God-Damn mosquitoes. If I stay in this ashram one more day I am gonna need a net. What time is it. Shit 5 in the morning. Ok 3 hours till parathas. Life here is simple and great, its easy to study and meditate, but strange beds make strange dreams, especially in the grey space of twilight.
Yawn, today is a big day. Aman is having us (the two Germans, Anket, and myself) go to the Himalayan Institute. Apparently it's a huge hospital and it's of great importance that we attend some ceremony. I have no idea what is happening but I think it's an opening of some nature. Onion parthatas again, quick check of the e-mail, beep beep.
"Ok, Ok, I'm coming."
"Let me sit in the back seat, I wanna sit next toDavid." young Anket flatters me. I climb into the rusy 1960/70's era sedan. It's Indian made (i believe) and looks straight out of Octo-pussy (thats a reference for the old folk). It takes forver to warm up, the clutch sticks like all hell, and it handles like a drunk elephant. Not that I would know, Iwouldn't even drive on these roads with a proper vehicle. Luckily the German fellow, Felix, is good at handeling wild beasts.
"Who let the dogs out!"-Anket
"Woof Woof Woof Woof!'-Rest of car One hour of similar terrible American songs intermixed with MichaelJackson classics.
"Wow Anket you talk and sing more than anyone I know." I say indiffrently.
"Thank you." he replies. We pull up to the hospital and my first guess at the ceremony was quickly dismissed as the aging buildings come into view. We set out on foot and start walking to the Ayurvedic building in order to meetAman.
"Hello" A statley Indian gentleman greets us. By Ankets reaction they have meet "Come with me." We are lead to the second floor of the holisitc health buidling and take our shoes off. I hear chanting from one of the small rooms and the now five of us file in. Aman greets us with his ubiqiutous smile,and I sit cross-legged behind the others. It feels like a very intimate cermenoy and judging by a large picture it's a remebrance for the deceased. Flowers, fruit, and even money is made as offerings to God and the departed. Long Chants and prayers are repeated. My legs hurt. I ned to get more flexible. It's not fair. These Indians have sat like this their whole lives. If I do it for more than 10 min. my feet fall asleep and my hips ache like a 70-year olds. I have to remind myself not to touch my forehead. One of the swami's placed some colored ink and rice their (I am sure there is a special name for it and I feel bad not knowing). Everyone else has it so Iwould feel disrespectful and wierd without one. The ceremony is beautiful. Flowers are passed around and held with hands folded. You then pass it back to the front and it is placed as offerings. After a half hour or so it ends, and we make our way downstairs for some chai.
"Sorry for my ignorance Aman, but who exactly is that a picture of." I say slighlty embarassed.
"That is Swami Rama, he started this hospital many years ago and today is the 19th anniversay of the day he left his body. And that is his wife." He responds as she walks over.
"Hello, would you like some biscuits with your tea."
"Sure." I say with a smile. They are too good to refuse. As she pulls out a camera she says,"Anket, please take this camera and snap some shots of the outdoorceremnoy." He obeys's as any good boy would, and accompanies her outside. We all follow suit and the outdoor ceremony starts. More chanting in a language I do not undertand. It still has it's beuaty and the reverence everyone possesses for Swami Rama is contagious. I stand silently and repectfully. Two SUV's pull up and the crowd turns around. A throng of orange-robed holy people make their way towards the outdoor altar. At the center is clearly the man of the highest order. At his right is a young man that seems like a close disciple or body guard. A black man with a big turban and orange robe follows. He has a large orange posse and their gait and demeanor reminded me of Guru super heros. I am waiting for one of them to start floating or shoot rays of light from their eyes. I am very close to the path leading to the altar and as the holy man is walking people came forward to kneel and kiss the ground infront of him.
"Shit what do I do." I think to myself. "Make a Decision!" I half kneel and bow my head, hoping that one of the orange robed superheros doesn't reprimand me. I open my eyes and stand-up. "Ok I'm alive."
to be continued...
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Another
How many fleeting sands and dreams,
Are sieved through a made-up screen,
Which leans against your mind and screams,
Every time one gets too big.
Or tell me where the treasure lies,
If not the Oft-passed time,
Between yesterday and tomorrow.
For you can learn many things,
By walking barefoot down a stream,
Like which rocks are good to lean
Upon, and which ones you should avoid.
They say you can't walk across the same stream twice,
But I'm stuck walking up this same stream,
Does that mean that time is more like a dream,
Than something real?
For each step IS this moment,
And even though the water is always moving,
It's the same everywhere.
And now I feel my hair raising,
And my feet blazing,
From the tingling pain of these river rocks.
You can learn many things,
By walking barefoot down a stream,
Like how these rocks are dreams,
And the tiny ones like sand don't hurt.
But slowly as their size increases,
Each step makes sharp tiny creases,
And your once playful gait now reaches,
A crawl.
These rocks are dreams,
And the big ones don't hurt.
So leap and leap
Till' boulders are just stepping stones,
And streams are just a distant groan,
Of how time once trapped you.
Are sieved through a made-up screen,
Which leans against your mind and screams,
Every time one gets too big.
Or tell me where the treasure lies,
If not the Oft-passed time,
Between yesterday and tomorrow.
For you can learn many things,
By walking barefoot down a stream,
Like which rocks are good to lean
Upon, and which ones you should avoid.
They say you can't walk across the same stream twice,
But I'm stuck walking up this same stream,
Does that mean that time is more like a dream,
Than something real?
For each step IS this moment,
And even though the water is always moving,
It's the same everywhere.
And now I feel my hair raising,
And my feet blazing,
From the tingling pain of these river rocks.
You can learn many things,
By walking barefoot down a stream,
Like how these rocks are dreams,
And the tiny ones like sand don't hurt.
But slowly as their size increases,
Each step makes sharp tiny creases,
And your once playful gait now reaches,
A crawl.
These rocks are dreams,
And the big ones don't hurt.
So leap and leap
Till' boulders are just stepping stones,
And streams are just a distant groan,
Of how time once trapped you.
Ashram Part 1
So while I was slaving away in a Indian kitchen I was still in contact with my new friend Aman. He is the kind man that introduced me to the king and queen. He was spending his evening meditating on top of hill next to the Kasar Devi temple. I ran into Aman going to the internet cafe and was invited for dinner at the temple. In a small hut no bigger than 10 by 10 feet, lives the swami that takes care of the temple. A man whose age is probably older than his appearance, sat with a big grin on his face. He had a small beanie and long beard. We chatted for a while and waited for the pressure cooker to do its work. After a simple meal of rice and vegetables I began to realized that I must join Aman and check out his ashram. An ashram is basically a communal living space that is conducive to spiritual growth. Some are yoga ashrams, some are meditation ashrams, some are a variety of different things. This place, called Vipassana House, is a simple establishment that Aman made for young seekers my age to learn and grow in an environment that doesn't focus on money. You pay 2 dollars a day for food, 2 a day for maintenance, and 5 a day for charity. For that you get 3 delicious square meals, prepared by his maid, a clean bed, shower, washing machine, and plenty of free time to relax and meditate. Vipassana house is also a Pranic Healing Center. This type of healing deals with chakras, breath, and all that energy stuff. My biggest hope in going to Vipassana house was to learn some of these new techniques in order to help others.
After a 4 hour jeep ride and 8 hour train ride I ended up at the locked gates of Vipassana House. At 5 in the morning the sky was still dark, and my body racked from many hours of travel. I slept for a few hours and woke up to onion parathas and chai. The days at the ashram are peaceful. The first day of my arrival I didn't waste anytime and I started receiving training from the Pranic Master immediately. After an intense 4 hour class I paused, and did some breathing exercises, the rest of the day was filled with reading and relaxing. The next day I woke up at 5 in the morning and accompanied the two other kids here to yoga. It was taught by an aging guru, who after being healed with yoga many years ago, devoted his life to helping others. The class consisted of breathing exercises, stretching, and light exercises. It hurt a lot more than it sounds. I can't even sit cross-legged for any amount of time without it hurting. I have a lot to learn. The two other kids are both 19 and from Germany. They are dating and are spending time in India before going university. (pictures on facebook).
Another person I met was their friend Lovee. He is a great guy, and learned pranic healing many years ago. He is 25 and wears the turban of a Sikh. I have never really heard that much about his religion, so on a ride back from a trip to the mountains he told me some great stories and beliefs. They are Hindu's that follow the teachings of a lineage of 10 guru's. One of them, wrote an important scripture that remains crucial to their learning. They read pieces of it everyday. The religion is only 400-500 years old, and the devotees are known as warriors, and fighters. In fact all Sikhs are allowed, by the government, to be armed at all times. You will see Sikh men wearing huge turbans, carrying anything from cross-bows, to swords. Lovee says he keeps his at home. Sikh's believe that all religions are paths up the same mountain and do not discriminate. They also are very devoted to God, and the teachings.
Yet another person I met, was the young Anket. He lives at the ashram with his family (in a separate house). His mother is the maid/ cook for the ashram and Anket is "in charge" of the ashram. He actually is, in a large sense. Aman set up a bank account for him, and gives him money when things need to be done. He is only 11 but extremely smart and has better English than almost all the Indians I have met. We hung out a good amount and I had a great time playing cricket with him, or afternoon walks to get sweets.
One of the days, the two Germans, Lovee, and I went to a place called robber cave. (pictures online) This cave is magical. It is basically a stream that has eroded the landscape for hundred of thousands of years. When you look up you can see the small spot of sky that was once the original stream. The rock walls, shooting straight up on both sides, are clearly made of a softer rock, but the water makes beautiful and intricate carvings everywhere. At some points the light from above would get very small, and at other times a beautiful oasis would spring up in the middle of the 'cave'. Vines, and beautiful flowers crawled across the soft stone. Walking through the water was a great experience and we all had a blast navigating the rocks, and waterfalls. Eventually we got to an ancient wall. This was apparently one side of a room that housed old Indian robbers. The stone was beautiful and I felt like Indiana Jones. Except instead of a big stone waiting to crush me, I felt that a huge tide of water was gonna rush down the small stream and wash us all away. Thankfully no such monsoon came, and we made it back to our shoes right after dusk.
After a 4 hour jeep ride and 8 hour train ride I ended up at the locked gates of Vipassana House. At 5 in the morning the sky was still dark, and my body racked from many hours of travel. I slept for a few hours and woke up to onion parathas and chai. The days at the ashram are peaceful. The first day of my arrival I didn't waste anytime and I started receiving training from the Pranic Master immediately. After an intense 4 hour class I paused, and did some breathing exercises, the rest of the day was filled with reading and relaxing. The next day I woke up at 5 in the morning and accompanied the two other kids here to yoga. It was taught by an aging guru, who after being healed with yoga many years ago, devoted his life to helping others. The class consisted of breathing exercises, stretching, and light exercises. It hurt a lot more than it sounds. I can't even sit cross-legged for any amount of time without it hurting. I have a lot to learn. The two other kids are both 19 and from Germany. They are dating and are spending time in India before going university. (pictures on facebook).
Another person I met was their friend Lovee. He is a great guy, and learned pranic healing many years ago. He is 25 and wears the turban of a Sikh. I have never really heard that much about his religion, so on a ride back from a trip to the mountains he told me some great stories and beliefs. They are Hindu's that follow the teachings of a lineage of 10 guru's. One of them, wrote an important scripture that remains crucial to their learning. They read pieces of it everyday. The religion is only 400-500 years old, and the devotees are known as warriors, and fighters. In fact all Sikhs are allowed, by the government, to be armed at all times. You will see Sikh men wearing huge turbans, carrying anything from cross-bows, to swords. Lovee says he keeps his at home. Sikh's believe that all religions are paths up the same mountain and do not discriminate. They also are very devoted to God, and the teachings.
Yet another person I met, was the young Anket. He lives at the ashram with his family (in a separate house). His mother is the maid/ cook for the ashram and Anket is "in charge" of the ashram. He actually is, in a large sense. Aman set up a bank account for him, and gives him money when things need to be done. He is only 11 but extremely smart and has better English than almost all the Indians I have met. We hung out a good amount and I had a great time playing cricket with him, or afternoon walks to get sweets.
One of the days, the two Germans, Lovee, and I went to a place called robber cave. (pictures online) This cave is magical. It is basically a stream that has eroded the landscape for hundred of thousands of years. When you look up you can see the small spot of sky that was once the original stream. The rock walls, shooting straight up on both sides, are clearly made of a softer rock, but the water makes beautiful and intricate carvings everywhere. At some points the light from above would get very small, and at other times a beautiful oasis would spring up in the middle of the 'cave'. Vines, and beautiful flowers crawled across the soft stone. Walking through the water was a great experience and we all had a blast navigating the rocks, and waterfalls. Eventually we got to an ancient wall. This was apparently one side of a room that housed old Indian robbers. The stone was beautiful and I felt like Indiana Jones. Except instead of a big stone waiting to crush me, I felt that a huge tide of water was gonna rush down the small stream and wash us all away. Thankfully no such monsoon came, and we made it back to our shoes right after dusk.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Poems, get used to it.
"Morning"
The night time creates morning dew,
Just as darkness creates in you,
That special secret rendezvous,
Between your heart and head.
Contently shed away each grief,
Like that small inconsequential leaf,
I can still feel twilight's teeth,
Sink In.
And if each path seems to lead astray,
Just remember with the ferocity of each day,
That every time you see some grey,
Just wait a little more.
Because I can't promise that perfect sunrise,
But I have looked into divinities eyes,
And blissfully realized,
You can always watch it turn light.
"Flight"
Convince me, that you want to be,
Anything but a mute.
But do it in Pantomime,
So I can see whats between the lines,
Of your tattered book.
Believe me there are things better left unsaid,
Or rather things you can't say,
That have fallen between the frays,
Of your ruffled feathers.
I think you've left them dormant for so long,
That you forgot how to fly,
Or never knew.
But they're a gift that God gave you,
And I will teach you to soar.
The view from the clouds is divine,
But its hard to believe,
You can actually leave,
Your feet,
Or your fears,
Or those neat little tears,
You've held for so long, you think they are you.
Now I am asking you to do, what the say you can't do,
Just Let Go,
Breath In,
and Take Off.
The night time creates morning dew,
Just as darkness creates in you,
That special secret rendezvous,
Between your heart and head.
Contently shed away each grief,
Like that small inconsequential leaf,
I can still feel twilight's teeth,
Sink In.
And if each path seems to lead astray,
Just remember with the ferocity of each day,
That every time you see some grey,
Just wait a little more.
Because I can't promise that perfect sunrise,
But I have looked into divinities eyes,
And blissfully realized,
You can always watch it turn light.
"Flight"
Convince me, that you want to be,
Anything but a mute.
But do it in Pantomime,
So I can see whats between the lines,
Of your tattered book.
Believe me there are things better left unsaid,
Or rather things you can't say,
That have fallen between the frays,
Of your ruffled feathers.
I think you've left them dormant for so long,
That you forgot how to fly,
Or never knew.
But they're a gift that God gave you,
And I will teach you to soar.
The view from the clouds is divine,
But its hard to believe,
You can actually leave,
Your feet,
Or your fears,
Or those neat little tears,
You've held for so long, you think they are you.
Now I am asking you to do, what the say you can't do,
Just Let Go,
Breath In,
and Take Off.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Another dead goat, but this time we eat it.
So the job at Kalmatia is fun and packed with learning experiences. The first day was hard. I am trying to find my role in a kitchen where everyone is unsure of how to treat me. I simply want to be an equal, or rather a student to the head chefs. At first they where trying to give me special treatment. The food we made the first day was actually pretty bad and I was very scared that more terrible tasting slosh was on the menu ever night. Ok maybe I am over-stating it but there was one dish called Paprika chicken that was simply unacceptable. Bread and Saute chicken. Remove from pan. De-glaze with White-wine Vingear!? Add very heavy cream, salt, and paprika (which is more of a coloring than a flavoring). Add chicken to sauce, move to casserole dish, top with bread crumbs and terrible tasting processed cheese. End up with vinegary cream sauce. Not good. I luckily found this to be the exception not the rule.
That night I saw Her Highness Mukti before she stepped in for dinner. She pulled me aside and told me she spoke to Dieter, the owner. She told him he has 'gem' on his hands and he told her that if I come back for a few months he will give me accommodations and possibly salary. We will see how it all plays out. She then asked me to help her clean out this old cottage that she has has since 1972. She stays in Kasar Devi for a few months every few years. Of course you can't say no to her (nor would I want to) and I promised I would meet at 10:30 the next day.
On another own of those breath-less, beautiful, sunshine filled days, in the foot hills of the Himalayas, we strolled down a old dirt path that winded along the hillside. We got to the cottage and started to remove everything. She is good at making orders, especially to her husband, who appeased her with unbelievable patience. I have a lot to learn from him. I did heavy lifting and cleaned things as I packed them into huge trunks. She is going to buy a new cottage and doesn't want to have to buy all new stuff. I was amazed as King Leopold bent down and stated to hand dry plates, he has got to be the most down to earth royalty ever (not that I have meet any others haha). After finally finishing the days labor, we went back to the hotel for late afternoon tea. I went into town and bought her a new trunk, then we returned and went to dinner. After helping her so much she started to call me her Hainuman (a hindu god). Dinner was nice and before we parted she gave me her e-mail and hug and told me to keep in touch.
Back to work cooking. I feel most comfortable in a kitchen. Especially when it is busy and I am working 10 hour+ days. They must think I am crazy cause all the workers know I am not getting paid. The Head chef is amazing and speaks very good English. In between me chopping vegetables, peeling shit, and cleaning he pulls me over to the pots and shows me what he is making. He even has me run and get my notebook so I can take recipes down. He has a encyclopedic knowledge and at the end of the shit, if I missed anything, he will rattle off Indian and European recipes while I act as a scribe. These guys work their ass off. On their over-time days they wake up at 6am start cooking breakfast and work until 11 at night, only taking an hour or two nap after lunch. One day I joined them and slept in the employee quarters. The young workers barely 19 where ecstatic when I told them I was spending the night. Their English is terrible but they know enough to convince me not to make the walk home. It is a small drafty room with cots lined up on the wall. The cigarette butts, and old decks of cards showed me a glimpse of late nights bullshitting with co-workers. Cooks are the same everywhere. Just in India, replace coffee with chai and broken kitchen spanish with Hindi. These guys are are like energizer bunnies, but their batteries are copious amounts of strong chai and endless streams of strong little cigarettes call beerlie (I have no idea how to spell that). I of course forgo the smoke, even though they ask me everyday, but I have been drinking the chai to no end. I have been drinking 10-15 cups a day, which doesn't even touch the 30 or so that the head chef drinks. After taking a day off my head rang from lack of caffeine.
On the day I slept over and started work at 6, there was a happy buzz in the air. Today they would butcher a goat. It is a pretty big deal because all the innards are very valuable pieces of meat that make them strong. They took the goat to a special temple where sacrifices are given, and left the head as a offering. After skinning the animal they separate the meat, which is for the guests, and the innards which are for the workers. They prefer this trade off and think that the inside is the best part. As one guy got to work, diligently cleaning the intestines and stomach, another started cooking the spices and vegetable is a big pot. Lying in the sink was a pot full of blood. They where letting it sit so it would coagulate and turn into a gelatinous sheet that could be sliced into small bit size cubes. Right as the smell was starting to make me a gag, a plate of cubed raw heart was passed to me. I couldn't say no. It tasted luke-warm and gamey. After the cleaning, they chopped up the innards and threw the cubes of blood into the pot of spices and veggies. This was too much, I went down the hilll and took a nap in the employee quarters as the Indians savored their rare delicacies.
That night I saw Her Highness Mukti before she stepped in for dinner. She pulled me aside and told me she spoke to Dieter, the owner. She told him he has 'gem' on his hands and he told her that if I come back for a few months he will give me accommodations and possibly salary. We will see how it all plays out. She then asked me to help her clean out this old cottage that she has has since 1972. She stays in Kasar Devi for a few months every few years. Of course you can't say no to her (nor would I want to) and I promised I would meet at 10:30 the next day.
On another own of those breath-less, beautiful, sunshine filled days, in the foot hills of the Himalayas, we strolled down a old dirt path that winded along the hillside. We got to the cottage and started to remove everything. She is good at making orders, especially to her husband, who appeased her with unbelievable patience. I have a lot to learn from him. I did heavy lifting and cleaned things as I packed them into huge trunks. She is going to buy a new cottage and doesn't want to have to buy all new stuff. I was amazed as King Leopold bent down and stated to hand dry plates, he has got to be the most down to earth royalty ever (not that I have meet any others haha). After finally finishing the days labor, we went back to the hotel for late afternoon tea. I went into town and bought her a new trunk, then we returned and went to dinner. After helping her so much she started to call me her Hainuman (a hindu god). Dinner was nice and before we parted she gave me her e-mail and hug and told me to keep in touch.
Back to work cooking. I feel most comfortable in a kitchen. Especially when it is busy and I am working 10 hour+ days. They must think I am crazy cause all the workers know I am not getting paid. The Head chef is amazing and speaks very good English. In between me chopping vegetables, peeling shit, and cleaning he pulls me over to the pots and shows me what he is making. He even has me run and get my notebook so I can take recipes down. He has a encyclopedic knowledge and at the end of the shit, if I missed anything, he will rattle off Indian and European recipes while I act as a scribe. These guys work their ass off. On their over-time days they wake up at 6am start cooking breakfast and work until 11 at night, only taking an hour or two nap after lunch. One day I joined them and slept in the employee quarters. The young workers barely 19 where ecstatic when I told them I was spending the night. Their English is terrible but they know enough to convince me not to make the walk home. It is a small drafty room with cots lined up on the wall. The cigarette butts, and old decks of cards showed me a glimpse of late nights bullshitting with co-workers. Cooks are the same everywhere. Just in India, replace coffee with chai and broken kitchen spanish with Hindi. These guys are are like energizer bunnies, but their batteries are copious amounts of strong chai and endless streams of strong little cigarettes call beerlie (I have no idea how to spell that). I of course forgo the smoke, even though they ask me everyday, but I have been drinking the chai to no end. I have been drinking 10-15 cups a day, which doesn't even touch the 30 or so that the head chef drinks. After taking a day off my head rang from lack of caffeine.
On the day I slept over and started work at 6, there was a happy buzz in the air. Today they would butcher a goat. It is a pretty big deal because all the innards are very valuable pieces of meat that make them strong. They took the goat to a special temple where sacrifices are given, and left the head as a offering. After skinning the animal they separate the meat, which is for the guests, and the innards which are for the workers. They prefer this trade off and think that the inside is the best part. As one guy got to work, diligently cleaning the intestines and stomach, another started cooking the spices and vegetable is a big pot. Lying in the sink was a pot full of blood. They where letting it sit so it would coagulate and turn into a gelatinous sheet that could be sliced into small bit size cubes. Right as the smell was starting to make me a gag, a plate of cubed raw heart was passed to me. I couldn't say no. It tasted luke-warm and gamey. After the cleaning, they chopped up the innards and threw the cubes of blood into the pot of spices and veggies. This was too much, I went down the hilll and took a nap in the employee quarters as the Indians savored their rare delicacies.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Poems
I
It's more than a thought,
or prayer, or an emotion.
Its more than a look,
or a touch, or taste.
Its like a ray,
or a stream, or a soft pillow dream.
That I see you in,
Every night.
So close your eyes,
Because distance and time
Are never as real as melody and Rhymn.
And nothing is as real as my love for you.
II
It's easy to remember truth,
When it stares at you everyday.
Like a small infinite ray,
Of amber light.
Or rather amber eyes,
That pierce through my night.
And magical lines that confuse my sight.
And everytime I think I might
cry.
I think of you and smile.
III
Remember every moment
As if time was balanced on a precipice.
Right below heaven's bliss,
And next to yesteryears kiss.
I see you in the sometimes space,
between today and tomorrow.
Or rather the always space,
between right now and the next moment.
But believe me tomorrow is too long,
And right now seems like forever,
Before I get to see you again.
IV
Is anything really fair,
When beauty can not be shared
With everyone you love.
Is life a simple game,
or complex stroke of chance,
or masterful game of romance,
that you play with God.
I think its all of the above
But I'm still sad that none of this love
Can be said through words.
But atleast I know I can talk to the moon
And he will converse in rythmic tunes,
Which every night you're listening to,
For how else is it possible that you,
Could always know how I feel.
V
How can you measure up,
When you are the stick,
That every girl has to stand next to.
You are like the sun,
That is asking for a flashlight.
Or a star that forgot how to shoot.
And I am a small speck
On a small rock.
That gets to watch a blaze of beautiful light.
It's more than a thought,
or prayer, or an emotion.
Its more than a look,
or a touch, or taste.
Its like a ray,
or a stream, or a soft pillow dream.
That I see you in,
Every night.
So close your eyes,
Because distance and time
Are never as real as melody and Rhymn.
And nothing is as real as my love for you.
II
It's easy to remember truth,
When it stares at you everyday.
Like a small infinite ray,
Of amber light.
Or rather amber eyes,
That pierce through my night.
And magical lines that confuse my sight.
And everytime I think I might
cry.
I think of you and smile.
III
Remember every moment
As if time was balanced on a precipice.
Right below heaven's bliss,
And next to yesteryears kiss.
I see you in the sometimes space,
between today and tomorrow.
Or rather the always space,
between right now and the next moment.
But believe me tomorrow is too long,
And right now seems like forever,
Before I get to see you again.
IV
Is anything really fair,
When beauty can not be shared
With everyone you love.
Is life a simple game,
or complex stroke of chance,
or masterful game of romance,
that you play with God.
I think its all of the above
But I'm still sad that none of this love
Can be said through words.
But atleast I know I can talk to the moon
And he will converse in rythmic tunes,
Which every night you're listening to,
For how else is it possible that you,
Could always know how I feel.
V
How can you measure up,
When you are the stick,
That every girl has to stand next to.
You are like the sun,
That is asking for a flashlight.
Or a star that forgot how to shoot.
And I am a small speck
On a small rock.
That gets to watch a blaze of beautiful light.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Joe Baba
Before I continue forward let me Tarantino it and fill-in some dead space between me hating Almora and me deciding to work here. My days where filled with long treks back and forth from town trying to get Internet or helping Uncle Alan with his abysmal cafe. His Sketchy landlord decided to help, which basically involved him making miserable samosas and repeating 'no problem' every three seconds. He also convinced Uncle Alan to buy Rum and sell it at the cafe (add one more thing to the list of illegal activities i.e. business w.o. appropriate visa). Govinda was basically trying to make a hang out for his friends. This was a very bad idea and Uncle Alan realized this very fast. Me, not wanting to be involved with bad food and shady landlords, spent a good amount of time with the interesting character Joe Baba, while I contemplated my escape. Even though trust was a bit of an issue, he told me he would teach me how to make some Indian food and I figured I couldn't get myself into too much trouble. The few days I spent with him turned out to be really fun. We made aloo paratha (potato stuffed flat bread) and deep fried eggs in curry (more Delicious than its sounds). He also brewed super strong chai with copious amounts of ginger, green cardamom, and black pepper. He tought me a great Indian game called Karim. A game of finesse, Karim can best be equated with Billiards. The table is much smaller and a rectangle, measuring around 3 feet by 3 feet. Instead of balls you use small wooden pieces that look like checkers. Instead of a cue ball and stick you have a plastic disc that is slightly bigger than the checkers and the flick of your finger. You have one player on each side of the table and there are two teams. The goal is pretty much to hit your color checker pieces into the holes in each corner before the other team does. It is fun, difficult, and addicting, especially since I didn't have much else to do.
One afternoon we rambled on up the hill and I watched Joe Baba play a few heated games. Chai was sipped and billows of hash smoke puffed. With old Indian men laughing it re mined me of a scene in a movie. Half way through the game Joe Baba's English girlfriend, Beth, (very lovely lady) stormed up to the Karim room with a dead baby goat in her arms. She was pissed. To paraphrase: "What the Hell Joe, you said you would be down in 10 minutes that was 20 minutes ago. Our dog killed this thing and you're sitting playing Karim. That's all you guys do. The women are working in the fields, while the men smoke and play games. For christ sake it reeks of rum in here." Her assessment was spot on.
Unaffected, Joe Baba borrowed a motorbike and we went into town for lunch. On the menu, chicken and egg curry w. roti, and for drinks a few super strong piss-flavored Indian beers. A little but tipsy, Joe started to talk about his troubles with Beth and his reformed life. His father was abusive so he left home when he was 6 and took Bombay by storm. He showed me his multiple gun and knife wounds, including a rather burly one running across his throat. Every single one of those injuries was paid back in death. But according to Joe "I can't live like that no more." He is an interesting man. And for some reason these stories weirdly make me trust him more. At least he is being honest and sharing about his women troubles.
As a side note I got a shave in town. I heard that they where rather elaborate rituals and I had to experience the hype. They start by spraying your face with water, than massaging oil into your face for a good 2-3 minutes. Then you get ritualistically lathered up until a super thick foam forms. He shaves the entire face with precision than re-applies the lather and does it all again. He cleans the face and applies a moisturizer which he massages in for another few minutes. He then applies another oil and takes out this big machine which vibrates the face. After that he takes floss and runs it across all the parts of the face. Dirt comes off. He then squeezes any imperfections with a special tool. It finishes with another moisturizer. Price 3 dollars.
I heard that this hotel called Kalmatia Sangam has great food and is really close so I decided to check it out and see if I could work in the kitcken in exchange for some food or accomodations. The next day was my dinner with the King and Queen.
One afternoon we rambled on up the hill and I watched Joe Baba play a few heated games. Chai was sipped and billows of hash smoke puffed. With old Indian men laughing it re mined me of a scene in a movie. Half way through the game Joe Baba's English girlfriend, Beth, (very lovely lady) stormed up to the Karim room with a dead baby goat in her arms. She was pissed. To paraphrase: "What the Hell Joe, you said you would be down in 10 minutes that was 20 minutes ago. Our dog killed this thing and you're sitting playing Karim. That's all you guys do. The women are working in the fields, while the men smoke and play games. For christ sake it reeks of rum in here." Her assessment was spot on.
Unaffected, Joe Baba borrowed a motorbike and we went into town for lunch. On the menu, chicken and egg curry w. roti, and for drinks a few super strong piss-flavored Indian beers. A little but tipsy, Joe started to talk about his troubles with Beth and his reformed life. His father was abusive so he left home when he was 6 and took Bombay by storm. He showed me his multiple gun and knife wounds, including a rather burly one running across his throat. Every single one of those injuries was paid back in death. But according to Joe "I can't live like that no more." He is an interesting man. And for some reason these stories weirdly make me trust him more. At least he is being honest and sharing about his women troubles.
As a side note I got a shave in town. I heard that they where rather elaborate rituals and I had to experience the hype. They start by spraying your face with water, than massaging oil into your face for a good 2-3 minutes. Then you get ritualistically lathered up until a super thick foam forms. He shaves the entire face with precision than re-applies the lather and does it all again. He cleans the face and applies a moisturizer which he massages in for another few minutes. He then applies another oil and takes out this big machine which vibrates the face. After that he takes floss and runs it across all the parts of the face. Dirt comes off. He then squeezes any imperfections with a special tool. It finishes with another moisturizer. Price 3 dollars.
I heard that this hotel called Kalmatia Sangam has great food and is really close so I decided to check it out and see if I could work in the kitcken in exchange for some food or accomodations. The next day was my dinner with the King and Queen.
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