Travels in India

My trip to India has permeated my cells and changed how I see everything. Below are some slices of my experience, which I hope will convey a taste of the splendor of this country and its remarkable people.

Delhi
Twenty five hours after leaving Los Angeles, my plane cuts through a thick layer of brown smog to soar over beautifully preserved temples, falling down buildings, and a tapestry of tin roofs, and land in Delhi International Airport. As I step off the plane I am assaulted by the smells, sounds and vibrancy of the 'Mother land'. Smiling faces and dozens of hands reached out to me... "Lady, can I take your bag"? By the time my friend, Bev, and I settle into a taxi we've been hoodwinked into tipping almost six porters for only two pieces of luggage!

Our drive through Delhi to our retreat center is more vivid than a chase scene in a movie: Imagine, if you can, a street jammed with cars, bicycles, rickshaws, motorcycles, trucks, people, and elephants weaving back and forth with no apparent regard for traffic laws – the only thing that has right of way are the cows. The incessant sound of horns honking is deafening. Male motorcyclists carry women sitting side saddle in brightly colored saris, who hold infants or huge bags of groceries. Lining the streets are open sewers overflowing with trash, open-air markets and people living in tin or cardboard-roofed shanties. Behind all this are tall walls –behind which I am told live the 'rich' people. The stench of carbon monoxide, sewage, cow dung, and coal fires is pungent and overwhelming.

Whenever we stop at an intersection, small beggar children flock around our car. They point to their mouths and say "10 rupees?" A girl - maybe eight years old - holding an infant, presses her face against the car window. In a glance, I see chipped teeth, blackened finger nails, and a dirt-smudged face, as well as sparkling bracelets and a red 'bindi' dot painted on her forehead. We lock eyes and my heart opens – she's beautiful. By the time I've unzipped my purse to find a 10 rupee note, our taxi has already taken off.

Bodh Gaya
While meditating for four days in a beautiful and pristine retreat center in south Delhi, I hear and smell villagers living in tents and cooking over coal fires, just on the other side of a tall wall that surrounds our compound. Every night an armed sentry circumnavigates the perimeter, I guess to ensure our safety. I feel acutely aware of the division between rich and poor, servants and served, and long to join the life that teems on the other side of the wall.

My wish is granted when we arrive in Bodh Gaya – a small town in one of the poorest provinces of India - and the site where the Buddha attained enlightenment. The first morning I walk onto my hotel balcony and enter another world: Just below me a mother and her children brush their teeth with sticks, dogs and small children sort through a three foot mound of colorful trash, women wash hotel linens by hand, a man urinates into the trash, and cows munch on a pile of greens left out by the villagers.

When I enter the town of Bodh Gaya, India opens its arms to me. Little boys with stumps for legs roll themselves on wooden platforms to beg for coins, little girls dressed in rags pull at my elbow, men and women with unimaginable deformities smile at me hopefully, and old toothless women squatting on the pavement hold out their hands. Vendors selling everything from batteries to Buddha statues to clothing to postcards call out from colorful stalls, and teenage boys wave coral necklaces in my face and whisper in my ear, "Hey lady, good deal, just for you".  Some people gawk and stared at us as if we are celebrities, while others jostle and push by. Like Delhi, the air is pungent with the smell of humanity - food cooking in stalls, cow manure, exhaust fumes, urine, garbage, incense, flowers, sewage, and the ever present smell of burning coal. I am enthralled and deeply moved – everyone, even the most 'damaged', seems to exude vibrancy and life.

The Stupa
When we pass through gates into the sanctuary, the scene changes. Beggars and vendors hang back at the entrance, as monks and nuns in long flowing robes of red and gold and Indian 'tourists' dressed in their holiday best stream through. I find myself in a beautifully landscaped park with marble walkways leading to a monolithic sculpted edifice – The Stupa – which marks the place where the Buddha attained enlightenment. Around me hundreds of Buddhist monks and nuns perform rituals with flowers and rice, and meditate before brilliantly painted statues of the Buddha.  Interspersed are tourists – Hindi families on holiday, and very occasionally, a westerner, like myself.

After circling The Stupa several times, I find a spot on the grass to sit and meditate. Behind and on either side of me is a sea of movement - monks and nuns performing prostrations on wooden platforms. In front of me is a huge bodhi tree, apparently a distant relative of the original tree under which the Buddha meditated. This too is encircled by monks and a stray bitch with her puppies. I close my eyes. Sounds of birds singing, monks chanting, dogs barking and people talking fade away as I drop into myself. Within moments I sense the presence of something which feels as large as the sky, and infinitely kind. It is at the same time completely black and suffused with light. I feel myself surrender into its loving embrace, and the recognition that I am absolutely safe– no matter where I am or what is going on around me.

I open my eyes to see a solitary monk in red robes sweeping the stones at the base of the bodhi tree with a tree branch. He takes care to clean around a nun who is performing prostrations as well as the exhausted dog nursing her puppies. The monk takes his time, smiling and greeting whomever walks by. When everything had been swept neatly into a pile, he puts the branch aside and carefully rearranges his few belongings – a prayer book, sandals, a canvas bag, water bottle, and an outer garment. Then he pulls out a small sandwich. Instead of eating it, he makes a little clucking sound and calls over the dog. I watch him break off small pieces and feed the starving bitch one morsel at a time. Then he scatters crumbs at the base of the tree for several scraggly pigeons. Finally, he eats the small remaining portion and uncovers his platform. He begins his prostrations, which I recognize as a strenuous version of the sun salutation I practice in yoga, accompanied by chanting. He continues this ritual for at least an hour - until he is drenched with sweat. I am transfixed.

Harry Potter
Bev and I walk into the marketplace at Pushkar. A smiling woman dressed in a rainbow colored sari, holding a little girl, extends her hand to me – "It's nice to meet you, what is your name?" I cannot resist shaking her hand. Before I know it, she is dripping something that looks like excrement onto my palm. I try to pull away, but her grip is strong. When she finally is done she asks for money. I give her 10 rupees and she spits. 15 rupees later she releases me and I escape. Two small boys appear and start cleaning off my hand. I gratefully let them lead me to a water fountain where they continue to scrub off the goop until only the design is left. Ahhh-This is henna. When they are done I reach for my purse. "No, no" they say, "Chapatti flour", and they lead me to a stall. Apparently they want me to purchase a whole box of flour to take home to their family... So I dole out 150 rupees, and with a smile of delight they thank me and take off. Later I'm told that they sell the flour back to the storekeeper and pocket 20 rupees.

The next day these two boys find us as soon as we walk out of our hotel. When Bev asks the younger one his name, he beams up at her and says "Harry Potter, and this is my brother Pablo Picasso." Holding our hands, Harry escorts us down the street, introducing us to shopkeepers, other children, his oldest brother, his aunt with her baby, and his mother - the gypsy woman who dripped henna on my hand! Harry and Pablo speak English remarkably well. They say they don't go to school and learn from tourists.

When we finally say goodbye, Harry is wearing brand new jeans and a t-shirt, his aunt has money to buy condensed milk for her baby, and we are all the best of friends.  I feel like I could have given them everything and it wouldn't have been enough, and am touched by the purity of our time together.

Re-Entry
Two weeks later I'm driving down the street in Los Angeles. A driver honks his horn and another honks back. Suddenly I am transported back to India. In India honking seems to be a national pastime. Brilliantly decorated trucks are painted with signs reading "Please honk" and every vehicle seems to have a different sounding horn. Some even have horns that play different melodies! When I first arrived the sound was deafening. Our bus driver would honk at everything – approaching vehicles, vehicles he was passing, vehicles he was about to pass, cows, people crossing the street... and sometimes just to say hello to other drivers.  Apparently anything was an opportunity to sound the horn. Eventually I had to surrender to the noise and with that, I began to hear the myriad tunes and melodies. Now as I drive down the streets of LA, I miss the symphony of horns, accompanied by revving motorcycles, people shouting, children clamoring for my attention - the experience of life teeming about me. The street where I live, which used to seem too noisy and over crowded, suddenly seems spacious, quiet, very clean... and kind of lonely!

India, the mother country, is a generous teacher. She has taught me much that I am only beginning to understand. One lesson is about wealth: All the stuff we think is important – home and possessions, business success, looking good, money in the bank, financial security – falls away when I remember gazing into the eyes of Harry Potter radiating pure love and joy back to me.

~Linda