In the Land of Shiva: Part XIII

We rose with the sun in search of the holiest site in Sikhism. And I relished the plush green carpet beneath my feet, the Western showers, hot water pouring down, a four star hotel for the same price as a Motel 8 room in the States. It was luxury.

Not the same can be said for the taxi driver we reserved for the weekend. I discovered his bed was the backseat of the taxi, likely a quick face and ear wash with cold water in a bathroom nearby. He packed no change of clothes, np overnight bag for our two day journey, only his thinning button up shirt, pants, and a Punjabi music cassette that we’d listen to for over 5 hours that weekend. I thought it odd to memorize excerpts of a song in a language I didn’t speak, words whose meaning I failed to grasp. 

He left us in a parking lot. Melancholy buildings loomed around, Indian men’s eyes stared at these six Western women huddled together, whispering concerns, debating direction to step. The driver just waived for us to walk away, and hesitantly, we complied. But after five minutes, the same decrepit structures and eyes with different faces remained. It felt like post war Europe invaded with immigrants, and we panicked, racing back to the lot. Taxi and driver gone. Shit. Abandoned in Amritsar. 

We decided to retrace our steps thinking perhaps we didn’t go far enough. But nothing fit, nothing made sense. We were in search of a building of gold, but we were encompassed by forgotten structures, their facades faded and subdued. It would be like finding Eden within the bounds of a wasteland. 

After a ten minute walk and rounding a corner, we came to see this was indeed the case. Red and silver streamers glimmered in the morning light, a party at the edge of disaster. An immaculate structure encircled the Golden Temple, a threshold to be crossed, separating sacred from profane. 

Beneath a tent, we slipped off our shoes and handed them over in exchange for a chip. Within the tiled ground were basins of water. Slowly walking through, washing my feet of impurities so as not to taint holy ground. As I climbed the steps, a sliver of gold began to appear. At the top, all was revealed, a temple of gold that almost seemed to be floating on water. How the rising sun warmed its walls with light, causing it to radiate. 

At the sight of it, Haylee cried. Others wanted a moment of silent meditation. And I was in a state of horrific concern. Never would I share my thoughts at that precise moment with them, even with Jaye, nor with another when I returned home in the weeks to come. Before me was a building that invoked awe. That awoke the numinous and compelled people to to their knees, to prayer, to tears. But inside me, before that great temple, was a terrifying silence, a void of emotive fervor. So scared was I of this absent emotion that I almost broke down and wept. And the source of my tears would have been misinterpreted drastically.

The hallow state I felt then haunted me for so long after that day. I thought myself soul sick. How could a student of religions, so passionate about this discourse, feel nothing before one of the greatest temples in the world? And how could others that knew nothing of Sikhism, little of this temple, of its significance to Sikhs, could be struck so powerfully just at the sight of its walls? I evaded ruminating on this for months, fearing what I may unearth about myself in the process. I blamed it on the sickness waking from dormancy in my belly, the nausea and pepto chewables I ate like candy. Yes, it was illness, dehydration, a sick state of being that ruined my encounter with the Golden Temple. I knew this to be a lie, but I willed myself to believe it until the day I realized what had happened to me that day. A revelation that came almost an entire year later.

At the doors of the temple, sound changes. No longer can the ears distinguish between sounds. All there is is a series of voices, prayers, a chorus of bodies without a conductor to guide them. Men and women stand with eyes closed, hands pressed together all the while their mouths move. No room for air between brother and sister, feel the sweat of another, their breath upon your back. And the deeper inside the abyss of bodies, the sound rises, the mind hears nothing but hundreds of voices in indecipherable tongues and all that I can see is the center, the reason for bowed heads, and prostrations, tears and prayers. Roped off is three men and the sacred text, the eternal prophet of the Sikhs, the Guru Granth Sahib. 

Standing but several feet away, I am pushed, jostled, shoved away by pilgrims earnestly reaching towards the sacred heart of their being. Rupees are being tossed in, crumpled bills, meager coin change. Dozens on their knees, arms stretched towards men who hold folded orange fabric. These are blessed, to be worn by men upon their brow, but only if the right number of rupees fall to the ground. So many palms open, waiting to be filled. 

I am entranced. Paralyzed by so much before me. My eyes attempt to take it all in, I want to remember it all. And the voices make it difficult to focus. I see the intricate craftsmanship of its underbelly, vivid paints on all its walls, blues, oranges, whites, and the reflected light from its gold walls cascades inside. I cannot move, cannot dismiss these prostrating bodies, their prayers, the smell of their skin, the reading of scripture, too much in this place lives, too much to segregate in the mind. And then I feel my sickness rising, the heat of too many bodies causing my body to concede. Now I pray a silent prayer, “Don’t throw up in their sacred space. Do not throw up in their sacred space.” 

And I’m chanting this over and over in my head. Trying to inch my way towards the closest open space, a bit of air and perhaps I’ll be okay. And then I feel a quick slap across my head, then another. I turn to find an old woman, hair white and face pruned, berating me in Hindi. She slaps the side of my head again, and I jerk away from her, think her mad. But then she smacks her own head, and I realize my grave error. In the midst of my fixation and illness, my headscarf had slipped off, exposing my dark brown hair, a naked head before something so holy. I am horrified, and quickly adjust my scarf, tuck back my hair. All the while I’m apologizing in a language no one around me knows. Long ago was I separated from the others, now alone to face my gaffe. I’m inching away, giving a half bow, the only Hindi word I can think of is Namaste, no use in this context. But I think myself forgiven, for she laughed at me, then went back to her prayer. I managed not to vomit on sacred ground, but brandishing an uncovered head just may trump illness.

The experience and exertion of the morning had drained my energy. I was so tired that all I yearned for was the small cot and window air conditioning that awaited me back at the hotel. My belly and soul were soured, and I just wanted to retreat back to seclusion.

A year later, I once again confronted the void I felt at the sight of the temple. It was an issue I kept analyzing for months, wondering the extent of the illness in my soul. But one day, I realized why it had been such. In Religious Studies, it is said that one sees religion one of two ways: from the top down or from the bottom up. Those focused on the top are usually fixated with god(s), philosophy, abstractions, manifestations of the sacred, symbols, and so on. But those that start at the bottom likely never raise their head enough to even see the sky. The bottom is the people. The focus on the ritual, the internalizing of beliefs, the manifestation of religion in thoughts, speech, action, the union of spirituality and religion with a person, a community, a people.

Since the day I devoted myself to the study of religions, I have been a practitioner of from the bottom up. It is within the lives and stories of the people that I seek religion and spirituality, abstractions do little to entice and engage me, as is the same with gods and philosophy. I felt nothing at the sight of the temple, but was greatly overwhelmed within its walls, engulfed by hundreds of devotees. I sought to etch into my mind the images of praying, prostrating, puja, the smells, all I touched, the sensuality and spirituality that saturated that space.  It took so long for me to see, to realize, what truly invoked me, but the day that I finally understood this gave me insight I had lacked even into my own being.

In the Land of Shiva: Part XII

Water is life, life in water can be death. A lesson learned too well in a Himalayan summer.

So naive was I my first time abroad. A suitcase half packed with bare necessities, lacking in resources I was unaware of needing. My first night in Delhi, I learned the importance of water. If only three hours a day was permitted for water use, for showers, flushing toilets, brushing teeth, then it was within reason of preservation, usurp power from greedy water lovers. Never is a fruit so tasteful, refreshing, as a ripe mango so juicy with water from its flesh.

We were told bottled or filtered water only. Take precautions. I heeded this request, but still failed drastically. I brushed my teeth in the tap water, swished it in my mouth without second thoughts. From the beginning I could have started the downfall.

In Dharamsala, the monsoon rains were just beginning. Rainfall that would consume morning hours, flooding foot paths, creating rivers that weaved their way through around homes and rocks, rushing to an end I never saw. But with each rain came a deluge, undoubtedly one could have kayaked down the mountains if crafty enough. Sometimes paths would have to be rebuilt, too many rocks caught in the waters, taxis would be unable to drive through, other routes on foot required. And though the rains are needed, welcomed, they spread disease, bacteria, washing away what is unclean to another abode.

With the rainy season was another dilemma, the water source or caretaker of the town water had changed. How so, I’m not sure, but soon even the people of Dharamsala filled health clinics and chemists shops. Sickness was flourishing and it was a matter of time before it struck foreign bellies.

The first day in Dharamsala, the volunteers were divided into groups to race around the town, to see if we could make our way. The two distinguishing elements of this place were the bazaar and the water pump. If you found yourself by either of these two places, you would realize your location and be able to know the route home. The walk to the water pump was about ten minutes, a pebbled path that eventually leads to uneven stone steps and down a small steep hill. There is the life source of the people, a small metal pump, and never did I see it neglected. Whether child, woman, or man, water was being fetched, pumped into buckets before being carried away. And the downhill walk from our flat was so much more vigorous on the path back because in its paradoxical existence turned uphill. I thought of the women, of my several students, each day they walked this path, pumped water and hauled it back to wash cheap tin plates, their clothes, their bodies. How quick I am to forget the easiness of my ventures at home, a several feet walk to a kitchen and faucet with filtered tap water. And even with their friends and family falling ill from the water, it was the only choice, and no one could live without. So even the sick took in the treacherous drink that had turned their insides sour.

In these thoughts, a rush of memories about water fill my mind. Meena squatting on her front step washing plates, smiling up at me. Investigating bottled water seals to see if vendors were attempting to sell us tap water. Jaye over a water filled bucket washing her underwear, crying, her salty tears more sanitary than what came out of the faucets. The murky floods that made the steep steps to our flats into waterfalls. The flushing toilets that my students weren’t fortunate enough to have in their homes like I. Vegetables for our raw salad washed in cold tap water. The lid of our filtered water cannister being rinsed in tap water by a member of the cleaning staff before placing the lid back. I almost wanted to shout at her, fool, what have you done, how it is surely tainted in this heat, you wish the sickness upon us all! But mostly, I remember the bucket showers.

This element of life for me seemed so gruesome to many of my friends. A bucket filled of water to wash with. Never did it go to waste. A scooper as an assistant, slowly pouring water over limbs, naked in a pink tiled bathroom and black painted cement floor. Closing eyes, holding breath, when pouring water over my face, slowly, no water to waste. How quick the soap would begin to dry on the skin, how the feet, the toes never seemed to get clean. Water collecting, sitting beneath the feet, arousing what had gone unseen on the floor now lifted and drowning. Yes, the feet never got clean. Dirty when cleaned. What was left went down the floor drain, how wasteful, careless estimate of the amount needed. Then a rubber bladed sweeper to drag across the floor, pool the water towards the drain, and watch it leave. My flatmate, Jaye, in attempts to make the bucket shower a more glamorous experience said one day that it could, in an odd way, be like an Herbal Essence commercial sans the orgasmic sounds. Who knew a bucket shower could be so sexy.

Between bucket showers and monsoon rains, water made itself present and known. It giveth and taketh, indeed. One afternoon, several of us returned from McLeodganj, and at the taxi stand, the deluge poured from the sky. Figuring it would pass in ten minutes, we waited in a small shop with a hodgepodge of goods from U.S. soda in small glass bottles, Western looking baby dolls, chips and sweets. But we were also stuck inside with several men. Who knew such a small place could feel all the more small and awkward. We would have been fine had the staring ceased. But Jaye and Hailey are blond and blue eyed, so exotic in this land, the men can never help but stare. And with several pairs of dark colored eyes fixated on us, the uneasiness mounted. We knew little Hindi, and with stalker eyed men speaking low in a tongue we can’t decipher, it is easy to go from mild discomfort to threatened. After fifteen minutes, the rains had yet to cease.

Finally, Hailey and another couldn’t stand it, purchased an umbrella and took off in the rain towards our flat. The waters were heavy, gaining power. It wasn’t more than ten more minutes that Jaye and I decided to follow. Monsoon rains brought more comfort than staring eyes, and with the ratio of men per women increased, we preferred the horrendous weather. I soon questioned that logic not even twenty feet from the shop door. Jaye and I under a small black umbrella, walking slow, with a massive downpour and winds.

The power of the summer rains is difficult to explain. Trees are forced almost sideways, ready to break at the hip. People stay indoors until the weather’s rage has subdued, but not us, not these stupid foreign girls. Water is rushing, quick and forceful, racing down step paths, flooding basins left out to collect this precious gift from the gods. It’s up to mid shin, and I’m beginning to think how easy with one swift torrent for Jaye or me to be swept back, falling backwards into the waters and finding it difficult not to wash away. This became a real concern at one impasse, the path forked, but the connector was eroded down, thin and weak from all the storms. If either of us slipped, we would be carried down stone steps for at least fifteen feet, likely not stopping until colliding with the wall of a house. We debated crossing. Hoping the rains would lessen. But the sky said otherwise and we knew.

We decided slow steps, firm, put weight into each step. And as we began to walk, I looked down to notice a shiny silver ring in the waters, unmoved thanks to larger rocks around it. I’m not sure why it caught my eye, but when I noticed it, I thought it strangely looked like the ring Hailey had purchased just an hour ago at the McLeodganj bazaar. I picked it up and began to walk, and as soon as I did, water rushed between my right foot and flip flop and whisked it away. My reaction was to grab it, but I stopped, realizing if I did what would happen. And I watched my black Croc flip flop float upon monsoon waters, zigzagging above the stone steps that led to lower Dharamsala homes and the local bazaar. Those damn waters.

Walking with one foot bare upon pebbles, dirt, and rocks, is not pleasant. And each little pang of pain upon my sole made me want to curse the gods, curse Dharamsala, curse each little bastard rock that attempted to impale my naked foot. Not far from the flat, an elevated home had several people sitting on the porch being voyeur to the storm. Even with all the water noise, we could hear them laughing. Of course at us, the stupid Western women taking a stroll in the monsoon. Not just a mild chuckle, but hearty belly laughter, smiles wide, never before had I seen Indians laugh so hard in my time there. Hysterical, yes, one umbrella, a shoeless Western whore, and two women soaked like alley mutts. Quite the live show.

Back at the flat, Hailey was on the porch waiting. I held up my thumb with a silver ring and asked if it belonged to her. Her face was shocked, then turned to elation. It had fallen in the water on the way home; she thought it gone forever. I suppose I exchanged my flip flop for the ring, the water gods couldn’t leave with nothing. Had only I known a replacement sacrifice would be required! But it made her smile, and Hailey smiles like a child opening twenty gifts. Just the odds of finding a lost ring in rushing monsoon rains still shocks me a bit today, what luck, whether good or bad, perhaps neutral.

And this is water in India. It too embraces paradox. Sustains life and takes life or at least brings it to its knees. Such power in an element, and how powerless we become without it or consumed, overtaken by it. Even now I thirst, but what a luxury for me to sit in a bed and just reach over to my side table for my cold bottled water. How I forget about the struggle for so many. I think of my students. If they still walk that path daily to the water pump and back. Burden their arms, hands and backs with the heavy weight of water. So careful in its use so another trip isn’t required. Trusting it without knowing if it will keep them well or give sickness. Yes, water is life, and life within water can be death, or for some, rebirth.

In the Land of Shiva: Part XI

I adore a particular Hindu narrative about Shiva. Sitting in a Himalayan cave, Shiva sits in meditation. Playfully, his lover, his bride, Uma, comes up behind him and covers his eyes. In the brief seconds of innocent blindness, the earth quakes, darkness engulfs the world, chaos, destruction. But then Shiva’s third eye awakens, lifting its dormant lid, replenishing light upon the earth, restoring order. How the closed eyes of a god can bring a world to its knees…

Religion is beyond pervasive, it is intricately woven into Indian life. There is no separation. Each day is dedicated to a deity. Dime store posters hung on walls of every home I entered. Durga and her tiger. Shiva with his many arms, performing his dance of destruction. Saraswati playing her veena, perched on a blossoming lotus, swan by her feet. Ganesha, the elephant god, with his wondrous trunk. Hanuman, the monkey god, the one who helped Rama rescue his wife, Sita. Vishnue the preserver. Brahma, the creator. Kali, blackened skin, tongue sticking out, skulls and blood around her, she is death, she is powerful, she is the end. Each contain their own sacred narratives, their intoxicating myths of life, destruction, foolishness, forgiveness. Iconic images with layers of meaning, no item held in their palm is without purpose, no mudra pointless, it all is symbolic, equal importance.

In the mornings, I would watch the mother of the upstairs flat walk down the steps to the small shrine. It could easily go unnoticed to the ignorant eye. Merely bricks white washed piled in a fashion to make perhaps a miniature outdoor oven. But inside its belly three painted tiles held Ganesha, Shiva, and Durga. At their feet were crafted lingams and an array of sacred objects. She would light incense, pray, puja.

Even religion and business collide. On the ride to Amritsar, I saw a business called ‘Shiva Tires’ and it made me laugh so much. Because I knew what an odd thing it be to drive down a street in the U.S. and find a business called ‘Jesus Tires.’ How our cultures perceive and incorporate religion into life was at times drastically different.

Materialism is another unique facet of Hinduism. Icons, whether in poster or sculpture, were sold in the bazaar no differently than a mango. Buddhist prayer beads were strung up in stores just as often as I’d witness a monk thumbing his strand. But these icons do not take on sacred importance until the deity is believed to manifest within it. Before then, it is but a trinket. But once it is placed in a home, in a shrine, in one’s heart, and the owner asks to have the privilege of the god(dess) presence in the home, does the icon awaken. The act of puja itself is an offering, but this exchange between devotee and god is an intimate relationship, it is Darshan…to see. And it is this exchange of seeing and being seen, the presence of a god, caring for its momentary bodily home like if it were a loved one, to bathe it, offer it sweets and drink, items pleasing and entertaining, it is a relationship acknowledged, present, active every day in life. The god shares and is present for even the most mundane occurrences of the day, but has never abandoned or turned away from the devotee. This relationship is written in a language similar to the deity as one’s lover or as one’s child or mother.

In the hotel, the one with the lovely carpeted floors beneath my feet, had a large icon of Ganesha right in the lobby, carved beautifully. Taxi drivers taped tiny paper images to the car visors. Devotees walked with a red dot upon the brow after having performed puja at a temple. Orange turbans were blessed cloth from the Golden Temple. And even when not in materialistic form, there were the echoes of Tibetan monks chanting, a deep baritone sound that cascaded down the Himalayas. The soft prayers of the woman from above.

And never in my time there did a person attempt to persuade me to convert. No need. Spirituality was all around, saturating the world, that there was no way I could not be effected. Impossible for me not to know moments of great serenity, clarity, thoughtfulness. Moments of peace upon my heart and spirit. There was no need to persuade me because it is assumed I am somehow pursuing, maintaining, am active with god(dess). This is a rare find, a land of all the religions of the world resting on her bosom, and no tradition seeks to dominate its motherland. Yes, there have been struggles, bombings, violence at times between Hindus and Muslims, Sikhs and Hindus, but in general, the acceptance of other traditions isn’t merely tolerance in India, it is a purer form of acceptance.

To say it is okay for my Muslim neighbor to pray to Allah is one thing, but to hear the daily prayers from my window and not be bothered, perhaps find a spiritual beauty in the Arabic, the words lifting up to god, that is what isn’t seen in the U.S. And it is different in that land likely for the reason many things are done the way they are. Why have privacy, why hide, when so much of life’s occurrences are shared and common to all? It is not odd that one is performing puja, praying, meditating, but what would be odd and of great concern is the one who does none of these things, believes in none of these things. It is that which would raise eyebrows and cause concern.

The religion and spirituality of India is like nothing I have witnessed in my life. In no other land do I think I could bear witness to so many traditions all active in society and daily living and find that it is of such normalcy that Indians laugh at perplexed foreigners like I wondering how it can be such. And though I tried, or hoped, I could not be exempt from being effected by the spiritual and religious elements of Indian culture.

In the Land of Shiva: Part X

India never washes out of clothes. The curry smells, monsoon rain, salted sweat, it stains deep in the thread. But I couldn’t toss them out. The oversized shirts, my kurtas, and dupattas. Sometimes, the scent of India is comforting.

How easily an aroma can stir the memories. Sweat. The stench of crowd, dripping wet like overexerted cattle herded into stone stands. The afternoon scorched like midday, and we were lost in Amritsar. Trust in a taxi driver is necessity, but not by choice. And once the Pakistan-India border was found, we were quickly abandoned, driver gone in the masses.

Where to go? We knew of special seating for foreigners, but no signs, no direction, just a moving mass of bodies. Indians love their motherland on display. Isn’t She pleasing, a rare beauty! How privileged to be in this place, wait, we will show Her to you. No one can give you India like an Indian.

Six American women at the border. We take seats high in the stands. Looking around, I soon realize there are no women nearby. Men to the left, to the right, above and below. I can only shake my head at our naiveté. This is not our place. Women and small children at ground level, their vibrantly dyed saris in seated rows. How our pallid skin must have stood out like a blaring white dot across the way to the other watchers.

Hundreds of people gathered, waiting, as the men below in their uniforms and well adorned hats prepared riffles and formation. The mock fight between Indians and Pakistanis. Replayed twice daily, morning and dusk. I think it similar to the South’s fondness of Civil War reenactments. But the body heat, the sweat, the smells, the odor of so many bodies, it becomes suffocating.

My sickness was progressing. I was eating so little. Only hot food, no sauces, anything fried because it ensures preparation at correct temperatures. Even drinking water irritates my body, the stomach twitching with sharp dagger pains. I’ve managed a full coat of sweat, dripping down the brow, the neck, into my eyes, how the salt burns. Constantly, I am wiping with my cotton tee, too heavy a fabric for July in India. The sweat bleeds through to the point my shirt can soak in no more fluid. We’re confused, we’re cranky, in need of water and air, fresh air, free of men’s pits, mouths, legs, genitals, all the places they sweat and smell. The heat between bodies pressed close together, hundreds, is nothing I’ve felt but in that place. I wanted to claw myself free, a panic rising inside me, and then the realization that I was losing consciousness. Like my mind was floating calmly away, light as air, and how strange the senses become in such a state, rare acuteness. I felt as if my body had frozen onto the stone, unmoving, and I could listen so keenly to the sounds around. Men laughing, Hindi tongue, the slight movement of limbs surrounding, then it merged so cohesively, into a jumbled chatter. And then I felt my heart, how it was pumping feverishly, loudly, and the breath gone soft, like even my lungs had grown tired of their duties. Never before had the urge to faint crept upon me.  A quiet panic emerged inside my half alert mind. I cannot faint in this place, amongst these men. Who will know what to do with me? Jaye will want to cry. Haylie will scream in English. Jocelyn undoubtedly would be a fainting partner. Patricia would yell “Babushka!” as she had called me since our arrival to Dharamsala. Elsie, would be unaware, for she had left us in search of the sacred foreigner seating we wished to have found earlier.  Looking around, all I saw were men singing, sweat rags by the dozens being pulled from pockets to wipe down soaked faces, a constant series of motions repeated by the crowd, but never simultaneously. I wanted to scream, but snapped aloud, “I can’t!” And rose up, others following. The crowd such a tight squeeze, climbing over legs, apologizing in my native tongue, so useless was I, and then stone steps to the top, dozens of illy sized steps. This was an odd form of suffocation, strangling me of air though it is all around.

The border closing had only begun, but after sitting in the heat for over an hour, we couldn’t take it anymore. Being free of bodies pressed against me, I could breathe again, the feeling of fainting slowly leaving. And I drank water, hot bottled water, but it was grand at the time. Once it was over, Elsie managed to find the taxi, wondering where we had all gone. The foreigner seating was right at the base ground, front and center of the mock fighting. She played back her pictures. It was the only time I had the urge to smack her.

I don’t recall much of the ride back to the hotel. Jaye sat with me in the very back, on the floorboard since it was like a car’s trunk. Whatever the conversation, I had her laughing, and she looked at me oddly, wondering aloud how in my state of ill I could still find humor, a reason to laugh. I didn’t have an answer. Sometimes in such extreme emotional and physical states, laughter is the pressure release, and if I wasn’t laughing, then surely, I would have been crying, but that would come later in the rural clinic hospital several days later.

Back at the four star hotel, I sat down on the roll-away cot in our room. For over five minutes, I just brushed my heels, arches, and toes across the carpet. I hadn’t felt carpet beneath my feet since leaving the townhome in Charleston. It was soft, hunter green with a small saffron diamond pattern. And the window AC forced cold air upon my back, the sweat quick drying on my skin. Eyes closed, body slouched from exhaustion, all I could do was smile. Plush carpet under my dirty toes and air that was cold, not merely warm fan blown air circulating. It was true luxury.

In the Land of Shiva: Part IX

I see her hallowed cheeks, eyes bulging from the sockets. Death of life within her bones. Her frame fragile and knobby. Skin the color of the Amritsar dirt.

We locked the doors. The heat quickly festering. She’s at my window, staring at me. No words, but those eyes speak. I have the urge to take her picture.

A shudra. An untouchable. And even less to her fellow Indians, now nothing but a beggar. The girls role down the window and give her at least fifteen rupees, but she doesn’t budge. Those eyes, coma ridden, where has she gone?

I didn’t see it at first, the cloth sling across her chest, fraying at the edges, seams bound to burst. And the small mound peeking through, the crown of an infant’s head, so still is that sling, that child, unmoved. I forget to swallow the lump in my throat. I can only stare. I think, no, I know, that baby must be dead. The Amritsar heat is over one hundred degrees, streets of dirt, dry earth dehydrated, thirsty for the monsoon rains that won’t come. Her baby is dead. Doesn’t she know? And she’s at my window, staring at me. I want to cry, but I can’t even muster a no, I have to force myself to look away. But even the hazy figure I see out of the corner of my eye chills me. Why won’t she leave us? Go get her baby some milk. It is enough, more than enough. But perhaps she knows what I do, the infant in the sling is dead, no use in buying milk.

She haunts me. This woman of no name. Her eyes. That stare. So vivid in this memory of mine. I wonder if the others recall her like I. Does she still make them tremble after two years? After her, I could never say no to another with child.

The day before leaving Dharamsala to return to Delhi, I went to the Mcleodganj bazaar one last time. As I waited for taxis to return at the edge of the bazaar, there she was. And a baby that could sit upright while held, undead. I tried to ignore her, but I couldn’t. The beggar from Amritsar is all my mind remembered, manifesting itself in this new figure. I tried to walk away, but then she started crying the Hindi word for milk. She only wanted money for milk, for the baby, nothing more. I stopped, turned to look at her, that face, same hallowed cheeks and large eyes, pupils dark as coal.

The men around were looking. Rarely did they tell beggars to stop unless they got too close. But she hadn’t left me alone for several minutes. Walking beside me, feeling her breath upon my shoulder, as I walked past vendors, choosing Buddhist prayer beads and earrings. The vendors would shoo her away, but she remained nonetheless. That one word, repeating it in my ear, milk.

Finally, I nodded. Pointing to a small shop ten feet away, I said yes. The owner was not happy. This beggar woman in his store. He scowled, he told her to stay by the entrance. He didn’t want her near his goods. But I needed her to pick the milk. And she spoke words in Hindi I didn’t know until finally the shopkeep told me what she was saying. As I paid, he leaned down, whispered to me, “You know she will only go sell this. Give money to someone else.” I said what she does beyond this isn’t my business. He didn’t understand. No ghost from Amritsar was haunting him.

I handed her the milk. She asked for five rupees. I said no. And the angry shopkeep began yelling at her with words I never learned, flinging his arms, she turned and walked away. In the taxi, the bumpy path down the mountain, I hoped that she would prove that man wrong. That her child would go without knowing hunger that night.

And still, I see her so clearly. Standing before the car, one arm outreached, palm open. Bones prying through the skin. So vivid, so ripe an image. Dark skin brushed with the Amritsar dirt, clothes dirty and unthreading, and the small sling. No breath of movement, no wail from that child. It sleeps. I knew it then, but did nothing. It sleeps. And I think, what if only I had given her some milk?

In the Land of Shiva: Part VIII

Symbols, signs, a construction of the mind to obtain meaning. Organizing the cosmos. No different with letters, words. I think of the film the Miracle Worker, black and white, little Helen Keller lost in her mind, enraged, confused. No meaning in this place, she must have thought, what to do but be idle, be frustrated with a world that I can’t comprehend. Until she found the answer in water, her teacher signing in her hand feverishly, understand little Helen, find the two as one, I have given you the symbols, the word, now know the world. And she did.

But I am no Miracle Worker. I had no knowledge of the difficulty of my own language. Its complex origins of Latin, Spanish, German, French…the list is long. We make rules only to break them. A prolific language that creates itself, procreates into the largest in the world. And I struggle to teach her ‘water,’ to teach her ‘wet.’ Hembei squints when she doesn’t understand, puts a finger to her lips, almost scared to tell me an answer whether wrong or right. I do not scold or show disappointment. Any of that I hold for my person alone in my failure to be what she needs.

A small composition book holds sketches of faces, the human body, colors, weather, English words pointing to eye, rain, blue. I give it to her for a reference, for future notes. She has no books at home to read daily, no English newspaper dropped at her step. Those aren’t things to be afforded, luxuries that aren’t needed. Everyday begins with a ten minute refresher. I ask about the weather, point to parts of my body, I ask how she is. This becomes familiar and she gets comfortable, I feel better when I know she is relaxed. And in the background is Kay, holding up a letter card, waiting for the other women to say “L” or “S” and identity a picture.

So frustrated was I, and other volunteers, to discover the resources at our disposal. How am I to teach an adult woman with Dr. Seuss books and elementary school ABC flip cards? Why does she need to know the word for hamburger when it isn’t something she will ever eat, will ever be relevant to her world? It is all too simple, too irrelevant to life, it is words for a Western world, not for a woman in Dharamsala. We were told not to bring materials because likely they wouldn’t be tools easily purchased in the town or India. However, once we all arrived, the story was a bit altered. They would have permitted us to bring resources if only we had been willing to leave them there. And so many of us shouted, “WHY SAY THIS NOW! IF WE ONLY HAD KNOWN!”

My flatmate, Haley, was teaching special ed children. A program developed in Dharamsala by CCS, and no other like it was provided in the mountain town. Haley talked of all the things she could have brought for them, to have, and the regret in her voice was in all of ours as well. We would have filled suitcases with teaching materials had we only known. But Haley pulled from her creativity, and always managed to find craft activities and lessons to engage her students. I was always so proud of her diligence, her patience, her unbound love for those children.  And she would visit their homes, meet their parents, feign drinking from the beverage glass they kindly offered. She knew them, their world, and it only seemed to make her appreciate all around us even more. I learned much from this California native.

I made copies of Seuss’ words, cutout articles from the news, scoured the net on one of two computers at CCS hoping to find free TEFL resources. Lesson planning was a haphazard affair. I wanted her tongue to get used to the words, moving her mouth differently. And my month in India would only manage about two and half weeks of actual teaching. I was in a panic. Feeling a great pressure, realizing I was only a minute piece of a long continuum, but who would be there for her when I was gone? I should have stayed longer. Two or three months if for no other reason than to teach her. Between travel to and from Delhi, monsoon rains, sickness, a wedding and a funeral, our short time was even more shortened. It doesn’t take much for a small town to shutdown. It doesn’t take much for a foreign belly to fall ill. And all I was hoping for was to give her the words, give her the motivation to want to learn more after my departure, even if that meant finding a way to do so on her own.

And it was the day I was trying to teach her ‘wet.’ Bella and Jaggi were sitting in, listening to Kay and my lessons. This was the first day after the blowout; they wanted to ensure we could coexist in one room for several hours a day. I kept pointing to a picture of water, and saying ‘It feels wet,’ running my hands against each other, then trying to replace it with other things to express ‘feel.’ But Hembei wasn’t understanding, I wasn’t explaining it very well, and she’d say, “It feels water.” It was a logical association, I was indeed pointing to a picture of water. Finally, I reached for my bottled water, poured some in my hand, and touched it, “Wet.” Then I asked for her hands, poured some in hers, said it again, made her touch it, “It feels wet.” And in her eyes I could see the ‘aha,’ the moment of comprehension, and she nodded, smiled, and says, ‘feels wet.’ Thank you, and I sighed in relief.

I often wish I had taken her to the bazaar, spoken English in her familiar places. She could have learned much more, at least, that is what I believe. Put her in the context of the meanings, and how quick she would have caught on. This faith I always had in her.  When I left, I gave her my English-Hindi dictionary, small but precise in its included words, and told her to just keep reading, to speak, and she would come to understand it.

But my difficulties seemed ridiculous in comparison to other teaching situations. My other flatmate, Jaye, was so tender in heart. It affected her dearly to see dozens of children everyday, pull from meager resources, watch them eat the same plate of chickpeas each lunch. And when summer came, classes over, the school buildings held something similar to summer camp. Except the water was cut off. It wasn’t something funded by the government, so no water for a few months. and the volunteers had to find ways to bring in water for arts and crafts, washing tiny hands. It wore on her. At her home in Florida, she had been a Montessori teacher, she had faced so many problems as a teacher, but none compared to the ones in India.

One day, I came home, and found Jaye washing her undergarments in the shower bucket, scrubbing her Victoria Secret underwear with a bar of soap, and she was crying. No matter the reason, I had felt them all as well, India is a vestibule to a myriad of emotions. She said she had come with no expectations to this place. And I said sometimes we don’t know our expectations until we’ve been disappointed. I told her she should send her laundry out to be cleaned like I was so she wouldn’t find herself crying over a bucket of wet, soapy, panties. She laughed, and in moments of great emotional intensity, just the ability to release it in one breath of laughter can be the greatest relief, the best method for remaining grounded, or coming up from a state of despair. And the paradox was becoming us. To cry and laugh in the same moment, no sense of a sound mind were we, and we were learning to find solace in the crux of the paradoxical.

And somewhere in the Himalayas, in his meditative snowcapped cave, Shiva too is laughing…and only now do I see, darshan has found my eyes.

In the Land of Shiva: Part VII

The narrow alley behind the flat smelled of the monsoon rains, the cement absorbing that moistened hue, and it was occupied by a squatter…a rooster. How can a short bird, handicap of flight, have the ability to caw before the sun rises? There was no need for an alarm. The rooster was always the earliest to rise, pacing in the alley, singing like a vocal misfit. Not that I ever rested well in the twin cot, but still, I never enjoyed an abrupt awakening, in the literal sense anyway.

Each morning consisted of a similar series of events, our morning rituals. Haley made chai, would find an invigorating morning activity to start her day. Usually it was yoga on the rooftop or a hardcore mountain path run. No matter the hour, Haley was all teeth, a habitual smiler, a unfathomable holder of energy. And before leaving for her placement, was sure to take a series of nutritional supplements, droplets of liquid vitamins, cold and sickness prevention, she had it all, our own little Cali Chemist.

Jaye was often the last riser. Perhaps a bit of chai or toast. She never feared the non-pasteurized yogurt or milk that a staff member placed on the kitchen table shortly before one of us awoke. Then she’d meditate on her blue mat for fifteen minutes. Once she rolled out the mat, I usually found a reason to leave the room in order to give her a breath of silence. I always thought it funny that Haley never seemed to catch on to that. If she was in midst of passionate talk, ideas spouting out of her, Haley was in her own place, living in the words and thoughts, oblivious to the rest. And I’d laugh silently when I’d see one of Jay Bird’s eyes pry open and look across the room at Haley.

After the rooster would unkindly stir me awake, I usually laid on the cot for a bit, thinking. Enjoying moments of quiet. If bugs had found their way back to nestle into the sheets or pillow, I flicked them off. Always the same, tiny, black bugs, sprinkled like fresh pepper on the bed. Sometimes, I’d read Ishmael or Killing the Buddha: A Heretic’s Bible. Making notes in the margins or jotting ideas on a small notepad. I never acquired a taste for Chai like Haley or Jaye; so, I stuck with either toast or a banana and then a cup of filtered water. I’d grab the Hindustan Times and peruse the English articles to cut one out for Hembei as her homework. Usually, the easiest articles were pop culture related. I remember one being about Jessica Simpson signing on for a film role or something of little importance to the world. And I found myself reading the vast pages of classifieds for singles. Several, full length, newspaper pages dedicated to small descriptions of males and females, their caste, job, hobbies, and so on. I found it interesting that the paper and the culture had incorporated a special section for people who were HIV positive or had AIDS. India has one of the highest rates of HIV/AIDS in the world, but it’s presence had been assimilated into the culture. People infected were seeking fellow partners also with HIV or AIDS. I realized the extreme importance of marriage in Indian society at that moment. No matter how life unfolds, a person’s compliment must be found.

Soon, the sound of Tibetan monks chanting would echo through lower Dharamsala. Often, I would sit on the patio and listen. Having no knowledge of their words, but finding a comfort, a serene wave over me, just listening to those deep vocal tones, like the sounds rose up from the deepest depth of the belly. Sometimes, it made me tremble as if the sound found its way into my skin and reverberated through me. At times, I’d suddenly step out of myself, and realize the unique beauty of it all. Before me were the snowcapped Himalayas, an ash gray morning sky, and all the homes of Dharamsala, arranged in such a way, as if each layer was gradually bowing to the heavens, revealing only their colorful and worn rooftops.

It was rare not to enjoy a Dharamsala morning. Only if the monsoon rain dropped from belly of the sky early, did it damper our first hours of the day. The steep stone steps beside our series of flats would vanish beneath the deluge. A sudden waterfall, colored by dirt and filth, washing everywhere. Often our work would be canceled, but other times, we had to walk through it. It was easy for me to be soaked almost to the knee depending on the path that could be taken. And the rains came almost daily. Usually troubling us early and leaving a summer day that only got hotter. The problem with the rainy season goes beyond travel inconvenience and numerous power outages. Bacteria spreads everywhere. It is the season of illness. And with the water source having recently been changed, even the indigenous people of Dharamsala were filling clinics with stomach and digestive ailments. It wasn’t long until over 3/4 of our volunteer group became sick, and those of us that had to make trips to the clinic often came back with stories that didn’t put much faith in the small owned health clinics in lower Dharamsala.

But before the sickness came to me, before I grew tired and weak, it was those moments of solitude on the patio I enjoyed most. Watching as Dharamsala was gently being coaxed awake by its Tibetan brothers. If I was fortunate, I would watch as the upper flat woman did her morning puja. Lighting candles in a small shrine, saying her soft mantras, before giving me one meek smile and returning upstairs. The shrine had painted tiles with Shiva, Ganesh, and Durga. A sculpture of feet symbolic of Vishnu, and other religious pieces. How strange to be in a place where ritual and religion are like breathing…so natural and a part of life. All these traditions in one place, accepting of the others, and it all coexisted harmoniously. It was unlike anything I had ever witnessed in the states, and I thought, yes, this is the soul of India, and each morning she was so kind to reveal herself to me in the mountains, the land, the song, the puja, the words that I didn’t understand but that I FELT…how I miss my Dharamsala mornings.

In the Land of Shiva: Part VI

My mind struggles to find the words, the phrases, that sound right. And when I say ‘right’ I mean that paint the picture of India I saw, the emotive sights and sounds. Sometimes I’ve felt too textual in my writings, a historical dialog that dribbles on. And that’s not what I want…fit and proper…that is not India, that is not me.

My words were lost in her house. Cement slab floor, coated in thin layer of dust. A large bed for all to lay, blankets piled on the edge. Two chairs for Teachers while they sat on the cold ground. These women almost twice my age looking up at me like I am so special. How strange. The cup of water offered that I cannot drink. I feign sips often so not to offend. Wishing she knew I couldn’t drink for fear of sickness. How a simple gift can produce detrimental consequences, millions of bacteria in those drops, just waiting for a foreign belly to lay in. And at the highest point, the edge where wall and ceiling meet, an array of painted portraits, Hindu deities, their eyes always upon them. Bless them, I think, they are so good to me and I am but a stranger.

This was the home of Meena, a thirty something Indian woman with a round face, dark camel skin, and a slightly smeared red dot between her eyes. I first met her from above, looking down as she squatted before her door washing several tin pots with a rag and a bowl of soapy water. Soon, I find myself being kindly forced onto a chair, finding my hierarchal placement awkward, I want to be on the floor with them. No looking down, on equal plane. I observe this day, watching Kay go through elementary ABC cards with them, make them practice drawing upper and lowercase letters. Two months she has been their teacher. And I find Hembei writing away, easily reciting the words of cat, boy, girl. She is beyond the rest, and she is the reason I sit in that place. After that day, I will be hers.

Hembei taught herself basic English through the materials her fraternal twin children brought home from school. ABCs, simple writing, simple words, she knew them. All the while the several others progressed on a bit more slowly. When I think of Hembei, I always picture her in an emerald hued sari, long black hair braided tightly, and a shy smile, always looking away when her teeth were revealed. I liked hearing the music of her jewelry as she walked, how she created song everywhere she went, her bangles telling her story, each step she took.

Hembei, Meena, Usha, Percushy, and Indra. These were the women that went to CCS, said teach us English, we want to learn. And so they were given Kay.

Kay…the elder woman from my flat. I can’t say we got along for but a day. Something seemed awry in her methods. Rope learning, same flash cards, ABCs, it seemed a stagnant process for adults. But I had no experience in teaching my language, no certificate, just ideas. And I spilled them all to Kay, lets give them a way to use the words, to play with words, find beauty in English. But our ideas didn’t mesh. And in days she was threatened by me, didn’t want to compromise on how to teach these women. She accused me of attempting to take HER students away from her. For two months they had been hers. And in a fit of anger I retorted, “In two months you haven’t even gotten through the alphabet!” And she stormed off, having nothing to reply with.

I went to Jaggi about this, her possessiveness was blinding the purpose of us being there. The tension was showing in the lessons. I’ve never been one to hold my tongue. Not for anyone, and surely not for some crazed old bat. Kay was also dependent on people due to having injured herself before arriving to India. She needed a staff member or fellow volunteer to help her walk, watch as she shuffled along with a leg that seemed to want to twist around. If we didn’t invite her to places, she guilt tripped us until we found ourselves with her in the bazaar. Her words were soured with negativity, stories of how her life had been so miserable, and that undertone of whine, like it was innate to her voice, was maddening.

The night I spoke back, said she was going too slow, doing the same things, she was furious. In her room she huffed, and Jaye, sweet Jay Bird, she always wanted things to be so smooth in that place, went to Kay to assuage her. How awful Kay’s words made me, what a piece of work I was in her opinion, coming to Dharamsala and taking her girls away from her. No one would do that she said. My volatile state was festering, and came to an apex when she said loudly, “She’s just a little bitch.” This aged woman calling me a bitch…

I was just outside her door, and glared at her in such a fit of anger, “Who are you calling a bitch? You haven’t seen what a bitch I can be.” And these words were scathing, imbued with the disdain I had begun to hold for her. And I remember Jaye’s surprised face at seeing me react, and Kay, her pebble eyes like a Turkey ready for the farmer’s slaughter, looked at me through her glasses. Mumbled what a horrid person I was, and finding humor in Kay’s behavior, this woman being funded to be there through her church, she was on a MISSION, this god woman from Illinois, I just couldn’t help myself. “Isn’t it your Jesus who said he who has not sinned cast the first stone, Kay?” And being none amused by my comeback, in fact it made her shake, she stood up and slammed the door in my face.

I had it. This woman projecting her problems onto everyone. Sucking joy and peace like a leech on skin. This had happened with the group before us. Several girls had to move out of the flat because of the “Kay situation.” We had be warned by the remaining one at our arrival, but even in our efforts (my mild efforts) it wasn’t worth dealing with Kay. Not having paid thousands of dollars to be there, not being stressed by a senile waste. In the middle of the night, I hopped rooftops to the main center, found Jaggi sitting with Bela who had arrived from Delhi for a short visit, and seeing me, he knew. I didn’t care that I was in pajamas, that I had no bra on, that I was showing too much skin for their culture, I was a woman to be acknowledged and heard. And I recounted the entire fight, all the problems, Kay’s umbilical-like ties to our students. All the while, Bela was sitting quietly, watching me, so composed while I was on fire. Such a state that I call it Kali rage.

Bela would address Kay. Discuss things over with her brother Anil who managed the Dharamsala center. See, Bela is a psychologist, and knowing the previous schisms involving Kay, wanted to know her through a series of questions and conversation. Afterward, she met with me. And though she agreed with me, there is an element to Indian culture that isn’t as common in the U.S., an unwaivering respect for elders. Kay may be crazy, she may be wrong, she may be too dependent on others, but she is an old woman, and for that alone, deserves respect. I couldn’t comply. I wouldn’t comply. The best Kay could get from me was a silent mouth if she but stayed her distance. She had no right to project her problems onto others, no right to make us feel selfish for wanting to enjoy our time in India how we wanted, no right to be so controlling of our students’ learning that it was impeding their progress. I wouldn’t budge, and Bela knew, but she asked if I could just avert the situations if I saw them arising.

I did the best I could, and by that, I kept a shut mouth. I would not antagonize her, but even that bothered her. She then found me to be a bitch for not talking. And in the future, if Kay tried to meddle into our plans or trips, I’d take the fall, be the one to tell her there was no room in the taxi, or it would be just several of us going. She already hated me; so, why let her hate the others who would have complied but been miserable in her company? She no longer confronted me anyway, not with more than a few words meant to guilt me, but it never worked.

And reflecting on it, I still agree with the reasons I stood against Kay. I’m not saying my conflict resolution tactics were at their best (they weren’t). And I’ve tried to pinpoint the reasons for my dislike of that woman. She put herself in the role of VICTIM, in every scenario she could. Whether it be an inability to travel alone, even to just the Indian bazaar (which she eventually was forced to do once Anil made her) or feel like she was being violated by having another volunteer present. That is what irked me most about her. Rather than rising above her circumstance, whether in her physical or psychological difficulties, she waited to be rescued or waited to get her way. I find nothing noble in that. And I feared the effects this would have on the women as Kay was intending to stay in Dharamsala for six months.

I purge this frustration now because I never want to address this again. From then on, I worked solely with Hembei during our volunteering, and only assisted Kay if she asked me. My focus was not to fight. I went halfway across the world to help people and see what I had only read about, to feel and understand those words on paper. Kay was just an obstacle, a minute distraction that I had to decide to quickly deal with, and the only way I could was by pretending she wasn’t there. It perhaps wasn’t the most mature behavior, but it was the only way I could ensure I stayed dedicated to Hembei and myself.

In the Land of Shiva: Part V

By morning, the bus was winding up the base of the Himalayas. A morning sun was rising, and it revealed a vast land of trees and the potential treacherous falls. I had read about bus accidents, falling down part of the mountain, dozens dead, injured. Stories I kept to myself, withholding from friends and family. The paths are narrow, one way up, one way down. And just like a Delhi taxi, the luxury bus’ horn would often blare around curves. All you can hope for is that another luxury bus is far in the distance, no chance meeting today. Several months after leaving India, I would hear of an older volunteer becoming this very statistic. So many broken bones, wounds an aged body can’t easily heal from. She was transported to Delhi, and that was the last I heard.

From the bus stop, we rode in taxis as far as cars could go. Several old men were waiting to pile our luggage onto their backs and trek along the hilly, pebble ridden pathways. Their hunches seemed permanent, like the spine had wilted over after so much heavy lifting. These men were frail, bony, missing teeth, and they shuffled along with two or three suitcases upon them without complaint or an open palm once they dropped our bags.

The flat was two bedrooms, six cots, a kitchen without a fridge, and a bathroom without a shower. We were in middle class accommodations, and we were greeted by an old woman just waking. Her name was Kay, she had several decades on me, and her style of talk entailed a faint yet consistent whine. A stray kitten mewed, and she grabbed it up, cuddled it, and went to get it milk. The kitten was starved, manged, and looked sickly. We wouldn’t touch it. My flatmates were Jaye and Hailey, both of which I had spoken only little with in Delhi, but both would come to be my closest friends in India.

The buildings in Dharamsala are like skewed steps, levels upon levels scaling the mountainside. If homes were close enough, it was possible to jump across rooftops, and this is precisely what we did to get to the main house just below our flat. Jaye and I had gone to the main house, for what I can’t recall, but there we discovered that half the volunteers were a driving distance away in a new, upper class rental. And something in both of us crumbled. This group of volunteers was all we had of the familiar, and we were like a newly formed family being split in two, possibly never seeing them much again during our time in India. Along with that, it was finally seeping in that our flat was more than humble, the cots were hard, the absent shower was already missed, and somehow, though I had tried so much not to have expectations, I felt letdown, disappointed and somehow felt a fool. We made it to the side of the main house before we looked at each other and began crying under a tree. After several minutes, I said this was our one time to cry over these things, here at the crying tree. Things weren’t what we expected, but what we had was enough.

This wasn’t a perspective held by all. Pat, a middle aged woman and real estate agent from Florida, had used her vacation time to come volunteer. But even before unpacking her bags, she had decided this wasn’t for her, and we found her in a chair on the flat patio all smiles. She had decided to leave and in the morning would take a luxury bus back to Delhi. From there, she wasn’t sure. She felt cheated in a way, as if there were aspects of this program grossly misrepresented. To a certain extent, I agreed with her, but if people were truly made aware of the circumstances, I don’t believe much would show. I remember the brochure with a smiling girl toting pottery on her head and the program description that seemed to heavily reference Tibetan culture, like the candy to lure the babe. Yes, in some ways, certain elements had been vaguely defined or conveyed, but I was there, I had enrolled, and I planned to see it through.

The first day or two is a bit of a blur. It is draining to be in a place that is not your home, trying to find your bearings, trying to remain positive in mind, and being surrounded by two dozen people feeling the same way is both comforting and problematic. It is easy to get stuck in that feeling, that unrest, and anxiety. The staff kept us busy with meetings, a relay on finding our way around the lower Dharamsala bazaar, and throwing us into our placements. Right away, all of us complained about the separation from the others, and this seemed to birth a new issue for the staff. We were demanding to see each other, to still know our new friends. And once the rest of us saw the three floor home the rest were staying in while half of us had spotty electricity, bucket showers, and warm juice to drink, it stirred a bit of resentment, and some voiced the unfairness of such drastic differences in living conditions when we all paid the same to be there. It was unfair, but my feelings would have been assuaged if we would have been given a fridge, never in my life did I crave cold drinks like I did then. Warm water, warm soda, warm apple or mango juice, room temperature invaded everything in that flat, and it irked me to no end.

I remember one day after my volunteer work, I returned to the flat, flicked any bugs off my pillow and from under my sheet, and laid down just to stare at the ceiling. I was eying the fan, its blades circulating, just watching it wobble. And then it slowed until death. The sigh that came out of me, this odd sound of shameful frustration. At that moment, all I had wanted was air to blow on me, through me, refresh me. But the electricity, like so often in Dharamsala, went out. I felt like I had been teased. And that is a good bit of experiencing India, desperately missing the minute luxuries we are so used to. How a fan without its life support could put me so close to tears back then.

This disjointed excerpt is to become a bit more common. Though I remember experiences and feelings, I don’t have a precise memory of daily events, my mind has skewed linear memory. So my history of India is merely bordered by that alone: my history of India. Chronological is irrelevant in this place anyway, for it is all circular, cyclical. In the end, I get to the same point no matter what path I take: a plane home. So, the future of the this mapping is more focused on the experiential than dates, it is my reflections, my botched memories, my torment, and my rebirth. All in the womb of India, all seen by the eye of Shiva.

In the Land of Shiva: Part IV

We piled into taxis on the way to the station. Delhi roads confuse me, always like a blur, at times I think we’ve gone in circles. Even in the early evening, the streets are consumed by people. Food vendors, nappers in parks or brick walls, women in saris. I think Delhi births more humans each hour, opening its womb of populous. I wonder if these people have no place to be, no job to punch a clock at, no home to loiter in.

The station is no different. No sooner had we touched station ground do several men run up to our luggage and grab it. Some think this is a courtesy feature of the bus system, but I know better. I try to stop the men, but they’ve already grabbed the bags and have walked into the station. Luxury buses are parked like herded cattle, large beasts in waiting. At our bus, the baggage carriers are demanding rupees, so much for all. I’m yelling ‘Nahi, Nahi’ there was no negotiation for this service. No money. They’re getting louder, and speaking more Hindi than I’ve learned in several days. Others are confused, not realizing it cost money, not having rupees to pay. Finally, Jennie hands one man the money, and they walk away glaring at us.

The bus isn’t boarding. So we cook in the heat, using shirts for sweat rags. I’m wearing a cotton shirt three sizes too big and black yoga pants, fabric that doesn’t bode well in summer. Several women come back from the restroom, describing the squatters, and a woman who just started at them while they peed. It gave them an eerie feeling, and I can’t blame them.

On the bus, seats are quickly being taken up in pairs. Half the bus is filled with Indians and other travelers, the back half is our volunteer group. In the very back is a seated row, a bus pew, not as comfy as the individual seats. It is the leftovers, and it is where I along with Stephano, Aziza, and Felix will sit for the eleven hour ride.

Stephano is from Canada, as well as Aziza. Studying genetics, I’m already assured he is my intellectual superior and I admire someone with the patience to study, experiment, and manipulate the genome. Felix is only eight (I believe) and has joined his parents Jane and Denis for an adventure all the way from their native Australia. No accent have I come across that I adore more than an Australian one. Felix never ceased to have energy, and at the more intense moments, offered a refreshing reminder of the need to keep a childlike carefreeness in the situations that would come.

No restrooms were on the bus; so, I was sure to only sip on water when needed. Beside the driver was a 32 inch television mounted to the bus, almost on the brink of tipping over from the weight. It played the same Bollywood film the entire time, and through my sporadic moments of watching, I always seemed to tune in when the actors were on a golf course, singing in Hindi, and dancing in unison. I wasn’t sure what made a golf course a prime setting for this particular dance scene, but it made me laugh to see Indian men in golf attire and women in saris (who came out of nowhere) breaking into song and dance.

We passed time with CD players, small talk, I think even making up a story to tell Felix. At some point, I mentioned that Stephano resembled Captain Shang from Mulan and everyone seemed in agreement, except Stephano. Eventually, the bus made its first stop at an outdoor food vending location that seemed placed in the middle of nowhere. In India, it is common to eat a very late meal, usually after 8pm. So, it was a dinner break. Jeetu and Lalit ordered and sat with their food. Most of us walked around, stretched, searched for restrooms. I don’t remember this stop much. I just know it was crowded with other travelers and buses, almost like a family reunion at night. A volunteer needed toilet paper, and I unrolled several sheets from the small travel size roll I carried with me.

It seemed hazy, an odd light cast on everyone. The air was smoky from the cooking, and I couldn’t process much because all I heard was foreign tongue. It was like my mind couldn’t digest it. And I looked around, turning in a circle, to see only darkness surrounding this place on all sides. An orphaned business in northern India.

Several hours later, the bus pulled into a fuel station. It was late, and most on the bus stayed in slumber. Had I been smart, I would have brought ambien like some of the others, who slept like bricks. We waited in front of a small white brick wall to use the restroom. Women would enter at each side, and eventually, after what seemed irrationally long, would come back around. One of the volunteers finished and informed us that there were no restrooms on the other side. Just two dug holes and the awkward meeting with a fellow squatter less than an arm reach away. With half a dozen in waiting ahead, three of us decided to walk to the other side, slightly up a hill, out of sight, in order to take care of business.

Note: Some details to be revealed have typically been omitted in my retelling of this event, but I have decided not to self edit for the sake of readers. So if you squirm easily, don’t read beyond this point.

The night before I had left for India, two things happened to unsettle my upcoming trip. First, a dear friend went to the emergency room, making it a late night for my upcoming early morning. Second, my delayed period decided to start. In fact, I wrote a nasty note to my vagina on my previous blog detailing my loathing of its cruel joke. I digress, anyways, so along with everything else I’m adjusting to in India, I’m having to find a way to deal with menstruation in a land that isn’t what I consider tampon friendly.

The three of us spread out, offering several leaps of space to one another. And just as we pop a squat, a large luxury bus pulls into the fuel station, inside lights ablaze, and dozens of Indian men standing, staring out the large paned windows. I notice the light shining on us and the numerous pairs of eyes gawking just as I throw my tampon over my shoulder into the dirt.

I was horrified. And I hear the weak shrieking of the other two. But then, I realized, it is too late, and there will be no other stops until Dharamsala. So, I just closed my eyes and pleaded with my bladder to go. I struggle using the restroom in public stalls if there is a stranger in the one next to me; so, imagine the difficulty knowing that I was being observed. Think of water. Think of waterfalls. Relax. Please, relax. And each second seemed elongated. I almost sighed when my body finally complied. And I hurriedly pulled up my panties and yoga pants and ran back to the bus. No looking around, no talking, maybe I was breathing.

I remember Bella talking about an aspect of Indian culture not always seen in others. There is this knowledge and acceptance that most people experience similar things, problems, body functions, and so on. If that’s the case, then they’ve never seen a reason to hide it, to deal with it in private. And that was a primary struggle I had in India: no privacy.

A private person might as well be considered the worst kind of sick. The inability to reveal the self. This is why peeing beside a stranger is nothing in India because it’s a natural process, everyone does it, why make wasteful accommodations just to make people feel comfortable for a thirty second act? So, that was a lesson that took time to learn, to accept, to embrace. Shedding the private self. But for a foreigner, it is just that act that can potentially save you, comfort you, make you feel a part of a community not your own.

India is imbued with a culture that to many seem turned on its head, upside down, but India is this, it is also the mirrored opposite. And somehow it stays relatively balanced. My definition of India is quite succinct. India means paradox.

My Delhi days would be nothing compared to Dharamsala. It is in those mountains that I lived at the heart of this definition. Paradox. I mulled over it often. It tore me apart. It rebuilt me, sutured together something new. Whether I will successfully articulate it in this place, I don’t know. But being caught in mid-squat would be the least worry to come.