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.
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