We leave for the Ashram in two hours. After the recent insanity of tourist season up here on the hill I am really looking forward to some om shanti time. I sit here typing as I listen to raindrops fall on the metal roof above my head. Through the skylights I can see dribbles and rivulets plummeting toward the ground. It is chilly here on the hill. On our walk through the shola this morning I wore a down vest for the first time in months. Soon, though, I know I'll be fighting the most awful battle I face here: my body vs. the heat of the Indian plains.
There will be a moment on the bus down the hill where I will notice a shift in temperature. I'll unwind myself from my shawl, and at first I might welcome the heat. But not for long, because soon it will become massively uncomfortable, even when I'm sitting still. I've done what I can to prepare for this eventuality. I have light cotton Indian clothing to wear, designed to let in whatever breeze there is. I have 10 packets of rehydration salts to dump into my water bottle when needed. I have a bandana for handy dandy sweat removal. But still. Thinking about the heat, just considering the waves of it, the wall of it, the pain of it, I am starting to panic a bit even as I sit here chilly with goose bumps.
For some people the heat isn't so bad. I get that. Last time I was down on the plains I sat on a bus, not moving a muscle, breathing slowly to try to quash my panic, and I watched as the people around me went about their business quite calmly, as thin and dry as bones.
I remember summer in Hong Kong almost killing me. That was about the extremes, though. We'd go from scorching humidity to icy air-con umpteen times every day. Once I got on the train at rush hour to get to my job tutoring English to little kids and I passed out right on the floor of the train amid the hundreds of other people on their way to work. This moment stands out in my mind even almost a decade later, for two reasons: one, no one did a thing to help me. Not one of the other people on the train even asked me if I was all right or offered me a hand as I struggled back to my feet as we approached Kowloon Tong station. The second thing I remember was getting off the freezing train and being hit by the immense heat of early morning and feeling like I might keel over again.
We are going to the Ashram to meditate, to practice yoga asanas, and to learn more about the Vedic tradition yoga stems from. I hope that practicing twice a day in the heat of the Kerala summer won't kill me. I'm sure I'll get somewhat used to it, and I'm hoping that the meditation practice will help me reign in my panicky feelings regarding the heat. I know I'll be thinking back to sitting here, a chill in the air, cold rain pattering down on the roof above my head.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Monday, May 11, 2009
Bison Bits
As we walked down the hill to the lake, still in a bit of an early morning fog, Will said, “There they are again.”
This morning, exactly a week from the time we first saw them standing by the lake, there they were again: the bison. There were about ten of them including three babies. Last week there were just two babies. Bison birth, yikes. Talk about labor. For animals so large, I found it surprisingly difficult to get a definite head count. There were differences in size, of course, but the bison all wore the same outfit: overall dark to black with white knee socks. When they’re all huddled up, or milling about as they were this morning, it’s not that easy to see where one ends and another begins. The babies, cute as most infant mammals are, were at least three times the size of me.
Walking by the early morning lake, mist drifting in the quiet, sun-filtered light streaming down on my face, I always feel somehow connected to it all. Dawn, and the hour just following it, is a special time of day. I think differently then. When we first saw the bison a week ago, I was a little frightened, yes, but mostly just awed. They are so immense, their horns make me think of primeval beasts, and yet they seem essentially gentle and quite graceful.
Of course, we’ve all heard stories around here. These creatures do harm others from time to time. A few weeks ago a friend’s dog was gored through the chest and back by one of these “gentle giants”, a man was speared in the bottom not long before that. Both thankfully lived to tell the tale, but still, you have to be wary, take your time, tread lightly. A friend of ours recommends telepathically letting the bison know you mean them no harm. So I did this as we stood there watching the herd. In my head I told them that we’re nice beings, and tried not to let my thoughts wander to the cow Iddli so rudely and noisily chased out of our yard the other day.
Last week we watched amazed as the bison organized themselves into a powwow, a huddle-up of immense proportions, and had a bit of a chat about where to head next. Tails whipping to and fro, the bison decided to walk single file up the path by the park and away from the lake. We all just walked peacefully on.
This week though, the bison were not sure what course to take. They discussed heading along the lake’s boardwalk, but decided against it when a small motorcycle approached. The parking lot wasn’t a promising option, and anyway the two men standing in it had begun to get feisty. To my chagrin these guys thought it’d be a great idea to clap at the bison, to grunt at them and walk toward them, trying to herd them like dairy cows. “You idiots,” I said under my breath, “what the hell are you doing?” Everyone knows not to mess with bison. And now that they had babies? For goodness’ sake, they were more dangerous than ever.
Images flashed through my mind—death, destruction, blood, screaming, the splash of a gored body hitting the otherwise peaceful lake. Where would I run to as the bison, filled with bloodlust, came for me? I would ditch the dog, I decided. We’d had a good run, but in a time like this it’s every man for himself. If I didn’t love my dog so much, the cartoonish flash of the enormous bison hitting the fluffball of a Pomeranian would have been almost humorous. Will could probably fend for himself, I figured. What’s a little bison herd to a man who’s been charged by an angry elephant and survived the glacier at the source of the Ganges collapsing on him?
Just as my stomach became as tangled as a game of Snakes ‘n Ladders as I imagined my family being picked off one by one, the bison began to move. Unlike in my panicked fantasies they were not charging toward anything at all. No, just like last week the herd was lumbering off toward the path near the park, heading back into the shola. I sighed and relaxed. Most of me was glad the moronic men who had been clapping and grunting were alright, but I’ve got to be honest here. If I had the horns, they might not have made it.
This morning, exactly a week from the time we first saw them standing by the lake, there they were again: the bison. There were about ten of them including three babies. Last week there were just two babies. Bison birth, yikes. Talk about labor. For animals so large, I found it surprisingly difficult to get a definite head count. There were differences in size, of course, but the bison all wore the same outfit: overall dark to black with white knee socks. When they’re all huddled up, or milling about as they were this morning, it’s not that easy to see where one ends and another begins. The babies, cute as most infant mammals are, were at least three times the size of me.
Walking by the early morning lake, mist drifting in the quiet, sun-filtered light streaming down on my face, I always feel somehow connected to it all. Dawn, and the hour just following it, is a special time of day. I think differently then. When we first saw the bison a week ago, I was a little frightened, yes, but mostly just awed. They are so immense, their horns make me think of primeval beasts, and yet they seem essentially gentle and quite graceful.
Of course, we’ve all heard stories around here. These creatures do harm others from time to time. A few weeks ago a friend’s dog was gored through the chest and back by one of these “gentle giants”, a man was speared in the bottom not long before that. Both thankfully lived to tell the tale, but still, you have to be wary, take your time, tread lightly. A friend of ours recommends telepathically letting the bison know you mean them no harm. So I did this as we stood there watching the herd. In my head I told them that we’re nice beings, and tried not to let my thoughts wander to the cow Iddli so rudely and noisily chased out of our yard the other day.
Last week we watched amazed as the bison organized themselves into a powwow, a huddle-up of immense proportions, and had a bit of a chat about where to head next. Tails whipping to and fro, the bison decided to walk single file up the path by the park and away from the lake. We all just walked peacefully on.
This week though, the bison were not sure what course to take. They discussed heading along the lake’s boardwalk, but decided against it when a small motorcycle approached. The parking lot wasn’t a promising option, and anyway the two men standing in it had begun to get feisty. To my chagrin these guys thought it’d be a great idea to clap at the bison, to grunt at them and walk toward them, trying to herd them like dairy cows. “You idiots,” I said under my breath, “what the hell are you doing?” Everyone knows not to mess with bison. And now that they had babies? For goodness’ sake, they were more dangerous than ever.
Images flashed through my mind—death, destruction, blood, screaming, the splash of a gored body hitting the otherwise peaceful lake. Where would I run to as the bison, filled with bloodlust, came for me? I would ditch the dog, I decided. We’d had a good run, but in a time like this it’s every man for himself. If I didn’t love my dog so much, the cartoonish flash of the enormous bison hitting the fluffball of a Pomeranian would have been almost humorous. Will could probably fend for himself, I figured. What’s a little bison herd to a man who’s been charged by an angry elephant and survived the glacier at the source of the Ganges collapsing on him?
Just as my stomach became as tangled as a game of Snakes ‘n Ladders as I imagined my family being picked off one by one, the bison began to move. Unlike in my panicked fantasies they were not charging toward anything at all. No, just like last week the herd was lumbering off toward the path near the park, heading back into the shola. I sighed and relaxed. Most of me was glad the moronic men who had been clapping and grunting were alright, but I’ve got to be honest here. If I had the horns, they might not have made it.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
A day in 3 parts
I was bragging to my mother this morning about what beautiful weather we’ve been having here in our mountaintop town. Wouldn’t you know it? The skies heard me.
Part I
The morning was gorgeous, summery weather. I walked in the shola with Iddli, listening to cicadas playing their tiny violins, watching the sunlight filter idly through leaves of all shades, sizes, and shapes. We descended from the foresty trail to the boardwalk by the lake and saw water lilies explode with joy into the daylight, riffing off the jazz played across the water by the wind and light combo. I delighted in the knowledge that I can take this walk anytime I want to, and that I get to live in this place and be a part of the music of it all. My heart lifted, my laughter trilled.
Part II
After my walk I went to K’s house, where eleven children would soon be coming to play, little girls from an orphanage nearby. K has three children of her own, so it was promising to be quite the madhouse once the others arrived. K’s husband, G, had blown up the paddling pool before leaving for work in the morning and there was a pile of tiny bathing suits ready for use. When the little girls arrived (they’re all between three and five years old) I thought I’d never be able to keep them straight. They each had twin pigtails fastened high into short wavy hair with matching little bobby pins keeping the strays in place. K introduced me to each one as they got out of the taxi van that had brought them. The little girls looked at me earnestly, wariness apparent in their shy bright orbs.
We played around for a bit in the child’s paradise that is K’s garden. There is a big trampoline, a jungle gym for climbing, three swings, and a sandbox. K and G’s children pranced and prattled, they swung and dangled, chattering the whole time to one another. The visiting little girls maintained their serious demeanors. I pushed C and A on the swings. A’s eyes grew big as I pulled her toward me, preparing to let her go. The fear evaporated into delight when she realized she wasn’t going to tip backwards out of the swing. We giggled to one another. They had accepted me.
Soon it was time to get in the paddling pool. The little girls were getting bathing suits put on them by every available adult, and were then being placed in the pool. They didn’t quite know what to do with themselves. K and G’s children were flopping around, splashing and bubbling. The other little girls were standing still in the water, getting used to the feeling of being wet.
It didn’t take long, though, for everything to degenerate into the fun insanity it should be when there are over ten children in a paddling pool. The sound: laughter, giggling, splashing water, kersplunks and hahas. The sight: pigtails bouncing, bottles of all shapes and sizes being filled up and then dumped (usually over someone’s head—sometimes one’s own head), the joyful but Sisyphean task of filling one bottle with another when you’re hardly more than a toddler.
I fell in love with several of the little girls. Who could not love the potbellied B, her smile unabashed and her cuddles as tightly wound as her curls? What about serious little T, who finally laughed when I pushed her on the swing and tickled her feet as they came toward me? And of course there was C, who never wanted to let me put her down (the feeling was mutual) and who bounced like trampolining was her calling.
Lunch was served. It was time for me to go.
Part III
Lunch at school is one of my favorite things. It’s not the food. No, no, it’s definitely not the food that makes it so good. It’s seeing the people, my friends and former colleagues, and chatting outside while the mist collects across the way. We sit outside in a walled off corner near the flag green. We chat and kvetch and watch as the sky turns from chlorine pool blue to milky thick white. Today there are even raindrops plooping down onto our stainless steel trays, getting the fruit salad soggy.
Will, Y and I wander inside for coffee as the sky turns from white to grey, and as the grumbles start groaning across the land. By the time we’ve drunk a cup, the grumbles have turned to shouts, cracking shrieks of the biggest whip ever, a whip used to drive bulls, or more likely bison, across the South Indian sky.
I think to myself that I am in a different place entirely than the town I wandered through this morning. In one day, just a few hours, I have inhabited several types of town. I live in them all, but they are not the same place.
I wend my way through the school, trying to stay dry under a maze of covered walkways. I get to the library, which seems the most natural place to be when it’s raining. The books feel like home, as warm and comforting as a cup of tea by the fire. When I leave, the rain has picked up rather than slowing down, and I run to the stockroom to buy an umbrella. The one I get is huge, you could probably set it up comfortably at the beach to avoid sunburn, and the thrill runs through me like it always does when the rain is heavy and my umbrella keeps me dry.
To me, there’s hardly anything better than an umbrella. It’s the ultimate home away from home. It protects me, provides me shelter and comfort. I even love the word. The umbrella I’ve just bought is so wide that I can rest the pole against one shoulder and still stay dry. I feel like Madeleine, or some other storybook character with boots and a yellow jacket. I feel like Fred Astaire. I kick my sandaled feet through puddles and laugh for the umpteenth time today.
I am like the little girls were earlier. It took me awhile to loosen up in the rain, to ditch my propriety and feel the reckless abandon that comes to us humans in the water. The little girls needed some time before they could allow themselves to dance through the pool, before they really (quite literally) let their hair down. Now, just an hour or so later, here I was splashing and giggling and getting my Ali Baba pants quite drenched, thank you very much.
Part I
The morning was gorgeous, summery weather. I walked in the shola with Iddli, listening to cicadas playing their tiny violins, watching the sunlight filter idly through leaves of all shades, sizes, and shapes. We descended from the foresty trail to the boardwalk by the lake and saw water lilies explode with joy into the daylight, riffing off the jazz played across the water by the wind and light combo. I delighted in the knowledge that I can take this walk anytime I want to, and that I get to live in this place and be a part of the music of it all. My heart lifted, my laughter trilled.
Part II
After my walk I went to K’s house, where eleven children would soon be coming to play, little girls from an orphanage nearby. K has three children of her own, so it was promising to be quite the madhouse once the others arrived. K’s husband, G, had blown up the paddling pool before leaving for work in the morning and there was a pile of tiny bathing suits ready for use. When the little girls arrived (they’re all between three and five years old) I thought I’d never be able to keep them straight. They each had twin pigtails fastened high into short wavy hair with matching little bobby pins keeping the strays in place. K introduced me to each one as they got out of the taxi van that had brought them. The little girls looked at me earnestly, wariness apparent in their shy bright orbs.
We played around for a bit in the child’s paradise that is K’s garden. There is a big trampoline, a jungle gym for climbing, three swings, and a sandbox. K and G’s children pranced and prattled, they swung and dangled, chattering the whole time to one another. The visiting little girls maintained their serious demeanors. I pushed C and A on the swings. A’s eyes grew big as I pulled her toward me, preparing to let her go. The fear evaporated into delight when she realized she wasn’t going to tip backwards out of the swing. We giggled to one another. They had accepted me.
Soon it was time to get in the paddling pool. The little girls were getting bathing suits put on them by every available adult, and were then being placed in the pool. They didn’t quite know what to do with themselves. K and G’s children were flopping around, splashing and bubbling. The other little girls were standing still in the water, getting used to the feeling of being wet.
It didn’t take long, though, for everything to degenerate into the fun insanity it should be when there are over ten children in a paddling pool. The sound: laughter, giggling, splashing water, kersplunks and hahas. The sight: pigtails bouncing, bottles of all shapes and sizes being filled up and then dumped (usually over someone’s head—sometimes one’s own head), the joyful but Sisyphean task of filling one bottle with another when you’re hardly more than a toddler.
I fell in love with several of the little girls. Who could not love the potbellied B, her smile unabashed and her cuddles as tightly wound as her curls? What about serious little T, who finally laughed when I pushed her on the swing and tickled her feet as they came toward me? And of course there was C, who never wanted to let me put her down (the feeling was mutual) and who bounced like trampolining was her calling.
Lunch was served. It was time for me to go.
Part III
Lunch at school is one of my favorite things. It’s not the food. No, no, it’s definitely not the food that makes it so good. It’s seeing the people, my friends and former colleagues, and chatting outside while the mist collects across the way. We sit outside in a walled off corner near the flag green. We chat and kvetch and watch as the sky turns from chlorine pool blue to milky thick white. Today there are even raindrops plooping down onto our stainless steel trays, getting the fruit salad soggy.
Will, Y and I wander inside for coffee as the sky turns from white to grey, and as the grumbles start groaning across the land. By the time we’ve drunk a cup, the grumbles have turned to shouts, cracking shrieks of the biggest whip ever, a whip used to drive bulls, or more likely bison, across the South Indian sky.
I think to myself that I am in a different place entirely than the town I wandered through this morning. In one day, just a few hours, I have inhabited several types of town. I live in them all, but they are not the same place.
I wend my way through the school, trying to stay dry under a maze of covered walkways. I get to the library, which seems the most natural place to be when it’s raining. The books feel like home, as warm and comforting as a cup of tea by the fire. When I leave, the rain has picked up rather than slowing down, and I run to the stockroom to buy an umbrella. The one I get is huge, you could probably set it up comfortably at the beach to avoid sunburn, and the thrill runs through me like it always does when the rain is heavy and my umbrella keeps me dry.
To me, there’s hardly anything better than an umbrella. It’s the ultimate home away from home. It protects me, provides me shelter and comfort. I even love the word. The umbrella I’ve just bought is so wide that I can rest the pole against one shoulder and still stay dry. I feel like Madeleine, or some other storybook character with boots and a yellow jacket. I feel like Fred Astaire. I kick my sandaled feet through puddles and laugh for the umpteenth time today.
I am like the little girls were earlier. It took me awhile to loosen up in the rain, to ditch my propriety and feel the reckless abandon that comes to us humans in the water. The little girls needed some time before they could allow themselves to dance through the pool, before they really (quite literally) let their hair down. Now, just an hour or so later, here I was splashing and giggling and getting my Ali Baba pants quite drenched, thank you very much.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
The Raspberry Lady - Part II
The dog howls. Someone approaches, but not anyone he knows well, or at least not anyone he’s fond of. This howl changes in an instant to a guttural growl, a sound emanating from the back of his throat, this noise requires phlegm.
A knock on my door. She has returned: the raspberry lady is back. The berries are even better looking than usual. There are the usual glistening amber pods, these are in the majority, but this time there are purply red bursts as well. They show off the beauty of the yellow ones like accessories. The berries contrast and attract, like blond hair with a red ribbon.
Analoniama, for that is her name, I've come to find out, passes me a red berry as if it’s a ruby, or at least a rupee. It is precious to her, and when I taste it I understand why. It is sweeter than its yellow counterparts, it has a gentler taste than the strident sour yellow berries.
She is scared of the dog, but he seems more comfortable with her now, after last week's interaction. I shoo Iddli away, and again Analoniama surprises me. She lifts up her sari (no petticoat to be found) to reveal a large, long since healed wound on her right thigh. She moos, and makes horns with her fingers. A cow once wounded her, hence her fear of the dog. Have I interpreted this right?
Instead of the five tins I told her I’d buy, I have wound up with seven. I look down into the stainless steel bowl the berries are in and feel no regret. Analoniama leaves my house with a handshake and a gummy grin. She’ll be back tomorrow with the mushrooms.
A knock on my door. She has returned: the raspberry lady is back. The berries are even better looking than usual. There are the usual glistening amber pods, these are in the majority, but this time there are purply red bursts as well. They show off the beauty of the yellow ones like accessories. The berries contrast and attract, like blond hair with a red ribbon.
Analoniama, for that is her name, I've come to find out, passes me a red berry as if it’s a ruby, or at least a rupee. It is precious to her, and when I taste it I understand why. It is sweeter than its yellow counterparts, it has a gentler taste than the strident sour yellow berries.
She is scared of the dog, but he seems more comfortable with her now, after last week's interaction. I shoo Iddli away, and again Analoniama surprises me. She lifts up her sari (no petticoat to be found) to reveal a large, long since healed wound on her right thigh. She moos, and makes horns with her fingers. A cow once wounded her, hence her fear of the dog. Have I interpreted this right?
Instead of the five tins I told her I’d buy, I have wound up with seven. I look down into the stainless steel bowl the berries are in and feel no regret. Analoniama leaves my house with a handshake and a gummy grin. She’ll be back tomorrow with the mushrooms.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
The Raspberry Lady
There is a collection of women in our town; ageless women, homeless women, women with very few teeth. They all seem to have quite the betel nut habit, judging by the color of the teeth they still possess. From what I can see they have at least three means of making a living: begging, selling mushrooms (which a friend told me he once saw the women licking tiny bugs off of), and selling yellow raspberries. These are all seasonal activities, and depending on what happens to be growing at a given time of year you may find yourself interacting with the ladies more or less frequently.
I find one of the most difficult things about living in India to be the moral dilemma of whether or not to support beggars, and therefore the whole begging industry. Of course this issue is not unique to India--I will never forget the man who slept between the Union Station subway and my office building on Fifth Avenue and how much I wanted to help him in some way but never knew how to. He wasn’t a beggar, per se, but I’m sure he wouldn’t have turned down some cash or food, and he was certainly in need of both. Here in India, even after almost two years, I don’t really know where I stand with begging. I mean, there is something horrid about seeing people who clearly have much less of everything than I do and just passing them by, avoiding eye contact or blatantly saying, ‘ille, ille, ma.’ (‘No, no, ma’am.’)
One of the women who lives in town is particularly intriguing to me. She is diminutive and has relatively short hair, dirty and formed into strings, which she wraps around itself into a sort of bun in the back. I like it. She wears a grubby magenta shawl and has bare feet. She’s plucky. One time when our dog Iddli was little we were walking by a spot across from Meenakshi’s where this lady tends to hang out, and she picked him up by the hind leg. Ever since then we give her a wide berth when walking the dog.
It’s raspberry season now, and we’ve taken to buying a few tins full of the sour golden berries most weeks. I like to boil them with some sugar and eat them for breakfast with curd, or for dessert with ice cream. They make a killer crumble, too—tart and bursting with juice.
The magenta lady and I have no real means of communication apart from a combination of sign language and elementary English and Tamil. We count on our fingers for each other, either talking about the time of day I’ll come by the main gate of the school to pick up my berries, or how many tins I’m buying from her this time. Sometimes it seems that she’s yelling at me, but I’m never sure what I’ve done wrong. Maybe it’s just her way.
The other day I missed my appointment to pick up raspberries and caught a load of flack from the lady, but managed to convey to her that she could come by my house later in the day and we’d conduct our transaction then. By the time she came over it was raining, and the dog was none too happy to see her. I guess elephants aren’t the only ones with good memories. The raspberry lady came in and spread her shawl on the floor, where she proceeded to dump tin after tin full of berries onto the cloth. I tried to tell her I only wanted four tins, but she was not happy about this. I’ll never be certain of what she said, but I’m pretty sure it went something like: “I came all the way down here in the pouring rain and you only want four flipping tins?! Not a chance, lady! I’m selling you all eight tins of these berries, whether you like it or not.” And sell them to me she did.
We wound up having to involve the watchman in the transaction, for reasons that remain unclear to me. I think the lady was a bit drunk, actually, and I think she thought I was trying to swindle her. I paid her two hundred rupees (about US $4), which is what eight tins costing twenty-five rupees each comes out to, but maybe math wasn’t her strong suit, because we had to go get the sale witnessed by the watchman in the pouring rain. He confirmed that both of us were happy with our end of the bargain and everyone went away with what they wanted.
We’ve been eating raspberries ever since.
I find one of the most difficult things about living in India to be the moral dilemma of whether or not to support beggars, and therefore the whole begging industry. Of course this issue is not unique to India--I will never forget the man who slept between the Union Station subway and my office building on Fifth Avenue and how much I wanted to help him in some way but never knew how to. He wasn’t a beggar, per se, but I’m sure he wouldn’t have turned down some cash or food, and he was certainly in need of both. Here in India, even after almost two years, I don’t really know where I stand with begging. I mean, there is something horrid about seeing people who clearly have much less of everything than I do and just passing them by, avoiding eye contact or blatantly saying, ‘ille, ille, ma.’ (‘No, no, ma’am.’)
One of the women who lives in town is particularly intriguing to me. She is diminutive and has relatively short hair, dirty and formed into strings, which she wraps around itself into a sort of bun in the back. I like it. She wears a grubby magenta shawl and has bare feet. She’s plucky. One time when our dog Iddli was little we were walking by a spot across from Meenakshi’s where this lady tends to hang out, and she picked him up by the hind leg. Ever since then we give her a wide berth when walking the dog.
It’s raspberry season now, and we’ve taken to buying a few tins full of the sour golden berries most weeks. I like to boil them with some sugar and eat them for breakfast with curd, or for dessert with ice cream. They make a killer crumble, too—tart and bursting with juice.
The magenta lady and I have no real means of communication apart from a combination of sign language and elementary English and Tamil. We count on our fingers for each other, either talking about the time of day I’ll come by the main gate of the school to pick up my berries, or how many tins I’m buying from her this time. Sometimes it seems that she’s yelling at me, but I’m never sure what I’ve done wrong. Maybe it’s just her way.
The other day I missed my appointment to pick up raspberries and caught a load of flack from the lady, but managed to convey to her that she could come by my house later in the day and we’d conduct our transaction then. By the time she came over it was raining, and the dog was none too happy to see her. I guess elephants aren’t the only ones with good memories. The raspberry lady came in and spread her shawl on the floor, where she proceeded to dump tin after tin full of berries onto the cloth. I tried to tell her I only wanted four tins, but she was not happy about this. I’ll never be certain of what she said, but I’m pretty sure it went something like: “I came all the way down here in the pouring rain and you only want four flipping tins?! Not a chance, lady! I’m selling you all eight tins of these berries, whether you like it or not.” And sell them to me she did.
We wound up having to involve the watchman in the transaction, for reasons that remain unclear to me. I think the lady was a bit drunk, actually, and I think she thought I was trying to swindle her. I paid her two hundred rupees (about US $4), which is what eight tins costing twenty-five rupees each comes out to, but maybe math wasn’t her strong suit, because we had to go get the sale witnessed by the watchman in the pouring rain. He confirmed that both of us were happy with our end of the bargain and everyone went away with what they wanted.
We’ve been eating raspberries ever since.
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