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.
Monday, September 13, 2010
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.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Babies
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.
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.
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.
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