me that is studying funky business in the university, and Riya, the one with round chin, says that is into theater and dance, classic and modern, and Navy, the younger one, very thin, says that is still attending the medium school. They all smile at me when I say that I know about the three wives of Shiva. And then as we go up the stairs, Satya wanna present me to his mother, “Welcome, I’m Durga” she says. “Hello, I’m Shima, from Africa”; “Shima, interesting, that is the name of a town in Japan…”; “Is it? I didn’t know about that… have you been there?”; “No, but, I sent people there…”; “Hum, and, what do you mean, as you sent people there?”; “I mean, I work in a travel agency, so, I have thousands of names of countries, cities and provinces in my head…”; “hum, interesting” I say. “So, which are the countries or cities people are traveling the most in this country?”; “First of the firsts, Colombo, the capital of Sri Lanka, and then, Dubai, Bangkok, Singapore, London, Paris, the Maldives and America, of course”; “hum, and have you also been to the States”; “sure, I just came from there, I went to visit the Niagara falls, it was a childhood dream of mine…” And then me and Satya leave the family alone and up we go, climbing some more branches of stairs, this is, Satya wanna take me to the attic, where he has a studio. And so, it was quick, already there, as we get in, Satya lights up some incense sticks and then I want to know which smell is this. “Dragon’s blood” he says. And then he turns on the stereo, and puts on some minimalist kind of music playing, organ sounds and percussions, “Moondog” he says, “the American composer… Do you know about him?”; “no!” I say. And so, with this kind of music playing in the background, he shows me his new instruments, his new acquisitions, that is, a kind a lute with a crank on the end, and he says “this is the hurdy-gurdy, it produces sound by rotating a this hand-crank… and, it is mostly used in Occitan and Slavic folk music, but it can also be heard in early music settings such as medieval, renaissance or baroque…” and then, he approach a small table in a corner, remove the piece of tissue covering the thing and now, what can be seen is something like a sewing machine with a roller made of crystal bowls in the middle, and as I touch it he says, “this is the glass harmonica, also known as the glass harmonium, or hydrocrystalophone, and it was invented in the eighteenth century by a certain Benjamin Franklin”; “and who was that?” I ask. “As I know, Benjamin was a writer, a scientist, an inventor, a statesman, a diplomat, a printer, a publisher, a political philosopher, one of the founders of the Founding Fathers of the United States… and also a major figure in the American Enlightenment, thar is, it looks like he invented the lightning rod, and the bifocals, among others things…” and so, I say, still touching the bowls “I thought this bowls were made of glass…”; “no, they are not made of glass, they are actually made of clay!” he says. “But… isn't this the instrument they use in that piece from Tchaikovsky's, the Nutcracker or something like that?”; ”Ah I know what you mean… you mean that ballet piece untitled Dance of the Sugar Plum, isn’t it?”; “yes, something like that…”, “no, it’s not this instrument they use in that piece, it has similar sound yes, but is not this one… actually as I know, some players of it became ill and they had to stop playing that instrument… that is, they complained of muscle spasms, nervousness, cramps, and dizziness, and a few listeners were also subject to ill effects; and after an incident in Germany where a child died during a performance, the armonica was actually banned in a few towns…” he says. And so now we are actually listening to a classic piece that contains this instrument, “it’s Adagio K 356, from Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart'' he says, and then he rooms around the room, and from a top shelf he picks some kind of thing that looks more like a whelk with a metal crown around, and, “this is the waterphone, or ocean harp” he says, “ and this are bronze rods that should be playing with a violin bow, like this…” he says, while exemplifying… and as I listen, I can say that this thing sounds more like a whale crying under the sea, or a group of penguins having a nervous breakdown at the beach… something like that, and then he passes it to me, and I start to make some scratches on it, and he goes around and picks something else from a couple of boxes, some kind of nose whistles, and there we go, up on the roof, making this whale and bird sounds… and the three sisters and the gardener and the cooker down there in the garden, staring at us. And then, the next morning, the errand boy takes me out of Delhi, and we reach Moradabad, a major industrial city and one of India’s biggest export hubs, this is, its metalcraft industry alone accounts more than forty per cent of the total export of the country, someone tells me. And so, as I wander through the industrial area of this city, I hitch a ride with a Tata truck, the driver a middle-aged man with a thin mustache and a Beelzebub smile, and right away, he thinking that I’m someone from the first world or something like that, he tells that he has family and friends in several cities in Europe, in the United States and even in Africa. But I, not showing any signs of surprise in my face, say: “I don't care about Europe or America… what I really want to know is about your friends in the Asian and African continent…”, and so, after curling his lips, he promptly tells me about his friends in Dubai, Singapore, Hong Kong, China and Japan. “But what's happening In Dubai afteralls?” I ask. “In Dubai there are more Indians than Arabs,” he says. “The Arabs are only there to deal with the oil business… but the Indians are the ones that do everything else there, to say, construction, retail, financial services, industry, international relations, etc…” And then he tells me about some cousins he has in Malaysia and Indonesia, and here, I try to talk about Bali, but he cuts my words to state that the name Indonesia actually comes from a mixture of “Indus” and “Nesos”, which literally means the Indian archipelago. And then, about Hong Kong, he tells me that most of his friends there are working in the commerce sector, and he even articulate names like Hormusjee Naorojee Mody, Dorabjee Naorojee Mithaiwala, Hari Harilela, etc., names that meant nothing to me. So to change the conversation, I ask if he knows who the Parses are or were and “Freddie Mercury was a Parse” he says right away and then, we begin talking about the Chinese people, we both having fun miming their way of speaking with many vowels, and as we laugh, he points to the dashboard of his truck, saying “made in china”, “however the plastic had been produced with Indian rubber trees” he adds. And now about Japan, the conversation soon goes into car brands and then he talks about a certain Anastasia Malhotra, a famous tennis player from that Nipponic country, and he even has a picture of the tennist in the front panel of his truck, by the steering wheel, together with Lord Shiva and Kali, the Divine Mother, Mother of the Universe, and principal energy Adi Shakti, he says. And so, conversation pulls conversation, and at some point we are already on the border between India and Nepal, and after crossing the border, we pass Nepalgunj, Lamahi, Banaganga, Butwal, Bharatpur, Hetauda, and then we reach Kathmandu, but we don't stop, we continue through Dhulikhel, Bahrabise, Kodari, and then we reach the border with China, we enter Tibet, and we follow though a very dangerous road in the middle of the mountains, advancing very slow and sometimes stopping just to have a tea and join small conversations with other camion drivers. And so, after a couple of days meandering between the mountains we finally reach Shigatse and Lhasa, the capital of the Tibet Autonomous Region and one of the highest cities in the world. And then, we park the camion out of the city and follow to the Barkhor Bazaar, Lhasa's central market, where we can see rigorously arranged stalls selling bundles of Tibetan incense, Buddha heads, prayer wheels, butter lamps, flags and thangkas, that are some kind of cotton or silk paintings, usually depicting a Buddhist deity, scene, or a mandala. And besides this ornamental stuff, you also can find high-land barley wine, sweet tea, quarks, and air-dried meat, that are the house specialties, especially if accompanied with fake coca-cola. And there, on the back of all this, is the Jokhang Temple, which is considered the most sacred and important temple in Tibet, with an architectural style that is a mixture of Indian vihara design, Tibetan and Nepalese design. And so, after some turns around the market, and after the encounters with other pilgrims trudging around, we move out of the market and go to do the “Check In” in a cheap hostel managed by indians. And so, at at this hotel I meet Ishaan, that is also a truck driver, and as we acquaintance, I get to know that next day he is actually going on the direction of the Arunachal Pradesh district, the eastern part of India, a piece of land enclaved between China, Bhutan and Myanmar (Burma), and so, I ask If I can go with him and promptly he says yes, so is better to go sleep now, coz next morning we must wake up very early. Said and done, that night I dreamed with wolf women on the top of the mountains, steaming mountains with cherry trees on the top. So here we go already, and as we go though, I ask Ishaan what is he actually transporting to Arunachal Pradesh and he, he actually says “melted rubber, yes, that’s what I’m carrying to Arunachal Pradesh, melted rubber… and then, once there, another chinese camions will come to take it into main China, because yes, Rubber, this is the thing China need more from us…”; “Hum…” I say. And so, it is still night when we take the road, initially we are both half sleep and there is not much talk between us, but then as the day rises I begin to talk about my travel through Turkey, Georgia, Azerbaijan, Turkmenistan, Afghanistan and India, and he also tells me about his travels through China and Tibet. “Chinese people are stupid” he says “they shut up when they should talk more, and they talk when they should shut up” he says and I don't really understand what he means with this, but I don't really want to know, so, I just to make some conversation, “But… in which cities in China have you been after all?”; “Kunming, Qujing, Nanning, Zhanjiang, and Sanya, a city on the Hainan Island, that is the smallest and southernmost province of the People's Republic of China”; “and what have you been doing there?”; “I don’t remember!” he says. And then I’m already aboard a narrow barge, going down the Mekong river that makes the division between Myanmar and Laos, and the boatman speaks seven languages and is used to foreigners, because all his life he has worked transporting goods to and from the Golden Triangle, and so, here we go speaking about "bikers' coffee" and "kamikazes" and “pil kuda” and “shabú ma-goo” and “baba guti”, and “laal khawon” and “jinish bhul bhuliya” etc etc. And then there is a big sandstorm coming over, and my mind drifts… I let myself be caught up in these whirlwinds and as I drift I have the impression that I’m getting close to those towers of my recurrent dream, that dream from the desert… and again I see vanishing towers on the horizon, and from all these towers ghostly figures like fancy dragons are already coming towards me, wrapped in the wind... and now there are three of them getting really close, dancing around our vessel, and one of them is already whispering to me “come, come, come with me coz I’m the primordial Cyclop you are looking for, and this fire I’m spitting will plow through your mind and you will feel awake…” and another dragon-figure comes and says “come, come, come with me coz I’m the all the Truth you need, and now as I spit this fire towards you, your eyes will get blind…” and another dragon-figure comes and says “come, come come with me coz I’m all the joy of the universe, not only the joy but also all the beauty, desire and confidence and as I enter your body you will…” and now I’m navigating through a universe of sensations, prodding my reason... and then, I see myself again aboard this boat, and as I look up, I see that the sky is actually falling over and over and so, there we go... being sucked in by this magnetic sky, I dive into this sort of stock market screen. Being analyzed by the matrix. My body and mind being entranced by static electricity in the form of asterisks, cardinals and changing parentheses. Dysfunctional energy coursing through my skeleton, flesh and sap, and now, on my front, I see three big golden decks blocking the three ramifications of the river we are going along, and there on the top of it, there are three dragons, their wings open, and smoke all around.
Sem comentários:
Enviar um comentário