Is not exactly where i want it to be so that I can get these great pictures to you all but maybe by the time I head out of the monastery, a miracle will occur. So you can go to my flickr account but it is no more than old pics and a handful of okay pics of New Delhi.
Namaste
Traveling Home Each Time
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
Day 3 in Delhi- Smiles Touch
With my inner sleep clock actually growing more and more distorted, I was with bright eye at 2:00 am. Of course I was counting sacred cows by the time 6:30 pm came around last night, but nevertheless, I was up again to master my creative sanctity. I concluded my normal morning writing, meditation, study and yoga by 9 and showered and went up for breakfast and internet time. I caught my talk with love over Skype and felt even more empowered to go out and sink in line with other beings. In such a meager passing of weeks, I encountered another who walks to my rhythm while I hum her tune. The quandary came when I was struck with such a relentlessly open heart and was able to shed past romantic doctrine without even pushing a button. Accordingly, this fresh budding romance is a source of inspiration and a platform for motivation. It is funny the way we continuously go through life wondering what is around the bend and trying to set things up and knock things down in order to cause a future outcome. We even try precariously peeking in to the future to see what it is that we have in store. Especially we westerners, who tend to always feel a need for outward and upward success. We never notice the times that when we are just simply being at our own personal best, we are succeeding in the only suitable way. We are carrying our own hue of light in to the sentient world. I, for some time now have been strongly focused and chasing after the answer to what it is that I am supposed to bring to the world, how I can be the most authentic tool possible? I have been searching in what I thought were all the right places, inside and out. However searching seems to connote the idea of looking elsewhere. Elsewhere, if you haven’t noticed yet, is an illusion. The only place I had not truly looked was where I was in the moment. I was too busy trying to be. In the west, we especially localize our achievement status around this. Well, in my case, I suppose I had stood in the same place as my dog Gaea does for so long circling round and round herself, looking for the right place to sit until she notices that she has been there the whole time and so she sits down in contentment.
I decided to take her advise and go out today on an exhale, blowing the way in which I am born to blow. I took to dallying in the shops of gipsy attire. All the European and American hippies flock to these Mecca’s. And yes I was another one taking gander at the eclectic jumble of $2-3 threads, the plushy pashminas, the shiny bangles and dangly earrings, until I was stopped in a moment of possible non-consumerist -consumerism.
A gentle hand and a soft Namaste came from behind. I turned to see a delicate woman wrapped in a worn silken sari of now muted colors with a petite baby upon her hip. She kept saying, “Miss, miss, for baby…sick, medicine”. She would say “see” and lift the child’s limp arm and let it drop back down on to her own arm. The scene didn’t even seem real. What do we do? Always being told by books and even by locals I was told of the ‘racket’ these beggars had, paying off the police so that they may beg freely. I go back to a wide eyed moment of my past when I was a little girl in London. My family and I had passed a heard of homeless punk rock kids on the streets with signs. I remember lagging behind as they asked us for money but my family kept going as most do. I remember one man’s face standing out in the crowd. He was lost and I knew it or I knew something. It wasn’t money I desired giving him, just a moment of kindness I wished to give away. I ran up to my dad. He was a sucker for my innocent notions and so he gave me a bill of some sort and I hurriedly ran back to deposit it in his hand with a meek, “sir, here you go”. Damn if my big doe eyes didn’t touch him. The point was that he touched me. There was a moment when our energy shook each other with the purity of intent. But later on in life I became more unsure about giving money to homeless, after all, many of them are plenty capable of going out there and finding their way just as I have, unless of course if they’re not . After all that is simply enabling them…uh, maybe. Or is it about them at all? Now this isn’t some rant on the right or wrong of charity because that is not my question or moral dilemma. The world of good/bad, right/wrong only keeps you trapped in the game of dualism. But what I am suggesting is that maybe there is a point of liberation within ourselves and a point of surrender when we are able to just release judgments on the way things are and just let the hum of sweetness buzz around the city. Perhaps if we gave of ourselves, maybe less people would be lost. At that moment, it was easier to give to a face that was yet another aspect of my own humanity, that little woman begging for kindness. So I stuck to me release and padded behind her to a market and bought the canister of vegetarian formula she desired. I asked for one thing in return… a snuggle. One little hug from the doll like child that instantly wanted her own mother back, the hip she knew, the incarnation that she was born to somehow do.
I returned to the mud path, a little lighter than before. I went back to some non-consumerist-consumerism and in following this easy way I came upon another simple exchange to play. I edged my way in to a shop and was engaged by an older gentleman playing king on his humble throne. He asked me to sit and have some chai with him even though I had no intention to buy. I sat on a pile of circus-like pillow covers and he told me of his nephew who had gone to the afterlife at 18. He tried to explain heaven with his hands, a charades devoted to the gods. I understood. He then explained of his new two year old child that was born 12 years after his others. I couldn’t grasp fully the connection at first that he was trying so hard to make. “Just one year”, he said, “after my nephew had gone”. At that point I understood the point he was making; his nephew had come back. That life had returned from death. That creatix had destroyed to create again; that flesh had decomposed in retreat before returning as the flower in his wrinkled water worn photograph between his thumb and fingertip. I nodded and gleamed at the shimmering truth in his mind. He later wished me on my way and I knew the next stop was back to the orphanage.
I was compelled.I found myself a tuk-tuk and skated on over to the same high colored walls with the statue of the Virgin Mary and a trickling fountain. A man let me in through a gate and showed me to the foyer and had me sit. Behind me there was a quote by Mother Theresa herself saying, “How can we show Him love when we don’t show the very people that we see love”. She was manifesting god with her hands. I watched another man to my left; half of his face fallen, cut material and pull it through a sewing machine. He would occasionally look at me and meet my smile with a stare. To my right, sisters, many of which were Indian at that, dipped their fingertips in holy water, bowed and stepped in to a room of prayer where they chanted prayers together. I fell in to their syllables and into a haunting peace, when an older western nun with a kind demeanor called me to follow her to the children’s ward. She talked to me sweetly and questioned my intentions in India. She looked me over in interest and complemented some of my bobbles. I suppose I almost had the preconceived notion that she was going to actually scoff at my look. I was dressed modestly but I knew that I was not dressed conservatively. But instead she just was intrigued. It is funny how much we assume about others and how much is lost with initial interpretations because of the very judgments we have of others possibly judging us. It is a subtle place in the back of probably even some of the most enlightened person’s minds but it is there. I relaxed and trailed behind the nun as she took me through my first view of the corridor of the forgotten. The little wooden constraining chairs lined up side by side with child after child, each with some varying disorder. From drooling head bobbing to those that you could have sworn were dead already. There was not a one of them that did not look desperate for love. I had not expected the disabled ward. I just thought I was going to see children. But there I was confronted with the faces of so many avoided and pushed out of our sheltered sight. I began reaching my hands out to each one. Tingles were shaking my nerves alive each time I touched one of them. Sometimes their grip was violent and relentless. Other times you had to hold theme up to receive the passing energy. One woman was low on the ground with her legs locked outstretched and her rear flat as a board on to a round wooden rolling contraption. She had short black hair. She looked up at me with the brightest most knowing eyes and the most cheerful and pure welcoming smile. She was all there. She knew her situation and she still lived. All it took was that moment to see. I could not take my eyes from her most astounding presence. When she looked at you, the world stopped and spun you so fast you were in a daze. There was one kid that latched on to my hands once he found them. He was blind. He shimmied his way up my shins and turned flips in the air again and again. Another blind and wailing boy latched on to me immediately and fell soft as I stroked his face and hummed to him quietly. I took him for a walk up and down the hall. He wanted to fall back down in defeat but I wouldn’t let him. Then I picked him up and sat him on the windowsill to feel the air outside and the sunshine on his skin. Yet another was lying in his crib, his head so flat from his eternal resting place. He smiled with giddy as I picked him up and bounced him gently on his pointed toes. The music lifted up through the hallways and I watched two or three of the children pound so quickly to the beat, in perfect rhythm. Their intuitional musician was all there. One older boy sat in a corner rocking with his hands over his ears. When I touched him he pulled my hand to cover his ears and he began to sing gorgeous operatic melodies. The list goes on and on in merely the two hours of my stay. Through which I laughed dangerously hard, smiled till my cheeks turned numb and felt knots turn round and round my heart chakra as my stomach clenched. Just being with them and watching them gush over the attention was more than enough energy to fuel a whole house. There is that Maslow system of hierarchical needs that is seemingly true. But in John Lennon’s words… okay I won’t do it, I won’t totally cheese out, but you know it’s true.
I sat listless and cheery the whole way back home. I treated myself to a delicious Indian dinner and went home to have one more chat with my love. I was all a buzz just like a child on chocolate, so much intensity that it burned me out sweetly in to a slumber. I suppose it takes really rather little when it comes down to it. Today I found it only took touch to send others and myself in to exhaltation.
I decided to take her advise and go out today on an exhale, blowing the way in which I am born to blow. I took to dallying in the shops of gipsy attire. All the European and American hippies flock to these Mecca’s. And yes I was another one taking gander at the eclectic jumble of $2-3 threads, the plushy pashminas, the shiny bangles and dangly earrings, until I was stopped in a moment of possible non-consumerist -consumerism.
A gentle hand and a soft Namaste came from behind. I turned to see a delicate woman wrapped in a worn silken sari of now muted colors with a petite baby upon her hip. She kept saying, “Miss, miss, for baby…sick, medicine”. She would say “see” and lift the child’s limp arm and let it drop back down on to her own arm. The scene didn’t even seem real. What do we do? Always being told by books and even by locals I was told of the ‘racket’ these beggars had, paying off the police so that they may beg freely. I go back to a wide eyed moment of my past when I was a little girl in London. My family and I had passed a heard of homeless punk rock kids on the streets with signs. I remember lagging behind as they asked us for money but my family kept going as most do. I remember one man’s face standing out in the crowd. He was lost and I knew it or I knew something. It wasn’t money I desired giving him, just a moment of kindness I wished to give away. I ran up to my dad. He was a sucker for my innocent notions and so he gave me a bill of some sort and I hurriedly ran back to deposit it in his hand with a meek, “sir, here you go”. Damn if my big doe eyes didn’t touch him. The point was that he touched me. There was a moment when our energy shook each other with the purity of intent. But later on in life I became more unsure about giving money to homeless, after all, many of them are plenty capable of going out there and finding their way just as I have, unless of course if they’re not . After all that is simply enabling them…uh, maybe. Or is it about them at all? Now this isn’t some rant on the right or wrong of charity because that is not my question or moral dilemma. The world of good/bad, right/wrong only keeps you trapped in the game of dualism. But what I am suggesting is that maybe there is a point of liberation within ourselves and a point of surrender when we are able to just release judgments on the way things are and just let the hum of sweetness buzz around the city. Perhaps if we gave of ourselves, maybe less people would be lost. At that moment, it was easier to give to a face that was yet another aspect of my own humanity, that little woman begging for kindness. So I stuck to me release and padded behind her to a market and bought the canister of vegetarian formula she desired. I asked for one thing in return… a snuggle. One little hug from the doll like child that instantly wanted her own mother back, the hip she knew, the incarnation that she was born to somehow do.
I returned to the mud path, a little lighter than before. I went back to some non-consumerist-consumerism and in following this easy way I came upon another simple exchange to play. I edged my way in to a shop and was engaged by an older gentleman playing king on his humble throne. He asked me to sit and have some chai with him even though I had no intention to buy. I sat on a pile of circus-like pillow covers and he told me of his nephew who had gone to the afterlife at 18. He tried to explain heaven with his hands, a charades devoted to the gods. I understood. He then explained of his new two year old child that was born 12 years after his others. I couldn’t grasp fully the connection at first that he was trying so hard to make. “Just one year”, he said, “after my nephew had gone”. At that point I understood the point he was making; his nephew had come back. That life had returned from death. That creatix had destroyed to create again; that flesh had decomposed in retreat before returning as the flower in his wrinkled water worn photograph between his thumb and fingertip. I nodded and gleamed at the shimmering truth in his mind. He later wished me on my way and I knew the next stop was back to the orphanage.
I was compelled.I found myself a tuk-tuk and skated on over to the same high colored walls with the statue of the Virgin Mary and a trickling fountain. A man let me in through a gate and showed me to the foyer and had me sit. Behind me there was a quote by Mother Theresa herself saying, “How can we show Him love when we don’t show the very people that we see love”. She was manifesting god with her hands. I watched another man to my left; half of his face fallen, cut material and pull it through a sewing machine. He would occasionally look at me and meet my smile with a stare. To my right, sisters, many of which were Indian at that, dipped their fingertips in holy water, bowed and stepped in to a room of prayer where they chanted prayers together. I fell in to their syllables and into a haunting peace, when an older western nun with a kind demeanor called me to follow her to the children’s ward. She talked to me sweetly and questioned my intentions in India. She looked me over in interest and complemented some of my bobbles. I suppose I almost had the preconceived notion that she was going to actually scoff at my look. I was dressed modestly but I knew that I was not dressed conservatively. But instead she just was intrigued. It is funny how much we assume about others and how much is lost with initial interpretations because of the very judgments we have of others possibly judging us. It is a subtle place in the back of probably even some of the most enlightened person’s minds but it is there. I relaxed and trailed behind the nun as she took me through my first view of the corridor of the forgotten. The little wooden constraining chairs lined up side by side with child after child, each with some varying disorder. From drooling head bobbing to those that you could have sworn were dead already. There was not a one of them that did not look desperate for love. I had not expected the disabled ward. I just thought I was going to see children. But there I was confronted with the faces of so many avoided and pushed out of our sheltered sight. I began reaching my hands out to each one. Tingles were shaking my nerves alive each time I touched one of them. Sometimes their grip was violent and relentless. Other times you had to hold theme up to receive the passing energy. One woman was low on the ground with her legs locked outstretched and her rear flat as a board on to a round wooden rolling contraption. She had short black hair. She looked up at me with the brightest most knowing eyes and the most cheerful and pure welcoming smile. She was all there. She knew her situation and she still lived. All it took was that moment to see. I could not take my eyes from her most astounding presence. When she looked at you, the world stopped and spun you so fast you were in a daze. There was one kid that latched on to my hands once he found them. He was blind. He shimmied his way up my shins and turned flips in the air again and again. Another blind and wailing boy latched on to me immediately and fell soft as I stroked his face and hummed to him quietly. I took him for a walk up and down the hall. He wanted to fall back down in defeat but I wouldn’t let him. Then I picked him up and sat him on the windowsill to feel the air outside and the sunshine on his skin. Yet another was lying in his crib, his head so flat from his eternal resting place. He smiled with giddy as I picked him up and bounced him gently on his pointed toes. The music lifted up through the hallways and I watched two or three of the children pound so quickly to the beat, in perfect rhythm. Their intuitional musician was all there. One older boy sat in a corner rocking with his hands over his ears. When I touched him he pulled my hand to cover his ears and he began to sing gorgeous operatic melodies. The list goes on and on in merely the two hours of my stay. Through which I laughed dangerously hard, smiled till my cheeks turned numb and felt knots turn round and round my heart chakra as my stomach clenched. Just being with them and watching them gush over the attention was more than enough energy to fuel a whole house. There is that Maslow system of hierarchical needs that is seemingly true. But in John Lennon’s words… okay I won’t do it, I won’t totally cheese out, but you know it’s true.
I sat listless and cheery the whole way back home. I treated myself to a delicious Indian dinner and went home to have one more chat with my love. I was all a buzz just like a child on chocolate, so much intensity that it burned me out sweetly in to a slumber. I suppose it takes really rather little when it comes down to it. Today I found it only took touch to send others and myself in to exhaltation.
Day 3 in Delhi- Sneaky Altruism
Awakening at 3 am this morning sent me in to an alternate spin on reality. I vigorously wrote with utter inspiration for 3 ½ hours. When this was complete I lay back down and pulled out The World of Tibetan Buddhism by his Holiness the Dalai Lama. I am currently studying Tibetan Buddhism and of course much of the Dalai Lama’s work due to my interest in Buddhism. Now since I have left on what we all might call a truth seeking quest, I have been confronted many times about my spiritual persuasion. Sometimes the questioning of this matter has the effect of thrusting me in to the oblivion of my mind. Typically I respond with some convoluted answer because in a sense that is the space in which spirituality takes up in my mind. However when I step back and reflect on the essence that it carries truly within me, there is no ambiguity to its potency and no need to define it, for the moment in which I define it, I draw the lines of senseless boundaries. Sometimes I think it would be so great to belong to a box. I mean come on, then you are awarded a name tag and chair to sit and rest, brothers and sisters, a neat outline of the way it is and the way it shall be. Who, in which is human, does not at times desire this manifest reality. To me it seems that the current collective however is moving more towards this indefinable state in which there is the automatic side effect of disillusionment and fear of the unknown, fear of being that negative space when the box has been cut away. Like three year olds again, we sit with our scissors and glue and cut and paste, cut and paste haphazardly creating our ever changing manifestos. This is why we are in a technological era. We cannot go back to the typewriter (despite its nostalgic clicking) or the pen and paper for anymore than fun. Upon serious reflection to our relationship to life, we are revisers of the highest order thus far. As soon as we think we have the correct configuration, our mind turns the corner and unfolds yet another way to view the negative space of our existence. So with my scissors in hand, I read yet another chapter of the Dalai Lama’s wisdom on altruism.
Upon finishing the chapter, I took away one valuable reminder. We are ever so dependent on one another. So right he is of course. There is no denying our most basic need for one another. I reflect back to a time in which I lived for four months on a farm off of the grid in New Mexico. I retreated as much as possible away from the rest of the outside world. I valued so highly my relationship to solitude. In fact in much of my poetry at the time, I even personified solitude to be this romanticized nurturer whose lap was my solace. Upon reflection, this seems so paradoxical to the point of comedic. Even in solitude, we must have others, for if not we will amalgamate some symbol or imaginary friend to take the place of the needed companion. Going back to something more recent in my past, I was daydreaming and reaching a point of lucid wakefulness in which I allowed the thoughts and images to move through me at free will and create their own story. What came to me was an overwhelming desire to hold and comfort children that had nobody to rely on, nobody to listen to them or feel them. Then coming closer to the present I reflected once again, this time on the moment that the little street performing girl came to the edge of the tuk-tuk to put on her show. At this moment, while sitting in meditation, meditating on the interdependency of all human beings, I knew I must start today and end never. I literally felt some sense of a pulsating life force connecting me at this time on a much deeper level to the rest of humanity.
Eager to start, I thought big and wanted no more than a pure experience of connecting to those in need. I wanted to abolish all other touristic desires that would get in the way. I wanted that compassionate experience to wash over me and purify, just as it had in meditation. I decided I was going to an orphanage today. I scrolled the internet to find any in Delhi. I found two and their numbers. Neither place answered but I decided that was of little importance. I would find my way there somehow. I worked my way back down the dirty alleyways, confounded with “buy this miss” and “do you smoke, miss” and any other form of distraction or persuasion. It was like an over-exaggerated blur of human desire being channeled in all of us through the desperation of faces and extended hands. The awareness made me smile. Nobody seemed to want to take me to where I was going or did not know where I was going. Eventually, after being put in the wrong place by a rickshaw driver and not finding my destination on the metro’s wall, I came back up to solid ground. I thought of giving up and just going back to the peaceful mosque of yesterday to contemplate. Then I realized that was bullshit and I remembered my resolve. I stood at the streets edge, watching the passing traffic. A tuk-tuk came to the side of the road. He had kind eyes and a sense of presence about him. He asked me where I was headed. I told him the area of Raj Garden and he asked me what it was I was looking for. I told him the Welfare Home of Children. He said that the home was no longer there but that he knew of two orphanages and that he would take me. I wanted to cry right then, his sense of knowing and helpfulness was all I needed. He asked me as we were driving away what it was that I was doing there. It was like the spiritual persuasion question. I didn’t know how to respond. I just felt the drive. I said simply, “to help”. He kept asking me what kind of children, big or small, showing the sizes with his hands. It turns out that there were two separate orphanages. I didn’t know, I suppose help whoever. I told him to choose. We proceeded over a major highway. We ended up at a light where a man came scooting on his bottom, with no more than a loin cloth on, between the vehicles to beg for money. He was so close to being run over. I squeezed my eyes as my tuk-tuk worked our way around him. We hit another light and a little boy came up selling out-of-date magazines in his hand. I asked him if he went to school and I tapped his hat with a smile. Kubleep, my driver explained to me that his parents were beggars and so that was his destiny as well. Another tiny sheepish girl came to the other side. Her hair was stiff and her face was almost black from all the layers of unwashed days. She lifted her bitty hand and pleaded. I held my eyes to her eyes in place and stroked the top of her head and brushed the side of her face. I took her outstretched hand and squeezed it. Not all of the money in the world could satisfy their embedded craving.
We finally came to the Missionaries of Charity which was started in honor of Mother Theresa. Kubleep said he would wait. I was frustrated. I wanted to spend all day yet I was far away from any place to catch a ride. I took what I could get and went inside. I heard the sound of children in a large room and I watched two women in waiting on a couch. There were Indian women as well as some white women all dressed in Mother Theresa like robes. I waited and waited for what seemed like hours until I saw a women bring out a baby with wide eyes to the two women on the couch. Their faces told me that this was their new baby girl. They oozed love from their pores at the sight of this new blessing. The same lady who had delivered this child to them came over to me and asked me what I needed. Again, I felt confused and small. “I just came to help,” I managed to mutter. All of this build up to find that they were going down for a nap. I needed to come at different hours. I felt a loss, like the anticipation had been for nothing. I only had enough money to pay Kubleep for only so long. I stood and shrugged and walked out.
Kubleep greeted me with a genuine full mouth of teeth. He was so happy to help me because he loved that I wanted to help the children. He told me to pay him whatever I could, but in all reality I knew he had a house wife, three kids and his mother to support. He worked 12 hours a day, 7 days a week already. He wanted to continue to show me the city and begged to take me to the Mahatma Gandhi museum even though I told him I did not have lot of money. His spirit was so sweet. It struck me suddenly that he was perhaps the child spirit that I could touch. He told me the museum was free. We headed there and I asked him to accompany me inside. He agreed. We side by side silently shuffled through the rooms of photographs of the amazing secular freedom fighter. I read through the hundreds of quotes that had come from this man like some sort of intuitive magic of his tongue. I stared at the pictures of his mentors, the pages of his diary, his humble sandals and the spinning wheels that he had empowered thousands of villagers to utilize as their tool for freedom. I asked Kubleep if he could read in English too because his spoken English was so good. He smiled. This was something that he prided himself on. He began to read, slowly at first, a quote from Gandhi on the liberation of humanity. He made it all the way to the bottom, only needing my help for two or three words. We both stood there smiling at his own liberation. We walked down the hallways of newspapers honoring the great man and paintings and relics from his death and ritual cremation. Kubleep kept reading through the signs, picking up speed and picking up inspiration. Sometimes altruism is just giving someone a ride to the place they need to go or just listening to a person tell you of their home. On this very day, a humble tuk-tuk driver and family man that is no more than a number in this vast city of crowded spirits, became my mentor.
We walked in a spirit of liberation out of the double doors and hopped back in to the tuk-tuk. I just listened. He told me of his “very good friend”, Paul Sutherland from Massachusetts, who had helped his family. He had bought him shoes and helped his kids with money for school. He told me that he wanted his kids to have respectable jobs so that their life would be easier. I listened to his cough, like so many others in this city. I knew it was from all the pollution that he inhaled in that little open tuk-tuk. I listened to his advice. He asked me if I was married and I told him no. He asked me if I had somebody I was going to marry and I told him yes. He told me to make sure that they are the right one because it is for life, just like his wife is for him. I assured him that that this was the right one. That nobody had ever made so much sense before. I asked him if he was a Hindu and he said yes. I told him I was studying Buddhism and he pointed out their connection, which I was aware of. He made reference to a quote he had just seen which had stood out in my own mind. He said that Gandhi says that all of our gods are the same even though we think they are different. We both smiled and agreed as we passed mosques and churches and temples and pulled up to the famous Baha’i temple. He waited and insisted that I go and see. I walked through the droves of people and floated up the stairs, turned in my slippers for a token and floated on further up to the huge white opening lotus. Kubleep’s spirit was all over me with such softness. I waited with the hundreds to sit in the quiet space. There were people with eyes closed, hands in prayer, babies breaking silence with their own chants, people in lotus, and others just marveling at the space. I floated back out of the doors and turned to look at the blue pools below the symbol of blossoming wisdom, just as the sun fell perfectly in to the opening.
I put my shoes on and found my way back to the tuk-tuks. Many others were there vying for my patronage, but there was my humble teacher waiting. He tried to take me elsewhere but I knew I needed to head back. My eyes were fading from inspired exhaustion and he needed to feed his family. He dropped me back off with one last piece of advice, “don’t let others take advantage of you.” I smiled and he told me my smile looked like an opening flower. Like the lotus, I thought. I bowed to him and gave him all that I had in my wallet, except a bit for some bananas. I stumbled back through the opening of this enlightening day and crashed on top of my bag at 6:30 pm.
Upon finishing the chapter, I took away one valuable reminder. We are ever so dependent on one another. So right he is of course. There is no denying our most basic need for one another. I reflect back to a time in which I lived for four months on a farm off of the grid in New Mexico. I retreated as much as possible away from the rest of the outside world. I valued so highly my relationship to solitude. In fact in much of my poetry at the time, I even personified solitude to be this romanticized nurturer whose lap was my solace. Upon reflection, this seems so paradoxical to the point of comedic. Even in solitude, we must have others, for if not we will amalgamate some symbol or imaginary friend to take the place of the needed companion. Going back to something more recent in my past, I was daydreaming and reaching a point of lucid wakefulness in which I allowed the thoughts and images to move through me at free will and create their own story. What came to me was an overwhelming desire to hold and comfort children that had nobody to rely on, nobody to listen to them or feel them. Then coming closer to the present I reflected once again, this time on the moment that the little street performing girl came to the edge of the tuk-tuk to put on her show. At this moment, while sitting in meditation, meditating on the interdependency of all human beings, I knew I must start today and end never. I literally felt some sense of a pulsating life force connecting me at this time on a much deeper level to the rest of humanity.
Eager to start, I thought big and wanted no more than a pure experience of connecting to those in need. I wanted to abolish all other touristic desires that would get in the way. I wanted that compassionate experience to wash over me and purify, just as it had in meditation. I decided I was going to an orphanage today. I scrolled the internet to find any in Delhi. I found two and their numbers. Neither place answered but I decided that was of little importance. I would find my way there somehow. I worked my way back down the dirty alleyways, confounded with “buy this miss” and “do you smoke, miss” and any other form of distraction or persuasion. It was like an over-exaggerated blur of human desire being channeled in all of us through the desperation of faces and extended hands. The awareness made me smile. Nobody seemed to want to take me to where I was going or did not know where I was going. Eventually, after being put in the wrong place by a rickshaw driver and not finding my destination on the metro’s wall, I came back up to solid ground. I thought of giving up and just going back to the peaceful mosque of yesterday to contemplate. Then I realized that was bullshit and I remembered my resolve. I stood at the streets edge, watching the passing traffic. A tuk-tuk came to the side of the road. He had kind eyes and a sense of presence about him. He asked me where I was headed. I told him the area of Raj Garden and he asked me what it was I was looking for. I told him the Welfare Home of Children. He said that the home was no longer there but that he knew of two orphanages and that he would take me. I wanted to cry right then, his sense of knowing and helpfulness was all I needed. He asked me as we were driving away what it was that I was doing there. It was like the spiritual persuasion question. I didn’t know how to respond. I just felt the drive. I said simply, “to help”. He kept asking me what kind of children, big or small, showing the sizes with his hands. It turns out that there were two separate orphanages. I didn’t know, I suppose help whoever. I told him to choose. We proceeded over a major highway. We ended up at a light where a man came scooting on his bottom, with no more than a loin cloth on, between the vehicles to beg for money. He was so close to being run over. I squeezed my eyes as my tuk-tuk worked our way around him. We hit another light and a little boy came up selling out-of-date magazines in his hand. I asked him if he went to school and I tapped his hat with a smile. Kubleep, my driver explained to me that his parents were beggars and so that was his destiny as well. Another tiny sheepish girl came to the other side. Her hair was stiff and her face was almost black from all the layers of unwashed days. She lifted her bitty hand and pleaded. I held my eyes to her eyes in place and stroked the top of her head and brushed the side of her face. I took her outstretched hand and squeezed it. Not all of the money in the world could satisfy their embedded craving.
We finally came to the Missionaries of Charity which was started in honor of Mother Theresa. Kubleep said he would wait. I was frustrated. I wanted to spend all day yet I was far away from any place to catch a ride. I took what I could get and went inside. I heard the sound of children in a large room and I watched two women in waiting on a couch. There were Indian women as well as some white women all dressed in Mother Theresa like robes. I waited and waited for what seemed like hours until I saw a women bring out a baby with wide eyes to the two women on the couch. Their faces told me that this was their new baby girl. They oozed love from their pores at the sight of this new blessing. The same lady who had delivered this child to them came over to me and asked me what I needed. Again, I felt confused and small. “I just came to help,” I managed to mutter. All of this build up to find that they were going down for a nap. I needed to come at different hours. I felt a loss, like the anticipation had been for nothing. I only had enough money to pay Kubleep for only so long. I stood and shrugged and walked out.
Kubleep greeted me with a genuine full mouth of teeth. He was so happy to help me because he loved that I wanted to help the children. He told me to pay him whatever I could, but in all reality I knew he had a house wife, three kids and his mother to support. He worked 12 hours a day, 7 days a week already. He wanted to continue to show me the city and begged to take me to the Mahatma Gandhi museum even though I told him I did not have lot of money. His spirit was so sweet. It struck me suddenly that he was perhaps the child spirit that I could touch. He told me the museum was free. We headed there and I asked him to accompany me inside. He agreed. We side by side silently shuffled through the rooms of photographs of the amazing secular freedom fighter. I read through the hundreds of quotes that had come from this man like some sort of intuitive magic of his tongue. I stared at the pictures of his mentors, the pages of his diary, his humble sandals and the spinning wheels that he had empowered thousands of villagers to utilize as their tool for freedom. I asked Kubleep if he could read in English too because his spoken English was so good. He smiled. This was something that he prided himself on. He began to read, slowly at first, a quote from Gandhi on the liberation of humanity. He made it all the way to the bottom, only needing my help for two or three words. We both stood there smiling at his own liberation. We walked down the hallways of newspapers honoring the great man and paintings and relics from his death and ritual cremation. Kubleep kept reading through the signs, picking up speed and picking up inspiration. Sometimes altruism is just giving someone a ride to the place they need to go or just listening to a person tell you of their home. On this very day, a humble tuk-tuk driver and family man that is no more than a number in this vast city of crowded spirits, became my mentor.
We walked in a spirit of liberation out of the double doors and hopped back in to the tuk-tuk. I just listened. He told me of his “very good friend”, Paul Sutherland from Massachusetts, who had helped his family. He had bought him shoes and helped his kids with money for school. He told me that he wanted his kids to have respectable jobs so that their life would be easier. I listened to his cough, like so many others in this city. I knew it was from all the pollution that he inhaled in that little open tuk-tuk. I listened to his advice. He asked me if I was married and I told him no. He asked me if I had somebody I was going to marry and I told him yes. He told me to make sure that they are the right one because it is for life, just like his wife is for him. I assured him that that this was the right one. That nobody had ever made so much sense before. I asked him if he was a Hindu and he said yes. I told him I was studying Buddhism and he pointed out their connection, which I was aware of. He made reference to a quote he had just seen which had stood out in my own mind. He said that Gandhi says that all of our gods are the same even though we think they are different. We both smiled and agreed as we passed mosques and churches and temples and pulled up to the famous Baha’i temple. He waited and insisted that I go and see. I walked through the droves of people and floated up the stairs, turned in my slippers for a token and floated on further up to the huge white opening lotus. Kubleep’s spirit was all over me with such softness. I waited with the hundreds to sit in the quiet space. There were people with eyes closed, hands in prayer, babies breaking silence with their own chants, people in lotus, and others just marveling at the space. I floated back out of the doors and turned to look at the blue pools below the symbol of blossoming wisdom, just as the sun fell perfectly in to the opening.
I put my shoes on and found my way back to the tuk-tuks. Many others were there vying for my patronage, but there was my humble teacher waiting. He tried to take me elsewhere but I knew I needed to head back. My eyes were fading from inspired exhaustion and he needed to feed his family. He dropped me back off with one last piece of advice, “don’t let others take advantage of you.” I smiled and he told me my smile looked like an opening flower. Like the lotus, I thought. I bowed to him and gave him all that I had in my wallet, except a bit for some bananas. I stumbled back through the opening of this enlightening day and crashed on top of my bag at 6:30 pm.
1st Day in Delhi- Not So Solo
Upon my startling awake, two wee hours after tucking my head into the scoop of my bag and burying my nose in to my tee-shirt, I lurched and gasped to the sound of I don’t know. It was 5:30 am and what appeared to be resounding gunshots and deep thumps upon drums the size of Ganesh, littered my ear drums. Every new ripple of heavy noise weakened me even more after the lack of sleep and anticipatory anxiety of the new surroundings. The smell of burnt popcorn and gunpowder seeped in to the window, followed by a hacking cough and angry dogs putting on a vocal display of aggression. Moments later, all went silent and the space was taken up with Hindi chants and a guttural crashindo of ancient eerie Hindu ballads. All of this, in a place where my visual has not even been embraced by the break of day. Yet I am already drunk on the sensorial phenomena.
My whole self kept lurching to the sporadic rhythms of noise. It did not seem to have a near end and so I scanned my dream memories and jotted down the spotty remnants of broken sequences. I plugged my ear buds in and sat in meditation on my mattress; practice in stillness and focus through meditation like no other experienced yet. I thrust a towel down on the gritty floor and did my morning yoga. I completed my rituals with an hour of contemplative study of the Buddhist principles. Through the inception of the more acceptable sense of morning, the streets had stilled in to a gentle lull. I found my allusive shower on the wall of the bathroom. The Smyle Inn blessed me with a solid five of luke warm water. It was time to venture out of my den at 8 am, when breakfast is served for my rumbling guts and the internet circuits are lit up. With a quick visit to the internet (a mere 15 Rs an hour/30ish cents) I informed those back home in need of knowing that the shady city of New Delhi had left me unscathed. I went up to the rooftop hotel restaurant for my complimentary breakfast. The thick heavy smog still present this morning absorbed my nostrils, muting the faint smells of food awaiting. I received a healthy balance of mango juice box, corn flakes and milk, a crispy veggie omlette, two small bananas and two pieces of white bread. Then a cup of coffee came before I could say tea please. This is the kind of world experience that makes you appreciate the value of everything on your plate, no matter your personal sways or food biases. For as most of us know the poverty is dense poverty in this country. I engaged myself with a hand of set, some 1970’s code breaking card game that my pal got my hooked on. The only others up there was a table of two white women and one woman looking of Indian decent. After striking a conversation, we decided to huddle up that day and manage the tough city together. The two white women were Lithuanian, who I would later find were two off duty journalists in their 50s, both a bit travel-neurotic in their ways. The third was a Guyanese-Canadian woman with Muslim roots, about four generations removed from India. She was of quick tongue and big heart. She and I shared the Caribbean connection, for she traveled back to her home in Guyana yearly as I have just moved from what was my home in Anguilla for two years. I completed the entourage with my go with the flow (no help in decision making) personality.
We polished up breakfast, slung on our various ideas of proper traveling bags and set out in to the mystery awaiting. Instantly struck by the filthy streets, the flat black mopeds and the web of crossing wires overhead, I stared good and hard like a practiced tourist should. We were wedged in a narrow alleyway, amongst other grimy hostels and internet cafes. We made some turns until we were on a wider road rubbing shoulders with old crackly faced men with upturned staches and trickster tots running in and out of pacing legs. Vendors of anything from cashmeres to saris to toy machine guns to roasted peanuts fell into rows along either side of the muddy, food and shit caked road. We made our way past the abrasive clutter of tuk-tuks, taxis and rickshaws, bicyclists, cows and thousands of pedestrians in to the train station arena of con artists. We learned quickly of these schemers. The shark-like Lithuanians headed us steadfastly away from the men so eager to help us on to the wrong path for some commission. By all means, when they insist that the tourist office is not to the left upstairs in the station, just kindly nod your head and make your way up the stairs no matter how forcefully they hunt you with loud assertions of your untrusting demeanor. That is if you have to go through the process of getting a trail pass or any assortment of next day tickets. The stairs smelling of piss should have been enough of a deterrent for me to break away from this group, seeing as how for this part I was simply along for the ride. It was about two hours waiting, which is apparently an improvement. Luckily I have the patience of a sloth after dealings with Caribbean “officials” and “government offices”. Oh well, I was able to thumb through my book on Nepal and watch the array of mostly dirty European hippies and Western seekers stream in and not out. However with a quick check on directions, we were finally off.
As if my external surroundings were not enough entertainment, these babbling bickering women over the trifles of routes and options, was the greatest. All I had to do was stand back and watch them split decisions in to pieces and ramble on about which of them was more aptly prepared to make the most time efficient choices, as time swiftly drifted away. It was nice to be a quiet follower, led by the insane foreigner’s passageway.
Our first destination: Connaught Place. We decided to walk it which took maybe 15 minutes, in which we were harassed by at least five tuk-tuk drivers. We made it there to this large bazaar where we all were finally given the answer to why in which we had been so abruptly awakened this morning. It was an official Indian celebration and holiday for Guru Nanak’s birthday. The high pitched ballads of Indian divas filled the walkways. People were digging with their cupped fingers into bowls made of water lilies and filled with various local roadside foods. People were lounging in the grassy arenas, men toiling with their lover’s hair spilling out from under the bright saris and children running about with their stands of necklaces for sale during play. But this was cut short by the Lithuanians on a mission. Ah, there is always tomorrow for a peaceful solo return to this place. We looked for our man, in a string of frog green and sunshine yellow tuk-tuks. We found him, eager of course to be utilized. Little did he know of the army of head strong women that I traveled amongst. 400 Rs (about $7) for all of us all day was his response. If you ask me, that’s a deal, especially knowing that would perhaps feed his family for more than a couple of days. We headed in to Old Delhi. Let me just say that not one of the mammoth royal religious structures could have surpassed the joy I found in one of these tuk-tuks all smooshed together on laps and half hanging out.
Now I must break paragraphs to tell you of perhaps the most impressionable moment yet, involving a dirt encrusted little hardened angel of about 4 or 5. As a stop light came to be, she spotted our tourist entanglement and ran up just behind the bumper of the car by our side and in front of another bumper. She was painted with long lines of eyeliner and dressed in rags, carrying a beat up metal bowl and a metal ring. She hastily looked from us back to the light, back to us and back to her routine as she shook her hips side to side, flung herself in to a backbend, and roped herself through her prop multiple times with darting eyes and an anxious conclusion of more hip shaking. The light turned green and she thrust her bowl out and begged us in quick speech as the horns began to honk, the driver looked at us anxiously and we clambered through our wallets for anything reasonable for this child and then in a moment she ran back to her street’s edge and we took off in a sea of angry horns. My heart sank and I struggled to hold in my desire to go scoop her up and give her the world. And for her, this is just another incarnation, which will probably be stunted by famine and filth.
The trust you had to put in the driver and in the age old chaos of these roads and their vehicles was huge yet so easy. We plowed through the corridors of Delhi until we came to the largest and oldest mosque in India, known as Jama Mas Jid. Unfortunately we were quickly shooed away by a half blind Muslim man. Prayer was starting and my companions had no hair wraps which we thought was the initial problem but they had ones there for rent. In all the confusion I am not sure why we weren’t let in. After all Mae was a Muslim and I even had a head scarf on. Oh well, another place to revisit tomorrow. The outside was as you would imagine, regal and verbose. The accumulation of mass chanting was surreal in its vibrations. I noticed a group of teenage girls giggling and staring at me with big smiles. This would be the first of many of these odd reactions that I received.
So we were back in the tuk-tuk, on our way to the massive Red Fort. This was some huge Muslim display. A private palace essentially with gigantic walls surrounding it and gardens, and mosque, etc… Definitely worth seeing although I am not sure why. There was a museum at the top with ancient war relics and a sign that said to watch for pick pockets, which kind of killed my comfort in enjoying the history as I was churned through the mass of people. A bit too touristy for me but in India you are never let down when the everyday culture can always out shine even the greatest relics of the past. I was approached by a group of teenage boys wishing to take my picture with a new fangled camera phone. I resisted at first thinking it was yet another ploy for money but then realized quickly that they were just interested in me. So I stood for a picture and then I pointed the camera at them as they giggled and pushed together for a tough guy pic. The saris and the Muslim robes romanticized the whole atmosphere as I strolled through the gardens. All in all, not a bad 250 Rs ($4ish) spent. We found our devoted driver and Mae sweetly decided to buy him a drink to fight the heat. He went up to the drink stand and pocketed the money and came back. I suppose it may buy a string of drinks for thirstier mouths later.
After much jibber-jabber and confusing of the driver, the ladies decided on the Humayun’s tomb. I was pleased. I love going to places of the dead. Of course in true Muslim fashion this wasn’t just any old place. It was gorgeous. However it better be, after about ten thousand men gave their lives to build these massive grounds of ornate structures! It was seemingly endless and we had finally escaped a bit of the chaos and found tranquility here. This was the highlight of the attractions. The tombs were built in the 1700s by a famous architect for a not as famous Muslim who gave his life to a stumble down his steep library stairs. There were at least ten or more buildings on the grounds with a splatter of large palm trees, busy green parrots and scurrying chipmunks. I was able to escape my companions for a spell and just stroll, uninterrupted. Until I made the mistake of taking a picture of a woman sitting on a wall in front a mosque. As I passed to go in and see the structure, she demanded money from me. Apparently you can bottle and sell the charm of a country. It kind of killed the romantic picture that I had just taken. I had nothing small at the time and felt it a bit unfair. I passed her and immediately heard, what sounded like a Hindu’s version of a voodoo-like hiss. I could see all of her eighteen Shakti arms coming at me from behind. Chills ran down my spine. Mae caught up to me. However Dauna and Dalia were missing. Mae’s curious spirit found a steep ancient set of stairs that took us to the rooftop. It was amazing, even in all the smog, the view up top with the lines of columns, archways and domes. We took our moment and then vewy, wewy carefully found our way back to earth. We strolled through more of the grounds. Mae and I have that similar spirit of child like intrigue in the unknown. She is definitely a romantic. We took trips down thoughts of what it was like being a constructor of this phenomenon way back then. Her long pink skirt and youthful smile was often the subject for in my camera’s feast As we entered the archway that lead us to big daddy’s tomb, a buzzing group of once again, teenagers (this time girls) smiled shyly amidst their black and white uniform saris. One of them even clenched my hand and giggled and they all kept sneaking peeks at me. It was so cute, for lack of a better description. Then, as if they couldn’t stand it anymore they sent one of their boys over to ask me in English if I would take a picture with them. “Miss, please take picture with?” We stood in front of some great monument with about three or four girls on either side. They all bowed and thanked me. I took a picture of them in all their sweet giddiness. Mae seemed to pick up on the attention I was getting at this point from all the kids. Still not quite sure if it is just that I am a model of a Western woman or Mae thought maybe it was because I was a western woman with my head actually wrapped. Not sure. Maybe it is that I am just some hippie chick from the states. I suppose there is always a desire for the other side of life and maybe that is what I represented for them. However peculiar, it was also endearing. Perhaps my most picture perfect scene of the day was of a husband and his beautifully dressed angelic wife and what appeared to be either his or her sister and the wife’s small daughter of maybe 4 or 5 who looked down syndrome. I was able to capture the most loving picture of family as the two women helped the little girl rise to the top of the steep set of stairs. It took my breath away at how perfect it all appeared before me
Before we knew it, there had been no sign of the white rabbit Lithuanians and Mae and I knew we were in trouble, for we had fallen in to the abyss of Indian enchantment and not noticed too terribly that they were gone. Sure enough, upon retreating to the parking lot, we had two uppity, head cocked women penetrating our souls with their pissiness. They went on and on of their grief and we hung our heads and took it with a light heart. Nobody was truly to blame but sometimes it makes people feel better to stir up fault to explain their frustrations with simply the flow and pace of life. The driver too seemed disgruntled but then shot me a flirty shrug of the shoulders and a smile through the rear view mirror.
We rushed over to the closing India Gates, a large Parliament structure that reminded 3 out of 4 of us of the Arch d’ Triumph. They walked about it as I retreated to the grassy area. Green being such a novel luxury here, I had to indulge.
We made it back to the market streets of by our hostel and paid the driver an extra 220 Rs for all of his patience and for the great adventure. But as is common here, knowing that we were alien to this area, he tried to get even more. Mae and I being the suckers that we are, lingered the longest in the broken debate as the Lithuanians were off. Eventually after giving up, we started the short hike through the windy muddy roads, full of cows, vendors, a few more tourists in this area and all the frankly putrid smells. But the colored lights were lit and the moon was actually penetrating the pollution enough to once again leave a person awe inspired by the profound paradox of visual ambiguity. What came first the ugly and smelly chaos or the resounding beauty?
After unloading our gear and exchanging our emails, we all freshened up and miss Mae and I met up and went back in to the streets to seek much needed fuel for the body. We wound down a rugged alleyway market that was so rich with colorful vegetables, bags of grains and spices and herbs, each spot run by skinny Indians usually seated with bare feet in lotus position on a pillow, handing out goods. We finally made our decision, settling on a Chinese nook of a restaurant. We ordered veggie rice and veggie noodles to split. I have to admit, I was scared and much apprehensive to the sanitary nature of what it was that we were about to receive. After all, I have never eaten at a place where the waiters walk around bare foot and grab noodles with their bare, unwashed for maybe days, hands. But the idea I find that works here is just to work up such an appetite that it doesn’t really matter what you are taking in as long as it can be called food (vegetarian of course). And, you know, those noodles were delightful, grime and all. The grand total, including a bottle of water was 55 Rs plus tip (about $1.50) for both of us combined. And it is now 7 am on the following morning and my stomach is still intact. What do you know?
By the time we made it back, I could barely pull on my favorite p.j. pants and crawl into my sack before I was out. I had all kinds of intention to come back and edit pictures and start journaling my day but that didn’t happen till I awoke peacefully around 3 am.
My whole self kept lurching to the sporadic rhythms of noise. It did not seem to have a near end and so I scanned my dream memories and jotted down the spotty remnants of broken sequences. I plugged my ear buds in and sat in meditation on my mattress; practice in stillness and focus through meditation like no other experienced yet. I thrust a towel down on the gritty floor and did my morning yoga. I completed my rituals with an hour of contemplative study of the Buddhist principles. Through the inception of the more acceptable sense of morning, the streets had stilled in to a gentle lull. I found my allusive shower on the wall of the bathroom. The Smyle Inn blessed me with a solid five of luke warm water. It was time to venture out of my den at 8 am, when breakfast is served for my rumbling guts and the internet circuits are lit up. With a quick visit to the internet (a mere 15 Rs an hour/30ish cents) I informed those back home in need of knowing that the shady city of New Delhi had left me unscathed. I went up to the rooftop hotel restaurant for my complimentary breakfast. The thick heavy smog still present this morning absorbed my nostrils, muting the faint smells of food awaiting. I received a healthy balance of mango juice box, corn flakes and milk, a crispy veggie omlette, two small bananas and two pieces of white bread. Then a cup of coffee came before I could say tea please. This is the kind of world experience that makes you appreciate the value of everything on your plate, no matter your personal sways or food biases. For as most of us know the poverty is dense poverty in this country. I engaged myself with a hand of set, some 1970’s code breaking card game that my pal got my hooked on. The only others up there was a table of two white women and one woman looking of Indian decent. After striking a conversation, we decided to huddle up that day and manage the tough city together. The two white women were Lithuanian, who I would later find were two off duty journalists in their 50s, both a bit travel-neurotic in their ways. The third was a Guyanese-Canadian woman with Muslim roots, about four generations removed from India. She was of quick tongue and big heart. She and I shared the Caribbean connection, for she traveled back to her home in Guyana yearly as I have just moved from what was my home in Anguilla for two years. I completed the entourage with my go with the flow (no help in decision making) personality.
We polished up breakfast, slung on our various ideas of proper traveling bags and set out in to the mystery awaiting. Instantly struck by the filthy streets, the flat black mopeds and the web of crossing wires overhead, I stared good and hard like a practiced tourist should. We were wedged in a narrow alleyway, amongst other grimy hostels and internet cafes. We made some turns until we were on a wider road rubbing shoulders with old crackly faced men with upturned staches and trickster tots running in and out of pacing legs. Vendors of anything from cashmeres to saris to toy machine guns to roasted peanuts fell into rows along either side of the muddy, food and shit caked road. We made our way past the abrasive clutter of tuk-tuks, taxis and rickshaws, bicyclists, cows and thousands of pedestrians in to the train station arena of con artists. We learned quickly of these schemers. The shark-like Lithuanians headed us steadfastly away from the men so eager to help us on to the wrong path for some commission. By all means, when they insist that the tourist office is not to the left upstairs in the station, just kindly nod your head and make your way up the stairs no matter how forcefully they hunt you with loud assertions of your untrusting demeanor. That is if you have to go through the process of getting a trail pass or any assortment of next day tickets. The stairs smelling of piss should have been enough of a deterrent for me to break away from this group, seeing as how for this part I was simply along for the ride. It was about two hours waiting, which is apparently an improvement. Luckily I have the patience of a sloth after dealings with Caribbean “officials” and “government offices”. Oh well, I was able to thumb through my book on Nepal and watch the array of mostly dirty European hippies and Western seekers stream in and not out. However with a quick check on directions, we were finally off.
As if my external surroundings were not enough entertainment, these babbling bickering women over the trifles of routes and options, was the greatest. All I had to do was stand back and watch them split decisions in to pieces and ramble on about which of them was more aptly prepared to make the most time efficient choices, as time swiftly drifted away. It was nice to be a quiet follower, led by the insane foreigner’s passageway.
Our first destination: Connaught Place. We decided to walk it which took maybe 15 minutes, in which we were harassed by at least five tuk-tuk drivers. We made it there to this large bazaar where we all were finally given the answer to why in which we had been so abruptly awakened this morning. It was an official Indian celebration and holiday for Guru Nanak’s birthday. The high pitched ballads of Indian divas filled the walkways. People were digging with their cupped fingers into bowls made of water lilies and filled with various local roadside foods. People were lounging in the grassy arenas, men toiling with their lover’s hair spilling out from under the bright saris and children running about with their stands of necklaces for sale during play. But this was cut short by the Lithuanians on a mission. Ah, there is always tomorrow for a peaceful solo return to this place. We looked for our man, in a string of frog green and sunshine yellow tuk-tuks. We found him, eager of course to be utilized. Little did he know of the army of head strong women that I traveled amongst. 400 Rs (about $7) for all of us all day was his response. If you ask me, that’s a deal, especially knowing that would perhaps feed his family for more than a couple of days. We headed in to Old Delhi. Let me just say that not one of the mammoth royal religious structures could have surpassed the joy I found in one of these tuk-tuks all smooshed together on laps and half hanging out.
Now I must break paragraphs to tell you of perhaps the most impressionable moment yet, involving a dirt encrusted little hardened angel of about 4 or 5. As a stop light came to be, she spotted our tourist entanglement and ran up just behind the bumper of the car by our side and in front of another bumper. She was painted with long lines of eyeliner and dressed in rags, carrying a beat up metal bowl and a metal ring. She hastily looked from us back to the light, back to us and back to her routine as she shook her hips side to side, flung herself in to a backbend, and roped herself through her prop multiple times with darting eyes and an anxious conclusion of more hip shaking. The light turned green and she thrust her bowl out and begged us in quick speech as the horns began to honk, the driver looked at us anxiously and we clambered through our wallets for anything reasonable for this child and then in a moment she ran back to her street’s edge and we took off in a sea of angry horns. My heart sank and I struggled to hold in my desire to go scoop her up and give her the world. And for her, this is just another incarnation, which will probably be stunted by famine and filth.
The trust you had to put in the driver and in the age old chaos of these roads and their vehicles was huge yet so easy. We plowed through the corridors of Delhi until we came to the largest and oldest mosque in India, known as Jama Mas Jid. Unfortunately we were quickly shooed away by a half blind Muslim man. Prayer was starting and my companions had no hair wraps which we thought was the initial problem but they had ones there for rent. In all the confusion I am not sure why we weren’t let in. After all Mae was a Muslim and I even had a head scarf on. Oh well, another place to revisit tomorrow. The outside was as you would imagine, regal and verbose. The accumulation of mass chanting was surreal in its vibrations. I noticed a group of teenage girls giggling and staring at me with big smiles. This would be the first of many of these odd reactions that I received.
So we were back in the tuk-tuk, on our way to the massive Red Fort. This was some huge Muslim display. A private palace essentially with gigantic walls surrounding it and gardens, and mosque, etc… Definitely worth seeing although I am not sure why. There was a museum at the top with ancient war relics and a sign that said to watch for pick pockets, which kind of killed my comfort in enjoying the history as I was churned through the mass of people. A bit too touristy for me but in India you are never let down when the everyday culture can always out shine even the greatest relics of the past. I was approached by a group of teenage boys wishing to take my picture with a new fangled camera phone. I resisted at first thinking it was yet another ploy for money but then realized quickly that they were just interested in me. So I stood for a picture and then I pointed the camera at them as they giggled and pushed together for a tough guy pic. The saris and the Muslim robes romanticized the whole atmosphere as I strolled through the gardens. All in all, not a bad 250 Rs ($4ish) spent. We found our devoted driver and Mae sweetly decided to buy him a drink to fight the heat. He went up to the drink stand and pocketed the money and came back. I suppose it may buy a string of drinks for thirstier mouths later.
After much jibber-jabber and confusing of the driver, the ladies decided on the Humayun’s tomb. I was pleased. I love going to places of the dead. Of course in true Muslim fashion this wasn’t just any old place. It was gorgeous. However it better be, after about ten thousand men gave their lives to build these massive grounds of ornate structures! It was seemingly endless and we had finally escaped a bit of the chaos and found tranquility here. This was the highlight of the attractions. The tombs were built in the 1700s by a famous architect for a not as famous Muslim who gave his life to a stumble down his steep library stairs. There were at least ten or more buildings on the grounds with a splatter of large palm trees, busy green parrots and scurrying chipmunks. I was able to escape my companions for a spell and just stroll, uninterrupted. Until I made the mistake of taking a picture of a woman sitting on a wall in front a mosque. As I passed to go in and see the structure, she demanded money from me. Apparently you can bottle and sell the charm of a country. It kind of killed the romantic picture that I had just taken. I had nothing small at the time and felt it a bit unfair. I passed her and immediately heard, what sounded like a Hindu’s version of a voodoo-like hiss. I could see all of her eighteen Shakti arms coming at me from behind. Chills ran down my spine. Mae caught up to me. However Dauna and Dalia were missing. Mae’s curious spirit found a steep ancient set of stairs that took us to the rooftop. It was amazing, even in all the smog, the view up top with the lines of columns, archways and domes. We took our moment and then vewy, wewy carefully found our way back to earth. We strolled through more of the grounds. Mae and I have that similar spirit of child like intrigue in the unknown. She is definitely a romantic. We took trips down thoughts of what it was like being a constructor of this phenomenon way back then. Her long pink skirt and youthful smile was often the subject for in my camera’s feast As we entered the archway that lead us to big daddy’s tomb, a buzzing group of once again, teenagers (this time girls) smiled shyly amidst their black and white uniform saris. One of them even clenched my hand and giggled and they all kept sneaking peeks at me. It was so cute, for lack of a better description. Then, as if they couldn’t stand it anymore they sent one of their boys over to ask me in English if I would take a picture with them. “Miss, please take picture with?” We stood in front of some great monument with about three or four girls on either side. They all bowed and thanked me. I took a picture of them in all their sweet giddiness. Mae seemed to pick up on the attention I was getting at this point from all the kids. Still not quite sure if it is just that I am a model of a Western woman or Mae thought maybe it was because I was a western woman with my head actually wrapped. Not sure. Maybe it is that I am just some hippie chick from the states. I suppose there is always a desire for the other side of life and maybe that is what I represented for them. However peculiar, it was also endearing. Perhaps my most picture perfect scene of the day was of a husband and his beautifully dressed angelic wife and what appeared to be either his or her sister and the wife’s small daughter of maybe 4 or 5 who looked down syndrome. I was able to capture the most loving picture of family as the two women helped the little girl rise to the top of the steep set of stairs. It took my breath away at how perfect it all appeared before me
Before we knew it, there had been no sign of the white rabbit Lithuanians and Mae and I knew we were in trouble, for we had fallen in to the abyss of Indian enchantment and not noticed too terribly that they were gone. Sure enough, upon retreating to the parking lot, we had two uppity, head cocked women penetrating our souls with their pissiness. They went on and on of their grief and we hung our heads and took it with a light heart. Nobody was truly to blame but sometimes it makes people feel better to stir up fault to explain their frustrations with simply the flow and pace of life. The driver too seemed disgruntled but then shot me a flirty shrug of the shoulders and a smile through the rear view mirror.
We rushed over to the closing India Gates, a large Parliament structure that reminded 3 out of 4 of us of the Arch d’ Triumph. They walked about it as I retreated to the grassy area. Green being such a novel luxury here, I had to indulge.
We made it back to the market streets of by our hostel and paid the driver an extra 220 Rs for all of his patience and for the great adventure. But as is common here, knowing that we were alien to this area, he tried to get even more. Mae and I being the suckers that we are, lingered the longest in the broken debate as the Lithuanians were off. Eventually after giving up, we started the short hike through the windy muddy roads, full of cows, vendors, a few more tourists in this area and all the frankly putrid smells. But the colored lights were lit and the moon was actually penetrating the pollution enough to once again leave a person awe inspired by the profound paradox of visual ambiguity. What came first the ugly and smelly chaos or the resounding beauty?
After unloading our gear and exchanging our emails, we all freshened up and miss Mae and I met up and went back in to the streets to seek much needed fuel for the body. We wound down a rugged alleyway market that was so rich with colorful vegetables, bags of grains and spices and herbs, each spot run by skinny Indians usually seated with bare feet in lotus position on a pillow, handing out goods. We finally made our decision, settling on a Chinese nook of a restaurant. We ordered veggie rice and veggie noodles to split. I have to admit, I was scared and much apprehensive to the sanitary nature of what it was that we were about to receive. After all, I have never eaten at a place where the waiters walk around bare foot and grab noodles with their bare, unwashed for maybe days, hands. But the idea I find that works here is just to work up such an appetite that it doesn’t really matter what you are taking in as long as it can be called food (vegetarian of course). And, you know, those noodles were delightful, grime and all. The grand total, including a bottle of water was 55 Rs plus tip (about $1.50) for both of us combined. And it is now 7 am on the following morning and my stomach is still intact. What do you know?
By the time we made it back, I could barely pull on my favorite p.j. pants and crawl into my sack before I was out. I had all kinds of intention to come back and edit pictures and start journaling my day but that didn’t happen till I awoke peacefully around 3 am.
1st Night in New Delhi- Sensory Confusion
It is 1:45 am here in India, which means I am wide awake, as it is 1:45ish pm where I last came from. Let me just give you a feel for what my very juvenile understanding of New Delhi is thus far.
I am lying here on a mattress about an inch thick, my sleeping bag the necessary barrier in between me and the bedding. There is a small framed picture of a Hindu goddess above my head and an extremely questionable shower. There are slats of glass in the bathroom, to which lend me an ear to the outside world which I have not yet seen in the light. I hear the hacking of a youngish sounding maiden and the laughter between men. I hear the occasional whizzing sound of a rickshaw passing by, but really this is more tucked in an alleyway. I am sure the true chaos of the streets will be witnessed early in the morning. My lodging is at the world famous Smyle Inn hostel close to the busy Cannought Place of New Delhi.
As I first came in to the airport past immigration, I was struck with a smoky haze all abouts. There was a small troop of monks, bald and enrobed with the vibrant orange that they are so often associated with. My next most obvious observation as I was walking through customs reading speedily the signs outstretched, looking for a ‘Laura Roseman’ piece of paper, was the vast quantities of men. You had to scan over 20 or 30 men to see one, usually small round, adorned female. I found my tiny Indian with the right sign. We waited together for my ride. As I sat some MORE (thank you 12.5 hour flight, but I shouldn’t complain because thanks to Richard for giving me a pass and mom arranging my flight, I got the cushy 1st), I simply observed the buzzing Eastern essence of humanity. Another odd observance, even though I had been told, was how many people spoke English, but not just to foreigners, but amongst themselves.
When the man received the phone call about the ride we quickly scurried outside in to the most un-fresh, severely tainted surroundings that I have ever known. The pollution was so thick, it seemed a sick joke. In fact, the air was so foul that I quickly acquired a headache from the toxins. I mean damn that’s some shit! It’s hard for me to even go any further. This was by far the most blinding realization. It looked like a day of extremely heavy fog and in the distance there was a tall building with sparks flying from it, construction workers pounding away at 11 pm, stray skinny puppies crossing wild and narrow lanes of traffic. This by far surpassed any culture shock that I have experienced. I felt like a crumb of small-calm-unseen on the most chaotic set. My things and I were hurried to my chariot and we were off amongst the rickshaws, old vehicles (looking of the 50s), and the delivery trucks littered with color and words. There were even motorbikes with wannabe Baliwood stars and old skinny men in torn britches, pedaling by.
After 30 minutes or so of what appeared to be a major highway, we made it in to Connaught Place. This is when the images of faraway lands were finally in my up close view. The lanes of the road were narrow and rounding. We passed gaunt men on blankets, selling whatever goods they had. We passed cows slummin’ the scene and even a calf cleaning itself atop an old car. Thank god cows are sacred in this land, for they offer the most delicate blend of various fragrances to this city. The alleyways were topped off with a clutter of eroded concrete structures open to the elements as well as the tenants. There was an occasional lamp but mostly gray darkness and grimy concrete. When we stepped out of the car, I noticed a man with a tin bowl, washing it in a corner of the street. A couple of young gentlemen flashed me a smile and an old woman crept by in a hunched posture.
I made it in to the hostel. The accommodations are quiet exceptional considering the humble living arrangements of the rest of this society. After all, I am not on a street trying to sleep.
My eyes are opened wide to this experience thus far. Not any advice or story could have prepared me for the grotesque AWE full nature of this planet, called New Delhi.
Well, I suppose I will have my meditation now and lie down for some possible shut eye. I am waiting for the morning, when I will be able to find drinkable water.
Till next time…
I am lying here on a mattress about an inch thick, my sleeping bag the necessary barrier in between me and the bedding. There is a small framed picture of a Hindu goddess above my head and an extremely questionable shower. There are slats of glass in the bathroom, to which lend me an ear to the outside world which I have not yet seen in the light. I hear the hacking of a youngish sounding maiden and the laughter between men. I hear the occasional whizzing sound of a rickshaw passing by, but really this is more tucked in an alleyway. I am sure the true chaos of the streets will be witnessed early in the morning. My lodging is at the world famous Smyle Inn hostel close to the busy Cannought Place of New Delhi.
As I first came in to the airport past immigration, I was struck with a smoky haze all abouts. There was a small troop of monks, bald and enrobed with the vibrant orange that they are so often associated with. My next most obvious observation as I was walking through customs reading speedily the signs outstretched, looking for a ‘Laura Roseman’ piece of paper, was the vast quantities of men. You had to scan over 20 or 30 men to see one, usually small round, adorned female. I found my tiny Indian with the right sign. We waited together for my ride. As I sat some MORE (thank you 12.5 hour flight, but I shouldn’t complain because thanks to Richard for giving me a pass and mom arranging my flight, I got the cushy 1st), I simply observed the buzzing Eastern essence of humanity. Another odd observance, even though I had been told, was how many people spoke English, but not just to foreigners, but amongst themselves.
When the man received the phone call about the ride we quickly scurried outside in to the most un-fresh, severely tainted surroundings that I have ever known. The pollution was so thick, it seemed a sick joke. In fact, the air was so foul that I quickly acquired a headache from the toxins. I mean damn that’s some shit! It’s hard for me to even go any further. This was by far the most blinding realization. It looked like a day of extremely heavy fog and in the distance there was a tall building with sparks flying from it, construction workers pounding away at 11 pm, stray skinny puppies crossing wild and narrow lanes of traffic. This by far surpassed any culture shock that I have experienced. I felt like a crumb of small-calm-unseen on the most chaotic set. My things and I were hurried to my chariot and we were off amongst the rickshaws, old vehicles (looking of the 50s), and the delivery trucks littered with color and words. There were even motorbikes with wannabe Baliwood stars and old skinny men in torn britches, pedaling by.
After 30 minutes or so of what appeared to be a major highway, we made it in to Connaught Place. This is when the images of faraway lands were finally in my up close view. The lanes of the road were narrow and rounding. We passed gaunt men on blankets, selling whatever goods they had. We passed cows slummin’ the scene and even a calf cleaning itself atop an old car. Thank god cows are sacred in this land, for they offer the most delicate blend of various fragrances to this city. The alleyways were topped off with a clutter of eroded concrete structures open to the elements as well as the tenants. There was an occasional lamp but mostly gray darkness and grimy concrete. When we stepped out of the car, I noticed a man with a tin bowl, washing it in a corner of the street. A couple of young gentlemen flashed me a smile and an old woman crept by in a hunched posture.
I made it in to the hostel. The accommodations are quiet exceptional considering the humble living arrangements of the rest of this society. After all, I am not on a street trying to sleep.
My eyes are opened wide to this experience thus far. Not any advice or story could have prepared me for the grotesque AWE full nature of this planet, called New Delhi.
Well, I suppose I will have my meditation now and lie down for some possible shut eye. I am waiting for the morning, when I will be able to find drinkable water.
Till next time…
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