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.
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