Holy Benares

A street in Benares

What shall I say about Benares? It is an eternal city pulsating with life that is invisible to a Westerner's eye. What can I, who spent there just ten days, say about it? I saw just a few street scenes, nothing more.

One thing has to be explained: the phallic imagery is not mine. This is Hinduism – it may be true that Sanskrit works of philosophy are studied in Benares but an average pilgrim does not know about them any more than an average pilgrim to Lourdes knows about st. Thomas Aquinas. On the other side for a modern Hindu believes that the Luminous Penis of Shiva pierces the Earth in Benares is just as obvious – and just as incomprehensible for a non-believer – as the Christian belief that a little white wafer is the Body of God to be eaten by the faithful.

1. Benares. The air is full of smoke from funeral pyres, smell of cow dung, dust of unpaved streets. Shiva temples are everywhere and only a few are dedicated to Vishnu, mostly modern ones, Like the temple of Tulsi Manas, where a plastic figure of a Bramin animated by an electric engine incessantly turns pages of a book and sings:

Devotion to Rama is for the faithful Tulsi Das like the rainy season for the rice fields; but the two glorious consonants in Rama's name are like months of Sawan and Bhadon. Two sweet and gracious syllables, the eyes as it were of the soul, easy to remember, satisfying every in this world and felicity in the next; most delightful to utter, to hear or to remember; as dear to Tulsi as inseparable Ram and Lakshman. My love is inflamed as I speak of these mystic syllables as intimately connected as the universal soul and the soul of man...

A worsipper of a Shiva phallus

Tulsi Manas is a new temple, its floors are smooth and clean, its walls of white marble. In a corner by the altar of Rama a little crowd of people, women in white saris, men in white dhotis, shout in excitement, buy tickets for a few rupees and give them to a man standing two metres away, by the door where the pilgrims enter. There is a pilgrim attraction there, Ramayana Pauperum, modern and animated: a sequence of 3D scenes behind glass where rivers flow, monkeys wag their tails, human figures move their hands, jump up from under the surface of the earth and then disappear under it again. Pilgrims look at all this with amazement, their mouths gaping, noses pressed against the glass.

2. At the street market in a narrow alley between grey houses brown-skinned traders sit cross legged on their tables, heaps of greenery on both their sides. The smell of the fresh leaves is mixed with the smell of rotting stuff below, of cow dung, human urine, strong sandalwood incense. A noisy crowd of people moves slowly between the stands. White cows form part of that crowd, one can feel warmth of their bodies, they chew leaves and banana skins picked up from the floor. At one end of the market, in a niche in the wall, a betel nut seller sits in half lotus, his bald forehead painted in yellow ochre, in front of him several little piles of bright green leaves. Some men standing next to him spit every so often a mouthful of red saliva.

Farther down the alley there is a Shiva temple painted red from top to bottom. The main object of veneration there is a stone figure of the penis of Shiva immersed in the vagina of Parvati. A girl in a colourful sari throws flowers on the figure and bows deeply with her hands folded, then she picks up a copper pot and pours Ganges water on it.

Far far away on the holy Mount Kailas Lord Shiva sits with his dreadlocks covering his back and shoulders, the third eye in the middle of his forehead as bright as lightning, he holds a big iron trident in his hand. Holy Ganges flows from his penis and fertilizes the earth so it can bring forth life.

Washing sins off in Benares

3. Manikarmika Ghat is the place where bodies of the dead are cremated, the air here is always filled with clouds of blue smoke. Here one can usually see a pile of wood with flames starting at the bottom and then consuming the whole thing including a human shape laid on the top. All this turns into a heap of ashes with some bones and a skull half buried in it, everything is later taken into an urn which is then emptied in the middle of the river, a handful of flowers is sometimes thrown on the water as well. Boats filled to the brim with firewood approach the shore, their patched sails bulging in the wind.

The shore is steep, a narrow alley leads up to the town. Sacred cows wander there, gaze far into the distance. The alley is paved with cracked slabs, a stream of brown water flows between them towards the river. The stream washes away all the smells of the city, most of all the smell of urine.

The holy water of Ganges carries with it yellow mud of Himalayas, trees torn out with their roots, human ashes, human urine, flowers.

4. Dashasvameth Ghat is the place where pilgrims come to the waters to wash off their sins. They go into the water fully clothed, men in white dhotis, women in colourful saris, first they stand knee deep repeating formulas and then immerse themselves completely three times. After the ablution women change their saris on the shore, first they put the dry one on and then they take off the wet one from underneath, they do it with admirable skill, never showing too much of their bodies. Fat bramins sit under parasols of plaited palm leaves and for a few rupees say prayers over heads of pilgrims. Traders have their wares spread under trees: copper jars with holy Ganges water, tiny brass penises of Shiva, bundles of ganja leaves, chilum pipes made of red clay to smoke that ganja in.

Itinerant sadhus sit under the eaves of a red sandstone temple of Shiva that stands on the shore. They wear nothing but red loincloths, their hair are tangled dreadlocks, three horizontal lines are painted on their foreheads. They have brass begging bowls and iron tridents and the red chilums in which they smoke the holy herb. They always smile. Sweet smoke of hashish surrounds them like blue mist.

Wood for funeral pyres

5. Holy Benares at dawn: reddish sun rays blow away the blue mists from the alleys between the sandstone temples. Here the sound of jingles and bhakti-yoga pierces the morning silence. Here the road-and-rail bridge pierces the line of Ganges. Here the Luminous Penis of Shiva pierces the surface of the earth.

You will find this story, and many others, in my book "ASK A GLOBETROTTER".

Why do the dervishes whirl ?

Rumi's mausoleum in Konya

The most important thing for dervishes is presence.

For us, brought up in Western culture, it is hard to understand. What do you mean – presence? Surely the most important thing is doctrine, isn't it? Dervishes gather to listen to their master because they want to learn what the master has to day. This is obvious, isn't it?

Well, it isn't.

In the 13^th century in the town of Konya in central Turkey one of the most famous sufi masters in history held his lectures. He was known as Maulana Rumi. Some of the dervishes who came to listen to him noted down his lectures and they survived centuries in manuscripts. Rumi was not economical with words, he was one of the most prolific poets of all time and of any language. Big fat volumes of his poetry are nowadays translated into many languages. He is now the most popular poet in America and as a result there are funds for scholars who want to research his writings. The lectures in manuscript have been discovered and several times translated into English. I read one of those translations and in the beginning of Chapter 2 I found this::

“Someone says: "Our Master does not utter a word." Rumi answers: Well, it was the idea of me that brought you to my presence. This thought of me did not speak with you saying, "How are things with you?" The inner image without words drew you here. If the reality of me draws you without you to another place, what is so wonderful with words? Words are the shadow of reality, a mere branch of reality. Since the shadow draws, how much more the reality! Words are a pretext”

This would suggest that the lectures to which the dervishes come are just a pretext for them to be in their masters presence. The title which the dervishes use for their master – hadhrat, which means 'presence' – would confirm that suggestion. The very presence of the master causes blessings to flow upon the dervishes. However, the sufi whose presence causes the blessings to come down does not have to be famous. He could be an anonymous dervish in the crowd, a cobbler or a basket maker. Rumi would say that the fame is only a pretext. Fame is superficial and really comes by chance. Rumi himself is a proof that fame is a matter of chance.

Wax figures of dervishes in a museum

Before the 20^th century he was only famous in two countries – in Persia and in Turkey. In Persia, because his big fat volumes are written in Persian, he is one of the greatest poets of that language, the Persian equivalent of Chaucer. In Iran today he is known as Maulana Jalaluddin Balkhi because he was born in the city of Balkh, in modern Afghanistan. His books used to be copied in beautiful calligraphy, single poems written in a special calligraphy created for this purpose were hung on walls like pictures, music was created to them and they were sung with accompaniment of orchestras. It is so even now – mediaeval Persian poetry often provides lyrics for classical music of Iran.

In Turkey he is famous for different reasons. His poetry was written in a language foreign there but he is also considered a founder of the order of the Whirling Dervishes. This is probably the most popular dervish order in Turkey, which would mean that for Turks he is an equivalent of somebody like St. Benedict rather than Chaucer. Strictly speaking Rumi was not the actual founder, it was his closest disciples who who organised the order formally, but Rumi was their inspiration and it was he who started the practice of whirling. They say that when he was whirling in the lecture hall his Muse came to him and cried out his poems, which were immediately penned down by his disciples. For us a situation where a lecturer whirls during a lecture seems a bit odd but iw didn't seem odd to his disciples; they decided it was a practice worth preserving and carry on this practice even today. The order is called Mevleviya from the title of the master, who in modern Turkish is called Mevlana Celaledin Rumi. In the Ottoman empire this order was quite influential, they say that even some sultans were among the dervishes. In Persia other orders were influential, these orders did not practice whirling, although they did meditate upon the texts of the masters.

They say that even some sultans were among the dervishes. The last of the sultans is supposed to have earned his living by making baskets, which one of his servants sold at the bazaar. This sounds incredible to our Western ears, doesn't it? They say thet the last sultan ate only those products which the servant bought having sold the baskets. The Turkish revolutionaries of that era claimed that he didn't manage the affairs of state properly, so they abolished the monarchy and created the republic. They decided that the country should appear European and as a part of this plan all dervish monasteries were closed. What does anyone need this funny whirling for? In Europe they don't do things like this.

Tekke in Galata in Istambus

What do you mean – who needs it? What about the American tourists, who may want to come here and leave a buck or two? Wouldn't the exotic spectacle attract them even more?

Well, if some American enthusiasts want to come to Konya and look for signs of Rumi, they can go to the museum. They can buy a ticket and see the tomb of the great poet. They can see the tekke, or the place where the dervishes used to whirl. They can see the monastery where wax figures of dervishes are exhibited and everything is described in detail. The figures of dervishes wear tall hats, those of the shaikhs wear also green turbans around those hats. Everything is explained – how a novice had to sit for three days in the kitchen and watch the life of the monastery, how he had to go through a very hard novitiate, how he learned to whirl and play the flute, and so on. In the museum shop the tourist can buy a tee shirt with a picture of a dervish or a CD with flute music.

Interestingly, most of those who come to the museum, buy tickets and enter the sanctuary with the tomb of Maulana are not American tourists but Turks from the countryside, old ladies covered from top to bottom as the Prophet prescribed, old men with white moustaches, they don't come here to ogle but to pray. They come here because this is the tomb of Maulana, he is PRESENT in this place. What is important for the dervishes is the presence. Is he dead? For the dervishes death is just one of events in a biography. Not the most important of those events.

Nevertheless the Western tourists like to see exotic spectacles like the whirling of he dervishes. Monasteries have been closed but dervishes practised in secret. They must have been doing so because when the authorities allowed for the whirling session to be performed for the tourists – there where dervishes who could do it. It is a strange situation because for the dervishes the show is just a pretext, what is important is the presence. The very presence of dervishes causes the blessings to come down on those gathered even though they came to see a show. What's more – the dervish whose presence causes the blessings to come down does not need to be known to everybody. He may be an anonymous dervish in a crowd, a cobbler or a basket maker.

A wax figure of a whirling dervish

Here is one more quotation from the book of Rumi's discourses:

A worthy man once shut himself up for a forty days discipline, seeking after a particular object. A voice came to him, saying: 'Such a lofty object will never be attained by a forty days discipline. Abandon your discipline so that the regard of a great saint may fall upon you and your object will be realised.'

'Where shall I find the great one?' the man asked.

'In the congregational mosque' came the answer.

'In such a throng of people how shall I recognise which man he is?' he enquired.

“Go' he was told, 'and he will recognise you and gaze upon you. The sign that his regard has fallen upon you will be that the pitcher will drop from your hand and you will become unconscious. Then you will know that he has gazed upon you.'

He acted accordingly. He filled the pitcher with water and went round the congregation in the mosque like a water-carrier. He was wandering between the ranks of the worshippers when he suddenly was seized with ecstasy. He uttered a loud cry and the pitcher fell from his hand. He remained in a corner of the mosque unconscious. All the people departed. When he came to his senses he saw that he was alone. He did not see there that spiritual king who had gazed upon him but he had gained his object.

You can get my book of translation from Rumi:

Why do Greeks kiss their icons ?

Athenian Cathedral

The Athenian Cathedral of Our Lady Listening was built some 800 years ago, when Athens were hardly more than a village. The building is tiny, you would call it a chapel if it wasn't a cathedral. There is very little decoration inside, only some icons hanging on bare walls of sandstone. The icons are new, painted only a few years ago in a distinct Byzantine style. There are also a couple of icons in the iconostasis as well as on stands next to the entrance. The icons on stands are there so the faithful could kiss them. Almost all who enter light up a candle and kiss an icon. Some also touch it with their forehead.

Why is that? The Catholics pray before their pictures but don't normally kiss them. Why is the cult of images farther advanced in Greece?

The Orthodox theologians would probably argue that this is not cult of images but cult of persons depicted by those images, most often Jesus or Mary. Nevertheless it is a fact that Greeks show reverence to their images and kiss them when they enter a church. But it wasn't always so. In the eighth century emperor Leo the 3^rd officially banned the cult if icons and ordered their removal from churches. It must have been a common practice if the emperor officially banned it. But where did it come from? After all this is not an integral part of Christianity. Gospels say nothing about icons whereas the Old Testament clearly bans any cult of graven images. Saint Paul in his letters does not tell his followers to obey all the precepts of the Old Testament but he clearly bans any participation in pagan rituals which were connected to the cult of images of Olympian gods. Where, then, did that Greek cult of icons came from?

Perhaps this is simply inculturation, this characteristic flexibility of Church Fathers, who took into account the mentality of the people to whom the Good News was being proclaimed. In in the middle of winter people are used to celebrat the yearly rebirth of the Sun god Mithras (who is always portrayed with a Sun disc behind his head), then let's celebrate God's birth in mid winter, just make sure it is the birth of Christ and not Mithras. If in spring equinox people are used to commemorating the death of god Attis and his miraculous resurrection three days later, then let's continue with the ritual, just make sure it is the death and resurrection of Christ that is celebrated, not Attis. If the people are used to bowing before images – let them carry on, just make sure these are the images of Christ the King, not emperor of Rome.

Kissing an icon

Perhaps even the official interpretation of the meaning of the Eucharist that is maintained by the Church is a result of inculturation. What is the meaning of the Eucharist? For us, born in the 20^th century it appears that Jesus of Nazareth, who was God incarnate, changed bread into his own body and gave it to his disciples to eat so they could also receive his divine power and could do the same things he did. The same ritual is repeated even today and we – who participate in it – get the same power from that. However, theologians tell us the the Eucharist is most of all a sacrifice.

A sacrifice? What sort of sacrifice? Of course during a mass money is collected, but most participants understand this as a way to support the priest, anyway the few bob every person puts in is not a huge sacrifice. Theologians, however, insist – during the mass the priest says words which somehow change the bread into the Body of Christ and then this bread is broken in two, which in itself is a repetition of the sacrifice on the cross. For us, born in the 20^th century the sacrifice on the cross is not very difficult to comprehend. One of the ways to understand it is to see it in the light similar to those movements of non-violence initiated by great leaders like Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther King or the Polish dissident Jacek Kuron. The basic rule of those leaders was not answering violence with violence, one can go to prison for beliefs and in extreme cases one can be ready to die, but violence as an answer to violence is not accepted. The sacrifice on the cross would perfectly fit this way of thinking but why should the breaking of bread during the mass be a repetition of this sacrifice?

Lets look at this with the eyes of a freshly converted citizen of an ancient Greek polis. For a Greek of that time religious behaviour meant most of all participation in sacrifices offered to gods. These sacrifices were public events and the whole city took part in them. A bull bedecked in wreaths, with his horns gilded, was led in a procession in front of a god (that is – a sculpture representing that god), where his throat was slashed and the meat was divided – one portion was burned to send it to heavens and the rest was roasted and consumed by the participants. Some gods – like Demeter, the mother of harvests – would be given bread as offerings. Newly converted Christians weren't allowed to take part in these rituals, the New testament clearly forbids it. At the same time the Christians were invited to take part in another rite – the Eucharist. For them it was a sacrifice – analogous to sacrifices given to the pagan gods.

A sacrificial bull

Bowing before images wasn't an alien concept either. Part of the cult of Roman Emperors was bowing before their images. Christians refused to participate and sometimes paid with their lives, but a bow before an image of Christ the King was a different matter. Although even then it was not universally accepted. The earliest writings where the icons are mentioned don't appear to be favourable to their cult. Eusebius of Cesarea in the 4^th century mentions their existence as does St Augustine in the 5^th. Clearly not all Greeks accepted the practice of bowing before icons. In the 8^th century emperor Leo decided it constituted idolatry and ordered destruction of all icons within his dominion. Only in monasteries outside his dominion could icons older than the 8^th century survive. One such monastery is St Catherine on Mt Sinai, where the oldest icons in existence are preserved.

What was interesting was Leo's motivation. He was one of the most able Byzantine emperors, one of those who saved the empire from destruction. Arabs tried to conquer Constantinople during his reign but he prepared the city for a long siege and then destroyed Arab fleet with a secret weapon known as “Greek Fire”The Arabs left the city alone and never tried to conquer it again but Leo was aware that the Christian empire lost to them the whole of North Africa and the Middle East (including St Catherine Monastery). Why did that happen? Why did the army of a powerful empire lose wars with some nomad camel drivers? The Arabs had a simple answer: you worship icons and this idolatry is forbidden by God. We – said the Arabs – only bow before Allah who cannot be seen and He gives us victories. Emperor Leo clearly agreed with this opinion and because he also wanted victories, ordered all churches within his dominion to be emptied of icons.

A concept of God as someone who gives military aid appears as rather odd to us but it clearly wasn't odd then. For ancient Greeks it was obvious that gods help in wars. In Homer's poems gods run around the battlefield, some of them help this side, other the other. The Christians claimed that the Olympian gods are illusions and there is only one God, the one worshipped by them. For the first Christian this was not a god who would support any military action, they would rather let themseles be thrown to the lions than to start an armed uprising. In the 4^th century, however, emperor Constantine decided to check whether this Christian God is really better than Zeus, prayed to him for a victory in the battle he was about to start and won. For him this was proof that the Christians are right. He was a military man, though, and understood this God just as the ancient hoplites understood Athena, who was supposed to run with them on the battlefield.

Icons in an Athenian church

It is not always so that whatever the emperor says, his subjects accept as right. Many of the subjects of emperor Leo thought he was wrong. He was a strong ruler and during his time it was illegal to hang an icon in a church but after his death the cult of icons was revived. At the Second Council of Nicea in AD 787 it was decided that an image can bring a worshipper closer to God. It is important that the image does not represent the material world but the divine light that fills this world. This is why icons created after that date avoid any realism. Their aim is to make sure that the worshipper sees that divine light in the face of the saint.

From that time on in every Greek church there icons of Jesus and Mary. At least these two but often there are many other icons as well.

But why do Greeks show their respect by kissing icons?

Well, I can't really answer this specific question.

Is this The Real Church?

Rama Shankar with his family and his shudras

“We are going this way” says Ravi.

My ten-years-old brown skinned companion leads me along a street which does not have any sort of pavement or hard surface, only hardened mud. The street is crowded and the crowd is colourful: women in flowery saris, coolies with huge baskets on their heads, bicycle rickshaws with fat bramins in passenger seats, white sacred cows eating green leaves from under the veg stands and leaving heaps of dung in the middle of the road. Everybody seems to be in a hurry except one person – a sadhu with long grey bears, red loincloth as his only clothing, an iron trident in his hand. On his forehead three horizontal lines are painted, a sign of Shiva. I saw a sadhu like that when Rama Shankar led me to a temple of Shiva near his village. Also dressed only in a red loincloth, with a long beard and a trident in his hand, he walked with apparent dignity and loudly sang a mantra. Rama Shankar led me to a temple that stood on a little hill between rice paddies, a quiet place shaded by tall poplar trees. There was a stone figure of a bull in front of the temple and inside one could see a stone phallic symbol – the sign of fertility of which Shiva is the first source. Rama Shankar reverently touched the threshold of the temple and then his forehead. “Very pious place” he said in his broken English. There were some brown-skinned children climbing trees nearby, they shouted something to us. “They are shudras”, said Rama Shankar. “They are savage people”.

The dark-skinned shudras are the lowest caste in the Hindu society. The very name “shudra” means “wicked”. They are the ones who do the dirtiest jobs by the sweat of their brows. They live in the separate part of the village on the Eastern side of the pond. They have broad faces with flat noses, their women wear colourful saris and their men colourful lunghis. They don't wear the sacred thread, they do eat meat and after the day's work in the fields that don't belong to them they sit by their houses and smoke hashish. All the bramins – including Rama Shankar – live at the Western side of the pond, all have skins no darker than a lightly-tanned European, they have long, almost Nordic faces and long noses. Their women wear white saris, their men white dhotis, they also wear a thread that is a sign of holiness. In order not to pollute that holiness they never eat meat, never smoke hashish, don't work by the sweat of their brows but own the land and look down on people who have brown skins, eat meat, smoke hash and work in the fields. Only one dark-skinned man lives in the bramin side of the village, by the temple of Krishna – a sadhu with two vertical stripes painted on his forehead. He has a long beard wears a yellow loincloth and is very skinny because he eats only one meal a day. I asked Rama Shankar what caste he was. “Probably a low one”, was the answer, “but it is not important because he is a mahatma, a holy itinerant, his presence is a blessing for the village.”

The mahatma

The mahatma came for a chat while we were sitting in the shade of a poplar tree in the yard of Rama Shankar's house. There was just one canvas chair there – the seat of honour for the head of the family. Rama Shankar wasn't a big landowner, he only had a hectare of land from which he had to feed his family and his shudras. One hectare wasn't enough so Rama Shankar had to work as a train conductor. He didn't earn a lot which is why the seat of honour was only a canvas chair – given to me, a guest of honour. I was treated like a real sahib, one of the boys even started to fan me with a big folding fan. I wasn't invited indoors, though; all my meals were brought out on a tray and I had to eat alone while others watched me. Nobody told my why it was so but I knew it – it is not only meat that the bramins avoid. Shearing meals with somebody from another caste would also defile the sacred thread. I guess the very fact thet I was invited to visit the village was already a revolutionary move.

The following day Rama Shankar, having learned that I was a Catholic, decided to take me to Catholic mission nearby. We walked a few hours along dirt roads between rice paddies passing by villages where all houses were covered with simple thatches and had uneven walls made of clay. The mission itself looked different, it consisted of spotlessly clean solid houses around a square courtyard, flowering bougainvillea bushes surrounded the complex. We were greeted by a plump dark-skinned and flat-nosed parish priest – this was not a mission sent from overseas, the priest came from a neighbouring state. He was visibly happy that we visited him and showed us around. There was a chapel where all – including the priest – had to sit on the floor during the masses. There was a delivery room where two nuns were busy doing something; they were both very dark skinned but wore white saris. There was a classroom with typewriters, one with English letters and one with devanagari.

“This way we try to help the people here. We also try to spread the Good News.”

“Do you have any conversions?”

“We have two boys from a nearby village. Pramod is one of them.”

The mission chapel

At this point a boy who was busy typing looked at us,a black face, he smiled shyly. It was lunch time and the priest asked us to join him. The food was fiery but delicious. Rama Shankar declined the invitation. “I have eaten now” he said in his broken English but it was an obvious lie, he walked with me all the way from his village and I knew that he didn't eat anything since the morning. But I knew what he meant – a meal with somebody who had so dark skin was unthinkable.

As we were going back, a great black cloud covered the sky and tropical downpour came down in sheets. Palms were waving their fronds, the dusty roads were no longer dusty because two rivers of brown water ran along it, we hid under the eaves of a roadside temple of a god with elephant's head. There were already two mahatmas there, one of them gave us white sweeties and said “prasad”. To my astonishment Rama Shankar took some and gave some to me, also saying “prasad”. I thought – how is it that a plump parish priest who clearly represents better standard of living, who has well built houses in his mission, good food, typewriters, sewing machines and all that, but only has two converts, whereas these half-naked fakirs, so thin that you can count their ribs, have such respect that not only can they live in a bramin part of the village, they can actually offer food to a bramin and the bramin will accept it?

A day later I went to the city of Gaia and walked along a street of an Indian town in a crowd of people, rickshaws, sacred cows, the road wasn't dusty because after yesterday's downpour it was muddy, big puddles here and there, mist was rising over yellow water warmed by the sun. Suddenly I saw something a bit unreal – a half-open gate and behind, beyond a yard covered with green grass, a Gothic church of red brick. There was a notice board by the gate, you could see faint letters forming the word MASS, but all else was so faint that the mass times were not legible. The door of the church was ajar but everything looked somewhat strange – the empty yard contrasting with the crowded street, mist rising above the tall grass. Why was there no footpath from the gate to the church? It was all a little spooky. Suddenly some people appeared in front of the church, they seemed to be quite real, not ghosts. They gestured for me to come, so I did. As I entered the church I was surprised even more – instead of pews there were beds and brown-skinned boys lay on those beds. Their eyes shone with some unusual light.

?

Is this the real church?

“This is not the real church, this is a hospital for lepers,” explained one of those who called me. “This place is used by Missionaries of Charity, the brothers of Mother Theresa of Calcutta. You know Mother Theresa of Calcutta, don't you?”

He introduced himself – he was one of the brothers, the other boys were patients. He led me to a little bench in the vestry and told me about their work.

“Only some of the patients stay here overnight, the rest live at home and only come here for the day.”

“They live at home? What do the neighbours say?”

“The neighbours don't know, only the closest family know about it. Leprosy is nowadays completely curable and if diagnosed early enough – does not even leave a mark. It is also much less contagious than imagined. It is a disease caused by bacteria that can be cured by modern antibiotics. You see that cupboard there, next to the altar? This is where we keep our medicines.”

He was telling me everything I could possibly be interested in, inundating me with his flow of words, clearly happy about my visit no less than those boys with shining eyes. The others didn't talk to me, just looked from the distance. Only one little boy, maybe 10 years old, stood next to me as if listening. Meanwhile two boys sat by the altar and started peeling potatoes.

“We are making our lunch here but you won't eat with us, you will go to the real church, where the brothers live. Ravi will lead you there. Here is Ravi.” This was the name of the boy that stood by my side.

“Ravi can speak fluent English but he is very shy with foreigners. His heart is broken ever since the time Jeanne, an English lady, left. She was here quite long, maybe a year, she was very good to him and he loved her but then she left and his heart is broken. You will show the way, Ravi, won't you?” Ravi nodded, clearly he understood.

We went to the gate, but not the front one, there was another one behind the church. And so I found myself back on that street with all those rickshaws, sacred cows, noise.

“We are going this way”

Ravi, a a brown-skinned leper boy whose heart is broken, leads me to the real church.

You will find this story, and many others, in my book "ASK A GLOBETROTTER".

The everlasting flame of Yazd

Panorma of Yazd

Yazd, a town in the heart of Iran, sometimes called “Pearl of the Desert”.

There is no river in Yazd, the town stands in the middle of a desert and at first a traveller doesn’t know where the trees lining the street take their water from. Or the orchards of pomegranates that are sold at the fruit stands – where they take the water from? Not from the rain, it doesn’t rain here, certainly not in summer. The water is hidden somewhere, or what? It is indeed, the town seems to be proud of that and the traveller very quickly learns all about it. The water is brought to the city in underground canals from distant mountains. Underground, so the water doesn’t dry up in the desert air. This is the system known to Iranian peoples from millennia, in Yazd one can see the canals built in the middle ages and earlier. Everywhere in Iran mosques have ponds in the middle of courtyards so the faithful can make their ablutions before they pray, but in the Friday Mosque in Yazd the faithful have to go down three storeys underground.

The Friday Mosque is one of those building which make the town famous as The Pearl od the Desert. It is a gem of mediaeval architecture, built at the same time as The Notre Dame in Paris, it shines even today with the mosaic of glazed tiles. The main gate, slender and tall, is flanked by two tall minarets covered with sky-blue tiles. This is the characteristic feature of the city, other mosques built in later times also have the tall gates flanked with two minarets. The traveller can see them over the panorama of flat roofs if he climbs one of those minarets.

The Zoroastrian temple in Yazd

But it is not the minarets that attract the travellers here, nor the underground canals. The biggest magnet is a inconspicuous building in the outskirts of the town: the shrine of an everlasting flame.

An everlasting flame in the middle of the desert? What is that?

The flame of the religion of Zoroaster, which has been burning here for millennia. Zoroaster was an Iranian prophet, the founder of the first monotheistic religion in history. Nobody knows when he lived, maybe a thousand years before Christ, maybe more. He was born in Azerbaijan, there he had his first vision: the archangel Vohu Manah appeared to him and told him to proclaim the Good News to the world. Obedient to the order Zoroaster travelled around all of Iran, until in the city of Balkh, in today’s Afghanistan, the local ruler accepted the new religion. Soon the new teaching spread to all corners of Persian speaking lands, emperors Darius and Xerxes were among the followers. Zoroaster was the first prophet who maintained that one can only worship one God, whose name is Ahura Mazda, while the other deities of Iranian Pantheon, known as “deva”, were really evil spirits (this is where the English word “devil” comes from, via Greek and Latin). He was the first prophet known in history, who connected the divine worship with morality, the first who taught about the judgement after death and about the punishment of sins and reward for good deeds (the word “Paradise” also comes from Persian). He was the first to teach about the Saviour who would come at the End of Time, born of a virgin mother. He was the first to identify God with light which shines in darkness. Of course he meant the Spiritual Light, but as a symbol in Zoroastrian temples there is always a burning fire, the everlasting flame. For millennia those flames were being tended by priests known as Magi. They tended the flame and waited for the coming of the saviour born of a virgin.

In the eight century after Christ the Zoroastrian world was brutally shaken by the invasion of camel riders. The riders brought with them a new religion proclaimed in another desert by another prophet. Ever since that time the number of Zoroastrians systematically fell. In the twentieth century the everlasting fire was only kept aflame in Yazd and the surrounding area. It is still being tended today.

The everlasting flame.

Something else also happened during the twentieth century: Iranians suddenly remembered their history. They remembered that before the Arab invasion Iran was a powerful empire. Of course Islam still rules in Iran with an iron fist, conversion from Islam to another religion is punishable by death, but a large part of Iranian intelligentsia realises now that Islam was brought to the country with a sword and that before that time Iran had another religion, its own. And remembers that somewhere in the heart of the country there are people who still are faithful to this religion and who tend the everlasting flame in their temple. Some people even go to Yazd to visit that temple and look into the flame.

The temple stands away from the centre, by the road leading to the East, towards Pakistan. The building itself is not old, the flame was brought here from another, older temple. Above the entrance a picture of an eagle with widespread wings:symbol of Ahura Mazda. Inside is the still living symbol of Iran: its everlasting flame.

You will find this story, and many others, in my book "ASK A GLOBETROTTER".