San Thome Cathedral, Chennai, India

Whereas in the West, Catholic priests generally wear black robes, here in India – perhaps in an appropriate concession to the heat - they are more likely to wear white. Similarly, Christian churches here are overwhelmingly white(washed). And so, possibly the most important Christian church in all of India, the one Pope Pius XII himself elevated to the status of a minor basilica in 1956, is a great gothic monument - brilliantly white - overlooking the Bay of Bengal from the modest hill on which it was built over the remains of St. Thomas (Doubting Thomas), one of Jesus’ own twelve apostles.

Hinduism, the dominant religion in India, has always been exceptionally tolerant of other faiths. I have seen statues of the Virgin Mother lovingly attired in colorful saris; I have seen images of Jesus alongside the deities in Hindu temples. There has been some hardening of this ecumenical position of late in response to Islamist fanatics hell-bent on desecrating anything that is not Islam.

Legends of St. Thomas’ life in India abound. At one point, it is said that a huge log washed down the Adyar River and got stuck at its mouth, causing significant flooding upstream. The king called out his army to dislodge it. Try as they might, they couldn’t budge the log. The king had heard rumors of an ascetic living in a cave up in the hills of whom it was said that he could perform miracles. The king sent a messenger to fetch him. St. Thomas came; touched the log with the girdle the Virgin Mother had dropped at the time of her assumption, which St. Thomas always wore around his waist; spent some moments in silent prayer and then asked the king’s men to pull the log aside. They were able to do so without difficulty.

The belief in St. Thomas’ ability to perform miracles continues to this day. Christians from far and wide converge steadily on San Thome Cathedral to pray for the Saint’s personal intervention in regard to some problem they might be experiencing. In December of 2004, when the tsunami hit the east coast of India, it is now widely believed that St. Thomas’ Pole (fashioned from the legendary log) which stands between the sea and the church, was responsible for saving the lives of the people living in the Foreshore Estate, a neighborhood comprised primarily of fishing villages.

San Thome Basilica in Chennai is well worth a visit. There’s a delicious irony between Indian exotica and the (starkly geometric) cross. Besides the grand interior of the Basilica, the complex contains the Eucharist Chapel, the Tomb of St. Thomas (also with Chapel), a modest museum, boasting of St. Thomas relics such as the spearhead that killed the beloved saint.

There is a small gift shop where any number of items associated with St. Thomas can be purchased. By far the most popular item is a wallet size card embedded with the sand from the Saint’s tomb which is said to have miraculous healing powers. Other items include post- and laminated prayer cards in various Indian languages as well as a quarterly news magazine entitled, Voice of St. Thomas.

Peter Koelliker; pkoelliker8@yahoo.com

Peter Koelliker; pkoelliker8@yahoo.com

Navaratri ‘Kolu’ (India)

As a small child growing up in Kerala, I was quite unaware of the vibrancy; of the intensity and vitality of ‘Kolu’, which is an integral part of Navaratri, a celebration of the Goddess Durga. I was introduced to its color and pageantry only after my mother and I relocated to Bangalore in Karnataka, a state that is in many respects synonymous with the traditions of Navaratri (also known there as Dasara). It didn’t become a part of me until age seven; this, the ‘Kolu’ festival in which terracotta dolls are decorated and displayed on tiers in every Hindu home, (much like the spirit in which Christmas trees are decorated in the West), capturing and holding - for a brief nine nights and ten days - the child in all of us.

This display of dolls and decorative floral designs during Navaratri is seen mostly in the south Indian states of Tamil Nadu, Andhra Pradesh and Karnataka. The south Indian Diaspora celebrates ‘Kolu’ in the same traditional way, recreating this familiar cultural landscape wherever in the world they may happen to find themselves.

In the patriarchal north of India, Dasara is symbolic of the mythological victory of Ram over Ravana, the ten-faced demon king of Lanka. On the tenth day, a huge effigy of Ravana is torched amid a noisy fireworks display. There is joy and jubilation all around. ‘Good’ has prevailed over ‘evil’ once again. The ‘Ram Lila’ (as this ten-day enactment is called) in north India, like the ‘Kolu’ in the south, is inexorably woven into the memories of childhood.

Meanwhile in the south, as well as in the state of West Bengal, Dasara is a ten-day celebration of the Mother Goddess in all her multifarious forms: She is Chamundi who slays the buffalo demon in a ten-day battle in Mysore; she is Saraswati, the Goddess of learning, in Kerala; she is Bhavani who rides on a tiger in Gujarat and Maharashtra; Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, in Tamil Nadu; and Ma Durga who rides on a lion in West Bengal. She is said to be stern, yet compassionate.

The tenth morning - also called ‘Vijayadsami’ (or the ‘victorious tenth day’) - the very young are initiated into learning and for those who have already begun their studies it serves as a reminder that learning is an ongoing experience.

In India, the mythic and the ordinary co-exist, and in these festivals one sees them merge. Religion (or faith) becomes a living, breathing amalgamation, very much rooted in the organic expression of everyday life. It does not much matter to people that Ram or Durga are only metaphors. What matters is the celebratory nature of life in all its various aspects. Little girls and boys dress in festive finery. The girls in long, shimmering silk skirts with flowers in their hair take their little brothers to visit neighbors in order to see the dolls, decorated and exhibited on tiers. All those who visit are given tiny dolls, flowers, and sweets; each item prettily wrapped and put in special thamboolam bags made of silk.

The tiered arrangement of the dolls is to adhere to a specific protocol: the bottom tier is laid out with fruits and flowers; the topmost tier has regular panoply of gods and goddesses with Durga taking pride of place. The tiers between are meant to represent people from all walks of life—in essence, a microcosm showcasing both, the human and the divine dimensions.

I remember these celebrations so vividly. The lights, the colors, the smell of jasmine and incense; the lively chatter of my friends as we visited the various neighborhood ‘Kolus’; the busy adults; the scrumptious food; the dolls we so preciously decorated and displayed; the tiers so painstakingly arranged; the abundance of fruits and flowers; the strains of someone playing notes in praise of the goddess on the veena; of giggling helplessly at the incomprehensible lyrics; the embarrassment when asked to perform; the wonderful hubbub of those ten days that are but a pause before the free-fall of Diwali.

Parvathi Venkatraman; Chennai, India

Kochi, India

Kerala is in many ways a paradox. It is one of two Indian states that boast of having a Communist government. Kerala (along with Bengal in North India) is touted as having the highest literacy rates on the sub-continent. This singular political and educational distinction has not come without cost. Heavy government interference in the private sector – regulation; taxation – forces many young men to seek employment elsewhere. Malayalam (the language of Kerala) is liberally heard in neighboring Karnataka and Tamil Nadu (where I presently live). My dentist is Malayali; the internationally known movie play-back singer, Yesudas, down the street from us, is a Malayali; 60% of the hospital nurses in the West are Malayalis. And nearly every Kerala family has someone working somewhere in the Middle East – so much so, that announcements at the airport in Dubai are also given also in Malayalam (anybody notice that the word is a palindrome?)

My first encounter with Kerala was Kochi (or Cochin as it was then called). On the ride from the airport, the differences between Tamil Nadu and Kerala become immediately apparent. There was hardly a stray dog to be seen. Also missing were oxcarts, and cows wandering aimlessly about in major traffic. The streets seemed much cleaner than those across the border. The vegetation differed too; much more of what you’d expect a tropical island paradise to be. Of course it rains steadily for four months out of the year. Consequently, roads are built with run-offs as to remain passable even during the monsoon season. (Unlike in Tamil Nadu where, when it rains only a little, knee-high water routinely collects on the streets.)

Kochi is the commercial center of Kerala by virtue of its excellent harbor. Travelers and spice traders from all over the world – from the Chinese to the Romans – have been stopping here for centuries. Many ancient accounts by seafarers and traders make reference to the convoluted history of this sliver of a state that hugs the lushly tropical Malabar Coast.

Kochi is made up of Ernakulam on the mainland plus a series of islands (at least one of these man-made). A tour boat takes you around the harbor, making frequent stops. Of these, the most fascinating is Jew Town which once housed a significant Jewish population and claims the oldest synagogue in India. It’s a must-see for all those whose Asia cruise liners stop here. The narrow streets have one antique shop after another, crammed with wonderfully tempting treasures to suit every taste and budget. There are also a few western-style restaurants with excellent reputations.

Another must-see are the Chinese fishing nets and the Church of St. Francis where Portuguese adventurer, Vasco da Gama lies buried.

For those able to spend a few days, there are the refurbished rice boats that take you along the inland waterways in style, stopping here and there to enjoy the delicious (coconut-based) Kerala cuisine. If you’re extremely lucky, you may even witness Kathakali, a unique form of classical dance theater that is somewhat similar to Japanese Kabuki. Performances are generally held at night by the light of a single oil lamp (Aatta Vilaku) with sixty wicks. Some say Kathakali is the “art of the non-worldly”.

Peter Koelliker; pkoelliker8@yahoo.com

Tuellinger Hoehe, Germany

Every inhabited region bears a landmark that defines it. It may be a mountain, a hill, a river or lake. It is the physical manifestation of energy that eddies and pools unceasingly around the globe, invariably giving rise to secondary monuments such as the Eiffel Tower, the Statue of Liberty, the Taj Mahal, and cities and towns in general. An obvious example is the Matterhorn (14,692 ft. in the Pennine Alps on the border between Switzerland and Italy), so unique in appearance and always majestic – even when shrouded in cloud cover – that gave relevance to the Swiss town of Zermatt as a significant way station for people who are inexorably drawn here from around the globe.

Most landmarks are not so dramatic. Yet, I myself have shed tears after having caught that first glimpse of Chamundi Hill when approaching Mysore (India) by train after so many years. Its residents may not even give it a second look, content with the certitude by which that ever-present weight - their love of the land, securely encased within their innermost being – asserts itself. It almost takes a stranger’s eyes to fully appreciate any given (more outwardly modest) landmark once again – or a long absence.

As a child, I would visit my grandparents in Loerrach, Germany. The town lies at the end of a valley carved by a river (Wiese) that originates deep in the hills of the Black Forest. At Basel, it empties into the legendary Rhine. On a political map, this marks the spot where three countries (Germany, Switzerland and France) come together at a single point. A ridge, running due south within the German third of the pie, ends abruptly in a gently rounded hill, the Tuellinger Hoehe, that dominates this landscape. It is covered with vineyards. Along the gently rising ridge, the medieval town of Tuellingen crests along a single narrow road that reaches at it’s apex an unassuming chapel before plunging down into the Rhine valley and on into Switzerland.

I used to push my baby brother in his stroller up the zigzag pathways, through the apple orchards, past the grapevines, up to the crest where farm houses and barns, wizened with age, comprised the old town of Obertuellingen. From there we pushed on to the Ottilien Chapel. From its terrace we’d enjoy the gentle breeze on our faces as we surveyed our greater surroundings from the Black Forest, across to the Jura, to the Burgunder Pforte, and on to the southern Vosges. On clear days, centuries-old Basel, with its own indelible (historic) landmarks was quite visible to the naked eye: the gothic Muenster, a dark smudge; and the tall, gleaming smokestacks of its pharmaceutical research facilities. It is there where my own heart longed to be. As long as I can remember, I have always carried the torch for the city where I had once had the opportunity to attended first grade at the Spalen Schule [named after yet another prominent (world heritage class) landmark: the Spalen Tor].

Thirty some odd years later, I would find myself there again. My brother had grown and no longer needed to be pushed in a stroller. In fact, he was too busy with his professional work to even come along. To my immense relief, I found that nothing had changed - only that the entire border region had become decidedly more prosperous. I was told that the wine had improved considerably. It was sold in the open street markets of Loerrach under the emboldened new label that announced, “Neuer Wein”.

Peter Koelliker; pkoelliker8@yahoo.com

The Orchid Show: On Broadway

Beginning Saturday, March 5, Broadway stretches north to the lush tropical galleries of the New York Botanical Garden’s Enid A. Haupt Conservatory in this dazzling display by Tony Award-winning set designer Scott Pask, image-maker Drew Hodges, and Botanical Garden curators. The Orchid Show features thousands of orchids exquisitely arranged to re-create iconic architectural elements from legendary Broadway theaters. Don’t miss this special limited-run engagement!

Millburn, NJ

We live on the Union County side of three counties that meet at a single point. When we moved here, we very seldom ventured outside our own county. Most of our shopping was done in Union County. Our schools and jobs were in Union County. When we went for gas-guzzling Sunday drives, we’d take Union County roads to the major highways that would lead us either down the Shore or out west into Pennsylvania. New York City was also always a favorite destination.

I married a girl from Madison and a whole new world opened up to me: deliciously green and historic Morris County. We even lived in both Chathams a while.

This left Essex County still largely unexplored. Millburn is right next door in Essex County. We seldom go there. It’s hard to figure why. My son and I actually broke our usual routine and drove over to Millburn last week to check it out. It was a dreary day between snow storms.

We parked the car and decided to have a look around. It turned out to be an absolutely lovely town with quaint shops and oodles of interesting restaurants. I think every major world cuisine craving was represented. There was a movie theater with four screens in the center of town. But a much more famous venue is Millburn’s Paper Mill Playhouse.

I was surprised by how big it was. It’s always been the theater in our area that was the alternative to going to Broadway. I’ve heard that he shows here are every bit as professionally staged as they are in New York. They also feature known, professional actors. Go to their website, www.papermill.org for show information, tickets and directions. Parking fees are nominal, but ticket prices are only a tad less than for Broadway shows.

Millburn includes Short Hills which is home to the “Cora Hartshorn Arboretum and Bird Sanctuary”. It is also the home of the deliriously upscale “Mall at Short Hills”. We’ve been to there countless times, of course. In fact, I used to take the kids over there while it was still being built. It’s the only mall I know of where they don’t allow pushcart vending. Instead, you’ve got cars bearing monikers the likes of Rolls Royce, Porsche, Audi, Bentley and Land Rover taking up space in the center aisles. The mall also features some very good restaurants. At Christmas there is always live music and a ‘stand in line to get a picture to get your kid’s picture taken with’ Santa Claus.

It’s always good to get out and widen one’s horizons. In Millburn’s case I can honestly say, I traveled China before ever going to Millburn. This is not strictly true because it was actually necessary at times to travel through the town to get to somewhere else. Still it’s funny how it turns out; how a psychological blind spot can prevent us from going in a particular direction without ever being aware of it. It reminds me of looking for my wallet and finding it only after some time. It had always been in plain sight, right where it was supposed to be.

Peter Koelliker; pkoelliker8@yahoo.com