The Invasion

The town is abuzz with oddity at this moment. April always marks the beginning of tourist season here, but this year it’s worse than usual. A guru, let’s call him SB, is in town. Yes, the fuzzy-‘fro-ed guru, the orange clad man I’ve been hearing about since our arrival in India, the guy with the ‘summer house’ by the lake we walk around almost daily, SB has finally arrived.

Coincidentally, last week I got the chance to go visit another guru, we’ll call her ‘AM’, a woman who gives darshan (“A blessing of spiritual energy transmitted by being in the presence of a holy person, sacred idol or sacred place.” www.humanityinunity.org/HIU/Teachings/GlossaryofSpiritualTerms/index.cfm) by hugging the people who come to see her. Thousands of them, seven thousand in the town I went to, and she hugs everyone she can for hours on end. People stand in line for ages to be embraced. A friend and I took several government buses and braved inhuman heat to get hugged.

My (very new) friend had lived at AM’s ashram for a time, and therefore we were both granted something of a backstage pass at this event. I didn’t have to feel like a tourist come to see AM just for the spectacle of it all. I sat onstage with AM, I met and heard the stories of many devotees from around the world, I participated in a puja, and even wound up sleeping in the same building as the guru herself. I had an amazing time visiting AM, and it was a very special experience.

When I heard that SB, embodiment of the father qualities (as AM is supposed to be a Holy Mother), was coming to our town the same week as I'd gone to see AM, I thought I’d want to go see him. It would be interesting to compare these gurus, both of whom have tremendous followings and have changed the lives of many of their devotees.

It would not be hard for me to walk halfway around the lake and go for darshan with SB. But for some reason, I just don’t want to.

Part of it, I think, is the tourist factor. As a local living in a hill station, I bristle at the busloads of tourists who arrive, music blaring, people cheering, jeering, and singing. “How obnoxious,” I sneer to Will as we walk quickly by a group of young men dancing in the middle of the perimeter road of the lake. Will is much nicer than I am about most things. Tourists just don’t stick in his craw like they do mine. His complacency only stokes my fire, and my comments tend to get upped in volume and rigor after the first snide remark. “Why are they even here? Go home!” I mutter as we go by another crowd (trying to ignore the obvious: I, an American, belong in this hill station in South India even less than they do), most of whom leap out of the way of our terrifying little white fluffy dog, Iddli. He’s about a third of the size of the most ferocious street dogs you’ll find in town. His tail swooshes as he walks, and he plays with babies. But to most people here in India, this dog is positively scream-worthy. Most of the time I’m somewhat amused by this, since Iddli would hurt almost nothing but flies, which I’m grateful that he hunts with reckless abandon. When the tourists come to town, though, I let Iddli’s leash out to its full length, and use him as a buffer. Crowds part, people leap from the boardwalk next to the lake, and I feel a little better. I know this is mean. I am aware that I am not showing you a lovely part of my personality here, but it’s the truth.

How does all this link to SB, you ask? Well, let me tell you: now that SB is in town, the tourist factor has increased by a LOT. I don’t actually know how many people are here specifically to see him, but judging by the quotient of pale people in saris and white Punjabi pajamas, it’s more than a handful. This is good for the businesses in town, and I’m glad that they are getting more people in to pay for their goods and services. I just wish they’d all go away already. Everyone’s going around saying “Sai Ram” all the time. It’s freaking me out.

As a local here, I sometimes wear Indian clothes, sometimes regular old American garb, and oftentimes I mix the two. It doesn’t feel weird to me when those of us who live here wear Indian kurta outfits, or a sari on special occasions. I’m not sure what the Indians think about westerners’ clothing choices, but I haven’t heard anyone complain about what we wear. Maybe they’re just quieter or kinder about their opinions than I am, because I want to have a few conversations with these devotees. I have been mentally disrobing these women of their saris, redressing them in jeans and a t-shirt, and placing them back in a mall in Pittsburgh or on a farm in Iowa. I have been imagining them in their natural habitats and wondering if the glassy-eyed self-righteous beatific look stays with them there.

It’s entirely possible, nay, probable, that I exhibited some of these characteristics when I visited AM. I didn’t really belong in the town of Palikkad. I wasn’t dressed appropriately (Indian clothes, yes. White, no. Bright pink instead. Nobody told me!), maybe the locals there were pissed at all of us as well. There’s something about being a local, though. It gives you a certain ownership of what your town ‘should’ be. What it was before the invasion of ‘others’ arrived. What it will go back to, with a sigh of relief on my part, after they all leave. It’s almost like holiday season at a restaurant. The waiters and workers are all happy that it’s busy. They’ll make more tips, they’ll feel very useful and engaged in their work. But they also reserve the right to bitch about the aggravating patrons, the whiney children, the demanding adults. Deep down I’m glad this town has a tourist season. I’m glad it’s being amped up by SB’s invasion. The shopkeepers, restaurant workers, and even the little old raspberry women are benefiting from the presence of all these extra people.

All I’m saying is I’m ready for them to get out of my town already.