It is good I left the Baby Care Center when I did. Otherwise, I might decide to stay forever and watch how the vibrant, rose-colored children bloom and grow. In just two weeks time, Pema and Pasang are walking with playful confidence; Kunchok grows more courageous and determined in lifting his butter-ball body on two feet; Norzum laughs more often as she learns the feel of the floor below her stiff-feet: walking is still a long way off, but she sees what is possible. How babies capture the heart: wide-eyed and joyful. Even with tears shed and messes made, smiles and softness close the day with grace. And Curiosity! Always alive and well and spreading her wings and fairy-dust inspiration. I was not allowed to take pictures of the children; it is important to protect the privacy of each family. How I would have loved to share their cherub faces and laughing eyes; their tiny exploring hands and hearts at play. But, with no photos to show, I try and recreate the faces and feelings of the Baby Care Center through haiku. Each haiku is named after one of the children: specifically the youngest of the bunch, who are just learning to walk and talk and welcome you to be a part of the adventure. Especially for those people who know the wonder of working with children, I think you will be able to gather a sense of the baby personalities in the following lines. I hope so: hope you read with joy and a smile.
Kunchok
Roly-poly boy,
Eyes honeydew and laughter.
Stand up, fall down: Bliss
Norzum
Fragile frame sweetness.
Pigeon-toed stiff exhaustion.
Smile; learning to walk.
Pema
Hands reach, eyes open.
Cradle her close, breath softens.
One step more each day.
Jamyang
Pure maple sweetness,
Slow-moving like still water.
Children gather near.
Pasang
Strong and stable smile.
'I see the world in my hand!'
Sweet eyes turn, 'Do you?'
Lungre
I laugh at myself.
At laugh at the sweet chaos.
Three years-old: life's sweet.
I express my gratitude for the privilege of sharing two growthful weeks with such hopeful children.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Friday, August 20, 2010
Faces of India
I just began reading A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry. This highly acclaimed novel set in India has been said to break hearts and move readers to tears on every other page: the pain of exposing a harsh reality. The epigraph reads as follows:
Holding this book in your hand, sinking back in your soft armchair, you will say to yourself: perhaps it will amuse me. And after you have read this story of great misfortunes, you will no doubt dine well, blaming the author for your own insenstivity, accusing him of wild exaggeration and flights of fancy. But rest assured: this tragedy is not a fiction. All is true. - Honore de Balzac
"Page after page, sad chapter after sad chapter, you hope for a light at the end of the tunnel," Mom says. "A light that never appears."
I open the book and begin. Reading such a momumental novel about India while in India is a potentially lifechanging opportunity not to be missed.
And so, I sit in a cafe in this rainy mountain town and order a pot of tea from the menu that advertises Italian, Thai and Continental favorites. "Penny Lane" plays in the background; The Beatles came here, I think, way back when. And their music? It's on the i-pods of the Tibetan, Nepalese and Indian men and women who make this international little town their home. Every other peson I see walking by is a tourist from Israel, France, Spain, England and a handful from the states: their eyes squint all the way up the road as they windowshop their way to the next teastand. I can identify the newest tourist arrivals by their shell-shocked faces: overwhelmed by the thousand and one yoga course flyers and advertisements for massage, cooking class, English conversation, movie nights and more. All the visual bombardment while baby stepping their way up the hill behind two enormous cows who slowly find their way through the traffic and sneakily stop to eat at the vegetable stands while leaving their stink business in a pile at the shoe-shiner's feet.
Twist and Shout dances from the sound system next and I think about Dina, a young woman from the novel, who lost her husband in an instant to a hit-and-run drunk driver and consequently lost the vitality of her life. A kick in the stomach that knocks the wind from her sails, the possibliity from her youthful dreams. Life as a widow in India: surviving does not get any harder.
I know there are widows here in Dharamsala: young women who face the world alone, or with a child or two. Surely the Tibetan women would never let on to their personal tragedy. Tragedy is not personal for the Tibetan refugees who live in Dharamsala; tragedy is collective: what one suffers as part of a culture of people banished from their homeland and ancient traditions. The Tibetan women will be tight-lipped about their suffering: hands busy working, trying to keep their home and honor afloat. From sun-up til sun-down, they work trying to catch the eye of passing tourists who might just be the winning ticket towards this month's rent or at least tomorrow's bread.
The streets of Mcleod Ganj are lined with hotel after hotel, restaurant after restaurant: pizza, spaghetti, omelette. Dozens of craftshops offer the same assortment of pashmina shawls, jewelry and traditional Tibetan souveniers. If it weren't for the rainy season stench, the cows sauntering by and the endless train of Indian tourists who stop my white-skin every 5 meters to take "just one photo," this town could be mistaken for a hamlet in Europe or most likely Israel: complete with street signs in Hebrew.
I come to India because it is the birthplace of Yoga, of Patanjali's Yoga Sutras, of an ancient tradition of leaving the world to find the Self, of cutting through ignorance by cutting through ego. And what do I find? Thousands of other light-eyed seekers who come here for similar or different reasons. Native Indians are not to be found in Yoga Classes, nor Tibetans or Nepalese immigrants who come to India for work. The Yoga teachers are the classic bone and sinew yogis from the stories and centerfold photos: as unbelievably strong and flexible as on imagined and with the capacity to hold a steady stream of breath singing OM for an eternity. The students are you and I: the light-eyed seekers who've dreamed of India since hearing sitar for the first time.
Rishikesh, where I will complete a 200-hour Yoga Teacher Training, will be the same. World travelers arrive on the banks of The Ganges to know Her history and the ancient secrets to enlightened living that She whispers to pilgrims who listen. Many such travelers stay for years or forever and open espresso shops and vegetarian cafes that serve bagels and hummus. Maybe such travelers learn to speak Hindi; more likely they learn English and stop there. Good people. Excellent people. But where is India?
So goes the phrase: Truth is stranger than fiction. Dharamsala is like this: a bubble of peace in the cloudswhere monks meditate aroudn the clock and The Dalai Lama breathes a sigh of homecoming from time to time. It is the chanting and concentration of the many devoted monks and nuns that sustains the calm and steadiness of the slick streets. But still, within the quiet peace the overtakes the blaring carhorns is the irony of westernization. No trash pick up, no sewage treatment, but Cafe Italiano and Espresso Corner and Falafel and Muesli any day of the week.
I do not feel critical of where I am, just observant. At this point, it is possible for a European traveler to arrive in India with all her creature comforts at her fingertips. She will still be surprised by the smells, the pasture animals walking the streets, the footless beggars adn crying children with distended stomachs. She will feel that guilty corkscrew in her heart as she passes the one-legged man with hands outstretched while on her way to breakfast. Maybe she will remember his face while she sips her cup of coffee or maybe she'll just listen to The Beatles and forget.
Hello, India. Just getting to know a few of your many faces.
Holding this book in your hand, sinking back in your soft armchair, you will say to yourself: perhaps it will amuse me. And after you have read this story of great misfortunes, you will no doubt dine well, blaming the author for your own insenstivity, accusing him of wild exaggeration and flights of fancy. But rest assured: this tragedy is not a fiction. All is true. - Honore de Balzac
"Page after page, sad chapter after sad chapter, you hope for a light at the end of the tunnel," Mom says. "A light that never appears."
I open the book and begin. Reading such a momumental novel about India while in India is a potentially lifechanging opportunity not to be missed.
And so, I sit in a cafe in this rainy mountain town and order a pot of tea from the menu that advertises Italian, Thai and Continental favorites. "Penny Lane" plays in the background; The Beatles came here, I think, way back when. And their music? It's on the i-pods of the Tibetan, Nepalese and Indian men and women who make this international little town their home. Every other peson I see walking by is a tourist from Israel, France, Spain, England and a handful from the states: their eyes squint all the way up the road as they windowshop their way to the next teastand. I can identify the newest tourist arrivals by their shell-shocked faces: overwhelmed by the thousand and one yoga course flyers and advertisements for massage, cooking class, English conversation, movie nights and more. All the visual bombardment while baby stepping their way up the hill behind two enormous cows who slowly find their way through the traffic and sneakily stop to eat at the vegetable stands while leaving their stink business in a pile at the shoe-shiner's feet.
Twist and Shout dances from the sound system next and I think about Dina, a young woman from the novel, who lost her husband in an instant to a hit-and-run drunk driver and consequently lost the vitality of her life. A kick in the stomach that knocks the wind from her sails, the possibliity from her youthful dreams. Life as a widow in India: surviving does not get any harder.
I know there are widows here in Dharamsala: young women who face the world alone, or with a child or two. Surely the Tibetan women would never let on to their personal tragedy. Tragedy is not personal for the Tibetan refugees who live in Dharamsala; tragedy is collective: what one suffers as part of a culture of people banished from their homeland and ancient traditions. The Tibetan women will be tight-lipped about their suffering: hands busy working, trying to keep their home and honor afloat. From sun-up til sun-down, they work trying to catch the eye of passing tourists who might just be the winning ticket towards this month's rent or at least tomorrow's bread.
The streets of Mcleod Ganj are lined with hotel after hotel, restaurant after restaurant: pizza, spaghetti, omelette. Dozens of craftshops offer the same assortment of pashmina shawls, jewelry and traditional Tibetan souveniers. If it weren't for the rainy season stench, the cows sauntering by and the endless train of Indian tourists who stop my white-skin every 5 meters to take "just one photo," this town could be mistaken for a hamlet in Europe or most likely Israel: complete with street signs in Hebrew.
I come to India because it is the birthplace of Yoga, of Patanjali's Yoga Sutras, of an ancient tradition of leaving the world to find the Self, of cutting through ignorance by cutting through ego. And what do I find? Thousands of other light-eyed seekers who come here for similar or different reasons. Native Indians are not to be found in Yoga Classes, nor Tibetans or Nepalese immigrants who come to India for work. The Yoga teachers are the classic bone and sinew yogis from the stories and centerfold photos: as unbelievably strong and flexible as on imagined and with the capacity to hold a steady stream of breath singing OM for an eternity. The students are you and I: the light-eyed seekers who've dreamed of India since hearing sitar for the first time.
Rishikesh, where I will complete a 200-hour Yoga Teacher Training, will be the same. World travelers arrive on the banks of The Ganges to know Her history and the ancient secrets to enlightened living that She whispers to pilgrims who listen. Many such travelers stay for years or forever and open espresso shops and vegetarian cafes that serve bagels and hummus. Maybe such travelers learn to speak Hindi; more likely they learn English and stop there. Good people. Excellent people. But where is India?
So goes the phrase: Truth is stranger than fiction. Dharamsala is like this: a bubble of peace in the cloudswhere monks meditate aroudn the clock and The Dalai Lama breathes a sigh of homecoming from time to time. It is the chanting and concentration of the many devoted monks and nuns that sustains the calm and steadiness of the slick streets. But still, within the quiet peace the overtakes the blaring carhorns is the irony of westernization. No trash pick up, no sewage treatment, but Cafe Italiano and Espresso Corner and Falafel and Muesli any day of the week.
I do not feel critical of where I am, just observant. At this point, it is possible for a European traveler to arrive in India with all her creature comforts at her fingertips. She will still be surprised by the smells, the pasture animals walking the streets, the footless beggars adn crying children with distended stomachs. She will feel that guilty corkscrew in her heart as she passes the one-legged man with hands outstretched while on her way to breakfast. Maybe she will remember his face while she sips her cup of coffee or maybe she'll just listen to The Beatles and forget.
Hello, India. Just getting to know a few of your many faces.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
August 15th
I think of Truman Capote, the ultimate conversationalist, and feel grateful for the opportunity to access my artist's palette on this rainy afternoon in the simplicity of open-hearted conversation.
Shahem begins the conversation:
"Today is India's Independence Day. 15th of August."
"Oh, right."I say. "I nearly forgot. Not much celebration?"
"Sunday is dry day."he says. "No wine shops open." His
unmoved expression implies a firm No to the question of celebration without boos.
"India is still corrupt, you know." he begins again.
"Just like the rest of the world,"I say.
"Yea, but India especially. More than 50 years since independence and not much has changed."
"I understand your point of view, Shahem." I say calmly. "But don't you think it is especially easy for us to be critical of our own countries. We see clearly the inequities, the challenges, the disgusting bureaucracy and the day to day circumstances that frustrate us most."
We sit and talk a long while as the rain pours and pours. The man selling roasted corn on the street is the only valiant vendor who remains.
"This man works hard."says Shahem. "All day he is there."
All day standing in the rain shucking corn, grilling and selling. Each and every day the same.
In the midst of our conversation we speak about the fine line between responsible traveling and destructive tourism. "I must refine my intentions daily,"I say. "and remind myself why I am here and how I want to be in the world: not selfish, not self-centered, but aware of the vital need for reciprocity, exchange and right relationship. The vacuum cleaner approach to travel - take, take, take - leaves nothing but terror and misunderstanding. Shahem nods his head. He is the manager of a sweet restaurant just a block from the temple; he spends long days and nights meeting people from all across the world: tourists whose demeanor, behavior and intention for travel varies greatly. "I grow weary of this work sometimes,"he says. "And sometimes I like it. Just trying to make the best of what we're given."
As we speak, I admit that some days a single woman traveling alone can feel lost in the thought of "What am I doing?" That it has taken me a few days in Dharamsala to understand that my time here is for cultivating concentration and discipline through the practice of yoga. A time for fortifying health and vitality and in the meantime trying to find a balance of give and take -- like volunteering at the Rogpa Childcare Center. "I am privileged to be here."I say. "And it is important to me that I remember to express my gratitude through my actions: showing the thanks I feel for the opportunities for learning that each day brings, even on the days that feel more confusing and cloudy: especially on those days. Travel is an irreplaceable teacher - people, landscapes, customs so different (and surprisingly similar) than one's own. Conversations such as this one."
Shahem smiles softly, gazes out at the rain and orders more chai.
Shahem begins the conversation:
"Today is India's Independence Day. 15th of August."
"Oh, right."I say. "I nearly forgot. Not much celebration?"
"Sunday is dry day."he says. "No wine shops open." His
unmoved expression implies a firm No to the question of celebration without boos.
"India is still corrupt, you know." he begins again.
"Just like the rest of the world,"I say.
"Yea, but India especially. More than 50 years since independence and not much has changed."
"I understand your point of view, Shahem." I say calmly. "But don't you think it is especially easy for us to be critical of our own countries. We see clearly the inequities, the challenges, the disgusting bureaucracy and the day to day circumstances that frustrate us most."
We sit and talk a long while as the rain pours and pours. The man selling roasted corn on the street is the only valiant vendor who remains.
"This man works hard."says Shahem. "All day he is there."
All day standing in the rain shucking corn, grilling and selling. Each and every day the same.
In the midst of our conversation we speak about the fine line between responsible traveling and destructive tourism. "I must refine my intentions daily,"I say. "and remind myself why I am here and how I want to be in the world: not selfish, not self-centered, but aware of the vital need for reciprocity, exchange and right relationship. The vacuum cleaner approach to travel - take, take, take - leaves nothing but terror and misunderstanding. Shahem nods his head. He is the manager of a sweet restaurant just a block from the temple; he spends long days and nights meeting people from all across the world: tourists whose demeanor, behavior and intention for travel varies greatly. "I grow weary of this work sometimes,"he says. "And sometimes I like it. Just trying to make the best of what we're given."
As we speak, I admit that some days a single woman traveling alone can feel lost in the thought of "What am I doing?" That it has taken me a few days in Dharamsala to understand that my time here is for cultivating concentration and discipline through the practice of yoga. A time for fortifying health and vitality and in the meantime trying to find a balance of give and take -- like volunteering at the Rogpa Childcare Center. "I am privileged to be here."I say. "And it is important to me that I remember to express my gratitude through my actions: showing the thanks I feel for the opportunities for learning that each day brings, even on the days that feel more confusing and cloudy: especially on those days. Travel is an irreplaceable teacher - people, landscapes, customs so different (and surprisingly similar) than one's own. Conversations such as this one."
Shahem smiles softly, gazes out at the rain and orders more chai.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
First Afternoon at Rogpa Childcare Center
The manager of Rogpa Childcare Center seems stressed and hungry for a moment of peace when I knock on her door: interrupting, but not meaning to interrupt. I do not want to be late for my first day volunteering. The manager's lack of cheer and sweet-tea hospitality does not shake me; traveling makes one aware of her own cultural socialization and hopefully makes one mindful to understand distinct cultural norms with humility wherever she goes.
And so, I enter the Child Care Center with a quiet smile and immediately feel at ease amongst the sleeping children. Sleeping children, all in a row, like an Anne Gedde photo or a can of stuffed-animal sardines: babies snoozing sweetly and dreaming of who knows what as their little limbs jolt and quiver.
First order of business: apron on, hair tied back, hands washed. Then, to wait for the sweet sleepers to wake up for potty time and diaper change. The Child Care staff and parents are resourceful, choosing to reuse disposable diapers by lining the inside of the plastic shell with a cloth. One disposable diaper may be used a hundred times before the tabs finally break.
Resourcefulness is a choice and also a survival tactic. The Rogpa Child Care Center provides free childcare for Tibetan families who come to Mcleod Ganj as refugees. The hope is, by providing childcare free of cost, the young mothers and fathers will be able to work and begin a new life here in the mountains of northern India.
After diaper change is free play. The children, between 8 months and 3 years, have ultimate playtime freedom. The staff conducts the afternoon in 15 minute intervals, cycling the toy sets often in order to keep the children interested and to stimulate different types of play. It has been a while since I have been part of creating a structured learning environment for children under 3. Structured feels like an oxymoron. My first observations are positive: a young, energetic staff who clearly love what they do, and a gorgeous, rambunctious and blooming group of 35 toddlers who feel safe to explore in this space.
As the afternoon unfolds, from one 15 minute play-set to the next, I find myself wondering what kind of structured play might work with these toddlers. Songs in a circle with motions and scarves? Or are these toddlers so tiny that even circle time would be hard to come by? So many different ages, so many different developmental stages. At less than three years old, each day is practically a new developmental stage.
The background music is playful but loud. In my experience, the heavy drumbeats feel over-stimulating and make the children hyper and more ready to slide-tackle their neighbor. Just this one afternoon of play makes me realize how much I have to learn about the first years of life. Birth to 3 years-old is fundamentally different than 4 and 5 years. Luckily, I have got the diaper change down. And even when the diaper change means an atomic blowout that soils two layers of clothing, I change the sweet, unassuming children without a grimace.
I look forward to spending two weeks with the children at Rogpa. I open myself to all the learning, even on the hundredth diaper change.
_______________________________
Basic Tibetan Vocabulary given to me by the staff members at Rogpa.
Hello - Tashi delek
Stand up - Ya lang
Sit down - Ma Dei
Open your mouth - Kha Dang or Aa chi
Don't - Ma Chi
Count 1,2,3 - Chig, Nyi, Sum
Come here - Dei sho
Thank you - Thuk je Chey
And so, I enter the Child Care Center with a quiet smile and immediately feel at ease amongst the sleeping children. Sleeping children, all in a row, like an Anne Gedde photo or a can of stuffed-animal sardines: babies snoozing sweetly and dreaming of who knows what as their little limbs jolt and quiver.
First order of business: apron on, hair tied back, hands washed. Then, to wait for the sweet sleepers to wake up for potty time and diaper change. The Child Care staff and parents are resourceful, choosing to reuse disposable diapers by lining the inside of the plastic shell with a cloth. One disposable diaper may be used a hundred times before the tabs finally break.
Resourcefulness is a choice and also a survival tactic. The Rogpa Child Care Center provides free childcare for Tibetan families who come to Mcleod Ganj as refugees. The hope is, by providing childcare free of cost, the young mothers and fathers will be able to work and begin a new life here in the mountains of northern India.
After diaper change is free play. The children, between 8 months and 3 years, have ultimate playtime freedom. The staff conducts the afternoon in 15 minute intervals, cycling the toy sets often in order to keep the children interested and to stimulate different types of play. It has been a while since I have been part of creating a structured learning environment for children under 3. Structured feels like an oxymoron. My first observations are positive: a young, energetic staff who clearly love what they do, and a gorgeous, rambunctious and blooming group of 35 toddlers who feel safe to explore in this space.
As the afternoon unfolds, from one 15 minute play-set to the next, I find myself wondering what kind of structured play might work with these toddlers. Songs in a circle with motions and scarves? Or are these toddlers so tiny that even circle time would be hard to come by? So many different ages, so many different developmental stages. At less than three years old, each day is practically a new developmental stage.
The background music is playful but loud. In my experience, the heavy drumbeats feel over-stimulating and make the children hyper and more ready to slide-tackle their neighbor. Just this one afternoon of play makes me realize how much I have to learn about the first years of life. Birth to 3 years-old is fundamentally different than 4 and 5 years. Luckily, I have got the diaper change down. And even when the diaper change means an atomic blowout that soils two layers of clothing, I change the sweet, unassuming children without a grimace.
I look forward to spending two weeks with the children at Rogpa. I open myself to all the learning, even on the hundredth diaper change.
_______________________________
Basic Tibetan Vocabulary given to me by the staff members at Rogpa.
Hello - Tashi delek
Stand up - Ya lang
Sit down - Ma Dei
Open your mouth - Kha Dang or Aa chi
Don't - Ma Chi
Count 1,2,3 - Chig, Nyi, Sum
Come here - Dei sho
Thank you - Thuk je Chey
Friday, August 13, 2010
Unexpected Morning
The streets are alive with chatter. What is the news? "His Holiness will give a teaching tomorrow at the temple!" shares a smiling stranger.
And so I rise with a smile of anticipation and make the misty morning walk to the temple. It is only 6:30, but many people gather at the gate. When we are permitted to enter, monks and nuns help us set out mats and take a seat with a view of the immaculate gold statue of Shakyamuni Buddha, whose soft face smiles with a gentleness that allows even us pilgrims from faraway lands to feel at peace in his gaze.
I sit in quiet meditation as the temple fills to the brim with people: the countless rows of cushions happily splitting at the seams to accommodate monks, nuns, Tibetan refugees, Indian tourists and other travelers from all over the world. I feel at ease and extraordinarily grateful for my good fortune of sitting in the presence of His Holiness for even a short while. It is more rare than one might expect for His Holiness to offer a teaching at his home in Mcleod Ganj. The Dalai Lama travels quite often, these days, and many pilgrims come to the temple at Mcleod Ganj three or four times before being able to receive a teaching. And so, I smile and feel the expanding warmth of my grateful and calm breath: quietly awaiting the entrance of His Holiness.
All at once, the nuns sitting a few rows in front of me rise and hold their hands in prayer at heart-center. We travelers follow their lead and do the same, bowing our heads slightly and secretly hoping to catch a glimpse of His Holiness through the tight ring of helpers that guide him where he goes. In an unexpected moment, my heart leaps from my chest and hangs on my smile when I catch the smallest glimpse of the Dalai Lama's glasses and the soft shine of his slightly bowed forehead. From the wrinkles that decorate the corner of his eyes, I can tell he is smiling. I am surprised at how overcome I feel already, my heart fluttering on overdrive but at the same time peaceful and moved to something between tears and silent laughter. His Holiness enters the temple and takes his seat for meditation. From where I sit, I can only see the very top of his head; his body is veiled by what looks like a silken white altar that, from my perspective, could be seen as the gateway to His Holiness's sacred seat. The meditation begins.
Monks and nuns pass out booklets of this morning's teaching. The teaching will be conducted in Tibetan only and so I do not take a booklet, though gazing upon the subtle beauty of Sanskrit Letters is a gorgeous meditation in and of itself. I prefer to listen. His Holiness wears a microphone and so the baritone depth of his prayers are clear to all of us seated near and far. Tibetan chanting is something unlike anything I have ever heard; it is nearly impossible to believe the extent to which highly trained monks can use their breath in one steady stream to create such a range of sounds: never gasping, hardly inhaling, just flowing breath, deep and wide. I let myself dissolve into the sound. The teaching lasts for nearly two hours all together; Tibetan men and women chant along in a breathtaking chorus. Though the temple is open, I could be water sitting in a brass bowl that is being struck with a soft mallet: reverberating incantation throughout and through-in. I smile a seamless chain of smiles; like the water droplets on a morning spiderweb, I smile.
When it is time for His Holiness to rise and exit the temple, once again, we all stand and show our deepest respect. This time, I see his face, his smile, his kind way of stopping and offering blessings to a few pilgrims on the edge of the path. We are all overcome: seeing His Holiness is like jumping at dawn into frigid water and feeling every nerve alive and open-mouthed with reverence.
I did not know how I would react to this chance occasion; I could not anticipate what it would be like to see His Holiness walking joyfully just 10 meters from where I stand. I can say, now, that this morning is one I will not forget: just being in the presence of His Holiness the Dalai Lama, who calls himself but a simple monk , is a blessing that will continue to bloom in me for many moments to come. The chanting, the smiles, the peaceful gathering of hundreds of pilgrims from all over the world, the sweetness of the first glimpse of glasses and smile-line wrinkles: I feel joyfully silent, abundantly grateful and happily peaceful. May all the world be well and peaceful in this moment and receive a breath of blessing from this unexpected morning. Om Shanthi
And so I rise with a smile of anticipation and make the misty morning walk to the temple. It is only 6:30, but many people gather at the gate. When we are permitted to enter, monks and nuns help us set out mats and take a seat with a view of the immaculate gold statue of Shakyamuni Buddha, whose soft face smiles with a gentleness that allows even us pilgrims from faraway lands to feel at peace in his gaze.
I sit in quiet meditation as the temple fills to the brim with people: the countless rows of cushions happily splitting at the seams to accommodate monks, nuns, Tibetan refugees, Indian tourists and other travelers from all over the world. I feel at ease and extraordinarily grateful for my good fortune of sitting in the presence of His Holiness for even a short while. It is more rare than one might expect for His Holiness to offer a teaching at his home in Mcleod Ganj. The Dalai Lama travels quite often, these days, and many pilgrims come to the temple at Mcleod Ganj three or four times before being able to receive a teaching. And so, I smile and feel the expanding warmth of my grateful and calm breath: quietly awaiting the entrance of His Holiness.
All at once, the nuns sitting a few rows in front of me rise and hold their hands in prayer at heart-center. We travelers follow their lead and do the same, bowing our heads slightly and secretly hoping to catch a glimpse of His Holiness through the tight ring of helpers that guide him where he goes. In an unexpected moment, my heart leaps from my chest and hangs on my smile when I catch the smallest glimpse of the Dalai Lama's glasses and the soft shine of his slightly bowed forehead. From the wrinkles that decorate the corner of his eyes, I can tell he is smiling. I am surprised at how overcome I feel already, my heart fluttering on overdrive but at the same time peaceful and moved to something between tears and silent laughter. His Holiness enters the temple and takes his seat for meditation. From where I sit, I can only see the very top of his head; his body is veiled by what looks like a silken white altar that, from my perspective, could be seen as the gateway to His Holiness's sacred seat. The meditation begins.
Monks and nuns pass out booklets of this morning's teaching. The teaching will be conducted in Tibetan only and so I do not take a booklet, though gazing upon the subtle beauty of Sanskrit Letters is a gorgeous meditation in and of itself. I prefer to listen. His Holiness wears a microphone and so the baritone depth of his prayers are clear to all of us seated near and far. Tibetan chanting is something unlike anything I have ever heard; it is nearly impossible to believe the extent to which highly trained monks can use their breath in one steady stream to create such a range of sounds: never gasping, hardly inhaling, just flowing breath, deep and wide. I let myself dissolve into the sound. The teaching lasts for nearly two hours all together; Tibetan men and women chant along in a breathtaking chorus. Though the temple is open, I could be water sitting in a brass bowl that is being struck with a soft mallet: reverberating incantation throughout and through-in. I smile a seamless chain of smiles; like the water droplets on a morning spiderweb, I smile.
When it is time for His Holiness to rise and exit the temple, once again, we all stand and show our deepest respect. This time, I see his face, his smile, his kind way of stopping and offering blessings to a few pilgrims on the edge of the path. We are all overcome: seeing His Holiness is like jumping at dawn into frigid water and feeling every nerve alive and open-mouthed with reverence.
I did not know how I would react to this chance occasion; I could not anticipate what it would be like to see His Holiness walking joyfully just 10 meters from where I stand. I can say, now, that this morning is one I will not forget: just being in the presence of His Holiness the Dalai Lama, who calls himself but a simple monk , is a blessing that will continue to bloom in me for many moments to come. The chanting, the smiles, the peaceful gathering of hundreds of pilgrims from all over the world, the sweetness of the first glimpse of glasses and smile-line wrinkles: I feel joyfully silent, abundantly grateful and happily peaceful. May all the world be well and peaceful in this moment and receive a breath of blessing from this unexpected morning. Om Shanthi
Thursday, August 12, 2010
On the Edge of Feeling Useless
When the cold feeling of uselessness begins to creep into my bones, I must immediately stop and evaluate why destructive thought patterns have edged their way into my mind. Walking the streets with a worn-out backpack and hiking shoes: a postcard image of the vagabond tourist who can afford more than a few weeks holiday in Asia. It is no use denying that, as the rain falls on the steep, river streets, I am wearing boots and a backpack and have white skin and only a handful of Hindi words to choose from. I am a tourist. So what is the problem?
"Tourist" does not have to be synonymous with idle, irresponsible, self-interested, wandering and aimless; but, some days, my white skin and hiking boots and daily stroll down Tourist Lane seeking an afternoon cup of tea makes me feel Icky. My feeling Icky is reasonable: Here I am wandering the hillsides, stopping to read the bazillion yoga fliers and noticing the bright green parrot community burst from the tree like a firework just 10 meters from where I am standing. What am I doing? If exchange is essential to life, or at least a most exciting and potentially positive aspect of life -- giving and receiving, being shaped and shaping, created and creating -- then what am I doing exactly standing in a cloud on the mountainside looking at yoga fliers?
When I begin to feel this way, like the Monsoon cloud is inside of me and not just forming puddles at my feet, it is time for action. Conversation with self: so you feel like a vacancy, a neon light flashing in the night, of no use, just taking up space with your boots and itinerary of "self-exploration." What to do? Go to yoga class, break a sweat, listen to your breath and nourish your body with fresh food. Health is a stepping stone: without a healthy body and resolved breath, mind and heart will swirl in a chaotic storm and throw obstacles in the way of moving through the vacant feeling of uselessness. Next: action. What might I do? Can I be of help in some way in this bustling town: half commercial tourism, half Tibetan Refugee Haven? A cup of tea in the right cozy cafe leads me closer to an answer.
Rogpa Cafe is one part of an organization dedicated to helping families of Tibetan Refugees begin a new life: encouraging them to become self-sufficient through job training, etc. One aspect of the organization is a Baby Care Center located here, in Mcleod Ganj, just a 10 minute walk from where I am staying. "Volunteers Needed" I read on the door and my heart jumps in my chest. "Baby Care Center" and "Volunteer" in the same sentence. Sign me up, please!
After speaking with the Volunteer Coordinator for the project, I agree to work 4 hours each afternoon in the Baby Care Center: helping to create a safe and playful environment for children from 8 months to 3 years-old. I will work under the guidance of Tibetan Teachers who have had some training in Early Childhood Education: change diapers, sing songs, play with blocks and Legos, tell stories and generally support the team of women who work at the center 6 days a week. I feel excited to take this chance: signing up for two weeks just on hearsay and the happy voices of children arriving from the classroom window into the office where I watched the introductory film. Rogpa, www.tibetrogpa.org seems like a well-organized and happy-spirited organization and I feel like I can offer my humble and joyful love to these youngsters and not do unintentional harm. In my experience as a volunteer, it is often best to begin volunteering in very simple, humble ways, especially if one plans to stay for just a week or two. The more responsibility you take on (or demand of the organizational staff), the more distant you might come from the humility that will allow you to appropriately shape your qualities for the particular context in which you are working. I will go to Rogpa Baby Center tomorrow with a completely open-mind: not pretending that I know a thing about child-rearing in a Tibetan Daycare. But I will watch closely, keep my voice soft and my eyes open - aware of what the children are doing and what seems to be considered appropriate behavior and what is not. I will bring a belly full of English songs to share if called upon to do so, and a no-fear mentality when it comes to changing diapers and cleaning Training Toilets. I undertake the adventure of joining 6 or 8 other women in maintaining a safe, clean, creative space for 35 youngsters to play and learn.
And so: yoga and meditation in the morning; childcare in the afternoon. This will be my life for the next two weeks: life in the dense cloud cover of Dharamsala. Admittedly, it is harder to rise with spunk when it is pouring down rain outside, but I have decided to offer my smile and heart to the mud-puddles while I am here. It was I who decided to come to the mountains during monsoon. Who am I to complain about the weather?
There is a yoga studio just a quick walk from the hidden hostel where I am staying. (One studio amongst a thousand in this tiny but bustling tourist town on the edge of a mountain.) I enjoyed class this morning; the instructor is called Vijay and he has been practicing yoga for 40 years. He is competent, thorough, offering a 2 hour 15 minute power yoga session each day at 9 AM. (www.vijaypoweryoga.com) This sweat producing, flowing, athletic yoga suits me at the moment: feeling like I need to move and challenge my body to stay healthy and supple amidst the rain and cloud-cover and beautiful challenge of traveling solo in a place that I have dreamed about for years and years. That's another topic to tackle: the ideas and fantasies that we allow to color our imaginations and the reality of the places we have colored with our dream-state mind. Something I have been thinking a lot about as my heart helps me understand that one of the greatest adventures one can undertake is that of daring to put down roots in a patch of earth. I focus my energy on being here and now: in India, alone, on a journey for reasons that I will learn as I go. And, at the same time, I am aware of my spirit's renewed commitment to settling down and beginning to sow seeds of health and beauty and learning in a community I will come to love more and more through both trial and celebration. The details? Refining themselves day by day but still malleable and full of possibility.
So, my attempt at organization went spinning into a twirl of my present thought patterns considering nomadic travels and sowing seeds in a garden. Here I am in the clouds of Mcleod Ganj, attempting to create a steady rhythm of yoga practice and child care fun: committing to be the artist of my each and every day; committing to not growing lazy or disheartened with my set of colors and brushes.
"Tourist" does not have to be synonymous with idle, irresponsible, self-interested, wandering and aimless; but, some days, my white skin and hiking boots and daily stroll down Tourist Lane seeking an afternoon cup of tea makes me feel Icky. My feeling Icky is reasonable: Here I am wandering the hillsides, stopping to read the bazillion yoga fliers and noticing the bright green parrot community burst from the tree like a firework just 10 meters from where I am standing. What am I doing? If exchange is essential to life, or at least a most exciting and potentially positive aspect of life -- giving and receiving, being shaped and shaping, created and creating -- then what am I doing exactly standing in a cloud on the mountainside looking at yoga fliers?
When I begin to feel this way, like the Monsoon cloud is inside of me and not just forming puddles at my feet, it is time for action. Conversation with self: so you feel like a vacancy, a neon light flashing in the night, of no use, just taking up space with your boots and itinerary of "self-exploration." What to do? Go to yoga class, break a sweat, listen to your breath and nourish your body with fresh food. Health is a stepping stone: without a healthy body and resolved breath, mind and heart will swirl in a chaotic storm and throw obstacles in the way of moving through the vacant feeling of uselessness. Next: action. What might I do? Can I be of help in some way in this bustling town: half commercial tourism, half Tibetan Refugee Haven? A cup of tea in the right cozy cafe leads me closer to an answer.
Rogpa Cafe is one part of an organization dedicated to helping families of Tibetan Refugees begin a new life: encouraging them to become self-sufficient through job training, etc. One aspect of the organization is a Baby Care Center located here, in Mcleod Ganj, just a 10 minute walk from where I am staying. "Volunteers Needed" I read on the door and my heart jumps in my chest. "Baby Care Center" and "Volunteer" in the same sentence. Sign me up, please!
After speaking with the Volunteer Coordinator for the project, I agree to work 4 hours each afternoon in the Baby Care Center: helping to create a safe and playful environment for children from 8 months to 3 years-old. I will work under the guidance of Tibetan Teachers who have had some training in Early Childhood Education: change diapers, sing songs, play with blocks and Legos, tell stories and generally support the team of women who work at the center 6 days a week. I feel excited to take this chance: signing up for two weeks just on hearsay and the happy voices of children arriving from the classroom window into the office where I watched the introductory film. Rogpa, www.tibetrogpa.org seems like a well-organized and happy-spirited organization and I feel like I can offer my humble and joyful love to these youngsters and not do unintentional harm. In my experience as a volunteer, it is often best to begin volunteering in very simple, humble ways, especially if one plans to stay for just a week or two. The more responsibility you take on (or demand of the organizational staff), the more distant you might come from the humility that will allow you to appropriately shape your qualities for the particular context in which you are working. I will go to Rogpa Baby Center tomorrow with a completely open-mind: not pretending that I know a thing about child-rearing in a Tibetan Daycare. But I will watch closely, keep my voice soft and my eyes open - aware of what the children are doing and what seems to be considered appropriate behavior and what is not. I will bring a belly full of English songs to share if called upon to do so, and a no-fear mentality when it comes to changing diapers and cleaning Training Toilets. I undertake the adventure of joining 6 or 8 other women in maintaining a safe, clean, creative space for 35 youngsters to play and learn.
And so: yoga and meditation in the morning; childcare in the afternoon. This will be my life for the next two weeks: life in the dense cloud cover of Dharamsala. Admittedly, it is harder to rise with spunk when it is pouring down rain outside, but I have decided to offer my smile and heart to the mud-puddles while I am here. It was I who decided to come to the mountains during monsoon. Who am I to complain about the weather?
There is a yoga studio just a quick walk from the hidden hostel where I am staying. (One studio amongst a thousand in this tiny but bustling tourist town on the edge of a mountain.) I enjoyed class this morning; the instructor is called Vijay and he has been practicing yoga for 40 years. He is competent, thorough, offering a 2 hour 15 minute power yoga session each day at 9 AM. (www.vijaypoweryoga.com) This sweat producing, flowing, athletic yoga suits me at the moment: feeling like I need to move and challenge my body to stay healthy and supple amidst the rain and cloud-cover and beautiful challenge of traveling solo in a place that I have dreamed about for years and years. That's another topic to tackle: the ideas and fantasies that we allow to color our imaginations and the reality of the places we have colored with our dream-state mind. Something I have been thinking a lot about as my heart helps me understand that one of the greatest adventures one can undertake is that of daring to put down roots in a patch of earth. I focus my energy on being here and now: in India, alone, on a journey for reasons that I will learn as I go. And, at the same time, I am aware of my spirit's renewed commitment to settling down and beginning to sow seeds of health and beauty and learning in a community I will come to love more and more through both trial and celebration. The details? Refining themselves day by day but still malleable and full of possibility.
So, my attempt at organization went spinning into a twirl of my present thought patterns considering nomadic travels and sowing seeds in a garden. Here I am in the clouds of Mcleod Ganj, attempting to create a steady rhythm of yoga practice and child care fun: committing to be the artist of my each and every day; committing to not growing lazy or disheartened with my set of colors and brushes.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Rooftop to Slum
The family of puppeteers and musicians perform on the rooftop of Anoop Hotel each night of the weekend: Jagdish, the puppeteer, his son Manshu, the assistant, an uncle on the harmonium and classical vocals, and a cousin on the tabla. The troupe plays the same show with the same spunk, the same jokes and smokes and puppet vignettes each night. I have already joined the lot of travelers that become fans three nights in a row: enjoying the music and fun and gorgeous confidence of these showman who make their living according to the generosity of their audiences.
Last night, in a respite between shows, the musicians continued playing and enjoying the pleasure of friendly improvisation with eyes closed and voices robust and rising in joyful crescendo. Jagdish saw me dancing in my chair and invited me to join their musical circle. From one moment to the next I went from a kind stranger to a tambourine player in the band: hired on for the next session. Moments in which white-skin dissolves into the drumbeat; when "other" and "foreign" melt into the ease and kindness of a stranger willing to take a chance as friend; moments such as these are among the most precious sand-grains in life's hour-glass. I am grateful to Jagdish for his merriment, his laid-back gestures, his easy acceptance of what is difference and willingness to invite me into the inner music circle.
And so we play and laugh and crescendo and stop suddenly to add a dramatic effect to the puppetry and dancing. I smile and laugh and feel at home on the rooftop in this otherwise totally alien city.
As night falls deep, from purple haze to black with hints of streetlight glow, our voices lower and instruments take rest. "Will you come have lunch with my family tomorrow?" asks Jagdish. "I would be honored." I say without hesitation. From talking with a French couple who are circus performers, I know that Jagdish lives in the slum and that his family will welcome me with open arms and offer me all they have and more. I do not fear the stench of the open sewer or the flies or the possibility of being sick from food or filth. Not for a moment. The concern that goes through my head is: what if they feed me with a week's wages? They will surely serve me like a queen and then watch me eat, not taking anything until I have finished and been served seconds and begged to take thirds until the sisters finally accept my thanks and take a bite for themselves and the children. What can I bring to this chance encounter?
I bring crayons, colored pencils and a pad of paper for drawing. I bring pencils and a sharpener, a camera and an open heart. I leave my judgment at home and stuff my gag-reflex to sewer stench deep in my pocket where it cannot breathe. I smile, put on clean clothes and hop on the metro to meet Manshu.
The slum is hidden behind street signs and shop entrances. From the main road, one has to etch-a-sketch a zig-zag canal before popping up just above the sewer pipes and between the broken concrete walls of the slum. The door to the house is made of rusty metal; the 1 year-old Anjaley greets me at the door: naked and covered in flies. I give her a kiss and her eyes grow wide as she gazes upon a face so unfamiliar. Jagdish's daughters welcome me into their living space: a bathroom-size concrete building covered by a humid black carpet and years of oil from the life that happens here. We sit and play and touch hands and look at jewelry and laugh. The daughters immediately focus their praise on my white skin, in broken English saying: "My skin: dark, ugly. You: beautiful." I try to explain to them that I believe they are beautiful just as they are; that their skin and eyes and smiles are gorgeous and I would love to look as radiant as they do. The women just look at me and laugh; I think they feel shyly happy for my complements.
The camera comes out and 30 hands begin to touch and grab and fight for a photo here and there. The sisters are especially happy to take photos with their small children. They are still children themselves: 18, 20, 22: but they each have a child on their hip -- learning to be children and mothers at the same time. It is challenging for me to see that baby Anjaley wants to nurse but her mother wants to take pictures and play and therefore just listens to her child cry for an eternal moment before raising the child's lips to her breast. And then, the tiny brother in the doorway: naked, surrounded by flies, learning that crying will not gain attention from the women because he need to learn to fend for himself on the hard streets of the slum. The sisters are lovely and kind and doing the very best they know how to raise their children in such a crowded, gray and harsh environment. But how hard it is to hear the children cry. They laugh, too: when we are playing the drum and playing peek-a-boo and especially when we are coloring with a fat red crayon and then blue and then yellow. The sisters are even more thrilled by the crayons: "Teach me how to spell my name," they insist sweetly, never having held a pencil or a crayon in their life. School is not an option, here. Tending to the family and marrying when the time is right: the contours of their life and their landscape. Once again, I recognize how rare and privileged a person is to have choices in her life: to have people even ask her the question, what do you dream of?
The afternoon is long and gorgeous and full of laughter and song and a heartfelt exchange of gifts. Yes, the mother feeds me with gorgeous food and the whole family, apart from the brother, Manshu, sit and watch me eat. Manshu, being the young man of the house at 12 years old exercises his authority with great confidence. It is surprising to see how at ease he is treating his sisters with a firm hand. He treats me as an honored guest and then loses his temper with the playful jokes of his older sisters. I kindly encourage him to see that I am just the same age as his sisters, that we are not so different at all, that he, please, should show them the same respect he shows me. Maybe he turns up his listening ear just a little. His sisters smile and we say a thousand times: Friends! Sisters! and signal to the circle of women with our hands.
Sangita asks me to sponsor her son to go to school when he turns five, three years from now. I explain to her that I do not want to make promises that I cannot keep; that five years from now I am not sure how we will be able to contact one another. But I encourage her to start saving and give her some funds to begin the collection: just a bit at a time. You are right to want education for your child, and you can give it to him: commit to it, one penny at a time! We understand each other in a clasping of hands and a hug. We express thanks for the shared songs, gifts and food. They invite me to stay with them whenever I like and I let them know that I will try and visit before I leave for the United States. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Blessings shared. From rooftop to broken concrete building, voices sing with laughter as loving kindness shines its light in even the darkest places.
Last night, in a respite between shows, the musicians continued playing and enjoying the pleasure of friendly improvisation with eyes closed and voices robust and rising in joyful crescendo. Jagdish saw me dancing in my chair and invited me to join their musical circle. From one moment to the next I went from a kind stranger to a tambourine player in the band: hired on for the next session. Moments in which white-skin dissolves into the drumbeat; when "other" and "foreign" melt into the ease and kindness of a stranger willing to take a chance as friend; moments such as these are among the most precious sand-grains in life's hour-glass. I am grateful to Jagdish for his merriment, his laid-back gestures, his easy acceptance of what is difference and willingness to invite me into the inner music circle.
And so we play and laugh and crescendo and stop suddenly to add a dramatic effect to the puppetry and dancing. I smile and laugh and feel at home on the rooftop in this otherwise totally alien city.
As night falls deep, from purple haze to black with hints of streetlight glow, our voices lower and instruments take rest. "Will you come have lunch with my family tomorrow?" asks Jagdish. "I would be honored." I say without hesitation. From talking with a French couple who are circus performers, I know that Jagdish lives in the slum and that his family will welcome me with open arms and offer me all they have and more. I do not fear the stench of the open sewer or the flies or the possibility of being sick from food or filth. Not for a moment. The concern that goes through my head is: what if they feed me with a week's wages? They will surely serve me like a queen and then watch me eat, not taking anything until I have finished and been served seconds and begged to take thirds until the sisters finally accept my thanks and take a bite for themselves and the children. What can I bring to this chance encounter?
I bring crayons, colored pencils and a pad of paper for drawing. I bring pencils and a sharpener, a camera and an open heart. I leave my judgment at home and stuff my gag-reflex to sewer stench deep in my pocket where it cannot breathe. I smile, put on clean clothes and hop on the metro to meet Manshu.
The slum is hidden behind street signs and shop entrances. From the main road, one has to etch-a-sketch a zig-zag canal before popping up just above the sewer pipes and between the broken concrete walls of the slum. The door to the house is made of rusty metal; the 1 year-old Anjaley greets me at the door: naked and covered in flies. I give her a kiss and her eyes grow wide as she gazes upon a face so unfamiliar. Jagdish's daughters welcome me into their living space: a bathroom-size concrete building covered by a humid black carpet and years of oil from the life that happens here. We sit and play and touch hands and look at jewelry and laugh. The daughters immediately focus their praise on my white skin, in broken English saying: "My skin: dark, ugly. You: beautiful." I try to explain to them that I believe they are beautiful just as they are; that their skin and eyes and smiles are gorgeous and I would love to look as radiant as they do. The women just look at me and laugh; I think they feel shyly happy for my complements.
The camera comes out and 30 hands begin to touch and grab and fight for a photo here and there. The sisters are especially happy to take photos with their small children. They are still children themselves: 18, 20, 22: but they each have a child on their hip -- learning to be children and mothers at the same time. It is challenging for me to see that baby Anjaley wants to nurse but her mother wants to take pictures and play and therefore just listens to her child cry for an eternal moment before raising the child's lips to her breast. And then, the tiny brother in the doorway: naked, surrounded by flies, learning that crying will not gain attention from the women because he need to learn to fend for himself on the hard streets of the slum. The sisters are lovely and kind and doing the very best they know how to raise their children in such a crowded, gray and harsh environment. But how hard it is to hear the children cry. They laugh, too: when we are playing the drum and playing peek-a-boo and especially when we are coloring with a fat red crayon and then blue and then yellow. The sisters are even more thrilled by the crayons: "Teach me how to spell my name," they insist sweetly, never having held a pencil or a crayon in their life. School is not an option, here. Tending to the family and marrying when the time is right: the contours of their life and their landscape. Once again, I recognize how rare and privileged a person is to have choices in her life: to have people even ask her the question, what do you dream of?
The afternoon is long and gorgeous and full of laughter and song and a heartfelt exchange of gifts. Yes, the mother feeds me with gorgeous food and the whole family, apart from the brother, Manshu, sit and watch me eat. Manshu, being the young man of the house at 12 years old exercises his authority with great confidence. It is surprising to see how at ease he is treating his sisters with a firm hand. He treats me as an honored guest and then loses his temper with the playful jokes of his older sisters. I kindly encourage him to see that I am just the same age as his sisters, that we are not so different at all, that he, please, should show them the same respect he shows me. Maybe he turns up his listening ear just a little. His sisters smile and we say a thousand times: Friends! Sisters! and signal to the circle of women with our hands.
Sangita asks me to sponsor her son to go to school when he turns five, three years from now. I explain to her that I do not want to make promises that I cannot keep; that five years from now I am not sure how we will be able to contact one another. But I encourage her to start saving and give her some funds to begin the collection: just a bit at a time. You are right to want education for your child, and you can give it to him: commit to it, one penny at a time! We understand each other in a clasping of hands and a hug. We express thanks for the shared songs, gifts and food. They invite me to stay with them whenever I like and I let them know that I will try and visit before I leave for the United States. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Blessings shared. From rooftop to broken concrete building, voices sing with laughter as loving kindness shines its light in even the darkest places.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Time limit helps me be succinct, maybe
Quite often I am a women of cascading words: phrase after phrase spinning off my tongue like the flying colors of the most magnificent acordian skirt. But today, I have no choice but to be succint: my computer time-limit is nearly up, so I am racing the clock.
Let me just reiterate that the laughter has continued as I venture out into the crumbling streets of Delhi. I learned why the entire city-center is under construction and displaying scaffolding and huge rock piles and rock tumbles at every glance. In two months time, the Commonwealth Games arrive here in Delhi. Like the Olympics, I've been told, but smaller. At the rate they are going, it is hard to believe the city will be an immaculate postcard in just two months: but, workers are banging and clanging around the clock, so anything is possibe.
Walking adventures over scaffolding and zig-zagging through manholes turned into a queenly India breakfast at what looked like a sterilized and sparkling fast-food joint and ended up being an excellent joint where locals and tourists alike enjoy cheap and yummy treats. The only breakfast place open before 11AM: life starts late here. So breakfast at 10AM with a stranger who made fast friends as he talked about where he was from and where we were from and where to go and what to see and the Commonwealth Games and the delciciousness of South Indian Masala Dosa breakfast. What fun.
And then back on the streets: offered a fine deal on an auto-rickshaw ride by Sonno: "First customer of the day: best price!" What a sweet man: helps us cross the crazy highway traffic running, takes us to the most reputable travel agencies and helps us try and get a good deal,shows us around Connaught Place, the city center, and makes suggestions of what Bazaars to visit and the pros and cons of each.
Mika just left for Varanasi. I will stay in Delhi another day and leave for Agra on Sunday morning. More updates to come: I think I will see the puppeteer Jagdish and his son, Manchu later this evening for another memorable show.
Let me just reiterate that the laughter has continued as I venture out into the crumbling streets of Delhi. I learned why the entire city-center is under construction and displaying scaffolding and huge rock piles and rock tumbles at every glance. In two months time, the Commonwealth Games arrive here in Delhi. Like the Olympics, I've been told, but smaller. At the rate they are going, it is hard to believe the city will be an immaculate postcard in just two months: but, workers are banging and clanging around the clock, so anything is possibe.
Walking adventures over scaffolding and zig-zagging through manholes turned into a queenly India breakfast at what looked like a sterilized and sparkling fast-food joint and ended up being an excellent joint where locals and tourists alike enjoy cheap and yummy treats. The only breakfast place open before 11AM: life starts late here. So breakfast at 10AM with a stranger who made fast friends as he talked about where he was from and where we were from and where to go and what to see and the Commonwealth Games and the delciciousness of South Indian Masala Dosa breakfast. What fun.
And then back on the streets: offered a fine deal on an auto-rickshaw ride by Sonno: "First customer of the day: best price!" What a sweet man: helps us cross the crazy highway traffic running, takes us to the most reputable travel agencies and helps us try and get a good deal,shows us around Connaught Place, the city center, and makes suggestions of what Bazaars to visit and the pros and cons of each.
Mika just left for Varanasi. I will stay in Delhi another day and leave for Agra on Sunday morning. More updates to come: I think I will see the puppeteer Jagdish and his son, Manchu later this evening for another memorable show.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Hello, New Delhi
At nearly 10pm, I am wide awake with the reverberating rhythm of first impressions of New Delhi. We step off the plane, hug our dear sisters of A Gift for the Village team goodbye, and step into a seemingly abandoned airport corridor: too bright, too silent, too safe. This is Delhi? I laugh. Where is the chaos and clamor and never-ending immigration lines and a thousand desperate drivers yelling, "Taxi, taxi! Tour! Madame! Can I help you? First time India? Train station, sister?" Mika and I wait in the immigration line casually, comfortably, admiring the enormous hand-mudra carvings that line the long hallway. We arrive to Delhi.
Just out the door and we meet our taxi driver, Manish, who was sent be our hostel to pick us up. He holds a sign with my strange name written in bold. Someone is waiting for me at the airport? What corner of my imagination is this? Is someone writing a novel and now I am a main character: emerging from the airport looking purposely frumpy and unattractive, wanting to blend in with the exhaust and unassuming street corners? As soon as we are situated in the taxi, Manish turns around and sprays us with an atomic perfume: a fragrance that makes you grimace and laugh at the same time as you wonder what alchemist thought up such a suffocating floral combination. "Welcome to Delhi!" he says, as if he had just given us the banquet welcome. The India chapter starts off with a good laugh: brilliant.
Time to hit the streets. My senses are bombarded with a thousand colors and sounds: playful auto-rickshaws who race the big, shiny taxis, just because the friendly competition is ridiculous and a way to break up the mundane job of driving a thousand laps around the all-too-familiar craziness of the city; a team of footballers who bus back from a winning game - all riding on the roof of a double-decker bus and dancing to the strong club-appropriate beat of Bangara hits. They see Mika and I smiling at them and reaching for our cameras to film the moving party. They play along and feed the theatrical exchange: dancing, smiling, waving hands ... knowing that Mika and I secretly wish that we could jump out the taxi window and into their celebration. Here is the chaos, the clamor, the unexpected humor of sensory overload: sadhus walking with circus-tent like puppets in hand, gorgeous women in red-saris hauling impossibly heavy bricks to build a wall, a taxi driver who sprays us with perfume and talks out the window to other drivers and then asks the occasional random question about where we are from in a mix of English and Hindi. We are arriving in Delhi.
After the 20km taxi ride from the airport, Manish drops us off in a rough-around the edges gorgeous market neighborhood that hides just a stone's throw from Connaught Place: a historic plaza that is shaped like a sun whose shining rays are streets full or artisans and shops and ... who knows what else: I'll see tomorrow when I venture out walking. Mika and I laugh at how strangely comfortable we are here. Not to worry: not so comfortable that I am going to leave my passport under the table and walk off without a second thought. My heart and mind are clear and aware: not hurrying but paying attention to each step. A good thing, since just 5 ft from the entrance to our hostel, men and women are demolishing an old hotel building so that they can build it back better and brighter, I suppose. No "caution" zones, no eye protection, no work boots: flip-flops are the national work-shoe. Gorgeous. So much laughter, so few barriers. All connected and thrown into the same simmering pot to cook and catch the flavor.
The women who carry children and bottles notice a new face immediately and seek me out to ask for rupees to help their cause. I understand your need, sister, I say; but I cannot give you money now. Maybe food tomorrow. Food would be better. Just as in Kathmandu, a tourist must be careful to assure that her good intentions are not doing more harm than good. Giving money to a mother who holds a baby and a bottle likely means that you are paying that woman's pimp to buy himself a drink and the mother and child earn a tiny fraction of the donation. So, I will give myself a few days to see if I come to know any of the street-women by name: it helps to know stories behind the face and often times, the women who beg speak impeccable English. They have learned through years of practice: practice mandated by desperate circumstances.
We go up to the rooftop for dinner: a stunning view. We climb the stair into a totally different world, a transformed frame of mind: like two young women surprised to be meeting the neon-cloud beauty of Delhi's rooftop sea in the very first hours here. We eat and weave our way through a smiling conversation. A crew of brother puppeteers dazzle us with tabla music, passionate song and a puppet show the shimmers and shakes with ornately sewn puppets and a master's hand. The puppeteer, Jagdish, is friendly and walks over to say hello after the show. He tells me about the community of 2000 artists where he and his family live. He shows me photos of the many tours he has done in Europe, being invited to festivals in Switzerland, England, Italy and beyond. But his European fame does not automatically mean fortune or even relative stability. The life of a traveling artist is hard: dependent upon the whims of each audience. How often are people willing to be generous? I wish I could say more often than not; but that is not the case. A few pennies here and there. Surprisingly, it is the locals who often give more; it is hard for tourists to understand the vitality of the artist and audience relationship: how dependent artists are upon a kind gesture, a belief that what is given is also received in the never-ending chain of human exchange. After spending many weeks learning from our most generous friends in Nepal, I am feeling generous and contribute a smiling green rupee note. For all the gifts and blessings and generosity I have received, may the cycle continue over and over and spin into a beautiful rainbow of colors and help us too-often-stingy human beings remember that it is our natural joy to be generous and loving and free.
And so: I am safe in New Delhi. I feel grateful for the multi-colored, multi-textured day of tearful goodbyes and laughing hellos and a thousand baggage stamps and airport antics in between. Mika and I explore the heart of Delhi together tomorrow and then ... off on our separate ways with humble hearts and courageous spirits. Hello New Delhi. What a fine welcome.
Just out the door and we meet our taxi driver, Manish, who was sent be our hostel to pick us up. He holds a sign with my strange name written in bold. Someone is waiting for me at the airport? What corner of my imagination is this? Is someone writing a novel and now I am a main character: emerging from the airport looking purposely frumpy and unattractive, wanting to blend in with the exhaust and unassuming street corners? As soon as we are situated in the taxi, Manish turns around and sprays us with an atomic perfume: a fragrance that makes you grimace and laugh at the same time as you wonder what alchemist thought up such a suffocating floral combination. "Welcome to Delhi!" he says, as if he had just given us the banquet welcome. The India chapter starts off with a good laugh: brilliant.
Time to hit the streets. My senses are bombarded with a thousand colors and sounds: playful auto-rickshaws who race the big, shiny taxis, just because the friendly competition is ridiculous and a way to break up the mundane job of driving a thousand laps around the all-too-familiar craziness of the city; a team of footballers who bus back from a winning game - all riding on the roof of a double-decker bus and dancing to the strong club-appropriate beat of Bangara hits. They see Mika and I smiling at them and reaching for our cameras to film the moving party. They play along and feed the theatrical exchange: dancing, smiling, waving hands ... knowing that Mika and I secretly wish that we could jump out the taxi window and into their celebration. Here is the chaos, the clamor, the unexpected humor of sensory overload: sadhus walking with circus-tent like puppets in hand, gorgeous women in red-saris hauling impossibly heavy bricks to build a wall, a taxi driver who sprays us with perfume and talks out the window to other drivers and then asks the occasional random question about where we are from in a mix of English and Hindi. We are arriving in Delhi.
After the 20km taxi ride from the airport, Manish drops us off in a rough-around the edges gorgeous market neighborhood that hides just a stone's throw from Connaught Place: a historic plaza that is shaped like a sun whose shining rays are streets full or artisans and shops and ... who knows what else: I'll see tomorrow when I venture out walking. Mika and I laugh at how strangely comfortable we are here. Not to worry: not so comfortable that I am going to leave my passport under the table and walk off without a second thought. My heart and mind are clear and aware: not hurrying but paying attention to each step. A good thing, since just 5 ft from the entrance to our hostel, men and women are demolishing an old hotel building so that they can build it back better and brighter, I suppose. No "caution" zones, no eye protection, no work boots: flip-flops are the national work-shoe. Gorgeous. So much laughter, so few barriers. All connected and thrown into the same simmering pot to cook and catch the flavor.
The women who carry children and bottles notice a new face immediately and seek me out to ask for rupees to help their cause. I understand your need, sister, I say; but I cannot give you money now. Maybe food tomorrow. Food would be better. Just as in Kathmandu, a tourist must be careful to assure that her good intentions are not doing more harm than good. Giving money to a mother who holds a baby and a bottle likely means that you are paying that woman's pimp to buy himself a drink and the mother and child earn a tiny fraction of the donation. So, I will give myself a few days to see if I come to know any of the street-women by name: it helps to know stories behind the face and often times, the women who beg speak impeccable English. They have learned through years of practice: practice mandated by desperate circumstances.
We go up to the rooftop for dinner: a stunning view. We climb the stair into a totally different world, a transformed frame of mind: like two young women surprised to be meeting the neon-cloud beauty of Delhi's rooftop sea in the very first hours here. We eat and weave our way through a smiling conversation. A crew of brother puppeteers dazzle us with tabla music, passionate song and a puppet show the shimmers and shakes with ornately sewn puppets and a master's hand. The puppeteer, Jagdish, is friendly and walks over to say hello after the show. He tells me about the community of 2000 artists where he and his family live. He shows me photos of the many tours he has done in Europe, being invited to festivals in Switzerland, England, Italy and beyond. But his European fame does not automatically mean fortune or even relative stability. The life of a traveling artist is hard: dependent upon the whims of each audience. How often are people willing to be generous? I wish I could say more often than not; but that is not the case. A few pennies here and there. Surprisingly, it is the locals who often give more; it is hard for tourists to understand the vitality of the artist and audience relationship: how dependent artists are upon a kind gesture, a belief that what is given is also received in the never-ending chain of human exchange. After spending many weeks learning from our most generous friends in Nepal, I am feeling generous and contribute a smiling green rupee note. For all the gifts and blessings and generosity I have received, may the cycle continue over and over and spin into a beautiful rainbow of colors and help us too-often-stingy human beings remember that it is our natural joy to be generous and loving and free.
And so: I am safe in New Delhi. I feel grateful for the multi-colored, multi-textured day of tearful goodbyes and laughing hellos and a thousand baggage stamps and airport antics in between. Mika and I explore the heart of Delhi together tomorrow and then ... off on our separate ways with humble hearts and courageous spirits. Hello New Delhi. What a fine welcome.
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