On the banks of the Ganges, I sit. A river made holy by the myriad believers who, for centuries, have gathered at her banks to wash, to pray, to sit in stillness and watch her water flow. The steps leading down to the swift brown current, fast and full with the recent rain, are covered in leaves, trash, dung, peanut shells and floral offerings. A child bathes happily under the sweet gaze of his young mother, beginning the day with a thick soap lather and a shivering giggle. Sadhus cloaked in orange gather together under the shade of the riverside Bodhi trees. Women use hand mirrors to apply make-up and bindis before stepping riverside for a morning ceremony. The riverside is alive with chatter: temple bells and singing bowls mapping the sun's journey over the horizon.
Just minutes after I arrive on the ghats, I am approached by a semi-official man with a semi-official book of receipts who asks me to make a donation to the maintenance of the riverside community. "Free feeding for poors-beggars, old sages and for all who wants," he says with a salesman's cheer, his eyes just inches from my own and leaning closer. "And for ceremonies, too," he adds. I smile and hand over a hundred rupee note, still slightly skeptical but encouraged by the enthusiasm of the twenty eyes staring at me from all sides. "100 rupees very little contribution," says the officer. He flips through his companion book and finds a few words of English with amounts of 2000 rupees and beyond. "I am a student," I respond, keeping my reasoning simple. "Please accept what I offer." The riverside women, hand -mirrors held close, darken their lashes and eyes before smearing themselves with whitening cream. No rain in the sky today and still I am soaked by India' unfailing sensory overload from sun-up til sun down and into midnight's shadows.
I sit on the steps with my shawl veiling face and eyes, hoping to dissolve into the hypnotic Ganges flow and evade the curious eyes of the riverbank dwellers for just a moment. And as a single moment dawns and faces, like a firefly, a larva, an aphid born and laid to rest in the same instant, Mona Lisa is by my side. Mona Lisa, the spirited young woman who speaks with confidence in broken but practiced English explains to me that I should come with her to Calcutta. "Two single women traveling alone can become friends traveling together," she smiles. In another time and place, I might say yes, impressed by her sweet persistence, which includes stories of her paramedical training, her life as a classical Indian singer and a thorough explanation of her identification card. She pulls out a handwritten and carefully preserved business card that in another hand could be easily mistaken for a laundry-drenched pastime. "And look here," she adds, showing me an immaculate florescent print out of Ram Dev and his wife with bloody-mouthed Kali and Tara in a totem-pole like arrangement. Mona Lisa sings to me and waves her henna-laced hand like a Bollywood star. "God bless you," she says as she makes a tentative gesture in the shape of a cross. "And God bless you, Mona Lisa," I reply with my hands folded in Namaste. "Good luck in Calcutta."
I continue walking. The sun rises high. I miss the breakfast hour completely, hunger dispelled by the buzz of morning activity. A happily naked toddler looks up, her eyes thickly defined with black powder, shielding her young pupils from the sun and subsequently making her look like a princess. Her mother smiles, six or seven months pregnant with the next. This is who I would give the hundred rupees pocketed by the riverside official. We hold our gaze for a long moment and continue walking our separate ways.
The banks of the Ganges are bursting with color. Hundreds of locals and Indian tourists flood the water's edge with marigold and bugambilia offerings and bathe happily or not so happily by the bucketful. One of the not so happy bathers is a toddler on holiday with his young parents. He is adorned with blessing necklaces and a thin string around his waist, nothing more. Dad drags him to the water as Mom tries to focus the camera. The young boy screams in protest as he is dunked into the current. I step away, embarrassed to maintain my sideways glance any longer. I make my way up river where children and women are squatting on small mud and rubbish islands, fingering through the trash in search of something. Fresh water mussels? Snails? Discarded jewels? Coin offerings? I sit down, feeling comfortably anonymous with my veil. But not two breaths do I take before I feel a tap on my shoulder.
"Namaskar, madame."
I turn around to see two orange-clad sadhus gazing at me. White beards, black umbrellas and neutral business-like expressions.
"Namaskar," I reply, knowing they've got me cornered.
"Country, please," continues the alpha of the pair.
"U.S.A." I say with a smile.
"It is not money we want," the leader continues. "Rice, flour, vegetables: this we want. Come."
I follow willingly, knowing the rule that once sadhus have you you are to respect their request, if at all reasonable.
"10kg of rice, good," states the sadhu, sure that I will continue to comply as easily as I have thus far.
"100 rupees of rice," I say. "100 rupees is what I offer."
The sadhu shakes his head in disappointment, but I know my offering is appropriate and stand my ground with ease. I hand him the money, snap a photo, receive his blessing with folded hands and bowed head and slip quietly from the shop and back to the clamorous street. A plump woman whose heavy eyes witnessed the transaction is quick on my heels.
"50 rupees, sister. Chapatti, rice."
"No, sister," I reply, not slackening my pace. She persists thirty meters more and gives up.
I duck out of the river boardwalk and onto the busy alley-way streets, bursting at the seams with vendors on bikes and surplus cheap merchandise: bangles, plastics, blankets, incense, metal-ware, spices and balls of dough deep-fried in oil. I dissolve into the noise and chaos just as I dissolved into the Ganges flow of morning. I walk with a playful confidence and smile: the kind of confidence that comes from deep humility and a willingness to put judgment aside and just be.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Saturday, September 25, 2010
The Train
I chose the 54 hour train-ride south because I knew the journey would be like nothing else I've experienced thus far. I chose the 54 hour train-ride north because I knew I could weather the railway with grace. Four and a half days of life in a rail coach watching the world rush by through open windows, hypnotized by the endless green expanse: an endless green thickly embroidered with skyscraper garbage heaps and anonymous cows feasting on the stench.
How to re-create the whirlwind inundation of rail-side existence? The eternal matchbox-city slums putt-putt by, frame by frame, as the train reaches the outskirts of the city; haphazard yet carefully mended roofs of burlap, tarpaulin and broken metal flash sunlight and burning garbage direct to eye-level; a child swings from a rope hung in the single tree outside a broken line of plaster-colored shacks; two egrets pose lovingly on the staunch backbone of a long-horned cow; trash sits; children play; more trash burns; hammers tap-tap; the smell of fresh piss hisses and a line of bare bums squat on the railway before going home to their huts on the edge of midnight's train whistle. How to share the sensory overload of the whirlwind journey of boxcar eyes that stare out the train's barred-windows as the world rushes by? I feel like a spinning druid: flashes of color, words and song; sparks and fireworks exploding.
Apart from the endless garbage that lines the rivers, railways, mountainsides, cities and villages, the breadth of India between Delhi and Kerala is green farmland. Potatoes, Corn, Rice and Squash for endless miles. Banana trees and coconut palms joining the patchwork fields as the train moves south. Entire families work the harvest together. Big sister cares for baby under the make-shift shade of a broken umbrella. Mom's sure hands sow new rice seedlings ankle-deep in mud. Dad and brother man the two-mule plow and ready the next field for planting. Children harvest with agility and grace, making time for a quick game of tag or an approximation of cricket before the sun sets.
I think I would love India if I took the time to learn Hindi. In fact, I feel my love growing even with my stapled tongue. I love the kind faces and enthusiasm: a happy outburst at every hello. I love the attention to detail: blessing scarves at the source of water, the florescent-colored face flowers hanging in every doorway just over the fresh embers of burning incense. What we might call tacky in the states is gorgeous in India because everyone believes in everyday celebration. Celebration that merely begins by blessing doorways with garlands of flowers and throwing rice and spending extra rupees on special incense to make the living statues of Krishna and Lakshmi happy. India: the land of constant celebration, eternal fireworks, explosions of the heart and symphonies of chaos. All of this crazy color bounces off the walls of a rail-car packed with happy sardine-packed passengers and still I grapple with the filth and stench and the everywhere-is-a-dumping-ground philosophy. Any which way one turns, paper teacups and plates and foil packets filled with remnant curries fly from the window. Bags of chips and biscuits and plastic soda bottles by the hundreds carelessly launched to join the rubbish fields. Impossible to get over the shock. Still, I attempt to dispel the trash-drowning helplessness I feel, I focus my senses on the musical quality of my surroundings. A composure would faint from a musical overload on the aisles of the Indian Rail. Each passing vendor delivers a perfectly-pitched jingle with unparalleled stamina (hour after hour on repeat) and each beggar stares with eyes deep enough to silence the brass buzz. Children play a wooden-spoon symphony and sing with a sweetness that smiles when a shower of coins meet the tin of hand-held cup. Tap-tapping canes. The swish of brooms and outstretched hands, May I shine your shoes, madame? I mumble and tumble because I am too overwhelmed to try and make sense of the two-day chug-a-choo on the Indian Rail: two days intensified by the heat of juxtaposed polarities. The most beautiful beside the most wretched; a barefoot bangle-clad woman peering through the sheer veil of an orange sari to focus her eyes on the reeking hillside of human-waste in search of a coin, a discarded scrap, anything hinting at worth. Over and over again.
The paradox of India: we love her even as we hold our breath to keep from getting sick. A druid spins dizzy and exhausted--overcome by love and anguish--and surrenders to chaos, because that is the way of India. Parades and color and tears. Surviving with a blood-orange vivaciousness made of sweat, frying butter, gentle laughter and a warrior capacity to persist, one cup of tea at a time.
How to re-create the whirlwind inundation of rail-side existence? The eternal matchbox-city slums putt-putt by, frame by frame, as the train reaches the outskirts of the city; haphazard yet carefully mended roofs of burlap, tarpaulin and broken metal flash sunlight and burning garbage direct to eye-level; a child swings from a rope hung in the single tree outside a broken line of plaster-colored shacks; two egrets pose lovingly on the staunch backbone of a long-horned cow; trash sits; children play; more trash burns; hammers tap-tap; the smell of fresh piss hisses and a line of bare bums squat on the railway before going home to their huts on the edge of midnight's train whistle. How to share the sensory overload of the whirlwind journey of boxcar eyes that stare out the train's barred-windows as the world rushes by? I feel like a spinning druid: flashes of color, words and song; sparks and fireworks exploding.
Apart from the endless garbage that lines the rivers, railways, mountainsides, cities and villages, the breadth of India between Delhi and Kerala is green farmland. Potatoes, Corn, Rice and Squash for endless miles. Banana trees and coconut palms joining the patchwork fields as the train moves south. Entire families work the harvest together. Big sister cares for baby under the make-shift shade of a broken umbrella. Mom's sure hands sow new rice seedlings ankle-deep in mud. Dad and brother man the two-mule plow and ready the next field for planting. Children harvest with agility and grace, making time for a quick game of tag or an approximation of cricket before the sun sets.
I think I would love India if I took the time to learn Hindi. In fact, I feel my love growing even with my stapled tongue. I love the kind faces and enthusiasm: a happy outburst at every hello. I love the attention to detail: blessing scarves at the source of water, the florescent-colored face flowers hanging in every doorway just over the fresh embers of burning incense. What we might call tacky in the states is gorgeous in India because everyone believes in everyday celebration. Celebration that merely begins by blessing doorways with garlands of flowers and throwing rice and spending extra rupees on special incense to make the living statues of Krishna and Lakshmi happy. India: the land of constant celebration, eternal fireworks, explosions of the heart and symphonies of chaos. All of this crazy color bounces off the walls of a rail-car packed with happy sardine-packed passengers and still I grapple with the filth and stench and the everywhere-is-a-dumping-ground philosophy. Any which way one turns, paper teacups and plates and foil packets filled with remnant curries fly from the window. Bags of chips and biscuits and plastic soda bottles by the hundreds carelessly launched to join the rubbish fields. Impossible to get over the shock. Still, I attempt to dispel the trash-drowning helplessness I feel, I focus my senses on the musical quality of my surroundings. A composure would faint from a musical overload on the aisles of the Indian Rail. Each passing vendor delivers a perfectly-pitched jingle with unparalleled stamina (hour after hour on repeat) and each beggar stares with eyes deep enough to silence the brass buzz. Children play a wooden-spoon symphony and sing with a sweetness that smiles when a shower of coins meet the tin of hand-held cup. Tap-tapping canes. The swish of brooms and outstretched hands, May I shine your shoes, madame? I mumble and tumble because I am too overwhelmed to try and make sense of the two-day chug-a-choo on the Indian Rail: two days intensified by the heat of juxtaposed polarities. The most beautiful beside the most wretched; a barefoot bangle-clad woman peering through the sheer veil of an orange sari to focus her eyes on the reeking hillside of human-waste in search of a coin, a discarded scrap, anything hinting at worth. Over and over again.
The paradox of India: we love her even as we hold our breath to keep from getting sick. A druid spins dizzy and exhausted--overcome by love and anguish--and surrenders to chaos, because that is the way of India. Parades and color and tears. Surviving with a blood-orange vivaciousness made of sweat, frying butter, gentle laughter and a warrior capacity to persist, one cup of tea at a time.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Munnar
My happily cartwheeling thoughts put on their finest British accent as I stroll through the tea estate: an ocean of endless green rows, so perfectly planted, so perfectly manicured. The hills are alive with the sound of music and the sweet kiss of soft rain. Every angle of the green expanse is a postcard. Just to the west, a perfectly symmetrical pyramid of green-plaited rows rises regal from the mist. Like something one expects to see on an elite garden tour where pruning sheers are paintbrushes and working hands the color of sunshine are descendants of Monet and Van Gogh. Nature would not craft the hills in this way - as predictable as the sound of a typewriter's clicking keys, but the green-striped ocean of tea is beautiful.
What is most remarkable is the brilliant quality of color amidst the dancing glow of drizzle and sunshine. A thousand shades of green: young tea leaves with a sun-glaze shine; old tea leaves on the edge of a purple storm; young tea leaves in the soft shadow of morning rain; old tea leaves smiling at noon's sunbath sweat. And decorating the hills like candy or Christmas ornaments are the tea estate houses, where hundreds of fieldhands live with their families. The modest concrete buildings are painted the most brilliant shade of indigo -- a blend of the brightest sky-blue and a newly bloomed violet. Indigo bright walls with red tin roofs, turquoise doors, florescent yellow dahlias growing in the garden and a clothesline showcasing the whole color-spectrum of breezy laundry. I snap photo after photo to capture the radiance of the color explosion: an impossible task. Camera can capture the gateway-moment to memories but cannot sing the sweet buzz of life happening in such a swirl of vibrant color.
Men and women painted ebony by the sun walk barefoot through the steep green ocean rows and prune the tea plants over musical chit-chat. Men work with a machete like knife to clear the beautiful lantanta and morning-glory weeds that encroach upon the neat seams of the tea slopes. Women work with special pruning sheers that have an attached bag for gathering the tea leaves. In an instant of clip-clipping, the ebony handed smile fills the small bag and in one smooth motion delivers the green harvest to a large bag worn on her waist. Generation after generation the same: all day planting, tending and harvesting tea. Like mother and father; like grandmother and grandfather. Since the British came and saw green fortune in these hills. It's surprising how beautiful deforestation can look when so carefully groomed and green.
I am glad to meet these tea-estate hills, where the land-locked ocean is manicured-green and the houses are colored indigo and smell of woodsmoke and spice. I am glad to meet the hospitality of barefoot fieldhand generations and feel silenced by the calm, steady rain. I am glad to chance upon this friendly tea-estate town where school girls wear fresh flowers in their braids and smile bright-eyed into the softness of morning: their pink bows reflecting lantana light. Munnar: high up in the Kerala clouds, a green tea-estate ocean blooms its way into high-noon cups and saucers across the world.
What is most remarkable is the brilliant quality of color amidst the dancing glow of drizzle and sunshine. A thousand shades of green: young tea leaves with a sun-glaze shine; old tea leaves on the edge of a purple storm; young tea leaves in the soft shadow of morning rain; old tea leaves smiling at noon's sunbath sweat. And decorating the hills like candy or Christmas ornaments are the tea estate houses, where hundreds of fieldhands live with their families. The modest concrete buildings are painted the most brilliant shade of indigo -- a blend of the brightest sky-blue and a newly bloomed violet. Indigo bright walls with red tin roofs, turquoise doors, florescent yellow dahlias growing in the garden and a clothesline showcasing the whole color-spectrum of breezy laundry. I snap photo after photo to capture the radiance of the color explosion: an impossible task. Camera can capture the gateway-moment to memories but cannot sing the sweet buzz of life happening in such a swirl of vibrant color.
Men and women painted ebony by the sun walk barefoot through the steep green ocean rows and prune the tea plants over musical chit-chat. Men work with a machete like knife to clear the beautiful lantanta and morning-glory weeds that encroach upon the neat seams of the tea slopes. Women work with special pruning sheers that have an attached bag for gathering the tea leaves. In an instant of clip-clipping, the ebony handed smile fills the small bag and in one smooth motion delivers the green harvest to a large bag worn on her waist. Generation after generation the same: all day planting, tending and harvesting tea. Like mother and father; like grandmother and grandfather. Since the British came and saw green fortune in these hills. It's surprising how beautiful deforestation can look when so carefully groomed and green.
I am glad to meet these tea-estate hills, where the land-locked ocean is manicured-green and the houses are colored indigo and smell of woodsmoke and spice. I am glad to meet the hospitality of barefoot fieldhand generations and feel silenced by the calm, steady rain. I am glad to chance upon this friendly tea-estate town where school girls wear fresh flowers in their braids and smile bright-eyed into the softness of morning: their pink bows reflecting lantana light. Munnar: high up in the Kerala clouds, a green tea-estate ocean blooms its way into high-noon cups and saucers across the world.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Sitting on a bus in Delhi
As the afternoon drizzle of rain kisses Munnar's tea-fields green and gold, I take a moment to glance through the pages of my haphazard journal. The black and white composition notebook offers a sweet familiarity; I have been writing in such journals for a decade: pasting pictures, etching crayon-happy drawings, scribbling short cafe-napkin thoughts and writing longer discourses on anything from the beauty of spring crocuses to the shame of jet-sprayed soybean fields that poison happy cows, well-meaning earthworms and uninformed people. The India journal is particularly haphazard: a conglomeration of train station data, inspired chapter outlines of the yogic texts I have been assigned for the upcoming Yoga Teacher Training, and momentary gusts of inspiration that spiral their way into essays and commentaries much like those I post on the blog. As I finger through the soft-lined pages, I come upon an entry I wrote while in Agra, the rough industrial city that draws hundreds of thousands of tourists to see the breathtaking dawn beauty of the Taj Mahal. The Agra entry communicates the laughable chaos that describes travel in India: so many faces, fragrances, possibilities and impossibilities. And so, I choose to look over my shoulder at the month past and share the following entry.
_______________________________________________
Sitting on a bus in Delhi, I think about the crow of madness . This phrase is used by Jane to describe life in Nepal and India: sunshine is beaming one minute and the next, storm clouds bring chaos and inexplicable lack of reason.
First, there is the famous head-wiggle: the same side-to-side gesture with the half-tilt of a lopsided metronome can mean "yes," "no," and "maybe." Does this bus go to Agra? (Head-wiggle and mumble.) Leaving at 11am? (Head-wiggle and wave.) The bus might get to Agra eventually, taking more than 5 hours to go 200 kilometers. And the bus could start its engine at 11am and move to leave around noon. Maybe there will be a 10 minute lunch stop that is really an hour. And you might order butter nan for 30 rupees and pay 50 because today the manager is changing the menu. And the bus might have air-conditioning that feels like someone is trying to cool you with his breath or with the air from a deflated balloon. The journey could be great and maybe the bus corresponds to the ticket you bought from the travel agent who pocketed more than the price of the ticket in commission. And maybe you eat lunch in the Delhi slum and arrive for dinner in an upper-class Agra marble-floored apartment. And maybe you feel more comfortable sitting on broken cement with the flies than you do being served lemon-soda in a crystal glass by a 12 year-old family servant. Both images of India. Both wings of the mad crow. The script of this film is being written as we speak and there is no one being paid to make it all make sense. So: let us choose good-humor to set the scene and live out the chaos with a generous smile and an enthusiastic head-wiggle that means "yes," "no" and "Of course I'll fall into the flow of this wild-ride that colors India's everyday with sweet unpredictability."
_______________________________________________
Sitting on a bus in Delhi, I think about the crow of madness . This phrase is used by Jane to describe life in Nepal and India: sunshine is beaming one minute and the next, storm clouds bring chaos and inexplicable lack of reason.
First, there is the famous head-wiggle: the same side-to-side gesture with the half-tilt of a lopsided metronome can mean "yes," "no," and "maybe." Does this bus go to Agra? (Head-wiggle and mumble.) Leaving at 11am? (Head-wiggle and wave.) The bus might get to Agra eventually, taking more than 5 hours to go 200 kilometers. And the bus could start its engine at 11am and move to leave around noon. Maybe there will be a 10 minute lunch stop that is really an hour. And you might order butter nan for 30 rupees and pay 50 because today the manager is changing the menu. And the bus might have air-conditioning that feels like someone is trying to cool you with his breath or with the air from a deflated balloon. The journey could be great and maybe the bus corresponds to the ticket you bought from the travel agent who pocketed more than the price of the ticket in commission. And maybe you eat lunch in the Delhi slum and arrive for dinner in an upper-class Agra marble-floored apartment. And maybe you feel more comfortable sitting on broken cement with the flies than you do being served lemon-soda in a crystal glass by a 12 year-old family servant. Both images of India. Both wings of the mad crow. The script of this film is being written as we speak and there is no one being paid to make it all make sense. So: let us choose good-humor to set the scene and live out the chaos with a generous smile and an enthusiastic head-wiggle that means "yes," "no" and "Of course I'll fall into the flow of this wild-ride that colors India's everyday with sweet unpredictability."
Monday, September 13, 2010
Let go, sister
Varkala Beach, Kerala
Coffee cup in hand, his baritone voice steals the breath of morning as he spirals into a disordered rant of feeling conflicted, confused, maybe a bit angry amidst the postcard beauty of the turquoise tide of Varkala Beach in south India. That swallows the plastic, paper and putrid rubbish generated by this billboard happy tourist paradise. I do not feel alarmed. The calm of morning meditation and a barefoot walk in the first-light stillness rises up easy as cloud-vapor and fills my lungs with patience. Yesterday it was me who was tumbling off the edge as Madonna's Greatest Hits on loudspeaker repeat induced a wrestling match with my conscience and we we battled our way through fabricated beach paradise in search of the real India. A patient ear to listen is all a friend can offer. The rage will subside, as all feelings do, once the heavy heart pauses long enough to recognize the futility of its dizzying angst.
I want to get out of here. (When hard rain falls, we all go chasing the sun. Grass must be greener over there.) I want to go to the real India. (It does feel strange to lounge on the manicured boardwalk crammed with restaurants and textile shops and cafe lattes.) Where is the stench of urine and rubbish that was becoming so familiar? (But whose to say what the real India might look like? To ask the street-sweeper who lives in Shadipur slum? Or the CEO of Barclay's Bank? Or the French ex-pat who makes a living pushing drugs North to South and beyond? Which way to the real India?)
Maybe this is not the right question. Maybe feeling uncomfortable in the seaside tourist hub, complete with mood music and Continental Breakfast, only takes a traveler further into the blindness of unsatisfied eyes.
"What is it you want to see!?" screams an anonymous voice as the broken leg beggar who walks like a two-legged spider makes his daily rounds. "He is holding his hand out -- there: right in front of your big blue eyes! Real enough for you, sister? Or must you join the trash-pickers on their daily hunt for savory scraps in the rubbish heaps by the river?"
"I didn't mean to be so arrogant," I try in my meekest voice. "It is wrong of me to arrive here with eyes glazed by expectation and folklore. How to un-stitch the seams that make my mind so thin-lipped? I just thought, you know, marigolds and smiling sadhus; bangles and bright-eyes; poverty turned to plenty by the strength of the human spirit: the immortal bass-drum heartbeat of the human will to survive. I just thought...temple bells and bindis and a spiritual strength unparalleled and...God, I must sound so ignorant. Spiraling downward like a hawk's last flight.
Sideways head-nod. The tailor looks up from his foot-powered sewing machine, acknowledges my feigned attempt at redemtion and offers a soft smile anyway. "You understand, sister. India not possible without a smile. Without at love. So many people. So much poor. Sun rise again today. Foot still working the sew machine. No heavy heart. India no easy. Ask that man. Selling postcards all time but not selling. Just smile him when he ask you again and again. So many eyes only looking downward. Heart weary. Smile like a small coin in the cup."
Real? Not Real? Authentic? Fake? I have invented these concepts on the basis of my expectations. On the colorful illustrations that arise from storybooks and films and daydreams. Of romanticized jungles and rivers and sadhus and snake-people and bodhi trees and prayer-beads; imagination fixed on classical tabla, orange marigolds, turquoise saris and ash-covered ascetics, eyes as bright as the flames of morning pujas on The Ganges. Kingfisher beer and Madonna's Greatest Hits did not make it into the picture; nor did rubbish-covered cliffs and espresso coffee. How arrogant of me that by seeking the real India I am seeking my own preconceptions as if life should have frozen when I first heard the sitar or read Siddhartha or saw footage of the ghats at Varanasi. Frozen in time just for me: waiting for my arrival. Can I do anything but laugh at myself and feel the earth beneath my feet? Wave at the jovial fisherman who have enough sense not to be concerned by what is real and unreal and instead allow their bare feet to adjust from sandy shores to pavement with ease. The very act of "looking for something" is dust in the eyes of what is. Blinding. Itchy. Disappointing.
"Let go, sister. Beauty here. Maybe no business, but sunshines and jokes and tea. Real or not real? What is this? Today is. Tomorrow, not yet. Fishermen fish. Tailors sew. Mother feed child. Father smoke cigar. Bird play on wind. Same, same but different.
Chuckle. Foot-pedal starts drumming; fish nets are cast; babies are tied to shady trees in safe bed-sheet cocoons; restaurant hosts sing the same hopeful jingle to each light-eyed passerby. Would it be better if I were jumping rope in the slum with the beggar children whose smiles make me laugh and weep? Would I be better? The question is un-useful and self-centered. Why ask it? Where I am is here. Who I am is me: a tiny grain of sand on the shore of the Arabian Sea, no better and no worse for touring slums or vacations destinations. Just me. A young woman not fit to decide what is Real or Unreal. Whose days are better lived barefoot and quiet, listening to the steady ease of the tailor's foot-pedal machine stitch-stitching the familiar patterns that make up the beautiful fabric of a humble, seaside life.
Coffee cup in hand, his baritone voice steals the breath of morning as he spirals into a disordered rant of feeling conflicted, confused, maybe a bit angry amidst the postcard beauty of the turquoise tide of Varkala Beach in south India. That swallows the plastic, paper and putrid rubbish generated by this billboard happy tourist paradise. I do not feel alarmed. The calm of morning meditation and a barefoot walk in the first-light stillness rises up easy as cloud-vapor and fills my lungs with patience. Yesterday it was me who was tumbling off the edge as Madonna's Greatest Hits on loudspeaker repeat induced a wrestling match with my conscience and we we battled our way through fabricated beach paradise in search of the real India. A patient ear to listen is all a friend can offer. The rage will subside, as all feelings do, once the heavy heart pauses long enough to recognize the futility of its dizzying angst.
I want to get out of here. (When hard rain falls, we all go chasing the sun. Grass must be greener over there.) I want to go to the real India. (It does feel strange to lounge on the manicured boardwalk crammed with restaurants and textile shops and cafe lattes.) Where is the stench of urine and rubbish that was becoming so familiar? (But whose to say what the real India might look like? To ask the street-sweeper who lives in Shadipur slum? Or the CEO of Barclay's Bank? Or the French ex-pat who makes a living pushing drugs North to South and beyond? Which way to the real India?)
Maybe this is not the right question. Maybe feeling uncomfortable in the seaside tourist hub, complete with mood music and Continental Breakfast, only takes a traveler further into the blindness of unsatisfied eyes.
"What is it you want to see!?" screams an anonymous voice as the broken leg beggar who walks like a two-legged spider makes his daily rounds. "He is holding his hand out -- there: right in front of your big blue eyes! Real enough for you, sister? Or must you join the trash-pickers on their daily hunt for savory scraps in the rubbish heaps by the river?"
"I didn't mean to be so arrogant," I try in my meekest voice. "It is wrong of me to arrive here with eyes glazed by expectation and folklore. How to un-stitch the seams that make my mind so thin-lipped? I just thought, you know, marigolds and smiling sadhus; bangles and bright-eyes; poverty turned to plenty by the strength of the human spirit: the immortal bass-drum heartbeat of the human will to survive. I just thought...temple bells and bindis and a spiritual strength unparalleled and...God, I must sound so ignorant. Spiraling downward like a hawk's last flight.
Sideways head-nod. The tailor looks up from his foot-powered sewing machine, acknowledges my feigned attempt at redemtion and offers a soft smile anyway. "You understand, sister. India not possible without a smile. Without at love. So many people. So much poor. Sun rise again today. Foot still working the sew machine. No heavy heart. India no easy. Ask that man. Selling postcards all time but not selling. Just smile him when he ask you again and again. So many eyes only looking downward. Heart weary. Smile like a small coin in the cup."
Real? Not Real? Authentic? Fake? I have invented these concepts on the basis of my expectations. On the colorful illustrations that arise from storybooks and films and daydreams. Of romanticized jungles and rivers and sadhus and snake-people and bodhi trees and prayer-beads; imagination fixed on classical tabla, orange marigolds, turquoise saris and ash-covered ascetics, eyes as bright as the flames of morning pujas on The Ganges. Kingfisher beer and Madonna's Greatest Hits did not make it into the picture; nor did rubbish-covered cliffs and espresso coffee. How arrogant of me that by seeking the real India I am seeking my own preconceptions as if life should have frozen when I first heard the sitar or read Siddhartha or saw footage of the ghats at Varanasi. Frozen in time just for me: waiting for my arrival. Can I do anything but laugh at myself and feel the earth beneath my feet? Wave at the jovial fisherman who have enough sense not to be concerned by what is real and unreal and instead allow their bare feet to adjust from sandy shores to pavement with ease. The very act of "looking for something" is dust in the eyes of what is. Blinding. Itchy. Disappointing.
"Let go, sister. Beauty here. Maybe no business, but sunshines and jokes and tea. Real or not real? What is this? Today is. Tomorrow, not yet. Fishermen fish. Tailors sew. Mother feed child. Father smoke cigar. Bird play on wind. Same, same but different.
Chuckle. Foot-pedal starts drumming; fish nets are cast; babies are tied to shady trees in safe bed-sheet cocoons; restaurant hosts sing the same hopeful jingle to each light-eyed passerby. Would it be better if I were jumping rope in the slum with the beggar children whose smiles make me laugh and weep? Would I be better? The question is un-useful and self-centered. Why ask it? Where I am is here. Who I am is me: a tiny grain of sand on the shore of the Arabian Sea, no better and no worse for touring slums or vacations destinations. Just me. A young woman not fit to decide what is Real or Unreal. Whose days are better lived barefoot and quiet, listening to the steady ease of the tailor's foot-pedal machine stitch-stitching the familiar patterns that make up the beautiful fabric of a humble, seaside life.
Circus Swim
Day at the circus, night in the slum, this is the title of the upcoming chapter in A Fine Balance and a fitting description for walking through the flooded streets of New Delhi. The constant chatter of street vendors, car-horns, power-drills, oily-hungry bicycle wheels, peaceful-easy cows and squealing dogs is not unlike a buoyant circus anthem. Different color: Delhi is not a red and yellow circus tent; but the tap-dancing optimism of the Big Top is strangely present amidst the clamor and filth of these crowded streets.
The streets of Pahar Ganj are crowded not only by people, pushcarts, bicycles, sledge-hammer demolition and an endless line of tea-stalls but also by water: flooded. Flooded by the monsoon rain that creates slop pools of mud and garbage on the drain-less streets. Flooded by people scurrying through the puddle-playground as they dodge rickshaws and motorcycles on their way to wherever they are going. Flooded by overwhelming olfactory stimulation: the stench of piss and shit and bloody meat hanging in the window, waiting for the next eager customer. One does not walk through the streets of Delhi but swimsthe rushing waves, taking care to come up for air every now and again.
Today we walk away from the tourist gauntlet of Pahar Ganj and into the Muslim neighborhood across the bridge: on the other side of the train-tracks. We allowed ourselves to get lost on the narrow medieval streets that zig and zag their way under a web of withered electrical wires,florescent laundry and decrepit buildings. I take a deep breath, feeling more anonymous here. No one tries to sell me anything but just stares with harmless, curious eyes, observing my white skin as a part of the grand circus. Like the bearded-lady, perhaps: "Step right up and see the strangest of the strange: a green eyed girl whose skin knows not the brown kiss of the sun!" I look out at the world so busy buzzing around me and marketplace eyes stare back, wondering at the strange creature who has entered the familiar web of their existence. Which one of us is the museum display? Which one of us peers out from behind the glass display? Neither. The rain falls upon us both.
When we pause a moment under the weary barber-shop awning, I see her. The shopping bag hides her small frame but her black onyx eyes cut through shadow and stench and find my smile. Beauty shines forth in unexpected places: a young girl in a white dress walking so easy through the circus-strange mess of shit and marigolds and blood and bananas and temple bells. The rickshaw wheels and pushcarts interrupt her feather-light steps with the jarring staccato of sweaty effort, but onyx-eyed girl does not miss a beat. She carries on her way with a sweet nonchalance as if the mud-happy motorcycles, irritated taxi horns and three-legged dog gangs are the most ordinary of characters. But for me, a nameless witness, I stand amazed at the resilience of this child's ease and confidence amidst the chaos and circus-strange intensity of the flooded Delhi streets. The corner of my smile perks up with a sweet breath of gratitude: children are among the best teachers of perseverance and grace.
The streets of Pahar Ganj are crowded not only by people, pushcarts, bicycles, sledge-hammer demolition and an endless line of tea-stalls but also by water: flooded. Flooded by the monsoon rain that creates slop pools of mud and garbage on the drain-less streets. Flooded by people scurrying through the puddle-playground as they dodge rickshaws and motorcycles on their way to wherever they are going. Flooded by overwhelming olfactory stimulation: the stench of piss and shit and bloody meat hanging in the window, waiting for the next eager customer. One does not walk through the streets of Delhi but swimsthe rushing waves, taking care to come up for air every now and again.
Today we walk away from the tourist gauntlet of Pahar Ganj and into the Muslim neighborhood across the bridge: on the other side of the train-tracks. We allowed ourselves to get lost on the narrow medieval streets that zig and zag their way under a web of withered electrical wires,florescent laundry and decrepit buildings. I take a deep breath, feeling more anonymous here. No one tries to sell me anything but just stares with harmless, curious eyes, observing my white skin as a part of the grand circus. Like the bearded-lady, perhaps: "Step right up and see the strangest of the strange: a green eyed girl whose skin knows not the brown kiss of the sun!" I look out at the world so busy buzzing around me and marketplace eyes stare back, wondering at the strange creature who has entered the familiar web of their existence. Which one of us is the museum display? Which one of us peers out from behind the glass display? Neither. The rain falls upon us both.
When we pause a moment under the weary barber-shop awning, I see her. The shopping bag hides her small frame but her black onyx eyes cut through shadow and stench and find my smile. Beauty shines forth in unexpected places: a young girl in a white dress walking so easy through the circus-strange mess of shit and marigolds and blood and bananas and temple bells. The rickshaw wheels and pushcarts interrupt her feather-light steps with the jarring staccato of sweaty effort, but onyx-eyed girl does not miss a beat. She carries on her way with a sweet nonchalance as if the mud-happy motorcycles, irritated taxi horns and three-legged dog gangs are the most ordinary of characters. But for me, a nameless witness, I stand amazed at the resilience of this child's ease and confidence amidst the chaos and circus-strange intensity of the flooded Delhi streets. The corner of my smile perks up with a sweet breath of gratitude: children are among the best teachers of perseverance and grace.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
And
Rewalsar Lake is a toxic kelly-green. Prolific algal growth due to an over abundance of organic material forms a thick layer of slime on the surface of the water. The few resident ducks hesitate at the water's edge, "to enter or not to enter." What would t heir ancestors think: their great-grandparents who swam so freely and enjoyed tasty fish without the green-algae gravy. The lake sits at the bottom of incredibly steep pine-forest slopes; the rain washes everything straight into the water. There is no one to pick up the trash that litters the street and mountain paths; nor is there anyone to clean up cow dung and dog doo. And, with no water treatment plant to be found, where does human waste go when you flush the loo? Down, down, down to the green-slime lake. Yes, the lake is sacred. People honor this place with such devotion that Belief, if nothing else, affirms what is Holy. My pulse rate drops to a snail's easy crawl and my breath, am I still breathing? Walking here feels more like floating and my mind is quiet and joyful. But the lake is green and smelly; the monkeys are fierce and Backstreet Boys are still on the top-10 chart. This is Rewalsar Lake. Kelly-green toxic and Sacred.
Sweetness and Laughter
The soundtrack of India makes me laugh joyfully. The moment that is NOW is hilarious: may it sweep me away into invisible vapor and carry me to golden edges of your smile.
On the edge of one of the holiest lakes in Northern India is an espresso shop run by one of the Buddhist monasteries. EMAHO, it is called: means WONDERFUL. And as I let the hazy sunshine carry my smile into the trees with birdsong and vicious monkey screeches, I celebrate the appropriateness of the shop name: Wonderful, indeed.
Track One: "As Long As You Love Me" by the Backstreet Boys plays its catchy adolescent heartstrings as Amit makes a shot of espresso. We sing and dance our way through the middle-school chart-topper and I cannot help but laugh at the sweet irony: espresso and boy-band sing-a-long with a Buddhist monk wearing his red robe and Nike tennis-shoes. For the past two days, Amit has inquired about Yoga poses for getting rid of his belly. "Now remember, " he says, "I'm lazy. So these poses must be ones I can do while sitting down and relaxing." I laugh and tell him to turn the music up and keep dancing: "Dance your big belly away!"
Many Buddhist Monks enter the monastic life at 5 or 6 years-old. Traditionally, the second son in a Tibetan family enters the monastery -- a practical way of carrying on the lineage of the Great Masters. And so, not all monks take vows because they feel called to do so; often time, young boys take vows because it is their duty to do so or because their poor family knows that the monastery will be able to feed and care for their child better than they. Five year-old boys grow into young adolescents who love Michael Jackson and World Cup Soccer. Pop-culture zeal does not mean they are any less devoted to their practice; it just means they are human and go through the same developmental stages that we all do. Amit could likely be one of the brother monks who entered the monastery as a toddler: would he choose his vows if given the chance? Maybe; maybe not.
And so, at the risk of being immodest and furthering the stereotype that all western women are flirtatious and easy, I show the coffee-shop monks a few Michael Jackson moves. What can I say? They love to dance. It's hard for me to put on a stone-cold face when I, too, cannot help but feel the beat in my pulsing feet.
Track two: One of the theme songs from The World Cup, South Africa. How ironic that, should I have spent the last few months in Virginia, where my media use is limited, I probably would not have learned the uplifting tune so well. But, in the remote mountains of Western Nepal, thanks to the Nepali porters' mp3 players and enthusiasm and on the shores of Lake Rewalsar in Himachal Pradesh, India, thanks to monks who dream of being hip-hop dancers, I am kept up to date on the latest hits. This is the world we live in -- a universal access to a new global culture that is arriving even to the most remote villages in the world. In Himachal Pradesh, traveling 150 km still takes 8 hours in a bus, but cyber connections to the other side of the world: instantaneous! I do not think I will ever stop regarding our futuristic technology as a strange sort of magic: a connection that seems so unlikely at the touch of a button?
And there goes the sweet old man whose glasses are bigger than his sun-wrinkled face. He walks with an umbrella, rain or shine, and, like Don Quixote and the Windmills, battles the lakeside monkeys with the same knightly zeal. Of course, he is not all there, but this village holds a place for him. The monkeys are fierce, the people are sweet, the energy of the low clouds is peaceful and subdued. Even the bicycle tires relax and the kids learn to ride the sand-paper sound of deflated tread. I say hello to Don Quixote and offer a friendly smile. He greets me with an enthusiastic whack of his umbrella and I laugh, feeling honored to be knighted by his imaginary sword. No, this is not a circus act or a simulated comedy show. This is NOW: morning at Rewalsar Lake -- a lost town in the hills of Himachal Pradesh where thousands of pilgrims come to lower their humble heads in prayer.
On the edge of one of the holiest lakes in Northern India is an espresso shop run by one of the Buddhist monasteries. EMAHO, it is called: means WONDERFUL. And as I let the hazy sunshine carry my smile into the trees with birdsong and vicious monkey screeches, I celebrate the appropriateness of the shop name: Wonderful, indeed.
Track One: "As Long As You Love Me" by the Backstreet Boys plays its catchy adolescent heartstrings as Amit makes a shot of espresso. We sing and dance our way through the middle-school chart-topper and I cannot help but laugh at the sweet irony: espresso and boy-band sing-a-long with a Buddhist monk wearing his red robe and Nike tennis-shoes. For the past two days, Amit has inquired about Yoga poses for getting rid of his belly. "Now remember, " he says, "I'm lazy. So these poses must be ones I can do while sitting down and relaxing." I laugh and tell him to turn the music up and keep dancing: "Dance your big belly away!"
Many Buddhist Monks enter the monastic life at 5 or 6 years-old. Traditionally, the second son in a Tibetan family enters the monastery -- a practical way of carrying on the lineage of the Great Masters. And so, not all monks take vows because they feel called to do so; often time, young boys take vows because it is their duty to do so or because their poor family knows that the monastery will be able to feed and care for their child better than they. Five year-old boys grow into young adolescents who love Michael Jackson and World Cup Soccer. Pop-culture zeal does not mean they are any less devoted to their practice; it just means they are human and go through the same developmental stages that we all do. Amit could likely be one of the brother monks who entered the monastery as a toddler: would he choose his vows if given the chance? Maybe; maybe not.
And so, at the risk of being immodest and furthering the stereotype that all western women are flirtatious and easy, I show the coffee-shop monks a few Michael Jackson moves. What can I say? They love to dance. It's hard for me to put on a stone-cold face when I, too, cannot help but feel the beat in my pulsing feet.
Track two: One of the theme songs from The World Cup, South Africa. How ironic that, should I have spent the last few months in Virginia, where my media use is limited, I probably would not have learned the uplifting tune so well. But, in the remote mountains of Western Nepal, thanks to the Nepali porters' mp3 players and enthusiasm and on the shores of Lake Rewalsar in Himachal Pradesh, India, thanks to monks who dream of being hip-hop dancers, I am kept up to date on the latest hits. This is the world we live in -- a universal access to a new global culture that is arriving even to the most remote villages in the world. In Himachal Pradesh, traveling 150 km still takes 8 hours in a bus, but cyber connections to the other side of the world: instantaneous! I do not think I will ever stop regarding our futuristic technology as a strange sort of magic: a connection that seems so unlikely at the touch of a button?
And there goes the sweet old man whose glasses are bigger than his sun-wrinkled face. He walks with an umbrella, rain or shine, and, like Don Quixote and the Windmills, battles the lakeside monkeys with the same knightly zeal. Of course, he is not all there, but this village holds a place for him. The monkeys are fierce, the people are sweet, the energy of the low clouds is peaceful and subdued. Even the bicycle tires relax and the kids learn to ride the sand-paper sound of deflated tread. I say hello to Don Quixote and offer a friendly smile. He greets me with an enthusiastic whack of his umbrella and I laugh, feeling honored to be knighted by his imaginary sword. No, this is not a circus act or a simulated comedy show. This is NOW: morning at Rewalsar Lake -- a lost town in the hills of Himachal Pradesh where thousands of pilgrims come to lower their humble heads in prayer.
Morning at Rewalsar Lake
I dissolve into the peaceful morning on the misty shores of Rewalsar Lake. Incense drifts like birds spiraling upwards and Hari Om tabla sings from the radio as a bright-eyed busboy does the dishes of the early morning breakfast crowd. Men and women walk the Kora around the lake and bless the day with their devotion.
The peace of this place is undeniable: the smile of a beautiful stranger who allows the limping street worker to kiss her hand as he mumbles his unceasing monologue, like the sound of running water, but sadder and more scattered. I sense the shrapnel and firework interruption that causes him to shake and I understand why he has come to this place. Rewalsar Lake, called Tso Pema by Tibetans: a power-place for Buddhists, Hindus and Sikhs alike; pilgrims arrive on the mountain lake shore to walk and pray and celebrate the qualities of the great beings who have come before; celebrate and try to cultivate those qualities in their own hearts.
The village is quiet apart from sunrise bell-ringing puja, street-dog chatter and terrifying monkey play. I open my window for morning meditation as if I am opening the delicate pages of a fairy-tale, complete with dawn's foggy mystery and the lake's subtle reflection of first light.
A magnificent statue of Padmasambhava, the revered being who brought Buddhism to Tibet, sits high on the hill above the still water. Padmasambahava is stunning in gold with his wild eyes and sweetly determined smile. His towering peaceful presence affirms the eternal meditation of this mountain-top and all who gather here -- gather in the pine forest, dew fed and joyful green. There is a softness here not unlike that of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia -- the spirit is old in Appalachia, too. Wise spirit of rivers and canyons and the first squash planted and the fiddle. I feel simultaneously grateful for where I am and for where I come from -- each day one step closer to Appalachia and the depth of sweetness that arises when one knows the just-so dance of light on the fields at dawn, dusk and noon-time.
The peace of this place is undeniable: the smile of a beautiful stranger who allows the limping street worker to kiss her hand as he mumbles his unceasing monologue, like the sound of running water, but sadder and more scattered. I sense the shrapnel and firework interruption that causes him to shake and I understand why he has come to this place. Rewalsar Lake, called Tso Pema by Tibetans: a power-place for Buddhists, Hindus and Sikhs alike; pilgrims arrive on the mountain lake shore to walk and pray and celebrate the qualities of the great beings who have come before; celebrate and try to cultivate those qualities in their own hearts.
The village is quiet apart from sunrise bell-ringing puja, street-dog chatter and terrifying monkey play. I open my window for morning meditation as if I am opening the delicate pages of a fairy-tale, complete with dawn's foggy mystery and the lake's subtle reflection of first light.
A magnificent statue of Padmasambhava, the revered being who brought Buddhism to Tibet, sits high on the hill above the still water. Padmasambahava is stunning in gold with his wild eyes and sweetly determined smile. His towering peaceful presence affirms the eternal meditation of this mountain-top and all who gather here -- gather in the pine forest, dew fed and joyful green. There is a softness here not unlike that of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia -- the spirit is old in Appalachia, too. Wise spirit of rivers and canyons and the first squash planted and the fiddle. I feel simultaneously grateful for where I am and for where I come from -- each day one step closer to Appalachia and the depth of sweetness that arises when one knows the just-so dance of light on the fields at dawn, dusk and noon-time.
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