Encuentros en Pune

Duermo a gusto en las frías noches de enero y al amanecer, reanimado por el café instántaneo del hotel y la tostada con margarina, estoy listo de nuevo para enfrentarme a las calles de Pune. Paso la mañana en el templo de las cuevas de Pataleshwar, del siglo VIII, al norte de los Peths, de los que ya he escrito algo, al otro lado del río Mutha. Vagando por la zona me pregunto si realmente estoy en el lugar exacto de un templo tan venerable. Ando rodeado de altos edificios de hormigón y obras de nueva planta, y un tráfico desmesurado satura la ancha avenida de varios carriles por cuya precaria acera me muevo.

Al doblar la esquina entro en un parque umbrío y de pronto se hace la calma, como si al cruzar el umbral de sombra el toldo de hojas matara el ruido. Unos pasos más lejos de la entrada se asienta una estructura de piedra en medio de un bosquecillo tranquilo, está tallada en una sólida roca de granito gris. Un techo de piedra sostenido por macizos pilares desnudos, cuadrados, de unos tres metros de altura, protege un toro también de piedra al que acaban de enjaezar con guirnaldas de flores. Tiene un aspecto bastante humilde y encogido entre la piedra maciza que lo rodea. Detrás de esta estructura, hay un templo de Shiva tallado en la roca, una cámara oscura iluminada solo con lámparas de aceite y unas pocas bombillas mortecinas, todo envuelto en un penetrante sahumerio. Es un templo muy ajetreado, una corriente continua de gente que entra y sale.

Me cruzo con un europeo barbudo que al reconocerme como no indígena inicia la conversación. Su inglés es gramaticalmente impecable pero con un fuerte acento: es rumano, de Maramureş, y ahora reside en Canadá. Me informa sobre el lugar. Tocamos juntos la campana («Más fuerte», dice, «así los dioses podrán oírte»), y luego giramos tres veces alrededor de la estructura. «Ahora reza», me ordena, y yo junto mis manos e inclino la cabeza, más como cortesía que por recogimiento.

En el patio me saluda un joven hindú en un inglés excelente. «Estudio robótica en la facultad de ingeniería de aquí», me dice. Luego me pregunta «¿Cuánto cuesta vivir en California?» Le digo que no lo sé con exactitud pero que seguramente cuesta mucho.

Pune Encounters

I sleep well in the cool January nights, and by sunup, re-energized by the hotel’s instant coffee and margarined toast, I am ready to brave the streets of Pune once again. I use the morning for a visit to the 8th-century Pataleshwar Caves temple, to the north of the Peths, about which I previously wrote, on the other side of the river Mutha. Wandering the district, I first wonder if I can be in the right place for such a venerable site. I am surrounded by concrete high-rises and new construction sites, and an exuberant flow of traffic fills the broad multilane thoroughfare at the precarious edge of which I walk.

Rounding a corner, I find a shady park, and it immediately becomes quieter, as if the umbral light of the dense tree canopy has deadened the outside sounds. A few paces beyond the entry, a stone structure is found sitting in a serene grove of trees, carved from a single boulder of hard gray stone. A stone roof, held aloft by square unadorned pillars perhaps 3m high, covers a stone bull, which has been freshly garlanded with flowers. It looks a bit humble and small among the massive stone that surrounds it. Beyond this structure, a temple to Shiva is carved out of the rock, a dark chamber lit only with oil lamps (and a few dim electric bulbs), and infused with a pungent incense. It is very much a working temple, with a steady flow of people coming in and going out.

I meet there a bearded European who, recognizing me as a non-native, begins a conversation. His English is grammatically perfect, but he speaks it with a thick accent; he is a Romanian from Maramureş, now living in Canada. He instructs me about the place. Together, we ring the bell, (“Louder,” he says, “So that the gods can hear you!”), and we then perambulate the structure thrice. “Now, make your prayer!” he instructs, and I hold my hands together and bow my head, as a courtesy more than a prayer.

In the courtyard, I am greeted by a young Hindu woman, who speaks in excellent English. “I am studying robotics at the local engineering college,” she tells me. Then she asks, “How much does it cost to live in California?” I tell her that I don’t really know, but that it probably costs a great deal.

Peths of Pune

In the old town of Pune, gray eagles circle the sky like fragments of paper ash floating on the  heat over a fire. The traffic is relentless, the endless beeping and crepitating of motorbikes compete with push carts, motorized rickshaws, and city buses, each jostling, wheedling, cajoling for a space, just an inch more of space, and when they get it, they leap forward with a joyful kick of the motor. A pedestrian must put his faith in their drivers, for there are too many moving targets to watch at once, and progress is impossible if you stand petrified at the street’s edge.

Old central Pune is divided into peths, a Marathi word that describes a small neighborhood. One, the Kasba Peth, dates to the 14th century; the rest were established in the 17th to 19th centuries during Maratha and Peshwa rule. Seven are named after Marathi names for days of the week, which named the main market day in each of those peths.

Nowadays, the peths carry on their business every day, much like in many cities of south Asia. In January, it is dry and relatively cool. It’s a good time for doing a lot of walking, looking into courtyards, and gathering impressions. For a break, one can sit down in a food stall and have a small, milky, heavily sugared, spiced tea. At the end of the day, when your shoes are covered with dust, and your nostrils full of motor exhaust, you can hail a rickshaw, and as you sail past the rest of the city, you think, yes, I will certainly come back tomorrow, for there is so much more to see.