Come, come, everyone come
Find yourself
Come
Find your way home.
So goes the song of the Tumata Ensemble. Lulled by 2 hours of traditional pendantic shamanic (baksha) melodies from Afganastan, Turkey, Persia and the Steppes of Russia, we ease gently into rhythmic rocking of sufi strains. and the whirling of dhikr begins. The Swiss sheik is a doctor of musical history, his wife with the long golden locks a German musical therapist and the balance of the ensemble of seven encompasses the rest of the world. They are masters revered around the world for their study, collection, and performance of music in its oldest forms. Tonight's performance presents the vina, the sitar, the harmonium, a flute and a few more, in addition to the soft sounds of the pouring of water.
Afganastan tunes are architipically similar to Apalacian in melody, rythm and tempo, the Afganis among us lead us in singing along; cowboys of the Steppes may have been tele-transported right to our own wild-wild west; Turkish Sufis from the congregation join the performers in dancing the 'horse dance' of Turkey until the little space cleared for them in front of the low stage becomes a coral of prancing, head tossing steeds.
An hour and a half of journey through time and the mid east leads us to a refreshingly lilting interpretation of Sufi tradition. And the whirlers come forth. While the hundred rock and sway in wasaif, they spin, skirts billowing, arms lifted, floating, connecting heaven and earth, eyes closed in ecstasy. Sweet, subtly powerful, I wish it wouldn't end. But Sunday's dusk creeps in.
Monday morning's sheik caravan teachings goes on for hours, I never tire of the telling of the Universal message of Love, Harmony and Beauty. I'm pleased to learn more of the intimate history of PHIK as told by Sheik-ul-Masheik Mahmood Khan, his nephew and Pir Zia's uncle.
After closing prayers, I decide to be alone today, my last day in India.... 'till next time!
One last poignant embrace of the saints, PHK and PVK. Kneeling at their feet, head bowed to cold marble, I get the message. "Welcome. Well Come. Come Again."
After a stroll about the Basti, visiting the cap maker and the perfume seller, I strike out for a 1.5 K walk to Lodhi Park. Forgoing a rickshaw, I get to see another side of India, with its fenced-in garden communities and international corporate headquarters manned by gates and guards. So this is how the other half lives. Not the one percent, certainly, but certainly these never know hunger nor want for warmth. Along the way, I'm engaged in conversation several times by locals, professionals who are of this very different world from the one I've engaged these past few weeks. Several of them have been to US numerous times, but not one has seen Philadelphia. I urge them to come, to see a bit about our history, as we share in common winning independence from colonial Britain.
Lodhi Park, like Longwood Gardens, is a wealthy-class escape from concrete and cacophony to lush lovingly tended gardens. Much smaller than our treasure, it's a refreshing drink none-the-less. Winding paths encompass acres of dahlias, labeled trees, manufactured water ways and spacious lawns. They've created a rain-capture terrain, and, signs admonish: "Don't allow anyone to harm the trees!" Here, as I've seen in even the poorest of the poor sectors, are fledgling trees barricaded by 3 foot fences baring the insignia of "Green India." In this area, too, are bins for compostables. Disappointingly, I've looked but haven't found recycling bins anywhere.
The park is spun around a scattering of ancient structures - some of the oldest tombs, mosques and gateways I've seen on this trip. Children run and play on the lawns. A few of them are wading in a shallow pond in a jocial attempt to herd the fish, drawing shrieks of delight from their compatriots ensconced safely on the bridge. Tourists snap photos, lovers cuddle on park benches, ice cream vendors call to passersby, old men simply sit. Such a lovely close to an amazing three weeks.
Tonight, our little group will gather for a farewell dinner. Then tomorrow, en sh'Allah, the EU freeze will have been dealt with, and I'll be winging my way back home. I hope you've enjoyed peeking over my shoulder these many days. You might like to check back in a week or so, hopefully by that time I'll have had the time to edit and post photos to go along with each post. I don't pretend to show you anything new. So much has been written and pictured by so many about this great struggling continent of contrasts, this people of desperation and of hope. My tome has simply been one sufi's journey, India as seen through one person's eyes and heart. May you see it with your own, some day!
Farther than far it is
and
close at hand
verily
he who sees it
dwells in the heart
- Inscription on a pillar of the Lakshmi Temple
Monday, February 6, 2012
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Saturday 4 February Imps, Nymphs and Cherubs
Looking for a slow day, for decompression, I opt out of a a jaunt around Old Delhi, and went instead, with my dear teacher and friend Telema, to the India Craft Museum. What little they've managed to collect is fabulous, and surprisingly recent. Much of the intricate wood carving, clay pots and statues and astounding fabrics are from the 1800s! My mind struggles with incongruity, as our country was far from tribal figurines and extravagant opulence at a time when India was steeped in it.
There are earthern life-sized guards and their horses, reminiscent of those we've seen so much publicity about from China. But India's are much more pleasing to the eye: exquisite, animated, exuding the gamet of personality from stern to whimsical. Figurines of gargoyles, and imps and nymphs of clay and wood dot the grounds. Entranceways, whittled doors and windows and even a complete early 1800s upper-class home attempt to convey the sensibility of a people for whom imbibing beauty is a way of life. The second story women's room is disturbingly prison-like despite it's screened observance panels overlooking the main room and couryard of the house. No amount of decorative carving, layers of shimmering fabrics, nor wafts of sandlewood could masquerade this for anything but what it is. An isolation tank.
A movie-set village houses craftsmen and women demonstrating needlecraft, painting and beadwork from around the world of India. The delicacy, the detail, to see it being created, it's astounding. And temptingly for sale. We keep reminding each other of the luggage weight limit. And the fabrics! A crescendo of sighs carried me through this display hall of unfathominably fine embroidery, mirror inlay, and painted fabric masterpieces, panel after panel after pane of it.
We've all become astute negotiators, especially for taxis and rickshaws. Today it's nothing to zip out to the museum, over to Connaught Place K block for lunch, then back to the Y and a nap to rest up for a long evening of zhikr at the eve-of-the-Ors. As everyone knows, you can negotiate most effectively if you are willing to walk away from the table. Laugh when it's ridiculously high, counter-offer if it's in the ballpark, wave to the next driver if this one refuses fair pay play. Just be careful not to suggest too low, 'twill cause offense and then a twenty minute lecture about why you are out of line. It's a tip-toe dance that can end up lightheartedly graceful or embarrasingly cludgy.
With the approach of sunset, I make my way back to the Darrgah of Hazrat Inayat Kahn. My, what they've done with the place our visit - was that just 2 weeks ago?! Chains of marigolds and roses adorn the stone parapets surrounding the courtyard and the verandas, a delicate contrast to stone archways and palm trees, and the tomb is draped in an sumptuous gold-embroidered chader (cloth). Fabric-enveloped chairs are set up throughout the compound, Sufis from around the world lounge on the lawn of the sunset rose garden. Sweet singing of dhikr spills from the auditorium like a chorus of cherubs in the raptures of praise. Heads and bodies sway in soft revery, the call to prayer echos from a distant minorete, the sky darkens. Dinner is served, murmered conversation hums from every balcony and lawn. And then the setar player begins to tune.
I find a spot just outside the door, and, sitting at the feet of Pir Hazrat Inayat Kahn, that delicate plucking of strings at the edges of my perception, I feel as tho I am being cradled in my grandfather's lap. His wings enfold me, he whispers in my ear: to my left heart, "Resolve!" and "Courage!;" to my right, "I will fill you up;" and the center pulses with quiet exuberance. Then sighs and strains of setar follow us back into the lanes of Nizzamudin Basti.
There are earthern life-sized guards and their horses, reminiscent of those we've seen so much publicity about from China. But India's are much more pleasing to the eye: exquisite, animated, exuding the gamet of personality from stern to whimsical. Figurines of gargoyles, and imps and nymphs of clay and wood dot the grounds. Entranceways, whittled doors and windows and even a complete early 1800s upper-class home attempt to convey the sensibility of a people for whom imbibing beauty is a way of life. The second story women's room is disturbingly prison-like despite it's screened observance panels overlooking the main room and couryard of the house. No amount of decorative carving, layers of shimmering fabrics, nor wafts of sandlewood could masquerade this for anything but what it is. An isolation tank.
A movie-set village houses craftsmen and women demonstrating needlecraft, painting and beadwork from around the world of India. The delicacy, the detail, to see it being created, it's astounding. And temptingly for sale. We keep reminding each other of the luggage weight limit. And the fabrics! A crescendo of sighs carried me through this display hall of unfathominably fine embroidery, mirror inlay, and painted fabric masterpieces, panel after panel after pane of it.
We've all become astute negotiators, especially for taxis and rickshaws. Today it's nothing to zip out to the museum, over to Connaught Place K block for lunch, then back to the Y and a nap to rest up for a long evening of zhikr at the eve-of-the-Ors. As everyone knows, you can negotiate most effectively if you are willing to walk away from the table. Laugh when it's ridiculously high, counter-offer if it's in the ballpark, wave to the next driver if this one refuses fair pay play. Just be careful not to suggest too low, 'twill cause offense and then a twenty minute lecture about why you are out of line. It's a tip-toe dance that can end up lightheartedly graceful or embarrasingly cludgy.
With the approach of sunset, I make my way back to the Darrgah of Hazrat Inayat Kahn. My, what they've done with the place our visit - was that just 2 weeks ago?! Chains of marigolds and roses adorn the stone parapets surrounding the courtyard and the verandas, a delicate contrast to stone archways and palm trees, and the tomb is draped in an sumptuous gold-embroidered chader (cloth). Fabric-enveloped chairs are set up throughout the compound, Sufis from around the world lounge on the lawn of the sunset rose garden. Sweet singing of dhikr spills from the auditorium like a chorus of cherubs in the raptures of praise. Heads and bodies sway in soft revery, the call to prayer echos from a distant minorete, the sky darkens. Dinner is served, murmered conversation hums from every balcony and lawn. And then the setar player begins to tune.
I find a spot just outside the door, and, sitting at the feet of Pir Hazrat Inayat Kahn, that delicate plucking of strings at the edges of my perception, I feel as tho I am being cradled in my grandfather's lap. His wings enfold me, he whispers in my ear: to my left heart, "Resolve!" and "Courage!;" to my right, "I will fill you up;" and the center pulses with quiet exuberance. Then sighs and strains of setar follow us back into the lanes of Nizzamudin Basti.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Thursday 2 February, 2012 One of my first lessons
A long time ago, in a part of my life that seems far far away, my beloved teacher gave me this early lesson:
"One day you will remember this day. You will remember me telling you that some day, you will be in meditation. On that day, in that meditation, some part of your mind will notice a mosquito, delicate as it is, alighting on your arm. Some part of your mind will observe as it inserts its proboscis into your skin. Some modicum of awareness will note the sucking of your blood. And it won't matter."
Today I remembered.
This morning's Ayurvedic massage leaves me with happy feet. The rest of me feels relieved when she stops. The more Energy Kinesiology work I get, the less my body tolerates deep massage. And she works deep, for such a little thing. The table's as high as her ribs. How is she able to apply this much force? Unfortunately, as much as she has strength, she lacks intuitiveness, the ability to read the body's unique needs. She's just working by rote, following her textbook protocol. Plus the room is cold, the thin gauze sheet doesn't stay in place on the plastic slip cover, and where are the wonderfully fragrant Ayurvedic oils? All in all, disappointing. I'm glad for having had the massage in Rishikesh, a much fonder memory.
Lunch finds me back at Be Happy. Can't pass up another Greek Salad whilst I have the chance! I spend a few hours just hangin,' meeting & chatting with sojourners from around the world, and writing for y'all. Russia, New Zealand, Germany, Tibet, Nepal, Thailand. Weaving the world together.
Late afternoon is about being happy: alone and wandering from temple to temple; sitting; tuning in; bliss.
Dusk leads me back to the Mahabodhi, enthralled by the interior icon. About halfway up the east-facing wall of the temple which marks the spot where himself sat, an illuminated statue of Buddha sits deep within the obilesk. It's not accessible save visually, at night, when within the lighted chamber he seems to levitate, suspended in inner space. It's intense. I stand there for awhile, then turn to begin the thrice circumambulation. A soft tap on my arm pulls me from revery. A monk. Unusually tall, broad shouldered, handsome, with a soft, deep voice: "Who are you? Where are you from?," as we walk. "From the US. You?" "Tibet." "Come here often?" "Every year." " I hope to come again." "Good, see you next time," he drifts away.
Third time 'round I pause again just across from the floating image and easily slip into gazing meditation. As murmuring monks stream by, the crescent moon plays with the floodlit spire, and drumming and 3tone chanting broadcasts from the ground-level courtyard. I cease to breath. I'm being breathed.
Some part of me notices the mosquito.......
"One day you will remember this day. You will remember me telling you that some day, you will be in meditation. On that day, in that meditation, some part of your mind will notice a mosquito, delicate as it is, alighting on your arm. Some part of your mind will observe as it inserts its proboscis into your skin. Some modicum of awareness will note the sucking of your blood. And it won't matter."
Today I remembered.
This morning's Ayurvedic massage leaves me with happy feet. The rest of me feels relieved when she stops. The more Energy Kinesiology work I get, the less my body tolerates deep massage. And she works deep, for such a little thing. The table's as high as her ribs. How is she able to apply this much force? Unfortunately, as much as she has strength, she lacks intuitiveness, the ability to read the body's unique needs. She's just working by rote, following her textbook protocol. Plus the room is cold, the thin gauze sheet doesn't stay in place on the plastic slip cover, and where are the wonderfully fragrant Ayurvedic oils? All in all, disappointing. I'm glad for having had the massage in Rishikesh, a much fonder memory.
Lunch finds me back at Be Happy. Can't pass up another Greek Salad whilst I have the chance! I spend a few hours just hangin,' meeting & chatting with sojourners from around the world, and writing for y'all. Russia, New Zealand, Germany, Tibet, Nepal, Thailand. Weaving the world together.
Late afternoon is about being happy: alone and wandering from temple to temple; sitting; tuning in; bliss.
Dusk leads me back to the Mahabodhi, enthralled by the interior icon. About halfway up the east-facing wall of the temple which marks the spot where himself sat, an illuminated statue of Buddha sits deep within the obilesk. It's not accessible save visually, at night, when within the lighted chamber he seems to levitate, suspended in inner space. It's intense. I stand there for awhile, then turn to begin the thrice circumambulation. A soft tap on my arm pulls me from revery. A monk. Unusually tall, broad shouldered, handsome, with a soft, deep voice: "Who are you? Where are you from?," as we walk. "From the US. You?" "Tibet." "Come here often?" "Every year." " I hope to come again." "Good, see you next time," he drifts away.
Third time 'round I pause again just across from the floating image and easily slip into gazing meditation. As murmuring monks stream by, the crescent moon plays with the floodlit spire, and drumming and 3tone chanting broadcasts from the ground-level courtyard. I cease to breath. I'm being breathed.
Some part of me notices the mosquito.......
Wednesday 1 February 2012 Crossing Over
After a few more temple visits, we find the Be Happy Cafe. It's a Westerner's shangrala after weeks of mostly Indian and some Chinese cuisine.
Krista and Niranjan are a lovely couple, and brilliant business minds. Years ago when they met at a meditation center here where there are so many, they decided that Bodgaya needed a coffee shop, here where there were none. A respite for Westerners.
Krista, from Canada, and Niranjan, a local man, live a life dedicated to healthy, clean food in a spotless, homey environment. Krista loves to bake, so that's how they started. As customers discovered this gem, they wanted more. So pizza got added to the menu. In this tiny six-table eatery, open three meals a day, seven days a week, there's brick oven pizza, real Italian style spaghetti, and brown bread and sweets prepared on site. Best of all... vegetables and fruits we can actually eat, because this smart pair invested in a triple-action water filtration system (UV, osmosis and particle). Almost everything is imported from abroad via Delhi, the only menu ingredients available locally are fruits and vegetables, flour and basil. There are a few wait-staff, but Krista and Niranjan prepare all the food themselves to ensure it's safe for visitors' guts. PLUS, there's real coffee! Two expresso machines barely pause for breath.
Back at the hotel for a mid-day rest and pit stop, I finally cross over. It's such a drag to keep asking the front desk for TP when each roll has no more than about two layers to it. I take the plunge, or rather, the hose..... and cross over. Now I understand why my Egyptian roommate of a few years ago kept after me to install this plumbing in my own house. It's cleaner, fresher, easier and infinitely more environmentally friendly! Even my trip-roommate finally makes the shift.
The Karmapa calls. Yesterday I thought I would skip this opportunity to be in the presence of such a high-level spiritual being. He's second in importance in the Buddhist's world to only the Dali Llama himself. Changing my mind is easy here, it's all about going with the flow. I decide, after all, to take a bicycle-rickshaw over to the far Thai temple to catch a glimpse of his Holiness. We plan to arrive early to enjoy the stillness of the place, and sit in solitude as the crowd slowly grows. Our little corner of this huge temple is graced with mothers and their babies who roll around on the rows of meditation mats and crawl over to us to say hello. Their tremendous brown eyes, pudgy cheeks and winning smiles and coos are well worth breaking concentration for. Gazing into their eyes, it's easy to see to the expanse of the stars. After hours of chanting and drumming, the whole crowd rises to their feet and begins to Q-up. Well, as best as Asian culture does a Q.
Surely this is not what the Buddha had in mind.
There's pushing, shoving and shouting in a myriad of far-eastern languages, elbows raming and feet sweeping to try to knock people down.
We sort of hover on the outer edge of the fray, but as we round the last corner of the 'line,' at least a thousand souls stacked about 10 people thick and wrapped 3/4 around the circumference of the temple interior, an attendant gestures and directs us to move in. We have no choice but to allow ourselves to be sucked into the mayhem, women along the wall and men on the right. Once again, that male advantage. There are at least ten females for every male. The men stand and move forward easily, with no stress. And the men's line is privileged, allowed to pass on into security faster.
A few of our female number are lucky enough to end up farther front in the line, and don't experience what for some of us women ends up being an hour and a half of pure hell. Huge double doors open periodically to allow about a dozen seekers to spill out onto the veranda for security check. Each time, the back of the crowd of a thousand or more roars, pushes, and the whole snake undulates forward in a vicious surge. Greed in the guise of fervent reverence.
But mostly the doors remain closed and we are not moving at all, just fighting to keep from being squeezed. Another of our group and I, being at the back of our little pack, bear the brundt of it and fight the entire time to remain solid, to not be crushed forward. Root. Sink awareness. Discover solidness. Bring center of balance to the tan tien. Reach deep into the earth thru the feet.
Behind me must be a proctologist, 'cause the entire time, my butt is fondled, prodded and stroked whilst someone else thrust up against my back from the other side keeps trying to kick my knee to take me down. Over my right shoulder, a flematic old woman clutches and grasps at my shaw, and my left ribs are bruised from incessant elbowing from that side.
As we finally near the doors, another massive surge threatens to trap people behind the 3/4 opened door and crush us to the wall. Where are the attendants? They score zero on crowd control.
Suddenly, a woman shoves hard and squeezes between me and the sweaty body in front of me. Then she begins to shout at me and the attendant, her arm extended back thru the non-gap. She's dragging a child! Who begins to scream. He's now crushed between me, the person to my left, and a third behind me, his little shoulder wrenched by the woman's intent! There's nothing I can do because it's taking all my strength to keep from being plowed ahead from behind, straight into the suddenly vigilant and alarmed attendants. Still the attendant, who has done nothing to quell the panic nor discourage the violence, gives me a dirty look! Because I'm one of the few Western faces?
A moment later, we miraculously pop into the fresh air. A quick frisk and we're hustled up a flight of stairs and thru a narrow door. Being tall has its advantages (clothing not being one of them-all the yoga pants are half way up my shin). As the portal draws near, I can see over the heads of those in front of me, see the Karmapa's face resplendent with light, and imbibe the energy of compassion. A 1/2 second bow before him as he hands me a red thread, and it's all over.
It takes a full hour of cleansing breath-work in the now nearly-vacant temple just to feel clear and grounded enough to face a rickshaw ride back to the hotel. One very long hot shower and three neti pot flushes don't seem at all indulgant. My cloths are sealed into zip lock plastic bags until I can get them dry cleaned, ie properly sterilized, back home. Now I want comfort food.
Back to Be Happy for a Greek Salad -yippee! - and a sweet. Then up the hill for another draught of the Mahabodhi temple ground, seeking completion of a much needed purification.
Another unforeseen happy happenstance, we chance to be here for the International Peace Festival. Tens of thousands of saffron-draped faithful bearing butter-lamps circumambulate the grounds, weaving, flowing like a school of fish. Every shrub, tree, hillside, rail and structure is studded with strings of lights the same gorgeous shades of golden, root red and orange, plus green. The moon-sliver shimmers, the flood-lite-lit temple obelisk glows, the chanting's sublime. After three circuits, healed, I know I can sleep sweet dreams.
Krista and Niranjan are a lovely couple, and brilliant business minds. Years ago when they met at a meditation center here where there are so many, they decided that Bodgaya needed a coffee shop, here where there were none. A respite for Westerners.
Krista, from Canada, and Niranjan, a local man, live a life dedicated to healthy, clean food in a spotless, homey environment. Krista loves to bake, so that's how they started. As customers discovered this gem, they wanted more. So pizza got added to the menu. In this tiny six-table eatery, open three meals a day, seven days a week, there's brick oven pizza, real Italian style spaghetti, and brown bread and sweets prepared on site. Best of all... vegetables and fruits we can actually eat, because this smart pair invested in a triple-action water filtration system (UV, osmosis and particle). Almost everything is imported from abroad via Delhi, the only menu ingredients available locally are fruits and vegetables, flour and basil. There are a few wait-staff, but Krista and Niranjan prepare all the food themselves to ensure it's safe for visitors' guts. PLUS, there's real coffee! Two expresso machines barely pause for breath.
Back at the hotel for a mid-day rest and pit stop, I finally cross over. It's such a drag to keep asking the front desk for TP when each roll has no more than about two layers to it. I take the plunge, or rather, the hose..... and cross over. Now I understand why my Egyptian roommate of a few years ago kept after me to install this plumbing in my own house. It's cleaner, fresher, easier and infinitely more environmentally friendly! Even my trip-roommate finally makes the shift.
The Karmapa calls. Yesterday I thought I would skip this opportunity to be in the presence of such a high-level spiritual being. He's second in importance in the Buddhist's world to only the Dali Llama himself. Changing my mind is easy here, it's all about going with the flow. I decide, after all, to take a bicycle-rickshaw over to the far Thai temple to catch a glimpse of his Holiness. We plan to arrive early to enjoy the stillness of the place, and sit in solitude as the crowd slowly grows. Our little corner of this huge temple is graced with mothers and their babies who roll around on the rows of meditation mats and crawl over to us to say hello. Their tremendous brown eyes, pudgy cheeks and winning smiles and coos are well worth breaking concentration for. Gazing into their eyes, it's easy to see to the expanse of the stars. After hours of chanting and drumming, the whole crowd rises to their feet and begins to Q-up. Well, as best as Asian culture does a Q.
Surely this is not what the Buddha had in mind.
There's pushing, shoving and shouting in a myriad of far-eastern languages, elbows raming and feet sweeping to try to knock people down.
We sort of hover on the outer edge of the fray, but as we round the last corner of the 'line,' at least a thousand souls stacked about 10 people thick and wrapped 3/4 around the circumference of the temple interior, an attendant gestures and directs us to move in. We have no choice but to allow ourselves to be sucked into the mayhem, women along the wall and men on the right. Once again, that male advantage. There are at least ten females for every male. The men stand and move forward easily, with no stress. And the men's line is privileged, allowed to pass on into security faster.
A few of our female number are lucky enough to end up farther front in the line, and don't experience what for some of us women ends up being an hour and a half of pure hell. Huge double doors open periodically to allow about a dozen seekers to spill out onto the veranda for security check. Each time, the back of the crowd of a thousand or more roars, pushes, and the whole snake undulates forward in a vicious surge. Greed in the guise of fervent reverence.
But mostly the doors remain closed and we are not moving at all, just fighting to keep from being squeezed. Another of our group and I, being at the back of our little pack, bear the brundt of it and fight the entire time to remain solid, to not be crushed forward. Root. Sink awareness. Discover solidness. Bring center of balance to the tan tien. Reach deep into the earth thru the feet.
Behind me must be a proctologist, 'cause the entire time, my butt is fondled, prodded and stroked whilst someone else thrust up against my back from the other side keeps trying to kick my knee to take me down. Over my right shoulder, a flematic old woman clutches and grasps at my shaw, and my left ribs are bruised from incessant elbowing from that side.
As we finally near the doors, another massive surge threatens to trap people behind the 3/4 opened door and crush us to the wall. Where are the attendants? They score zero on crowd control.
Suddenly, a woman shoves hard and squeezes between me and the sweaty body in front of me. Then she begins to shout at me and the attendant, her arm extended back thru the non-gap. She's dragging a child! Who begins to scream. He's now crushed between me, the person to my left, and a third behind me, his little shoulder wrenched by the woman's intent! There's nothing I can do because it's taking all my strength to keep from being plowed ahead from behind, straight into the suddenly vigilant and alarmed attendants. Still the attendant, who has done nothing to quell the panic nor discourage the violence, gives me a dirty look! Because I'm one of the few Western faces?
A moment later, we miraculously pop into the fresh air. A quick frisk and we're hustled up a flight of stairs and thru a narrow door. Being tall has its advantages (clothing not being one of them-all the yoga pants are half way up my shin). As the portal draws near, I can see over the heads of those in front of me, see the Karmapa's face resplendent with light, and imbibe the energy of compassion. A 1/2 second bow before him as he hands me a red thread, and it's all over.
It takes a full hour of cleansing breath-work in the now nearly-vacant temple just to feel clear and grounded enough to face a rickshaw ride back to the hotel. One very long hot shower and three neti pot flushes don't seem at all indulgant. My cloths are sealed into zip lock plastic bags until I can get them dry cleaned, ie properly sterilized, back home. Now I want comfort food.
Back to Be Happy for a Greek Salad -yippee! - and a sweet. Then up the hill for another draught of the Mahabodhi temple ground, seeking completion of a much needed purification.
Another unforeseen happy happenstance, we chance to be here for the International Peace Festival. Tens of thousands of saffron-draped faithful bearing butter-lamps circumambulate the grounds, weaving, flowing like a school of fish. Every shrub, tree, hillside, rail and structure is studded with strings of lights the same gorgeous shades of golden, root red and orange, plus green. The moon-sliver shimmers, the flood-lite-lit temple obelisk glows, the chanting's sublime. After three circuits, healed, I know I can sleep sweet dreams.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Tuesday 31 January How many ways can you say Buddha?
BodGaya is a mish mash of cultures and of eras. There are temples to Buudha from every corner of the world. Wifi cafes, cell phones and way too many cars jostle with cow-paddy huts, plastic bag tented produce stands and monks and pilgrims and tourists and monks. And the dust! The couple of main roads are brick, and generate buckets of dust. Pitiful vegetation, limp with fatigue from battling dust, pollution and lack of water, marches across Larprakash Park. It's incredibly depressing to see what could be, what once was, a lush paradise garden in such a state of depravation. Honest attempts at cosmos, roses, dahlias, fade. Trees droop. After a brief turn-about, we beat a path back out the gate and into the culprit road.
I long for Rishikesh.
The Tai temple is delightful with its fantasmagoria of color, patterns, and the many masks of Buddha. Some of theses are downright monsterous while others glow, the familiar face of loving compassion. I like the energy in this temple, it resonates in my third eye and then my heart, light and pleasant. We stand a while.
Something keeps trying to push up in my mind, and finally the thought forms: the energy here is more one of absence than presence. Whilst the darghas of the Sufi saints had boldness to their energy that said "Here I am!", a force to be reckoned with, the Buddhist temple energies are notable for a sense of absence. Emptiness. Empty mind.
The Japanese temple energy is strange. What little there is is not in the chakras at all. In fact, doesn't resonate in a spiritual nor ven human way in the least. I feel it around and between my ears. A couple of us talked about it later. 'Cerebral.'
Reaching the main road, we enter a river of saffron-garbed pilgrims, monks and nuns all flowing in one direction. We don't have the lay of the land yet so decide to just follow them. They must be going someplace. About 2 miles later we decide to turn back - they stream on into the distance as far as we can see, with no apparent destination in sight. It was a joyous jaunt, but ours is a different path. So we turn back towards town. Now we're swimming UP stream. There's absolutely no sensibility of awareness of others in these guys. Similar to what I experienced in China. They'll just plow right into you. As do most of the other tourists and pilgrims, except those who, by their costumes, are known to be Hindu. It's not pleasant.
We vere off to see the 8o foot Buddha. Interesting photo op. Then we decide to take a secondary road across to our hotel's street for a pit-stop.
Uh-huh. Nearly two hours later, we emerge from the middle of now-where. In that spanse, Peg and I lost ourselves in a succession of villages and earth-bermed farm land, walking the narrow mud ledges between flooded and muddy fields. Now we're seeing something genuine.
Brick, straw, mudded and cow-paddy one-room hovels surround mud court yards. Cows, goats, dogs and naked babies play, graze and lounge together. Women grinding grain between rocks. Grandfathers turning clay, or rather, mud, pots on kick-wheels. Young men weaving rushes. A family bathing in an irrigation ditch, picking ... not sure what... out of each other's hair. Here, as in every diorama we've witnessed, is India's signature blend of desperation and hope.
There's a neatness to the squallor. Teen aged boys watch their elders turning pots, learning their own futures. Worn bits of once-brilliant fabrics drape in windows for more than shade and modesty. A stray dahlia has been lovingly tended. The animals, as the people, are groomed and obviously cared for. Here and there, children wear the uniforms of a charity-supported school.
Emerging from the narrow lanes of what we later i.d. on the map as Tandih Village, the vista opens to a grand expanse of cropland. Several villagers encourage us, "the road is that way," so we trudge along on the narrow mud berms for quite awhile, keeping in sight the spire of the Mahabodhi Temple way in the distance. Two little girls strolling from a squat of huts to our left converge with our path, and we ask them, just to confirm, "main road this way?" They smile, nod and beckon us to follow them.
A long march later brings us to the edge of another village. Uh, I'm losing confidence. And feeling like at this point, backtracking is not an option. Forgot to drop breadcrumbs.
As we follow our angels into the labarynth later identified, possibly, as Urel Village, a modicome of worry creeps in. We can't see our talisman landmark, the temple spire. The construction is meaner, lanes narrower, animals not as healthy, fewer family and industry tableaus. There are a couple of hot spots where western-garbed young men are hanging out. Thugs? I quip "Well, we're either being led home to meet moma, to the road, or to our deaths." Nervous humor. Peggy isn't amused.
Numerous hard turns into lanes we can't see past, then a quick right and another left and - lo! We are on the side-lane of Mahabodhi Temple Complex, leading to 'Main Street' and the main gate. Beggars and butter candles line the alleyway. Hundreds and hundreds of butter candles. Some rebirth. A life without risk is no life.
Our angels smile with us, shyly, and walk on their way. They never asked for money. Indeed, no-one in either village asked for money. Wish I could say the same thing for the town streets.
We called to them to come back and gave them each the equivalent of a US dollar. Probably more than their families see in one month.
Sharp contrast to the food caper. After lunch, I give a zip-lock bag of onion pandora to a urchin with particularly imploring eyes. And am promptly mobbed by grasping filthy fingers and shouting, shoving, mayhem. "No more food! Bas! Bas! Enough!" guess that's the last time I'll not throw away leftovers.
The world's navel is crowded, layered with iconetry and overt penance. There are spots of quietude, but I am really missing quiet. I get nothing in the temple shrine, where an auspicious gold painted statue draped in resplendent garb sits. The legend says that when the temple was built, no statue worthy of the place could be found. The doors were locked commanded to be locked for six months, encasing a pile of damp clay. When the seal was broken - an impatient 5 months and three and a half weeks later - there sat thsi statue. But because they didn't wait the full 6 months, one corner of his breast was unfinished. Apparently, it's the breast that's hidden by the royal robe. Nothing.
Later, sitting in front of the temple where it's believed the Buddha sat, I tune my chakras. The chanting of monks forms a base note for my own practices, vibrated low and private. Peggy tells me later that a battle raged behind me as a monk, chastising some tourist youth, was threatened by them with sticks and shouting. Even here.
We dine on some version of pad tai at a tai restaurant where the Dali Llama's second ate a few months ago. Rumor has it he's bestowing blessings at a more distant thai temple today, but I think I'll just bop about the closer minor temples for the day, save my intensity for our return to Delhi and the Sufi darghas and ors.
I long for Rishikesh.
The Tai temple is delightful with its fantasmagoria of color, patterns, and the many masks of Buddha. Some of theses are downright monsterous while others glow, the familiar face of loving compassion. I like the energy in this temple, it resonates in my third eye and then my heart, light and pleasant. We stand a while.
Something keeps trying to push up in my mind, and finally the thought forms: the energy here is more one of absence than presence. Whilst the darghas of the Sufi saints had boldness to their energy that said "Here I am!", a force to be reckoned with, the Buddhist temple energies are notable for a sense of absence. Emptiness. Empty mind.
The Japanese temple energy is strange. What little there is is not in the chakras at all. In fact, doesn't resonate in a spiritual nor ven human way in the least. I feel it around and between my ears. A couple of us talked about it later. 'Cerebral.'
Reaching the main road, we enter a river of saffron-garbed pilgrims, monks and nuns all flowing in one direction. We don't have the lay of the land yet so decide to just follow them. They must be going someplace. About 2 miles later we decide to turn back - they stream on into the distance as far as we can see, with no apparent destination in sight. It was a joyous jaunt, but ours is a different path. So we turn back towards town. Now we're swimming UP stream. There's absolutely no sensibility of awareness of others in these guys. Similar to what I experienced in China. They'll just plow right into you. As do most of the other tourists and pilgrims, except those who, by their costumes, are known to be Hindu. It's not pleasant.
We vere off to see the 8o foot Buddha. Interesting photo op. Then we decide to take a secondary road across to our hotel's street for a pit-stop.
Uh-huh. Nearly two hours later, we emerge from the middle of now-where. In that spanse, Peg and I lost ourselves in a succession of villages and earth-bermed farm land, walking the narrow mud ledges between flooded and muddy fields. Now we're seeing something genuine.
Brick, straw, mudded and cow-paddy one-room hovels surround mud court yards. Cows, goats, dogs and naked babies play, graze and lounge together. Women grinding grain between rocks. Grandfathers turning clay, or rather, mud, pots on kick-wheels. Young men weaving rushes. A family bathing in an irrigation ditch, picking ... not sure what... out of each other's hair. Here, as in every diorama we've witnessed, is India's signature blend of desperation and hope.
There's a neatness to the squallor. Teen aged boys watch their elders turning pots, learning their own futures. Worn bits of once-brilliant fabrics drape in windows for more than shade and modesty. A stray dahlia has been lovingly tended. The animals, as the people, are groomed and obviously cared for. Here and there, children wear the uniforms of a charity-supported school.
Emerging from the narrow lanes of what we later i.d. on the map as Tandih Village, the vista opens to a grand expanse of cropland. Several villagers encourage us, "the road is that way," so we trudge along on the narrow mud berms for quite awhile, keeping in sight the spire of the Mahabodhi Temple way in the distance. Two little girls strolling from a squat of huts to our left converge with our path, and we ask them, just to confirm, "main road this way?" They smile, nod and beckon us to follow them.
A long march later brings us to the edge of another village. Uh, I'm losing confidence. And feeling like at this point, backtracking is not an option. Forgot to drop breadcrumbs.
As we follow our angels into the labarynth later identified, possibly, as Urel Village, a modicome of worry creeps in. We can't see our talisman landmark, the temple spire. The construction is meaner, lanes narrower, animals not as healthy, fewer family and industry tableaus. There are a couple of hot spots where western-garbed young men are hanging out. Thugs? I quip "Well, we're either being led home to meet moma, to the road, or to our deaths." Nervous humor. Peggy isn't amused.
Numerous hard turns into lanes we can't see past, then a quick right and another left and - lo! We are on the side-lane of Mahabodhi Temple Complex, leading to 'Main Street' and the main gate. Beggars and butter candles line the alleyway. Hundreds and hundreds of butter candles. Some rebirth. A life without risk is no life.
Our angels smile with us, shyly, and walk on their way. They never asked for money. Indeed, no-one in either village asked for money. Wish I could say the same thing for the town streets.
We called to them to come back and gave them each the equivalent of a US dollar. Probably more than their families see in one month.
Sharp contrast to the food caper. After lunch, I give a zip-lock bag of onion pandora to a urchin with particularly imploring eyes. And am promptly mobbed by grasping filthy fingers and shouting, shoving, mayhem. "No more food! Bas! Bas! Enough!" guess that's the last time I'll not throw away leftovers.
The world's navel is crowded, layered with iconetry and overt penance. There are spots of quietude, but I am really missing quiet. I get nothing in the temple shrine, where an auspicious gold painted statue draped in resplendent garb sits. The legend says that when the temple was built, no statue worthy of the place could be found. The doors were locked commanded to be locked for six months, encasing a pile of damp clay. When the seal was broken - an impatient 5 months and three and a half weeks later - there sat thsi statue. But because they didn't wait the full 6 months, one corner of his breast was unfinished. Apparently, it's the breast that's hidden by the royal robe. Nothing.
Later, sitting in front of the temple where it's believed the Buddha sat, I tune my chakras. The chanting of monks forms a base note for my own practices, vibrated low and private. Peggy tells me later that a battle raged behind me as a monk, chastising some tourist youth, was threatened by them with sticks and shouting. Even here.
We dine on some version of pad tai at a tai restaurant where the Dali Llama's second ate a few months ago. Rumor has it he's bestowing blessings at a more distant thai temple today, but I think I'll just bop about the closer minor temples for the day, save my intensity for our return to Delhi and the Sufi darghas and ors.
Sunday 29 January - Tortoise or Hare?
Today, our last day in Rishikesh, I'm just hanging. There's so much to see, I am content with what I have seen, so stay close to our little corner of Laxman Julla. Now you know I'll be back here 'cause I have some favorite spots, and begin the day with breakfast at Bella Vista (!) Cafe. This is a memory maker, where you're welcome to sit as long as you like, graze, look out across the river: pack-donkeys loading up with stone in the shallows below; downriver, colorful ashrams crowd the shore; upriver, the patio roofline frames the Shiva temple next door to our hotel. Look for upcoming (once I'm home and editd) photo ops of this 13 story wedding cake of typical Hindu architecture, each layer ringed by shrines, the whole backdropped by a mist-kissed Himilayan mountain notch.
Afternoon finds me once again at the German Bakery high above on the far side, sipping chai masala, the energy of the river, and the mountains, and the cameos of tourists from all over.
For once we are all packed up and assembled on time for transport back to Hardivar and the train back thru Delhi, then next night to BodGaya. Juggling extra tote bags and back-packs to keep up with the shopping melee that is India for first-time visitors makes each leg of the journey more and more of a challenge. At the eye of a chaotic little storm in front of our hotel we await the bus: bindi men and the sellers of postcards cards and lenticular images of Ganesh swirling around us and then...
A group of Indian youth (a high school outing?) gather across the path, giggling and pointing their cameras at us. Hamming it up, we inspire their confidence and soon we are linked arm in arm with wave after wave of grinning young Hindus as they take turns having their pictures taken with us. Smiles and laughter and clowning for the camera our common language, we are part of the show rather than the spectators for a change.
Oh, did I mention we were waiting for a bus? And waiting. And waiting. Now worrying as our 'cushion time' is steadily eaten away by typical 'India time.' We do not want to miss this train! And those extra packs to juggle? When three jeep-vans arrive to shuttle us up the road to where the bus has easier access, it's a mad anxiety rush of spatial challenge to get all of us, and all our stuff, loaded up. The driver flies down the switchback dirt road, horn blaring, bus rocking; passes one or two slowpokes at a time once we reach the highway. Note that I use the term 'highway' loosely - it's one lane in each direction. One lane, that is, except when motorbikes, cars, buses, dump trucks and scooter-taxis pass on what can even more loosely be termed a shoulder, kicking up yet more dirt! And then an anxious twenty minute tortoise crawl from the city limits to the station.
We arrive just before the train, and collapse, exhausted and relieved, in our first class seats. Dinner is served with china and silver, the courses keep coming, the four hours pass quickly, I'm ready for a good sleep.
I'm battling congestion again, from mold in the hotel bathrooms and the mildewed blankets on the beds. Using the neti pot morning and night helps, but sleeping in a spore zone overcomes me. I've been so glad for the couple of doses of NyQuil I had thrown in my bag at the last minute. Unfortunately I ran out in Agvar under similar conditions. Once we reach BodGaya, I hope to find an Ayurvedic shop to ask for a remedy (should have done that in Rishikesh). Next visit, I'll carry enough doses for the entire trip, bring a back-packer's fleece in addition to my silk sleep sack and compressible feather pillow, and throw their bedding into the hall.
Afternoon finds me once again at the German Bakery high above on the far side, sipping chai masala, the energy of the river, and the mountains, and the cameos of tourists from all over.
For once we are all packed up and assembled on time for transport back to Hardivar and the train back thru Delhi, then next night to BodGaya. Juggling extra tote bags and back-packs to keep up with the shopping melee that is India for first-time visitors makes each leg of the journey more and more of a challenge. At the eye of a chaotic little storm in front of our hotel we await the bus: bindi men and the sellers of postcards cards and lenticular images of Ganesh swirling around us and then...
A group of Indian youth (a high school outing?) gather across the path, giggling and pointing their cameras at us. Hamming it up, we inspire their confidence and soon we are linked arm in arm with wave after wave of grinning young Hindus as they take turns having their pictures taken with us. Smiles and laughter and clowning for the camera our common language, we are part of the show rather than the spectators for a change.
Oh, did I mention we were waiting for a bus? And waiting. And waiting. Now worrying as our 'cushion time' is steadily eaten away by typical 'India time.' We do not want to miss this train! And those extra packs to juggle? When three jeep-vans arrive to shuttle us up the road to where the bus has easier access, it's a mad anxiety rush of spatial challenge to get all of us, and all our stuff, loaded up. The driver flies down the switchback dirt road, horn blaring, bus rocking; passes one or two slowpokes at a time once we reach the highway. Note that I use the term 'highway' loosely - it's one lane in each direction. One lane, that is, except when motorbikes, cars, buses, dump trucks and scooter-taxis pass on what can even more loosely be termed a shoulder, kicking up yet more dirt! And then an anxious twenty minute tortoise crawl from the city limits to the station.
We arrive just before the train, and collapse, exhausted and relieved, in our first class seats. Dinner is served with china and silver, the courses keep coming, the four hours pass quickly, I'm ready for a good sleep.
I'm battling congestion again, from mold in the hotel bathrooms and the mildewed blankets on the beds. Using the neti pot morning and night helps, but sleeping in a spore zone overcomes me. I've been so glad for the couple of doses of NyQuil I had thrown in my bag at the last minute. Unfortunately I ran out in Agvar under similar conditions. Once we reach BodGaya, I hope to find an Ayurvedic shop to ask for a remedy (should have done that in Rishikesh). Next visit, I'll carry enough doses for the entire trip, bring a back-packer's fleece in addition to my silk sleep sack and compressible feather pillow, and throw their bedding into the hall.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Ohm Sweet Ohm Rishikesh Friday 27 January
Just a snippet over 1/3 of the way through and I've hit stride again today, first meditating on a ledge above the foothills village of Neelkanth, then later in yoga and meditation classes on the roof of Omkaeananda Dioeshwar Mander ashram, five stories above the east bank of the Ganga, just across the footbridge from our hotel.
Neelkanth Village is a 45 minute white knuckled lurch up a dirt road just wide enough for one and one-half jeeps. Someone's painted white swatches on protruding rocks on the in-your-face up-hill side, whilst the downside cliff plunges 100 and more feet down the other side. We postulate you wouldn't drive in India if your horn's broke - here on the pretzel twist switch backs they're just as important as in Delhi's school-of-fish traffic crush. Announcing "here I am," the horn's played more than not.
Every couple of hundred feet, there's a wash-out, or fresh concrete attempting to rebuild last month's washout, which require the bus to creep inch by inch across crumbly pebbles and mud sliding into the valley, to more solid footing. Then there are the cows and the donkeys bearing saddle sacks of sand to mix concrete in the ever pervasive constructuon below. The journey's the journey.
Views that define spectacular pop from around each twist. The switch-back drapes like silk ribbon around and around and up, up, up one mountain after another. "The bear went over the mountain, and what do you think (s)he saw? He saw another mountain, he saw another mountain, he saw another mountin, and what do you think he did?" Around one more bend, here's the Hindu arche gate to the village.
I thought Juxman hugged the hillside! This place is like putty stuck to crevices between the rocks. The pavement winds amongst tiny shops and temples, deeper into and up the mountainside. Only the main temple holds its own space, with a modest courtyard 3/4 way round at the base of a steep staircase to the dark chamber where the high priest puts ash on our foreheads and jewel-clothed women bless us with sing-song chanting as we come out.
The aspect of God here is blue and reminiscent of Neptune - conch shell pressed to lips, trident firmly gripped, he kneels facing the river. I do hope we are able to visit the Hindu information center back in Delhi - there are so many icons in so many forms, I'd like to understand.
Follow the path up, still higher, above the village. But not too far - there are wild elephants and panthers to deal with. We settle on a plataue above the near-most roofline, face the mountains and settle in. What emerges is chi-king connecting heaven and earth. These mountains are that. The depths of their roots reach clear to the molten center of the earth, whilst the peaks, still rising, pierce the thin air towards heaven. Today gifts me with yet another meditation reference I will hold for all time.
Gayle recommends yoga on the roof of Mander Ashram, just across the footbridge. For 2 hours we literally salute the setting sun, then repair to the inside deck for another 2 hours of meditation. Swami's energy is so sweet. My every chakra vibrates with lam, vam, rrrrram, yam, ham, ohm. Ah.
Swami really gets into it, goes half hour overtime, then invites us to stay for dinner. "Temple food is not like restaurant. This will feed your body and soul." Indeed.
Neelkanth Village is a 45 minute white knuckled lurch up a dirt road just wide enough for one and one-half jeeps. Someone's painted white swatches on protruding rocks on the in-your-face up-hill side, whilst the downside cliff plunges 100 and more feet down the other side. We postulate you wouldn't drive in India if your horn's broke - here on the pretzel twist switch backs they're just as important as in Delhi's school-of-fish traffic crush. Announcing "here I am," the horn's played more than not.
Every couple of hundred feet, there's a wash-out, or fresh concrete attempting to rebuild last month's washout, which require the bus to creep inch by inch across crumbly pebbles and mud sliding into the valley, to more solid footing. Then there are the cows and the donkeys bearing saddle sacks of sand to mix concrete in the ever pervasive constructuon below. The journey's the journey.
Views that define spectacular pop from around each twist. The switch-back drapes like silk ribbon around and around and up, up, up one mountain after another. "The bear went over the mountain, and what do you think (s)he saw? He saw another mountain, he saw another mountain, he saw another mountin, and what do you think he did?" Around one more bend, here's the Hindu arche gate to the village.
I thought Juxman hugged the hillside! This place is like putty stuck to crevices between the rocks. The pavement winds amongst tiny shops and temples, deeper into and up the mountainside. Only the main temple holds its own space, with a modest courtyard 3/4 way round at the base of a steep staircase to the dark chamber where the high priest puts ash on our foreheads and jewel-clothed women bless us with sing-song chanting as we come out.
The aspect of God here is blue and reminiscent of Neptune - conch shell pressed to lips, trident firmly gripped, he kneels facing the river. I do hope we are able to visit the Hindu information center back in Delhi - there are so many icons in so many forms, I'd like to understand.
Follow the path up, still higher, above the village. But not too far - there are wild elephants and panthers to deal with. We settle on a plataue above the near-most roofline, face the mountains and settle in. What emerges is chi-king connecting heaven and earth. These mountains are that. The depths of their roots reach clear to the molten center of the earth, whilst the peaks, still rising, pierce the thin air towards heaven. Today gifts me with yet another meditation reference I will hold for all time.
Gayle recommends yoga on the roof of Mander Ashram, just across the footbridge. For 2 hours we literally salute the setting sun, then repair to the inside deck for another 2 hours of meditation. Swami's energy is so sweet. My every chakra vibrates with lam, vam, rrrrram, yam, ham, ohm. Ah.
Swami really gets into it, goes half hour overtime, then invites us to stay for dinner. "Temple food is not like restaurant. This will feed your body and soul." Indeed.
Saturday 28 January. Time to simply BE
Characteristic of many emerging countries, there's a resourcefulness and resilience that belies western sensibilities. I first noticed it at one of the shrines, when I realized that young men were recollecting the flowers placed on the tombs along with plastic bags disgarded at the door by the piglrims and repackaging them for the next wave of visitors. Empty water bottles are gold, used for everything from selling Gangas water to carry for puja, to one man's ingenious system of piping 'drinking' water from a public faucet across the stone sink into a 40 gallon jug on the ground, three liter sized bottles cut and formed to a temporary water duct. Fabrics are repurposed from sari to quilt to pillow cover or window shading as sections wear thin. And this morning it took three explanations for me to understand that "no, I cannot give you or even sell you a 'go cup' for your unfinished coffee," because the boss reconciled cups with register receipts.
Mornings there's an American migration down the trail to a 'real' coffee shop. It's nice to sit in the shop window looking across the road to the river before returning to the hotel for provided breakfast: oatmeal, vegetable paddies, onion pakora and jellied toast with the omnipresent masala chai. If you oversleep it's gulp and run or sip and take half back with you. So OK, I bought a second cup to go in cardboard and will bring the empty paper back with me for tomorrow's fix.
Today I prefer to be alone - not easy with so many warm and friendly companions, new and old, eager to share adventure and experience. After breakfast I did a balance for a fellow journeyer, then set off at a liesurely pace for my coveted Ayurvedic massage appointment. I'm really picky about who I allow to work on me, so apprehension followed me in the door of the tiny reception area of Baba Center on the hill. A tiny sprite of an Indian woman leads me through a curtain into a dimly lit and richly fragrant room and bids me strip and lie down on the floor mat. By the end of the hour I'm a convert. With hands, elbows and feet she expertly massages my whole body with specific oils for various areas from the top of my head (ecstatic) to the very tip of each little toe (pop!). A good dose of accupressure and tai massage completes complete relaxation of every twinge and complaint.
Rounding the bend back towards the German cafe I pick up another yoga pant and t-shirt - this one embroidered with the flower of life. Then I spot it. A 'real' back-packing back pack for US$55 that in the states would run in the hundreds. I'll need a second bag to check coming home to carry my hoard of pashmina gifts and hand-made paper journals. This bag's a find in a couple of days of 'finds.'
I write to you now from a German Bakery (the best of several here) on the east bank of Luxman, northern edge. There's a music and drum ritual going on across the river, visitors and expats come and go throughout the afternoon. The sun shines across my lap as I spill forth these memories for you, the peace of the day wrippled by the occasional beep of a scooter horn or hierarchical squabble of monkeys on the bridge below. There's so much to see and do, but today is a day to BE so I'll sit here awhile longer, until it's time to climb the hill for sunset yoga on the roof once more.
Mornings there's an American migration down the trail to a 'real' coffee shop. It's nice to sit in the shop window looking across the road to the river before returning to the hotel for provided breakfast: oatmeal, vegetable paddies, onion pakora and jellied toast with the omnipresent masala chai. If you oversleep it's gulp and run or sip and take half back with you. So OK, I bought a second cup to go in cardboard and will bring the empty paper back with me for tomorrow's fix.
Today I prefer to be alone - not easy with so many warm and friendly companions, new and old, eager to share adventure and experience. After breakfast I did a balance for a fellow journeyer, then set off at a liesurely pace for my coveted Ayurvedic massage appointment. I'm really picky about who I allow to work on me, so apprehension followed me in the door of the tiny reception area of Baba Center on the hill. A tiny sprite of an Indian woman leads me through a curtain into a dimly lit and richly fragrant room and bids me strip and lie down on the floor mat. By the end of the hour I'm a convert. With hands, elbows and feet she expertly massages my whole body with specific oils for various areas from the top of my head (ecstatic) to the very tip of each little toe (pop!). A good dose of accupressure and tai massage completes complete relaxation of every twinge and complaint.
Rounding the bend back towards the German cafe I pick up another yoga pant and t-shirt - this one embroidered with the flower of life. Then I spot it. A 'real' back-packing back pack for US$55 that in the states would run in the hundreds. I'll need a second bag to check coming home to carry my hoard of pashmina gifts and hand-made paper journals. This bag's a find in a couple of days of 'finds.'
I write to you now from a German Bakery (the best of several here) on the east bank of Luxman, northern edge. There's a music and drum ritual going on across the river, visitors and expats come and go throughout the afternoon. The sun shines across my lap as I spill forth these memories for you, the peace of the day wrippled by the occasional beep of a scooter horn or hierarchical squabble of monkeys on the bridge below. There's so much to see and do, but today is a day to BE so I'll sit here awhile longer, until it's time to climb the hill for sunset yoga on the roof once more.
Thursday 26 January - Walkabout/ Shopabout Rishikesh
There's a subterranean energy flow here that's not so much beneath the ground as it is buried under mountains of commercialism. Although we did see at least one Ayurvedic Massage center that looked like a Walnut Street salon - from its squeaky clean, minimalist lobbie sporting shelves of mass-production products, to its ad-agency brochure, This shoppe is an anomally here. And certainly not where I'll have my massage. The rest of Luxman is a specific form commercialism in the way of market-stall clutter. Cluttercialism.
It may be an undercurrent, but it can't be denied, that powerful coursing of energy that's not just the surge of the Ganga a mere100 feet away. It's the energy of hundreds of years of thousands of devotees who've left millions of gold-dust footprints on this path.
At 70 and sunny, this day is a perfect invitation for a casual meandering stroll. These sort-of-paved roads encourage mindful walking, with only occasional bicycles and jeeps to be dodged while countless Rishis flow by like vapor trails on a parallel dimension. That's it. That's the feeling. You can feel the convergence of layers of reality here. It's not like the vortexes we experienced at the darghas in Delhi, Agra and Ajmere (Cathedral Rock and the Bell Dome, Sedona). Here, the entire canyon buzzes with the interchange of protons from one level to another to another and back again, faster than the nano-nano blink of an eye, a holographic vibration rather than a movement, a shimmer of effervescence weaving the layers together.
Luxman Julla, where we are staying, is to Rishikesh kind of as Ardmore is to Center City, and our hotel is at the northern edge of this 'suburb.' This isn't Kansas... nor suburban Philadelphia. Every time we step from our door, we're adorned by the bindi painter, " No charge!" although I do end up buying one of his little kits of intensely colored pwderw and pot-metal decorative stamps for about a dollar. What a hoot, tho - just try to do this for yourself! As I go out again, with my own crude attempt smeared across my brow, he swoops at me, wipes my forehead clean and with a flurry of hands and powder, creates another masterpiece around my third eye. He is truly an artist.
Restaurants and ashrams line the rocky shore of the 2-block-wide 'town' sandwiched between the river and the steep climb of the foothills of the Himalayans. It's a fat kilometer to Ramjhoola bridge, where Kerry and I head, intent upon sampling Ashtanga kirtan and yoga across the river. For four hours we just sort of drift along like butterflies on the breeze of shopping nirvana, sampling the garden of Luxman Julla: pashminas, statuary, semi-precious jewels, diety paintings and yoga clothes; from Nepal, Tibet, and all regions of India. I'm bringing a fabulous singing bowl back to classes, and couldn't resist a handmade pair of lapis blue yoga pants for $6 and a t-shirt of flaming red embroidered with a turquoise Gynesh for just $4. Topped by a deep purple pashmina from Ajmere, and adorned by a rose wood and ohm-medallion bracelet (fifty cents) I'm a walking treasure chest of jeweltones! In one day I've used up my shopping mojo for the entire trip!
Another couple of kilometers south along the west-bank marketplace, Kerrie spots a sign for a Lonely Planet-recommended restaurant. The second story glassed-in porch affords views of the river and lunch is luxurious. From our window table we watch the comings and goings of the ferry-launch. All afternoon, the barge lets off passengers onto the landing below, like the spilling of an upended box of crayolla crayons across the flood-plain floor. Indian's color taste matches their zest for spicy food!
Flavor Restaurant: the onion pakoras are to sing for, and the Chinese fried rice very good as well. The best chai masala so far. Everything's made to order from scratch so it's long in coming, which suites us just fine. We sit and chat, and look, and graze, and hold silence, too. Ahhhh. Two hours later, when we head to the counter to pay our bill (several course lunch for the two of us for under $7), the owner says "I like your attitude around eating - you stay and talk and don't talk and look out over the river. You really taste the food... most people inhale and run!"
Shivanand ashram is lovely, the complex neatly climbs the west bank, hugging courtyards of benches, trees and bogenvalea dotted with Hindu style buildings. It's a sweet place to sit and talk with a yogini we meet. She's 90 if she's a day, narrow of word, wide of thought, and absolutely correct in advising us not to take the yoga class here. Wish we had listened to her. The teacher's Japanese, impossible to understand, rigid, arrogant and pushy, not really a teacher at all, more like a drill sargent. One-size-fits-all yoga. She shoves Kerrie's knee straight in headstand, slaps my hands away from my face because she doesn't like the bandu I'm using, and then tells Kerrie, in shoulder stand, (with no props!) to turn her head and look at her 'neighbor' (!) in order to get the leg position perfect (sort of an inverted eagle). We're both appalled. I made it clear she's not to touch me again, so she ignores me for the rest of the class and I'm able to use the time and space to do modified versions of the more aggressive postures she demands. The hour's not wasted, my aches and pains and bindings release enough to feel the difference.
Released and exhausted, we can't fathom the long walk ' home,' so it's a scooter back to the hotel's neighborhood for us tonight. Walking back across the Juxman suspension foot bridge, we pause often to drink in the view below - colored lights of ashrams reflecting in the rushing waters downstream dot the darkness of a new moon night.
On another patio overlooking the river, we dwell in grace at the close of a wonderful day. Supper is pizza: "No Madame, not American style, Italion style!" Is it the magic of this place, the ionic charge of such a majestic body or water, or for real? - this brick- oven onion, olive and tomatoe pie is better than most I've tasted!
It may be an undercurrent, but it can't be denied, that powerful coursing of energy that's not just the surge of the Ganga a mere100 feet away. It's the energy of hundreds of years of thousands of devotees who've left millions of gold-dust footprints on this path.
At 70 and sunny, this day is a perfect invitation for a casual meandering stroll. These sort-of-paved roads encourage mindful walking, with only occasional bicycles and jeeps to be dodged while countless Rishis flow by like vapor trails on a parallel dimension. That's it. That's the feeling. You can feel the convergence of layers of reality here. It's not like the vortexes we experienced at the darghas in Delhi, Agra and Ajmere (Cathedral Rock and the Bell Dome, Sedona). Here, the entire canyon buzzes with the interchange of protons from one level to another to another and back again, faster than the nano-nano blink of an eye, a holographic vibration rather than a movement, a shimmer of effervescence weaving the layers together.
Luxman Julla, where we are staying, is to Rishikesh kind of as Ardmore is to Center City, and our hotel is at the northern edge of this 'suburb.' This isn't Kansas... nor suburban Philadelphia. Every time we step from our door, we're adorned by the bindi painter, " No charge!" although I do end up buying one of his little kits of intensely colored pwderw and pot-metal decorative stamps for about a dollar. What a hoot, tho - just try to do this for yourself! As I go out again, with my own crude attempt smeared across my brow, he swoops at me, wipes my forehead clean and with a flurry of hands and powder, creates another masterpiece around my third eye. He is truly an artist.
Restaurants and ashrams line the rocky shore of the 2-block-wide 'town' sandwiched between the river and the steep climb of the foothills of the Himalayans. It's a fat kilometer to Ramjhoola bridge, where Kerry and I head, intent upon sampling Ashtanga kirtan and yoga across the river. For four hours we just sort of drift along like butterflies on the breeze of shopping nirvana, sampling the garden of Luxman Julla: pashminas, statuary, semi-precious jewels, diety paintings and yoga clothes; from Nepal, Tibet, and all regions of India. I'm bringing a fabulous singing bowl back to classes, and couldn't resist a handmade pair of lapis blue yoga pants for $6 and a t-shirt of flaming red embroidered with a turquoise Gynesh for just $4. Topped by a deep purple pashmina from Ajmere, and adorned by a rose wood and ohm-medallion bracelet (fifty cents) I'm a walking treasure chest of jeweltones! In one day I've used up my shopping mojo for the entire trip!
Another couple of kilometers south along the west-bank marketplace, Kerrie spots a sign for a Lonely Planet-recommended restaurant. The second story glassed-in porch affords views of the river and lunch is luxurious. From our window table we watch the comings and goings of the ferry-launch. All afternoon, the barge lets off passengers onto the landing below, like the spilling of an upended box of crayolla crayons across the flood-plain floor. Indian's color taste matches their zest for spicy food!
Flavor Restaurant: the onion pakoras are to sing for, and the Chinese fried rice very good as well. The best chai masala so far. Everything's made to order from scratch so it's long in coming, which suites us just fine. We sit and chat, and look, and graze, and hold silence, too. Ahhhh. Two hours later, when we head to the counter to pay our bill (several course lunch for the two of us for under $7), the owner says "I like your attitude around eating - you stay and talk and don't talk and look out over the river. You really taste the food... most people inhale and run!"
Shivanand ashram is lovely, the complex neatly climbs the west bank, hugging courtyards of benches, trees and bogenvalea dotted with Hindu style buildings. It's a sweet place to sit and talk with a yogini we meet. She's 90 if she's a day, narrow of word, wide of thought, and absolutely correct in advising us not to take the yoga class here. Wish we had listened to her. The teacher's Japanese, impossible to understand, rigid, arrogant and pushy, not really a teacher at all, more like a drill sargent. One-size-fits-all yoga. She shoves Kerrie's knee straight in headstand, slaps my hands away from my face because she doesn't like the bandu I'm using, and then tells Kerrie, in shoulder stand, (with no props!) to turn her head and look at her 'neighbor' (!) in order to get the leg position perfect (sort of an inverted eagle). We're both appalled. I made it clear she's not to touch me again, so she ignores me for the rest of the class and I'm able to use the time and space to do modified versions of the more aggressive postures she demands. The hour's not wasted, my aches and pains and bindings release enough to feel the difference.
Released and exhausted, we can't fathom the long walk ' home,' so it's a scooter back to the hotel's neighborhood for us tonight. Walking back across the Juxman suspension foot bridge, we pause often to drink in the view below - colored lights of ashrams reflecting in the rushing waters downstream dot the darkness of a new moon night.
On another patio overlooking the river, we dwell in grace at the close of a wonderful day. Supper is pizza: "No Madame, not American style, Italion style!" Is it the magic of this place, the ionic charge of such a majestic body or water, or for real? - this brick- oven onion, olive and tomatoe pie is better than most I've tasted!
Wednesday 25 January - Discovering Rishikesh
This bus trip from the Haridwar rail station through Rishikesh to Luxman is a trip. The driver speaks no English, and stops several times along the way, apparently to run personal errands. It's another harrowing assault on traffic until we meet the highway. Here are those verdant hills I wished for, saw in my minds eye, upon waking on the train a few hours ago: grains and sugar cane; cow patties and firewood; gypsy tent cities on the outskirts of villages. Then a turn into the mountains and a nauseatingly rutty, radical switchback dirt road deeper and deeper in and up. Rishikesh finally appears around the next bend, far below on a distant hill. Snapping window shots, just as I think "well this would be a great place to stop for a photo op," the front right tire blows. An ancient spare, bald and bubbled, doesn't inspire confidence. But we make it, with at least three stops along the way for the tour assistant to argue with the driver who wants to drop us hundreds of yards for our destination.
Our hotel is up a flight of stairs, our room is barely big enough to turn around in but we are greatfull for a wash up and a hot lunch. Then we stroll. Rishikesh/Luxman. Cows. Dogs. Bright colored cottages encircled by carefully plotted gardens. Jammed together row upon rows of shops. Clothing, Tibetan bowls, jewelry, shawls, hand worked wood kitchen implements, mobile phones and regional reliquery, paintings of saints and mirrored embroidery. Temples crawl with statues of idols, some painted, some so intricately carved that color would have proved a distraction. Across the river on a wobbling foot bridge to the more popular side of town, prices are appreciably higher and streets a lttle wider. We bargain hard for three large jeeps to take us a kilometer farther, to meet and have tea in the cafe of an old friend.
We're late to the river for Arati, but create our own. A sweet faced urchin lights my sugar cube, and when my launch fails to send my little boat of flowers far enough into the current, she wades after it and helps it to freedom. Against all common sense, I reward her with twenty cents. So you know what happens next. I'm surrounded by cherubs, hands imploring. Their gentle harrishes harmonize with my chanting to the river of life. Beautiful.
Cars carry back to our hotel for panzer in a red creamy sauce, rice and rotti, the ever popular fresh lime soda. Now to precious sleep.
Our hotel is up a flight of stairs, our room is barely big enough to turn around in but we are greatfull for a wash up and a hot lunch. Then we stroll. Rishikesh/Luxman. Cows. Dogs. Bright colored cottages encircled by carefully plotted gardens. Jammed together row upon rows of shops. Clothing, Tibetan bowls, jewelry, shawls, hand worked wood kitchen implements, mobile phones and regional reliquery, paintings of saints and mirrored embroidery. Temples crawl with statues of idols, some painted, some so intricately carved that color would have proved a distraction. Across the river on a wobbling foot bridge to the more popular side of town, prices are appreciably higher and streets a lttle wider. We bargain hard for three large jeeps to take us a kilometer farther, to meet and have tea in the cafe of an old friend.
We're late to the river for Arati, but create our own. A sweet faced urchin lights my sugar cube, and when my launch fails to send my little boat of flowers far enough into the current, she wades after it and helps it to freedom. Against all common sense, I reward her with twenty cents. So you know what happens next. I'm surrounded by cherubs, hands imploring. Their gentle harrishes harmonize with my chanting to the river of life. Beautiful.
Cars carry back to our hotel for panzer in a red creamy sauce, rice and rotti, the ever popular fresh lime soda. Now to precious sleep.
Tuesday 24 January tight Spaces
Tuesday's breakfast is 9am. Woohoo! We get to sleep late! Then it's scooter rickshaws to the Nasiyan Jain Temple Siddhkoot Chaityalaya, commonly called the Red Temple, to wonder at its diorama of the creation of the world and all it's realms. This is a football-sized multi-tiered wet dream of a doll house with processions of costumed priests, palaces and fanciful aeroplanes and marching as well as flying elephants and camels and horses. It's a pure example of jaipur art. I wonder the total weight of the gold?
Built in 864, the palace-like structure that holds the glitz is phenomenal in its own right. Grand, solidly marching pillars frame Hindu and Mogul-style arches, and herein, the rich colors haven't been washed or wind-sand-blasted away as they have in other treasures we've explored. The tables are turned on us at this heritage site as we are made the object of photomania by a group of middle-eastern men. How strange it feels, then silly.
Another three-wheeler ride to Anasagar lake with its water-front promenade and grand pavilions, all of marble. In the 1600s, these housed local officials. In its current rendition as a national monument the park serves respite from the press and mess of the city. Tourists of many countries and religions snap photos of friends and que up,to ride the swan boats. Others stroll quietly or stand leaning upon the marble water's edge railing. We find a deep shadowed pavilion porch away from the crowds to sit. Peace peace bliss.
Telema guides us in a lovely meditation through earth, water, fire and air to ether, and finally to toggle between sinking into peace and sending out light and love. Of course, we no sooner begin than suddenly our spot becomes a magnet for group after loud group of tourists. Good practice. Receive the sounds and smells along with the weight of being watched and talked about, and use that energy to layer on shields of protection, sentinals of perception, to surrender deeper and and deeper still until the dept becomes the vastness. Ahhhhhhh. There it is.
The bit of yoga I indulge with after the meditation reminds me that my body is being pushed. Hard. Thank goodness I know how to ameliorate the aches and pains I route out, until finally, that sought-for big physical siiiiiiiggggggghhhhh and the tightness melts away.
Back at the Inn, yet another sumptuous repast of a late lunch: panneer saag, roti, rice, a wonderfully light dish of peas & tiny carrots, and a potatoe-type root with toasty crust and warming dust of spice. Mr. B proudly presents today's sweet treat of thin, flat wafers kind of cookie, tastes of sesame and pistachios or almonds, cinnamon.
The afternoon is open, and I've been toying with returning to the cave, the site of yesterday's emense experience. Or would it be better to use meditation to recall and dwell in that space? I decide to return.
Today it's not so much a shock as a recognition, "oh, nice, you're back." Taking my time, now, time, full zikr of 500, then diminishing zikr to the culmination of "Hu, Hu, Hu." taking time to sit eith the epace. Then I am lead to Contemplation of the heart. the physical heart, poignant with longing, black with sorrow, want, desire; the siir, right heart, awash with rolling waves of compassion, warm and comforting, like bein wrapped in the Mother's arms; the qadr, center, solid and fully open, open, open. Again those waves, this time waves of opening outward. Rahim. Unfettered time here is a blessing.
It's a long walk back to the Havali, carrying the love back to the marketplace, the tapestry of humanity, the world.
We've four hours 'till boarding and most of us chose to lounge in the courtyard, with brief forays to local shops for a last minute purchase of local cloth, samosas for a light dinner, and a stock-pile of biscuits and bananas in case the promised 'breakfast' doesn't make it to 3rd class C. Wonder of wonders, "lo! and behold!," what do we find but a Baskin Robbins! World Class Chocolate: dark chocolate with pockets of white mouse. :-)
Unable to gain 1st class passage to Rishikesh (the tour companies snatch up the entire lot as soon as it's released), we're apprehensive about this leg of our journey. It turns out not so bad, albeit a bit cramped with sleeping berths stacked 3 to a side, six to an alcove, and about 2 feet of floor space down the middle. The luggage is more of a challenge than our last sleeping trains, where four of us shared the same amount of space, and with two layers of berths, we could at least sit up in bed for that ride. Not so tonight. Once you're 'in,' you're in! Tonight's is a mail train, so it stops at every town and hamlet, passengers debark and board throuout the night, and not quietly. We're perplexed as to how people know their station since the attendants fail to announce approaching towns and most platforms are devoid of any kind of signs. Our strategy is to set phone alarms for ten minutes before scheduled arrival, and since most trains, as every thing in India, are late, should have enough time to gather our growing piles of bags and head out. Tonight It's not a problem at all, since ours is the last stop of the line. Good thing, 'cause we arrive a half hour early, so, using the Arrivals chart, we would have missed it!
Luckily for those of us who struggle to squat, all our trains so far have offered a seated toilet across the aisle from the one marked 'Indian style.' So armed with packets of sterile swipes, my own TP and wipes, 's not so bad.
Breakfast turns out to be, for 50 rupees ( about a dollar), 2 fried disks, a worrisome fluorescent pink mash called 'vegetable pancakes,' and a piece of warm damp toast with a whisper of butter. Hurrah for the miracle of the biscuits and bananas! Thankfully, one of the hawkers who walk end to end and back again brings real chai - the others carry a metal spigotted milk-cans dispensing a hot milk, watery, too sugary mixture which they use for both Nescafé or wimpy tea bag tea in paper cups. Yuck. Gone are the days when real chai could be had in the stations as well as on the trains. Served in rough pottery cups, once drained, the clay vessels wer tossed right out onto the track, recycled as ballast. Ah, nostalgia.
On to Rishikesh. After a night of restless sleep disturbed by roudy groups moving on and off the train, I'm looking forward to a quieter couple of days, strolls along the river, yogi meditations and lectures and perhaps a taste of other styles of practice.
Built in 864, the palace-like structure that holds the glitz is phenomenal in its own right. Grand, solidly marching pillars frame Hindu and Mogul-style arches, and herein, the rich colors haven't been washed or wind-sand-blasted away as they have in other treasures we've explored. The tables are turned on us at this heritage site as we are made the object of photomania by a group of middle-eastern men. How strange it feels, then silly.
Another three-wheeler ride to Anasagar lake with its water-front promenade and grand pavilions, all of marble. In the 1600s, these housed local officials. In its current rendition as a national monument the park serves respite from the press and mess of the city. Tourists of many countries and religions snap photos of friends and que up,to ride the swan boats. Others stroll quietly or stand leaning upon the marble water's edge railing. We find a deep shadowed pavilion porch away from the crowds to sit. Peace peace bliss.
Telema guides us in a lovely meditation through earth, water, fire and air to ether, and finally to toggle between sinking into peace and sending out light and love. Of course, we no sooner begin than suddenly our spot becomes a magnet for group after loud group of tourists. Good practice. Receive the sounds and smells along with the weight of being watched and talked about, and use that energy to layer on shields of protection, sentinals of perception, to surrender deeper and and deeper still until the dept becomes the vastness. Ahhhhhhh. There it is.
The bit of yoga I indulge with after the meditation reminds me that my body is being pushed. Hard. Thank goodness I know how to ameliorate the aches and pains I route out, until finally, that sought-for big physical siiiiiiiggggggghhhhh and the tightness melts away.
Back at the Inn, yet another sumptuous repast of a late lunch: panneer saag, roti, rice, a wonderfully light dish of peas & tiny carrots, and a potatoe-type root with toasty crust and warming dust of spice. Mr. B proudly presents today's sweet treat of thin, flat wafers kind of cookie, tastes of sesame and pistachios or almonds, cinnamon.
The afternoon is open, and I've been toying with returning to the cave, the site of yesterday's emense experience. Or would it be better to use meditation to recall and dwell in that space? I decide to return.
Today it's not so much a shock as a recognition, "oh, nice, you're back." Taking my time, now, time, full zikr of 500, then diminishing zikr to the culmination of "Hu, Hu, Hu." taking time to sit eith the epace. Then I am lead to Contemplation of the heart. the physical heart, poignant with longing, black with sorrow, want, desire; the siir, right heart, awash with rolling waves of compassion, warm and comforting, like bein wrapped in the Mother's arms; the qadr, center, solid and fully open, open, open. Again those waves, this time waves of opening outward. Rahim. Unfettered time here is a blessing.
It's a long walk back to the Havali, carrying the love back to the marketplace, the tapestry of humanity, the world.
We've four hours 'till boarding and most of us chose to lounge in the courtyard, with brief forays to local shops for a last minute purchase of local cloth, samosas for a light dinner, and a stock-pile of biscuits and bananas in case the promised 'breakfast' doesn't make it to 3rd class C. Wonder of wonders, "lo! and behold!," what do we find but a Baskin Robbins! World Class Chocolate: dark chocolate with pockets of white mouse. :-)
Unable to gain 1st class passage to Rishikesh (the tour companies snatch up the entire lot as soon as it's released), we're apprehensive about this leg of our journey. It turns out not so bad, albeit a bit cramped with sleeping berths stacked 3 to a side, six to an alcove, and about 2 feet of floor space down the middle. The luggage is more of a challenge than our last sleeping trains, where four of us shared the same amount of space, and with two layers of berths, we could at least sit up in bed for that ride. Not so tonight. Once you're 'in,' you're in! Tonight's is a mail train, so it stops at every town and hamlet, passengers debark and board throuout the night, and not quietly. We're perplexed as to how people know their station since the attendants fail to announce approaching towns and most platforms are devoid of any kind of signs. Our strategy is to set phone alarms for ten minutes before scheduled arrival, and since most trains, as every thing in India, are late, should have enough time to gather our growing piles of bags and head out. Tonight It's not a problem at all, since ours is the last stop of the line. Good thing, 'cause we arrive a half hour early, so, using the Arrivals chart, we would have missed it!
Luckily for those of us who struggle to squat, all our trains so far have offered a seated toilet across the aisle from the one marked 'Indian style.' So armed with packets of sterile swipes, my own TP and wipes, 's not so bad.
Breakfast turns out to be, for 50 rupees ( about a dollar), 2 fried disks, a worrisome fluorescent pink mash called 'vegetable pancakes,' and a piece of warm damp toast with a whisper of butter. Hurrah for the miracle of the biscuits and bananas! Thankfully, one of the hawkers who walk end to end and back again brings real chai - the others carry a metal spigotted milk-cans dispensing a hot milk, watery, too sugary mixture which they use for both Nescafé or wimpy tea bag tea in paper cups. Yuck. Gone are the days when real chai could be had in the stations as well as on the trains. Served in rough pottery cups, once drained, the clay vessels wer tossed right out onto the track, recycled as ballast. Ah, nostalgia.
On to Rishikesh. After a night of restless sleep disturbed by roudy groups moving on and off the train, I'm looking forward to a quieter couple of days, strolls along the river, yogi meditations and lectures and perhaps a taste of other styles of practice.
Monday 23 January 2012 Gentle Repose
In the witching hours just after midnight, the Ajmer train station is as bustling as any other time we've been through one. Our host, Mr Bhargato, is from the very start warm and welcoming, helpful, meeting our every request and inquiry with a head wobbling "don't worry, we will take care of it." Transport from the station is an old beat-up bus half the size of those we'd filled in Delhi. Ha,ha, why would I bother to specify 'beat-up?,' they all are! Three slips-of-men lug our bags along side, push and pull heavy roller bags and 40 & 60 pound backpacks straight up to the roof. "Don't worry, I am strong Indian boy!"
It goes like this. The ground man hefts the bag to his head, then presses it up to locked elbows. The roof man reaches down over the edge, way down, and does a pull-up the rest of the way. We watch, amazed. I'm glad mine is one of the first taken, so it ends up on the bottom layer - the last bags up wobble precariously. One of the porters perches on the bottom step, hanging out of the open bus door, to keep watch for bounce-offs for the five minutes ride to the Inn.
The Havali Heritage Inn is a family mansion molded into a BnB by the Mr.'s Bhargato, who were born within these walls. As was their father, and his father before him and his father before him, his father having built the original first floor of a dozen rooms surrounding two open air courtyards ringed by veranda walkways dripping with bogenvalea. Alcoves in these inner-outer walls frame intaglio Hindu idols of various aspects of God. A waist-high fountain plays in the first courtyard across from the glass roomed family shrine of Krishna. Wicker chairs encircle the inner garden, inviting repose.
Sadly, this may be the end of the line - their two families grew here, and none have shown interest in keeping on. With their sons married and moved away, the brothers added a second story on the back section. They still live in a few rooms on the first floor, and play host to guests from around the world, including foreign dignitaries and India's own statesmen. Gandhi stayed here whenever he was in Ajmer, and one of our rooms houses the couch upon which their father sat for a chat with the martyr.
When next I come to India, I'll stay here at least a week. It feels like home - especially the home-cooked meals! Ooooo, the banquets they prepare - the best food we've had so far! I am beginning to feel a rhythm to the days, sleeping soundly, eating scrumptuously, walking miles of hilly streets.
Monday morning begins with a full Inn breakfast, then scooter-shaws to a delightful introduction to the Sufi Saints School - a non-profit, totally donation-supported humanitarean miracle. Children ages 3-1/2 thru 10 from the poorest of the poor are given free quality education. They giggle and wiggle as we pass from room to room, radiating the love and joy of a community of every religious and political presence of India come together with the common cause of learning. The over-riding message of the school is Love, Harmony, universal peace and brotherhood. By bringing children from various religions and beliefs together, and teaching them under one roof, the school promotes the message of world peace and co-existence.
No child is left behind. All who inquire are accepted. These are probably the very first generation of their families to ever be educated. They are today's hope for tomorrow's India. Just $30 provides one child's education, uniforms, materials and a nutritious lunch for a year. From a start of 14 in 1993, the school now blossoms with 300 pairs of shining eyes. Here is a cause I will support into the future.
Moinudinn Chisti's cave is shocking, like a flame thrower to my 3rd eye and then my heart, too, glows a-fired. Everything else falls away into a sea of disorientation. I surrender to the deep, deep, basso profundo of energy. The furnace within throbs, I work to bring it down, down, down, absorbing each chakra, by chakra, to the root. Each plexus sobs with relief as it becomes attuned to the deep, broad, solid force. Then - zip! an express elevator to the crown and zoom! up beyond perception.
More and more pilgrims carry more and more languages into the low ceilinged tenXten windowless, airless space. Bodies press from every side, the air thickens, people are shouting. Intensity beyond explanation. Some of our number cannot bear the pressur, so we leave. My soul cries: "no! It's not enough! This was just a sip, a tease!"
Another flight of stairsteps farther up the hill, we pause to reflect at the tombs of the first Gudri Shah baba, then the second, Hazrat Nawab Kadim Hasan, and then Dr. Hazrat Dr. ZahurulnHassan Sharib, Gudri Shah Baba IV, author of many important Sufi books and a dear friend of our teacher. Here we sit again for a time, re-collecting.
The view from this height helps me regain perspective, a sense of being in the world again. It seems I can see the world from here - the whole world is comprised in this colorful market place below, this road which parallels the edge of a lake so large it could be a bay, these villages dotting the rimming hills.
Now it's a long trek through Magar Marketplace which seems to bustle no matter the hour. Shopers offer friendly smiles, merchants shout "Hello! Hello! Come into my shop"
Turning the corner towards the Daragh Sharif, the atmosphere shifts to... less polite, less allowing of our presence. Up a gently winding hill framed by open sewers running we climb, the shops smaller and meaner with each turn. Passers-bye busily going about their evening shopping stare at us interlopers, offer no smiles.
Typical rose sellers signal the shrine is approaching. This is the Daragh of Khwaja Moinuddin Chisti, a sufi saint and root of the sisila (heritage) of the Chisti International Sufi Order. Moiniddin arrived in India from Persia in the 1192CE, and died here in 1236. For Muslims of India, this site is a close second to haaj, Mecca. For sufis it is nirvana. Knowing security is tight here, with too frequent threats and occassional bombings by fundamentalists, we've come carrying nothing. So we can simply deposited our shoes and salem malecuemm past layers of Kurta and cap clothed guards.
Another series of courtyards separated by short steps offer fanciful plates of rose petals, strings of blossoms, a rainbow of plastic tasbih. The main courtyard is filled with the faithful of every continent. Garb of a plethora of countries paints a rainbow of a different sort. Conscripted beggars drag towards us, eyes pleading. Dargah Wallas, each claiming to be the direct descendent of the Profit, Saint, or some prominent Imam, offer "sign my book, sign my book." For a small donation my name could be recorded at the Daragh of the founder of the way which I follow.
Circumambulating we come upon a platform set back from the sea and we sit, waiting for evening prayers to be accomplished, the crowds to lighten, waiting for our time to go in. It's surprisingly quiet. Suddenly, banging drums bring the crowds to their feet as one body to stand facing the tomb. Hundreds of swooping birds similar to our barn swallows gather in a tremendous canopy tree on the corner of the courtyard, their chirping cries picatto to the yearning harmonies of man. The sky has shifted to that marvelous deep blue of sun's last hour of light.
Evening prayers completed, the birds as one body fly away.
We enter.
The pressing crush of bodies moves as one, clockwise around the crypt. Huddled by the silver rail, our little group is further joined when Dargah Wallas throw a family-size prayer shawl over our collective heads. We remain for a time, bowed in reverence, genuflected in awe. Lightyears later we are brought forth, rose petals pressed to our palms, to eat of the sweetness of His love. I am numb to the in sensibilities of the walk back home.
The whole troup congregates back at the Inn as dusk creeps into the inner courtyard and the bogenvaleas become frilly silhouettes against evenings' last light. The fire pit is lighted and the banquet begins. Hmmmmmmmmm yumba! India's version of BBQ chicken, rice with peas, and vegetable curry punctuated by yogurt with fruit. Ahhh, the grand finale of sweet, light, gulag juman balls, like lightweight krullers briefly soaked in syrup.
Sleep is sweet, still, complete.
It goes like this. The ground man hefts the bag to his head, then presses it up to locked elbows. The roof man reaches down over the edge, way down, and does a pull-up the rest of the way. We watch, amazed. I'm glad mine is one of the first taken, so it ends up on the bottom layer - the last bags up wobble precariously. One of the porters perches on the bottom step, hanging out of the open bus door, to keep watch for bounce-offs for the five minutes ride to the Inn.
The Havali Heritage Inn is a family mansion molded into a BnB by the Mr.'s Bhargato, who were born within these walls. As was their father, and his father before him and his father before him, his father having built the original first floor of a dozen rooms surrounding two open air courtyards ringed by veranda walkways dripping with bogenvalea. Alcoves in these inner-outer walls frame intaglio Hindu idols of various aspects of God. A waist-high fountain plays in the first courtyard across from the glass roomed family shrine of Krishna. Wicker chairs encircle the inner garden, inviting repose.
Sadly, this may be the end of the line - their two families grew here, and none have shown interest in keeping on. With their sons married and moved away, the brothers added a second story on the back section. They still live in a few rooms on the first floor, and play host to guests from around the world, including foreign dignitaries and India's own statesmen. Gandhi stayed here whenever he was in Ajmer, and one of our rooms houses the couch upon which their father sat for a chat with the martyr.
When next I come to India, I'll stay here at least a week. It feels like home - especially the home-cooked meals! Ooooo, the banquets they prepare - the best food we've had so far! I am beginning to feel a rhythm to the days, sleeping soundly, eating scrumptuously, walking miles of hilly streets.
Monday morning begins with a full Inn breakfast, then scooter-shaws to a delightful introduction to the Sufi Saints School - a non-profit, totally donation-supported humanitarean miracle. Children ages 3-1/2 thru 10 from the poorest of the poor are given free quality education. They giggle and wiggle as we pass from room to room, radiating the love and joy of a community of every religious and political presence of India come together with the common cause of learning. The over-riding message of the school is Love, Harmony, universal peace and brotherhood. By bringing children from various religions and beliefs together, and teaching them under one roof, the school promotes the message of world peace and co-existence.
No child is left behind. All who inquire are accepted. These are probably the very first generation of their families to ever be educated. They are today's hope for tomorrow's India. Just $30 provides one child's education, uniforms, materials and a nutritious lunch for a year. From a start of 14 in 1993, the school now blossoms with 300 pairs of shining eyes. Here is a cause I will support into the future.
Moinudinn Chisti's cave is shocking, like a flame thrower to my 3rd eye and then my heart, too, glows a-fired. Everything else falls away into a sea of disorientation. I surrender to the deep, deep, basso profundo of energy. The furnace within throbs, I work to bring it down, down, down, absorbing each chakra, by chakra, to the root. Each plexus sobs with relief as it becomes attuned to the deep, broad, solid force. Then - zip! an express elevator to the crown and zoom! up beyond perception.
More and more pilgrims carry more and more languages into the low ceilinged tenXten windowless, airless space. Bodies press from every side, the air thickens, people are shouting. Intensity beyond explanation. Some of our number cannot bear the pressur, so we leave. My soul cries: "no! It's not enough! This was just a sip, a tease!"
Another flight of stairsteps farther up the hill, we pause to reflect at the tombs of the first Gudri Shah baba, then the second, Hazrat Nawab Kadim Hasan, and then Dr. Hazrat Dr. ZahurulnHassan Sharib, Gudri Shah Baba IV, author of many important Sufi books and a dear friend of our teacher. Here we sit again for a time, re-collecting.
The view from this height helps me regain perspective, a sense of being in the world again. It seems I can see the world from here - the whole world is comprised in this colorful market place below, this road which parallels the edge of a lake so large it could be a bay, these villages dotting the rimming hills.
Now it's a long trek through Magar Marketplace which seems to bustle no matter the hour. Shopers offer friendly smiles, merchants shout "Hello! Hello! Come into my shop"
Turning the corner towards the Daragh Sharif, the atmosphere shifts to... less polite, less allowing of our presence. Up a gently winding hill framed by open sewers running we climb, the shops smaller and meaner with each turn. Passers-bye busily going about their evening shopping stare at us interlopers, offer no smiles.
Typical rose sellers signal the shrine is approaching. This is the Daragh of Khwaja Moinuddin Chisti, a sufi saint and root of the sisila (heritage) of the Chisti International Sufi Order. Moiniddin arrived in India from Persia in the 1192CE, and died here in 1236. For Muslims of India, this site is a close second to haaj, Mecca. For sufis it is nirvana. Knowing security is tight here, with too frequent threats and occassional bombings by fundamentalists, we've come carrying nothing. So we can simply deposited our shoes and salem malecuemm past layers of Kurta and cap clothed guards.
Another series of courtyards separated by short steps offer fanciful plates of rose petals, strings of blossoms, a rainbow of plastic tasbih. The main courtyard is filled with the faithful of every continent. Garb of a plethora of countries paints a rainbow of a different sort. Conscripted beggars drag towards us, eyes pleading. Dargah Wallas, each claiming to be the direct descendent of the Profit, Saint, or some prominent Imam, offer "sign my book, sign my book." For a small donation my name could be recorded at the Daragh of the founder of the way which I follow.
Circumambulating we come upon a platform set back from the sea and we sit, waiting for evening prayers to be accomplished, the crowds to lighten, waiting for our time to go in. It's surprisingly quiet. Suddenly, banging drums bring the crowds to their feet as one body to stand facing the tomb. Hundreds of swooping birds similar to our barn swallows gather in a tremendous canopy tree on the corner of the courtyard, their chirping cries picatto to the yearning harmonies of man. The sky has shifted to that marvelous deep blue of sun's last hour of light.
Evening prayers completed, the birds as one body fly away.
We enter.
The pressing crush of bodies moves as one, clockwise around the crypt. Huddled by the silver rail, our little group is further joined when Dargah Wallas throw a family-size prayer shawl over our collective heads. We remain for a time, bowed in reverence, genuflected in awe. Lightyears later we are brought forth, rose petals pressed to our palms, to eat of the sweetness of His love. I am numb to the in sensibilities of the walk back home.
The whole troup congregates back at the Inn as dusk creeps into the inner courtyard and the bogenvaleas become frilly silhouettes against evenings' last light. The fire pit is lighted and the banquet begins. Hmmmmmmmmm yumba! India's version of BBQ chicken, rice with peas, and vegetable curry punctuated by yogurt with fruit. Ahhh, the grand finale of sweet, light, gulag juman balls, like lightweight krullers briefly soaked in syrup.
Sleep is sweet, still, complete.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Saturday and Sunday 21 & 22 January - Toggling from tourist to disciple
Saturday a tourist day: Taj Mahal and Agra fort, better suited to pictures than words. I'll post those after I'm home.
Sunday: Arrival at Fatehpur Sikri is a swim upstream thru a seaweed meadow of waving arms offering plastic trinkets and laser printed guide books. "Cielo, cielo. Bas!" "No, no, enough!" Inside, oh what a visual feast it must have been, when this most resplendent of Mogul cities was in its glory. Imagine the richness of blue tiled roofs and mosaic wainscoate reflecting piercing sunlight, intricate carvings of sandstone and jasper jali, grand pietra dura (semi-precious stones inlaid in marble).
Water connected every nook and cranny of this vast complex coursing under, around and thru each building in a contiguous flow. Narrow channels cut each room, the source of cooling; reflecting pools spaced between structures, the source of interior light; and specifically tuned fountains provided opportunities for private conversation, where no hidden spy ould overhear.
I admire the simple geometry of the Astronomer's Pavilion; the graceful detail of the Harem's Quarters; the cool of the Palace of Akbar's Hindu wife Jodhbai; and the way the Wind Tower, where ladies observed court through jali lace-screens, draws the eye up, up, up to the bluest of skies. There's an observation minaret and a Parchesi Court, where servant girls played the part of game pieces.
Back out we traverse aross the gauntlet of commerce again, thru a gargantuan carved redstone gate into Jami-Masjid - 84 colonaded rooms surrounding a footballfield center, open to the sky. Qawali musicians draw us towards the Darwgh of Salmi Chisti. His heart reaches across the marble courtyard, drawing me in, steadily absorbing, in, in, in to the void, the vastness of being. By the time I step across the threshold of the inner veranda I am lost. Circumambulating slowly thru the thickness of energy leads to complete surrender thru the portal to the tomb. I have no remembered realization of this inner circuit, of sprinkling the rose petals upon silk-draped tomb, of receiving the blessing, of backing out into the veranda once again. Finding my way to a cool corner, I sit in stillness, discover silence amongst a chattering throng, until called to join the others for tea, I reluctantly emerge back to a r tangible realm.
Heading back to our bus, the hawkers swoop and with our sensiblities wide open and raw, it is too much to bear. We form a circle and drawing our consciousnesses together, ground to the earth, reach heavenward, and open our hearts with detached compassion. The reception courtyard sinks to sweet silence around us. Ahhhhhh.
I write this from a 2nd class train sleeper berth to Ajmer, where tomorrow we will be privileged by audience with Pir Inam and blessed by the presence of Khwaja Moinuddin Chisti, founder of the Chishtiya order. His axium: dedication to protecting the poor; self discipline and personal prayer; zikr as a means of spiritual transformation; generosity; and tolerance and respect for religious differences.
P.S. There are no signs on the train platforms we pass, so we have a 'firedrill' of assembling to get off the train before we finally arrive, blissfully, at Agra. Our luggage is hauled to the roof-top carrier, we squeeze into a bus that looks too small to hold half our number, and gratefully tumble into bed at the beautiful Havell Heritage Inn
Sunday: Arrival at Fatehpur Sikri is a swim upstream thru a seaweed meadow of waving arms offering plastic trinkets and laser printed guide books. "Cielo, cielo. Bas!" "No, no, enough!" Inside, oh what a visual feast it must have been, when this most resplendent of Mogul cities was in its glory. Imagine the richness of blue tiled roofs and mosaic wainscoate reflecting piercing sunlight, intricate carvings of sandstone and jasper jali, grand pietra dura (semi-precious stones inlaid in marble).
Water connected every nook and cranny of this vast complex coursing under, around and thru each building in a contiguous flow. Narrow channels cut each room, the source of cooling; reflecting pools spaced between structures, the source of interior light; and specifically tuned fountains provided opportunities for private conversation, where no hidden spy ould overhear.
I admire the simple geometry of the Astronomer's Pavilion; the graceful detail of the Harem's Quarters; the cool of the Palace of Akbar's Hindu wife Jodhbai; and the way the Wind Tower, where ladies observed court through jali lace-screens, draws the eye up, up, up to the bluest of skies. There's an observation minaret and a Parchesi Court, where servant girls played the part of game pieces.
Back out we traverse aross the gauntlet of commerce again, thru a gargantuan carved redstone gate into Jami-Masjid - 84 colonaded rooms surrounding a footballfield center, open to the sky. Qawali musicians draw us towards the Darwgh of Salmi Chisti. His heart reaches across the marble courtyard, drawing me in, steadily absorbing, in, in, in to the void, the vastness of being. By the time I step across the threshold of the inner veranda I am lost. Circumambulating slowly thru the thickness of energy leads to complete surrender thru the portal to the tomb. I have no remembered realization of this inner circuit, of sprinkling the rose petals upon silk-draped tomb, of receiving the blessing, of backing out into the veranda once again. Finding my way to a cool corner, I sit in stillness, discover silence amongst a chattering throng, until called to join the others for tea, I reluctantly emerge back to a r tangible realm.
Heading back to our bus, the hawkers swoop and with our sensiblities wide open and raw, it is too much to bear. We form a circle and drawing our consciousnesses together, ground to the earth, reach heavenward, and open our hearts with detached compassion. The reception courtyard sinks to sweet silence around us. Ahhhhhh.
I write this from a 2nd class train sleeper berth to Ajmer, where tomorrow we will be privileged by audience with Pir Inam and blessed by the presence of Khwaja Moinuddin Chisti, founder of the Chishtiya order. His axium: dedication to protecting the poor; self discipline and personal prayer; zikr as a means of spiritual transformation; generosity; and tolerance and respect for religious differences.
P.S. There are no signs on the train platforms we pass, so we have a 'firedrill' of assembling to get off the train before we finally arrive, blissfully, at Agra. Our luggage is hauled to the roof-top carrier, we squeeze into a bus that looks too small to hold half our number, and gratefully tumble into bed at the beautiful Havell Heritage Inn
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Thursday 19 & Friday 20 January - Lose Your Self
There are many ways to lose yourself.
Certainly Delhi is not easy to navigate for newbies, although by the second day, it's beginning to make sense. A giant wheel of travel has been superimposed over a teaming crush of jumbled construction. Like Bejing, Delhi is held by ring roads, the fastest way to get from one side to the other. Unlike like Bejing, India has a reasonable subway system, but it doesn't underlie the ring roads of this web. Puzzling that the city planners of neither city took this opportunity of mass contruction to maximize underground mass transit.. So as relative prosperity seaps in, it's cars, cars, cars. Hence Delhi's descriptive smog. Not as palpable as Bejing, but definitely a pervading presence. Reeks havock on the sinuses.
The city pie is then cut into wedges called 'blocks' marked by roads radiating from the center like the spokes of a wheel. Hailing a rickshaw, tell the driver "K block, 3rd ring," and if you know the name of a spoke road, that helps. But don't be surprised if it takes 3 or 4 attempts until you can be deposited at your destination. This is not London and most drivers, even the busses we hired, don't know their own city. They don't know English, or feign they don't, the meters never work, and "no change, no change." Rickshaws here are 3 wheeled motorscooters carrying the driver and a back seat sized for 2. A precarious tubular frame is fitted with a vinyl roof, back and right side, or more likely, draped with whatever the driver could get his hands on - yellowed plastic, worn carpets, discarded fabrics. Some are fancifully decorated with plastic or silk flowers, bright sticker pictures streamers or painted trims. The left side has no door or window, so it's a chilly and damp ride. Add the dusty dry wind and you'll soon learn to dress for the ride, esp a scarf to cover mouth and nose. And learn to trust Allah, for it's a wild weaving amongst cars, buses, motorbikes and bicycles.
Yes bicycles. Astounding to see bicycles piled 4 feet high and as much as 6 feet wide with bales of dry goods, sacks of concrete, bags of rice, bins of vegetables. Precariously balanced, they slowly pedal along as Mad Max traffic zooms by.
Small change is an issue - there isn't any. Banks will not cash American Express traveler's checks, the best solution for money exchange (at least this month) seems to be: open a Citibank account in the states and bring a debit card. Even with advance warning that you'll be in India for an extended visit, one person's bank froze her card after $500, worried her card had been stolen. So in addition to alerting your bank of where you are going and for how long, leave photocopies of your card with someone back home so they can get it reactivated for you.
Although the Cambio does take the travelers checks, like the banks, he will not give anything lower than 100, and 100s only with terse insistence. He returns the text book response: " India does not have anything smaller, only 500!" Persevere, because the problem is, most things you want throughout the day, like, taxis, drinking water, snacks and that lovely bracelet, are 10, 20 or 30R. A dollar is about 50R. So while "everything is cheap," good luck having a low enough paper and coin, 'cause, "no change, no change!" So the tendency is to do a quick calculation and think, it's only a dollar extra, I'll just pay 100." The concept of bargains is quickly lost, but then it is only a dollar or two extra to a person for whom that can mean the difference between food on the table tonight or sleeping with an empty belly.
The wheel is a fitting analogy for India. Swimming through the marketplaces of Nizamiddin, you see starkly the wheel of life. What we from the states would define as 'slum,' is a thriving neighborhood of mingled Muslim, Hindu & Christian living side by side. It is primarily Muslim, but there, tucked under that tree, see a tiny Hindu shrine, resplendent with requisite brilliant fabrics and metallic glitz. A few of us engage a private tour and are rewarded by access to inner windings of streets so narrow you can stand in the center and reach out to touch the house on either side of streets. For four hours we traverse tangled streets lined with sellers of produce, jewelry, fabrics, religious paraphernalia and foodcarts. Just steps from starving beggars a chicken seller decapitates, defoots and defeathers a purchase with agility and ease. In the time it takes for one of us to proclaim to the others, the deed is done. A waiting urchin runs with the feet around corner to another vendor selling just that. In the midst of the deep shadows of huddled buildings, the ever present smog, and unusually pervasive smog, weaves a tapestry of rich and royal hue, an ever shifting vision of a never ending view. Shawls and headscarves, fluorescent light wall clocks and prayer alarms with lenticular panoramas of a favorite mosque or saint, all together light up this cavernous labarynth.
Faces float to the surface of awareness, faces of the newly born bobbing next to faces of despair, of lingering diseases of death, and of hope. Always hope. Western sensibilities at first numbed by the filth, can I see past that veneer? If not, then I am truly lost. Lost to my own story.
Can I put my book on the shelf and watch myself turn blank pages that fill with fantastic script with every step, every breath. With each breath, a cacophony of smells: garlic and frying, spices and ofal, sickly sweet smell of putrification and of roses. Yes roses. Each breath, like Naked Lunch, shatters all paradigms, all frames of reference. As Hazrat Inayat Kahn suggested, "Shatter your ideas upon the rock of truth!"
This is Nizamidden: buzzing, swarming, flowing, heartful and woeful, simple and intricate, unassuming and imposing, trail of tears and trails of hope, the crush, the marketplace of stalls: meat hanging, deep fried chicken, grapes, melons, and oranges and lemons, large green pods like oversized peas, hanging hot peppers, chicken feet, astonishingly white cauliflowers, string beans and radishes, radicchio(!) Oh, and goats with sweaters, better dressed than some of the children.
Goats wearing sweaters? Yes, and one outfitted with a worn and patched designer blazer. It's important to keep your goat fashionable attired so that her energy goes to making milk rather than staying warm.
Embroidered head coverings, Arabic writings, hammered brass, and the sweet smell of roses. As the Darragh nears, increasingly, that sweet smell of roses. Purchase a paper cone of petals or a strand of perfect blooms, how, how, how is it they smell so sweet in the midst of all this? Perhaps the nose would not be suprised except for the contrast.
The darraghs. The real reason for my trip. Stepping across the thresshold of the compound which surrounds the tomb of Hazrat Inayat Kahn: through the looking glass, gladly. Even just inside, just in the vestibule where shoes are shed, the energy is at once eternal and intimate, quieting and catalizing. Through the pleasant garden, an oasis in the midst of living strife, and up a flight of stairs to the terrace and the shrine, drawn closer to the love with each unfaltering step. Circumambulating, then kneeling at his feet, with head pressed to cold marble, a massive jolt of energy rocks me, life force unfathominablek, all prevading love, nearly knocks me back on my heals and I am frozen in time and eternity for I don't know how long. As my awareness again registers the physicality of the others, I reluctantly withdraw to a secluded corner to meditate. Heart rush. Threads of truth. Awe some.
Later, around the corner at the tomb of Pir Vilayat, the feeling is mixed of sternness and that signature impish humor. "Get busy!" "And don't forget to laugh!" Tears this time of longing, his departure still keen. We meditate here on realizing that we are beings of light. Next the Darragh (tomb) of Nizamuddin Auliya is a mob scene, it is Thursday when hoards of the faithful come to begin their sabbath at sundown. Once again, that sense of losing the self to the sea of humanity, sensory overload, the flowers and fabrics, singing and praying, intensity and roses, always the roses.
Friday's return afforded us some peaceful time to sit with the quiet, persistant glow of the energy of this most revered saint. The men circumambulate inside the tomb, while women are relegated to pray on the porch. I'm aware of a brief grip of resentment now, and again later as we mere women are excluded from the throng who complete ablutions and enter the mosque for evening prayers. God, I think, would not be pleased by this fraternal snub. Despite the slight, the energy of this amazing man reaches beyond the jali wall, and we float in a sea of compassion. (Jali is intricate lattice work cut into thin slabs of stone, sometimes semi precious stones such as the alabaster at the Taj Mahal - the screens behind which women are hidden from view - to pray, to observe, and in court, to gather gossip) Nizamuddin Auliya is revered especially for helping the poor. Each day, the faithful brought gifts of abundant wealth to lay at his feet. By evening, he distributed every bit to the throngs of needy.
Trust, Allah will provide. Tomorrow the coffers will be once again filled.
The evening, the end of this most fullsome of days, brings us back to the shrine of Hazrat Inayat Kahn for a spell of Qawali - rhythmic tablas, woeful harmoniums and the rich cantilevered overlays of men's voices singing ecstasy.
There are many ways to be lost.
Certainly Delhi is not easy to navigate for newbies, although by the second day, it's beginning to make sense. A giant wheel of travel has been superimposed over a teaming crush of jumbled construction. Like Bejing, Delhi is held by ring roads, the fastest way to get from one side to the other. Unlike like Bejing, India has a reasonable subway system, but it doesn't underlie the ring roads of this web. Puzzling that the city planners of neither city took this opportunity of mass contruction to maximize underground mass transit.. So as relative prosperity seaps in, it's cars, cars, cars. Hence Delhi's descriptive smog. Not as palpable as Bejing, but definitely a pervading presence. Reeks havock on the sinuses.
The city pie is then cut into wedges called 'blocks' marked by roads radiating from the center like the spokes of a wheel. Hailing a rickshaw, tell the driver "K block, 3rd ring," and if you know the name of a spoke road, that helps. But don't be surprised if it takes 3 or 4 attempts until you can be deposited at your destination. This is not London and most drivers, even the busses we hired, don't know their own city. They don't know English, or feign they don't, the meters never work, and "no change, no change." Rickshaws here are 3 wheeled motorscooters carrying the driver and a back seat sized for 2. A precarious tubular frame is fitted with a vinyl roof, back and right side, or more likely, draped with whatever the driver could get his hands on - yellowed plastic, worn carpets, discarded fabrics. Some are fancifully decorated with plastic or silk flowers, bright sticker pictures streamers or painted trims. The left side has no door or window, so it's a chilly and damp ride. Add the dusty dry wind and you'll soon learn to dress for the ride, esp a scarf to cover mouth and nose. And learn to trust Allah, for it's a wild weaving amongst cars, buses, motorbikes and bicycles.
Yes bicycles. Astounding to see bicycles piled 4 feet high and as much as 6 feet wide with bales of dry goods, sacks of concrete, bags of rice, bins of vegetables. Precariously balanced, they slowly pedal along as Mad Max traffic zooms by.
Small change is an issue - there isn't any. Banks will not cash American Express traveler's checks, the best solution for money exchange (at least this month) seems to be: open a Citibank account in the states and bring a debit card. Even with advance warning that you'll be in India for an extended visit, one person's bank froze her card after $500, worried her card had been stolen. So in addition to alerting your bank of where you are going and for how long, leave photocopies of your card with someone back home so they can get it reactivated for you.
Although the Cambio does take the travelers checks, like the banks, he will not give anything lower than 100, and 100s only with terse insistence. He returns the text book response: " India does not have anything smaller, only 500!" Persevere, because the problem is, most things you want throughout the day, like, taxis, drinking water, snacks and that lovely bracelet, are 10, 20 or 30R. A dollar is about 50R. So while "everything is cheap," good luck having a low enough paper and coin, 'cause, "no change, no change!" So the tendency is to do a quick calculation and think, it's only a dollar extra, I'll just pay 100." The concept of bargains is quickly lost, but then it is only a dollar or two extra to a person for whom that can mean the difference between food on the table tonight or sleeping with an empty belly.
The wheel is a fitting analogy for India. Swimming through the marketplaces of Nizamiddin, you see starkly the wheel of life. What we from the states would define as 'slum,' is a thriving neighborhood of mingled Muslim, Hindu & Christian living side by side. It is primarily Muslim, but there, tucked under that tree, see a tiny Hindu shrine, resplendent with requisite brilliant fabrics and metallic glitz. A few of us engage a private tour and are rewarded by access to inner windings of streets so narrow you can stand in the center and reach out to touch the house on either side of streets. For four hours we traverse tangled streets lined with sellers of produce, jewelry, fabrics, religious paraphernalia and foodcarts. Just steps from starving beggars a chicken seller decapitates, defoots and defeathers a purchase with agility and ease. In the time it takes for one of us to proclaim to the others, the deed is done. A waiting urchin runs with the feet around corner to another vendor selling just that. In the midst of the deep shadows of huddled buildings, the ever present smog, and unusually pervasive smog, weaves a tapestry of rich and royal hue, an ever shifting vision of a never ending view. Shawls and headscarves, fluorescent light wall clocks and prayer alarms with lenticular panoramas of a favorite mosque or saint, all together light up this cavernous labarynth.
Faces float to the surface of awareness, faces of the newly born bobbing next to faces of despair, of lingering diseases of death, and of hope. Always hope. Western sensibilities at first numbed by the filth, can I see past that veneer? If not, then I am truly lost. Lost to my own story.
Can I put my book on the shelf and watch myself turn blank pages that fill with fantastic script with every step, every breath. With each breath, a cacophony of smells: garlic and frying, spices and ofal, sickly sweet smell of putrification and of roses. Yes roses. Each breath, like Naked Lunch, shatters all paradigms, all frames of reference. As Hazrat Inayat Kahn suggested, "Shatter your ideas upon the rock of truth!"
This is Nizamidden: buzzing, swarming, flowing, heartful and woeful, simple and intricate, unassuming and imposing, trail of tears and trails of hope, the crush, the marketplace of stalls: meat hanging, deep fried chicken, grapes, melons, and oranges and lemons, large green pods like oversized peas, hanging hot peppers, chicken feet, astonishingly white cauliflowers, string beans and radishes, radicchio(!) Oh, and goats with sweaters, better dressed than some of the children.
Goats wearing sweaters? Yes, and one outfitted with a worn and patched designer blazer. It's important to keep your goat fashionable attired so that her energy goes to making milk rather than staying warm.
Embroidered head coverings, Arabic writings, hammered brass, and the sweet smell of roses. As the Darragh nears, increasingly, that sweet smell of roses. Purchase a paper cone of petals or a strand of perfect blooms, how, how, how is it they smell so sweet in the midst of all this? Perhaps the nose would not be suprised except for the contrast.
The darraghs. The real reason for my trip. Stepping across the thresshold of the compound which surrounds the tomb of Hazrat Inayat Kahn: through the looking glass, gladly. Even just inside, just in the vestibule where shoes are shed, the energy is at once eternal and intimate, quieting and catalizing. Through the pleasant garden, an oasis in the midst of living strife, and up a flight of stairs to the terrace and the shrine, drawn closer to the love with each unfaltering step. Circumambulating, then kneeling at his feet, with head pressed to cold marble, a massive jolt of energy rocks me, life force unfathominablek, all prevading love, nearly knocks me back on my heals and I am frozen in time and eternity for I don't know how long. As my awareness again registers the physicality of the others, I reluctantly withdraw to a secluded corner to meditate. Heart rush. Threads of truth. Awe some.
Later, around the corner at the tomb of Pir Vilayat, the feeling is mixed of sternness and that signature impish humor. "Get busy!" "And don't forget to laugh!" Tears this time of longing, his departure still keen. We meditate here on realizing that we are beings of light. Next the Darragh (tomb) of Nizamuddin Auliya is a mob scene, it is Thursday when hoards of the faithful come to begin their sabbath at sundown. Once again, that sense of losing the self to the sea of humanity, sensory overload, the flowers and fabrics, singing and praying, intensity and roses, always the roses.
Friday's return afforded us some peaceful time to sit with the quiet, persistant glow of the energy of this most revered saint. The men circumambulate inside the tomb, while women are relegated to pray on the porch. I'm aware of a brief grip of resentment now, and again later as we mere women are excluded from the throng who complete ablutions and enter the mosque for evening prayers. God, I think, would not be pleased by this fraternal snub. Despite the slight, the energy of this amazing man reaches beyond the jali wall, and we float in a sea of compassion. (Jali is intricate lattice work cut into thin slabs of stone, sometimes semi precious stones such as the alabaster at the Taj Mahal - the screens behind which women are hidden from view - to pray, to observe, and in court, to gather gossip) Nizamuddin Auliya is revered especially for helping the poor. Each day, the faithful brought gifts of abundant wealth to lay at his feet. By evening, he distributed every bit to the throngs of needy.
Trust, Allah will provide. Tomorrow the coffers will be once again filled.
The evening, the end of this most fullsome of days, brings us back to the shrine of Hazrat Inayat Kahn for a spell of Qawali - rhythmic tablas, woeful harmoniums and the rich cantilevered overlays of men's voices singing ecstasy.
There are many ways to be lost.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Thursday 19 -Traffic
Ohhhhhhhhhhhmyyyyyyyyyyyyygoddddddddddd I am in a video game.
Over Christmas my nephews introduced me to Temple Run. (thanks, guys!) Project yourself a blonde, wripped Rambo, hurtling along crumbling wall-tops high above a tapestry of jungle tangle. Leap bulging tree roots, whip around dead-end corners, launch over wide chasms, all the while evading corner-of-your-eye incoming that are the stuff of William Shatner's lofty nightmares. Talley your wins in gold coins awarded for feats of superhuman agility.
Slow this down to an excruciating crawl all the way from the airport. Motor bikes and 3-wheeled taxis squeeze between our behemoth bus and delivery vans, SUVs, other buses. I'm thinking no catalytic converters here, the smog is palpable. I swear those little guys morph to gell-state to get thru impossible slivers of space - you can't call them gaps - then rematerialize as scratch-and-dent specials on the front side of the traffic jam and roll on.
Reaching Connaught, shift to warp speed, as if to make up for lost time... fast forward!
Delhi traffic. Laughter is the only sane response. Choose to experience the adrenaline rush as exileration. Woah.
Then there's walking. Hhmmm, this feels familiar, like the bike lanes of Philadelphia.
Walking. Just like those falsely acclaimed bicycle lanes, these walkways go along smoothly enough, sometimes even nicely dressed with (dusty) trees and benches. But wait, there's a vehicle parked on the sidewalk, and a little further along, a series of street vendor stalls block the way completely, and then just around a bend the path serrupticously disappears. Just like that. Leaving you stranded to either float above to the next length of walk, or plunge into the fray of the raging torrent of motor vehicle traffic. Transport used to be mostly bicycles, bicycle taxis, and bicycle carts, they say. Now it's a screeching, belching, writhing mass of horn blowing chaos.
Once we've had a chance to wash up, our next priority is local cell phones for everyone so we can pull the more adventuresome back to the fold from time to time without breaking the bank with AT&T or Verizon. It's "just a five minute walk," so off we go. Seven little ducks in a row trailing along behind our pied piper, Monauge, who parts the seas for us to cross 3-6 lanes of the weaving, darting mayhem five times to get to the Noika kiosk - but wait, aren't we now just across the street and around the corner from where we began? How is it that we forded all those traffic circles and descended thru a semi-constructed subterranean walk-way to get here???
It's wonderful to have a friend to orchestrate our purchases. Six men packed into that tiny kiosk, each vying to make the really big sale, shouting, gesturing, practically throwing phones and options at us. Monauge reels it in, collects passports, photos, applications and rupees, hands out phones and owner's manuals (mysteriously, in English) through a mind-boggling half hour transaction that feels both sped-up and slow motion at the same time.
Our mission accomplished, one of our number meekly asks, "do people ever get hit crossing the street like that?" Monauge opts to call for cars to bring us back around the corner to home base.
The Blue Triangle, which turns out to be a YMCA, has an on-site cafeteria. Desperado lunch had been ... while belly filling, barely tolerable white bread cheese and tomatoe sandwhiches that emerged, two at a time, at 20 minute intervals. I pictured the kitchen equiped with little more than one George Foreman grill. Lunch for twelve just didn't work. We vote for a restaurant for dinner. So, it's back out there, now in the dark.
Back to Temple Run. Now place your action figure in a vehicle and give over all control to a non-English speaking stranger at the wheel. Well, call it a vehicle if you like. Three wheels, a post&lintel metal tube frame draped with remnants of plastic and sail cloth. No windows. Heck, no doors. Barely a seat for two to squeeze onto. Belching black and yellow. Rattling, bumping and swaying. Ohmygod, ohmygod. Oh, right, choose exhilaration, and laughter. And wonder of wonders, every pair of us ends up at the right place! RajDhan restaurant.
Ooooooooo, the delights of the tongue that reward us! Thalis - think tapas back in Phillie - but these a delectable, fire-works extravaganza in my mouth. Each of us has a large tray set up with little cup-sized bowls that never seem to empty. Descreetly hovering waiters continuously scoop soups, sauces and 16 ways to combine steamed and fried veggies, legumes, beans and rice. This one's tangy, that one sweet, most a version of hot. Is that hot on the lips, warm on the tongue, permeating after-glow, or a symphony blend? Small discs of bread drizzled with ghee serve as utensils. Satiated, the end of our meal is pleasantly bookmarked by a replay of how it began - with a ceremonial washing, deliciously warm water poured over hands from a brass pitcher into an ornate bowl. (and the bill came to less than $60 for the eleven of us)
Of course, the fare back to our rooms is double, but at $2 instead of $1, who cares. A thin mattress on a wooden platform, oh, how I miss my memory foam! Whomever dropped the word to bring ear-plugs, "good advice, thanks." The din of traffic is broken only by the haunting voices of intermittent calls-to-prayer throughout the cold night.
Yawn, that's it for my middle-of-the-night-jet-lag writing session. Morning's call will be early, to the Sikh Temple.
Over Christmas my nephews introduced me to Temple Run. (thanks, guys!) Project yourself a blonde, wripped Rambo, hurtling along crumbling wall-tops high above a tapestry of jungle tangle. Leap bulging tree roots, whip around dead-end corners, launch over wide chasms, all the while evading corner-of-your-eye incoming that are the stuff of William Shatner's lofty nightmares. Talley your wins in gold coins awarded for feats of superhuman agility.
Slow this down to an excruciating crawl all the way from the airport. Motor bikes and 3-wheeled taxis squeeze between our behemoth bus and delivery vans, SUVs, other buses. I'm thinking no catalytic converters here, the smog is palpable. I swear those little guys morph to gell-state to get thru impossible slivers of space - you can't call them gaps - then rematerialize as scratch-and-dent specials on the front side of the traffic jam and roll on.
Reaching Connaught, shift to warp speed, as if to make up for lost time... fast forward!
Delhi traffic. Laughter is the only sane response. Choose to experience the adrenaline rush as exileration. Woah.
Then there's walking. Hhmmm, this feels familiar, like the bike lanes of Philadelphia.
Walking. Just like those falsely acclaimed bicycle lanes, these walkways go along smoothly enough, sometimes even nicely dressed with (dusty) trees and benches. But wait, there's a vehicle parked on the sidewalk, and a little further along, a series of street vendor stalls block the way completely, and then just around a bend the path serrupticously disappears. Just like that. Leaving you stranded to either float above to the next length of walk, or plunge into the fray of the raging torrent of motor vehicle traffic. Transport used to be mostly bicycles, bicycle taxis, and bicycle carts, they say. Now it's a screeching, belching, writhing mass of horn blowing chaos.
Once we've had a chance to wash up, our next priority is local cell phones for everyone so we can pull the more adventuresome back to the fold from time to time without breaking the bank with AT&T or Verizon. It's "just a five minute walk," so off we go. Seven little ducks in a row trailing along behind our pied piper, Monauge, who parts the seas for us to cross 3-6 lanes of the weaving, darting mayhem five times to get to the Noika kiosk - but wait, aren't we now just across the street and around the corner from where we began? How is it that we forded all those traffic circles and descended thru a semi-constructed subterranean walk-way to get here???
It's wonderful to have a friend to orchestrate our purchases. Six men packed into that tiny kiosk, each vying to make the really big sale, shouting, gesturing, practically throwing phones and options at us. Monauge reels it in, collects passports, photos, applications and rupees, hands out phones and owner's manuals (mysteriously, in English) through a mind-boggling half hour transaction that feels both sped-up and slow motion at the same time.
Our mission accomplished, one of our number meekly asks, "do people ever get hit crossing the street like that?" Monauge opts to call for cars to bring us back around the corner to home base.
The Blue Triangle, which turns out to be a YMCA, has an on-site cafeteria. Desperado lunch had been ... while belly filling, barely tolerable white bread cheese and tomatoe sandwhiches that emerged, two at a time, at 20 minute intervals. I pictured the kitchen equiped with little more than one George Foreman grill. Lunch for twelve just didn't work. We vote for a restaurant for dinner. So, it's back out there, now in the dark.
Back to Temple Run. Now place your action figure in a vehicle and give over all control to a non-English speaking stranger at the wheel. Well, call it a vehicle if you like. Three wheels, a post&lintel metal tube frame draped with remnants of plastic and sail cloth. No windows. Heck, no doors. Barely a seat for two to squeeze onto. Belching black and yellow. Rattling, bumping and swaying. Ohmygod, ohmygod. Oh, right, choose exhilaration, and laughter. And wonder of wonders, every pair of us ends up at the right place! RajDhan restaurant.
Ooooooooo, the delights of the tongue that reward us! Thalis - think tapas back in Phillie - but these a delectable, fire-works extravaganza in my mouth. Each of us has a large tray set up with little cup-sized bowls that never seem to empty. Descreetly hovering waiters continuously scoop soups, sauces and 16 ways to combine steamed and fried veggies, legumes, beans and rice. This one's tangy, that one sweet, most a version of hot. Is that hot on the lips, warm on the tongue, permeating after-glow, or a symphony blend? Small discs of bread drizzled with ghee serve as utensils. Satiated, the end of our meal is pleasantly bookmarked by a replay of how it began - with a ceremonial washing, deliciously warm water poured over hands from a brass pitcher into an ornate bowl. (and the bill came to less than $60 for the eleven of us)
Of course, the fare back to our rooms is double, but at $2 instead of $1, who cares. A thin mattress on a wooden platform, oh, how I miss my memory foam! Whomever dropped the word to bring ear-plugs, "good advice, thanks." The din of traffic is broken only by the haunting voices of intermittent calls-to-prayer throughout the cold night.
Yawn, that's it for my middle-of-the-night-jet-lag writing session. Morning's call will be early, to the Sikh Temple.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Day one, Monday 16 January, Newark: The Trek
The click of lock tumblers falling into place for the last time for many days to come registers like tiny switches in my brain and heart, marking the closing of the door to home. Suitcase slung with back-pack click-click-ka-plunks along uneven pavement 'round the corner to the car. Fluttering flourescents cast a surreal pal on the morning as they struggle to announce "Italian Market Parking Lot." So the journey has at long last begun.
It's hard to believe the day, the moment of departure, is here. Long months of planning stretch behind this day, a slow, dreamy march towards now. All the plants are watered. The cats have had their 15 minutes of guilt-fueled indulgence and reassurance that they will never starve - there are too many people with keys to the house for that to possibly happen. Everyone left behind has everyone else's phone number and a copy of the itinerary, along with the admoniton: "If something happens, if I should die over there, don't waste the effort nor the money to bring home a bag-o-bones. Just have a party on me!" I even updated my will at the last minute last night, and called on neighbors to sign witness. It felt SO responsible. Will it be a surprise? Wouldn't you love to be a bug on the wall at the reading of your own will, the gathering? Huck Finn fantasy.
All through the summer, autumn and early winter, the collection in the corner of the bedroom grew until it loomed, an insurmountable pile of 'must haves.' It seems like we'll be camping out rather than visiting one of the world's most populous cities. The list from our guide was daunting. And a couple of trips to REI added to it: 50 laundry sheets, held in a dispenser the size of dental floss; two (large) spray bottles of bed bug repellent; a yoga block nestled in an insulated lunch bag, lightweight enough to carry buckled to my backpack so I'll have something for long sitting sessions at the various shrines & temples we'll visit; oh, and, "thanks, Nina!" for the 'one tool fits all,' and "mmmmmmmm, thanks, Mary!" for the back-pack snack of dark chocolate covered guava morsels.
Now if only I had a pneumatic tube direct to Delhi, or Kirk's partical transport system.
Beam me to India!
It's hard to believe the day, the moment of departure, is here. Long months of planning stretch behind this day, a slow, dreamy march towards now. All the plants are watered. The cats have had their 15 minutes of guilt-fueled indulgence and reassurance that they will never starve - there are too many people with keys to the house for that to possibly happen. Everyone left behind has everyone else's phone number and a copy of the itinerary, along with the admoniton: "If something happens, if I should die over there, don't waste the effort nor the money to bring home a bag-o-bones. Just have a party on me!" I even updated my will at the last minute last night, and called on neighbors to sign witness. It felt SO responsible. Will it be a surprise? Wouldn't you love to be a bug on the wall at the reading of your own will, the gathering? Huck Finn fantasy.
All through the summer, autumn and early winter, the collection in the corner of the bedroom grew until it loomed, an insurmountable pile of 'must haves.' It seems like we'll be camping out rather than visiting one of the world's most populous cities. The list from our guide was daunting. And a couple of trips to REI added to it: 50 laundry sheets, held in a dispenser the size of dental floss; two (large) spray bottles of bed bug repellent; a yoga block nestled in an insulated lunch bag, lightweight enough to carry buckled to my backpack so I'll have something for long sitting sessions at the various shrines & temples we'll visit; oh, and, "thanks, Nina!" for the 'one tool fits all,' and "mmmmmmmm, thanks, Mary!" for the back-pack snack of dark chocolate covered guava morsels.
Now if only I had a pneumatic tube direct to Delhi, or Kirk's partical transport system.
Beam me to India!
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Counting down...
Just five days 'til I step through the looking glass and on some levels I’m already there. Suitcase bulging with every thing but cloths, (there's no traveling light when you've got to take 3 weeks worth of TP, a water filtration system and laundry supplies) to-do list dwindling, I’ve even been cleaning up the swamp of procrastination projects. There’s this compulsion to leave a clean slate, to push thru the details, details, details – cause once I’m there, there won’t be any. No list, no details, no to-do. Do-be-do-be-do. Doing here, there will be all about be-ing.
Reading the itinerary, and reading about the itinerary, India looms like a carnival of the absurd, defines the words ‘constrast’ and ‘contradiction,’ beckons the deepest crevices of my being to fly away from all that here says is ‘real.’
Counting down….
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