It has been a long time since my last entry. Having a travel partner makes it more difficult to write. I could lie and say that Jessica sucked out my creative juices like marrow from a stewed goat bone, but the reality is we have been busy. My previous time in India was filled with long bouts of down-time and periods of routine. It is much more conducive to reflection. Since Jess only had 20 days in India I figured traveling and sight-seeing would be a good option. For better or for worse our time has been filled with a lot of busy travel. The trade-off is that we have got to see a lot of awesome sights and extensively explore the largest state in India. Rajasthan, or the 'Land of Kings', is a diverse ancient land filled with majestic forts and picturesque palaces.
After an abysmal few days in Delhi we moved on to Rathambore national park. This despicably touristy location, with bad food and over-priced accommodations, is home to a beautiful national park. Rathambore is popular for giving visitors a very high chance of a tiger sighting. Its 40 feline residents are not in a caged zoo, but truly wild, roaming the 400 square kilometers of protected land. Our early morning jeep safari was at first freezing but in between my hoarse coughs we got up close and personal with a large female tiger. It was truly majestic. We also had a great time feeding wild monkeys, admiring the numerous peacocks, and watching the tigers big-eyed prey. A variety of deer and antelopes dotted the landscape and a plethora of birds and owls sat perched on exotic trees. One particular plant is called the walking tree and has tentacle like roots extending in all directions. Over the trees life-time it is capable of moving the multiple roots in order to better access sunlight or groundwater.
Our next stop was Udaipur and our first glimpse at a real Indian palace. Rajasthan is the land of fairytale India. I expected Aladin and his Genie around every corner. We stayed at a 300 year-old water front Haveli. The large many floored building was home to an old maharaja or perhaps a rich English Ambassador during the Raj. The roof-top restaurant served minauture portions but had a massive view of Udaipurs iconic 'Lake Palace'. The colossal white structure glimmers as it floats in the middle of Lake Pichola. Only accessible by boat, the royal families former summer home, is now one of India's most famous hotels. Boasting 800 dollar a night rooms you are promised the royal treatment, literally. Over the water to the east, lies the main city. A twisitng jumbles of hilly streets weaves around ancient temples and old Havelis. The main attraction is the royal families home, simple deemed 'City Palace'. The present family is the seventy-sixth generation of Mewar rulers and the longest unbroken chain of Royalty in Rajasthan. Part of the palace is now an elaboate museum showcasing Rajasthans royal artifacts and life-style. Of course the sickness from Rathambore progressed to constipation and a flu like lethargy. Thankfully prescription drugs are cheap and don't require a prescription. One and a half days of bed rest set me straight and I was back on the filthy streets of India.
On to the next city.
Jessica has tantrum number 2
O sorry I forgot to mention tantrum number 1.
We where on a short train ride leaving Delhi when the prospect of not sitting next to me, in a horrendously dirty train mind you, moved her to tears. Luckily the other passengers took pity and let us sit together in ridiculously cramped seats.
Number 2 was less tears and more anger. We paid for a late night sleeper train to the desert city of Jaislmer. Promised individual lay-down sleeper seats we where forced to share seats on a overnight train. If this wasn't bad enough the seats where sticky with tobacco juice and we weren't even sitting together. I cowered in fear as Jessica's face reddened and steam escaped her ears. Lucky for everyone the train conductor found a few empty beds and we where able to get a little shut eye before our 5 am arrival. Jess was pissed but who can blame her. She is now adamant "NO MORE TRAINS!"
Jaislmer was probably our best stop. The city is not too small or too big. A awesome crumbling fort juts out of the sand and looks like a giant turreted hill from far away. We where able to relax. It probably helped that Jessica booked a room a the nicest hotel in the city. A 5 star resort called Fort Rajwada. It still only cost 100 dollars a night which was more than worth it after last nights fiasco. We took it easy and leisurely explored the city and the intricately carved Jain temples. We even extended our stay in Jaislmer to go on a Camel Safari.
After a 6:30 am pick-up (we have grown accustomed to early morning and even earlier nights) we where thrust into a beat up jeep and started the 60 km drive straight into the desert. Clutching onto our shawls we watched the sun rise in the distant horizon. It looked like half of a pink/orange neon orb hovering daintily above the ground. A reddish haze hangs in the morning air and reflects off the wispy clouds. The jeep bumps and rocks as it moves from pavement to rolling sand. Deeper and deeper we go until we spot some camels and rugged looking Indians crouching over a smile fire. They make us some chai and introduce us to our camels.
Camels are interesting creatures. They regurgitate and re-chew their food like a cow. They can be stubborn as a mule. Yet you can ride it like a horse. Well sort of. If a horse had a sharp ridge for a back, was twice the size, and lurched forward in awkward bumpy steps, then maybe it would be like a horse. They do have some positives. For one, they remind me of one of my best friends (not a insult), also the hundreds of flies swarming around their head means they are not swarming around my head. I guess the putrefied green mess of regurgitated brambles, which are foaming at the camels mouth, is attractive to flies. Okay, I am overstating how bad the camels where but a little dramatic effect never hurt. When I wasn't concentrating on how bad my ass hurt it was pretty fun roaming around the desert. Long expanses of sand where punctuated by scraggly trees and sharp bramble bushes. The intimate excursion consisted of just Jessica, myself, and the solo camel driver, Kareem. He knows the desert like the back of his hand and guided us through the arid landscape and various desert villages. At each village the children swarmed, hoping for sweets or toys, and clamored for their pictures to be taken. The small multi-roomed huts where made with mud mixed with dung and topped with layered straw. The skin of the desert people where as leathered as the saddles. Years of sun turned their complexions dark and their skin hard. Wrinkles formed early and betrayed their true age.
For lunch and dinner we stopped to set up camp. The camel driver doubled as the cook and made pots of delicious chai as we basked on the rolling sand dunes. While the sun set over the wind-rippled dunes the smell of hot subzi (mixed vegetables) rose from Kareem's make-shift wood fire kitchen. He usually had a little desert boy running around collecting wood and cleaning dishes. He used sand to clean out the dirty dishes, and a tiny remnant of grit was always left over in the food. It didn't bother us much as the desert dry kindling made the food hot and delicious. The deep rusty orange sun was half engulfed in wispy clouds and night fell quickly. Kareem rolled out comfy makeshift mattresses and blankets . We went to sleep around 8 under a sky filled with stars.
We are now in Jaipur and will be moving on to Delhi then home.
I will be back in January. Call me.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
Delhi Morning
The early praying of the monks
The morning braying of the pigeons
One hard step on cobblestone
One long exhale
One word
Truth.
The mangy flea-ridden dogs
The dirty lice ridden kids
The beggars with open sores
and hands
One hard step on cobblestone
One short inhale
One word
Truth.
The scent of spiced chai
The stench of fresh shit
The feel of another bead
Shifted with my thumb
One hard step on cobblestone
One long exhale
One word
Truth.
The sobriety of twilight
The artistry in the sunrise
The colors of filtered rays
Through smog
One hard step on cobblestone
One short inhale
One city
Delhi
The morning braying of the pigeons
One hard step on cobblestone
One long exhale
One word
Truth.
The mangy flea-ridden dogs
The dirty lice ridden kids
The beggars with open sores
and hands
One hard step on cobblestone
One short inhale
One word
Truth.
The scent of spiced chai
The stench of fresh shit
The feel of another bead
Shifted with my thumb
One hard step on cobblestone
One long exhale
One word
Truth.
The sobriety of twilight
The artistry in the sunrise
The colors of filtered rays
Through smog
One hard step on cobblestone
One short inhale
One city
Delhi
Transportation and back to Delhi
For a city called Delhi you'd think they would make a good pastrami on rye.
Ok before you immediately close the page just let me justify this. As a Lawrence I am obliged, by laws far beyond my control, to tell the most terrible, nay horrendous, nay abysmal jokes known to mankind. The only problem is that age not only diminishes the filter for such jokes, but one starts believing they are actually clever and humorous. God help my loved ones in 40 years.
So, where was I? I believe the last time I left off I was still at the Ashram. Shortly after that, I went back to Kasar Devi and resumed my post at Kalmatia Sangam. Initially it was very slow, but I continued to learn some. In fact my role in the kitchen started to shift towards cooking the staff meals. It is funny because that was my job at the first restaurant I worked at. Of course in that restaurant I had a little more freedom in my choice of genre. This was strictly Indian. For breakfast I rolled out parathas, Lunch was dal (lentils) and rice, and dinner was curried vegetables with chapatti (bread). The other cooks and employees where very good to me, and loved to joke around with me. There was one guy named Balwan who didn't speak a lick of English, but we had an ongoing joke. He would say 1-2-3 and thrust his hips with each number. They got a kick out of it when I appeased him and moved my hips also. One of the chefs said Balwan's only problem is that he can never get to 4-5-6. I spent more time at the Kasar Devi temple and made friends with the Swami that lived there. He is very smart guy, with a gentle soul. He preaches the virtue of moderation (which I find funny for someone that abstains from so many things). Either way it is a great teaching and important to remember that too much pleasure is just as unhealthy as too much pain. A good way to train your spirit and will is to abstain from pleasurable things every once in a while. It makes the good that much better and teaches you to have a strong mind. I actually fasted to try this out. As anyone that knows me can tell you I have a very big problem with being irritable and mean when I am hungry. After 36 hours with only some mango juice and a banana I can tell you I am on the road to recovery. It is amazing that when the mind WANTS to not eat it feels empowered and not cranky. I am learning a lot about myself and the connection between my mind and body. It is also very healthy to fast every few weeks because it gives your digestive system time to clean out extra build up in the system. Just make sure that you drink plenty of water, and if it's longer than 24 hours, drink fruit juice that has vitamin C and chlorophyll. Of course I am not a doctor and I feel obligated to inform all readers that they should consult a physician before doing anything. Before I left Kalmatia I had a meeting with the manager and we discussed improvements that I felt could help the restaurant. From his point of view that was my primary purpose for my presence. The meeting went very well and I felt that the manager was very receptive to my advice. I doubt I will go back, but at least I know I can.
I left to go back to the ashram for a few days because I could not get a train to Delhi from Almora but I could from Dehra Dun. The rest of this entry will break away from the narrative format and be more of a compilation of tales that further illuminates the transportation system, culture, and people. Many entries ago I was getting extremely feed-up with the people. I felt like everyone simply wanted to screw you for every paisa (that is a rupee cent haha) you are worth. Or course the businessmen and taxi drivers are like this but that is their nature you can't blame them. Only laugh. For the most part Indians are friendly, inquisitive, and helpful. I have not been to a single rail station or airport where someone did not spark up a conversation with me. Their level of English was the biggest factor for how personal and in-depth the conversation went. Sometimes it stopped at "What country are you?”America, New Jersey." Period. Other times questions about my occupation, salary, religion, or marital status came into play. In America asking someone their salary is generally considered rude. In India it's common-place. Of course when I convert 9 dollars an hour to rupees they think I am raking it in. It's hard to explain that currency is relative, and I make relatively little. I had one such conversation with a very friendly group of 20-something traveling from Lucknow. They where all going to university together and where traveling with their English Lit. Professor. They where quite enamored with me. Earlier I said that Indians have contempt for people with white skin. In reality it draws jealousy. The Indian cosmetic world is full of skin whitening creams. One of the college kids (male) was quick to tell me I'm 'beautiful' and asked why I didn't work in Hollywood. He asked as if such a proposition was simple and obvious. They urged me to play guitar and I of course obliged. Looking up from the strings, I saw a large gathering. I very much regret not knowing some Michael Jackson songs or better yet some Backstreet Boys. They love that shit. I don't think my blues and rock really did it for them. Of course the crowd was gathered to see the strange skeptical more than hear the music. The professor came over and started to discuss English Literature. We started to talk about poetry. I brought up Ginsberg and Kerouac; he brought up Frost and Dickenson. I quoted some Shakespeare and he let me off the hook for not knowing all the classics. He took every chance he could to admonish me for my ignorance of English Lit., Indian geography, or even Indian classical music. He started to write down sitar and tabla musicians that "I simply must hear". The boys started to ask me about dating in America and particularly how to pick up girls. I told them I wasn't the one to ask. When they asked how I picked up my last girlfriend I told them it was a long story and involved whisky. I departed the train station with them jogging along side yelling "I love you David". Now I have boy friends all over the world.
Now, for a brief foray into the scary word of Delhi's metro system. It has the pure quantity of people that you would find in a Tokyo rail station but absolutely none of the orderliness. Instead of polite ushers with white gloves you have a few guys with whistles trying desperately to keep the crowds under control. As the train rolls in the people on board try desperately to push their way out as the throngs of people start flooding on board. The poor fools that are inside hardly have a chance unless they’re close to the front. It's absolutely mayhem. Surprisingly the underground is very modern and clean, plus there are no beggars.
Dehra-Dun to Delhi. 6 am departure. I spent the large majority of the ride reading until I heard loud yelling a few seats in front of me. Two young lovers where laying on the sleeper in front of me, and wrapped in their blanket it was very cute. I saw the young man get in a quarrel with an official. He was mighty pissed. It started to escalate to the point where everyone in our section of the train took notice and men started to rush forward to get involved. I was not sure who was at fault until the gentleman next to me translated. Apparently the young kids are only students and did not have the appropriate I.D.'s for the online tickets they purchased. Mind you, I have never once been asked for I.D. on the many train rides I have taken. They paid for their tickets. No other passenger claimed the seats they where in. Why, you ask, was there such a hassle? Simply because they are two kids lying next to each other and not married. The initial fine was 250 rupees and after this asshole official dragged the kid off the train and tried to get him arrested (the cops told the official NO) he upped the fine to 750 rupees (a very large fine for two kids). The kids finally gave in and where fumbling for the money when the official escorted them to another part of the train. An hour later the young kid came back to get his stuff and informed us that since he is 18 and she is 17 (a minor) the official is making the ludicrous claim that he kidnapped the girl. Yes you read properly. There is no law against them traveling together and any judge in India would acquit them without a second thought. All the adults where outraged at the official and said that any other official would have accepted the college I.D. and make nothing of it. That my first real glance at corruption and the evil streak of conservatism that is suppressing the youth of India.
Ok before you immediately close the page just let me justify this. As a Lawrence I am obliged, by laws far beyond my control, to tell the most terrible, nay horrendous, nay abysmal jokes known to mankind. The only problem is that age not only diminishes the filter for such jokes, but one starts believing they are actually clever and humorous. God help my loved ones in 40 years.
So, where was I? I believe the last time I left off I was still at the Ashram. Shortly after that, I went back to Kasar Devi and resumed my post at Kalmatia Sangam. Initially it was very slow, but I continued to learn some. In fact my role in the kitchen started to shift towards cooking the staff meals. It is funny because that was my job at the first restaurant I worked at. Of course in that restaurant I had a little more freedom in my choice of genre. This was strictly Indian. For breakfast I rolled out parathas, Lunch was dal (lentils) and rice, and dinner was curried vegetables with chapatti (bread). The other cooks and employees where very good to me, and loved to joke around with me. There was one guy named Balwan who didn't speak a lick of English, but we had an ongoing joke. He would say 1-2-3 and thrust his hips with each number. They got a kick out of it when I appeased him and moved my hips also. One of the chefs said Balwan's only problem is that he can never get to 4-5-6. I spent more time at the Kasar Devi temple and made friends with the Swami that lived there. He is very smart guy, with a gentle soul. He preaches the virtue of moderation (which I find funny for someone that abstains from so many things). Either way it is a great teaching and important to remember that too much pleasure is just as unhealthy as too much pain. A good way to train your spirit and will is to abstain from pleasurable things every once in a while. It makes the good that much better and teaches you to have a strong mind. I actually fasted to try this out. As anyone that knows me can tell you I have a very big problem with being irritable and mean when I am hungry. After 36 hours with only some mango juice and a banana I can tell you I am on the road to recovery. It is amazing that when the mind WANTS to not eat it feels empowered and not cranky. I am learning a lot about myself and the connection between my mind and body. It is also very healthy to fast every few weeks because it gives your digestive system time to clean out extra build up in the system. Just make sure that you drink plenty of water, and if it's longer than 24 hours, drink fruit juice that has vitamin C and chlorophyll. Of course I am not a doctor and I feel obligated to inform all readers that they should consult a physician before doing anything. Before I left Kalmatia I had a meeting with the manager and we discussed improvements that I felt could help the restaurant. From his point of view that was my primary purpose for my presence. The meeting went very well and I felt that the manager was very receptive to my advice. I doubt I will go back, but at least I know I can.
I left to go back to the ashram for a few days because I could not get a train to Delhi from Almora but I could from Dehra Dun. The rest of this entry will break away from the narrative format and be more of a compilation of tales that further illuminates the transportation system, culture, and people. Many entries ago I was getting extremely feed-up with the people. I felt like everyone simply wanted to screw you for every paisa (that is a rupee cent haha) you are worth. Or course the businessmen and taxi drivers are like this but that is their nature you can't blame them. Only laugh. For the most part Indians are friendly, inquisitive, and helpful. I have not been to a single rail station or airport where someone did not spark up a conversation with me. Their level of English was the biggest factor for how personal and in-depth the conversation went. Sometimes it stopped at "What country are you?”America, New Jersey." Period. Other times questions about my occupation, salary, religion, or marital status came into play. In America asking someone their salary is generally considered rude. In India it's common-place. Of course when I convert 9 dollars an hour to rupees they think I am raking it in. It's hard to explain that currency is relative, and I make relatively little. I had one such conversation with a very friendly group of 20-something traveling from Lucknow. They where all going to university together and where traveling with their English Lit. Professor. They where quite enamored with me. Earlier I said that Indians have contempt for people with white skin. In reality it draws jealousy. The Indian cosmetic world is full of skin whitening creams. One of the college kids (male) was quick to tell me I'm 'beautiful' and asked why I didn't work in Hollywood. He asked as if such a proposition was simple and obvious. They urged me to play guitar and I of course obliged. Looking up from the strings, I saw a large gathering. I very much regret not knowing some Michael Jackson songs or better yet some Backstreet Boys. They love that shit. I don't think my blues and rock really did it for them. Of course the crowd was gathered to see the strange skeptical more than hear the music. The professor came over and started to discuss English Literature. We started to talk about poetry. I brought up Ginsberg and Kerouac; he brought up Frost and Dickenson. I quoted some Shakespeare and he let me off the hook for not knowing all the classics. He took every chance he could to admonish me for my ignorance of English Lit., Indian geography, or even Indian classical music. He started to write down sitar and tabla musicians that "I simply must hear". The boys started to ask me about dating in America and particularly how to pick up girls. I told them I wasn't the one to ask. When they asked how I picked up my last girlfriend I told them it was a long story and involved whisky. I departed the train station with them jogging along side yelling "I love you David". Now I have boy friends all over the world.
Now, for a brief foray into the scary word of Delhi's metro system. It has the pure quantity of people that you would find in a Tokyo rail station but absolutely none of the orderliness. Instead of polite ushers with white gloves you have a few guys with whistles trying desperately to keep the crowds under control. As the train rolls in the people on board try desperately to push their way out as the throngs of people start flooding on board. The poor fools that are inside hardly have a chance unless they’re close to the front. It's absolutely mayhem. Surprisingly the underground is very modern and clean, plus there are no beggars.
Dehra-Dun to Delhi. 6 am departure. I spent the large majority of the ride reading until I heard loud yelling a few seats in front of me. Two young lovers where laying on the sleeper in front of me, and wrapped in their blanket it was very cute. I saw the young man get in a quarrel with an official. He was mighty pissed. It started to escalate to the point where everyone in our section of the train took notice and men started to rush forward to get involved. I was not sure who was at fault until the gentleman next to me translated. Apparently the young kids are only students and did not have the appropriate I.D.'s for the online tickets they purchased. Mind you, I have never once been asked for I.D. on the many train rides I have taken. They paid for their tickets. No other passenger claimed the seats they where in. Why, you ask, was there such a hassle? Simply because they are two kids lying next to each other and not married. The initial fine was 250 rupees and after this asshole official dragged the kid off the train and tried to get him arrested (the cops told the official NO) he upped the fine to 750 rupees (a very large fine for two kids). The kids finally gave in and where fumbling for the money when the official escorted them to another part of the train. An hour later the young kid came back to get his stuff and informed us that since he is 18 and she is 17 (a minor) the official is making the ludicrous claim that he kidnapped the girl. Yes you read properly. There is no law against them traveling together and any judge in India would acquit them without a second thought. All the adults where outraged at the official and said that any other official would have accepted the college I.D. and make nothing of it. That my first real glance at corruption and the evil streak of conservatism that is suppressing the youth of India.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Part 2 continued
The ceremony came to a close shortly after he left. Now it's time to walk over to another building. The prime minister of this state (i guess something like our Governors) is here and the adults are waiting around to meet and greet him (or just see him). I could care less. I see a playground, "Yo, Ankit wanna play on those swings". "Sure." He replies.
We run around for a while and I am confident in my decision to be a kid. As the two German's join us I go to a park bench and do some reading and my daily meditation.
"You read more than anyone I know" interrupts Ankit.
"Thank you" I smile
"Hey kids come over here" Aman yells. He introduces us to the 'Lord of Lords' (a former doctor, turned wealthy business, in order to give money to charity), and Dr. Ganesha (sorry most certainly spelled wrong) a leading holistic doctor. These men where crucial in the founding of the great hospital. The Himalayan Institute is unique in many ways. Not only is it a fusion of Eastern and Western medicine, it is a full-fledged medical school, and it's all targeted towards the poor of India.
"This is David, He is a chef and is learning how to cook Indian food" Aman proclaims.
"Come to my house I'll teach you to cook" The 'Lord of Lords' says (still not smiling). I half chuckle not sure if its a joke and pose for some snap-shots.
We still have time to kill before lunch and I can feel my stomach churning. We decide to wait at the bookstore. After browsing for a while I turn around and see the kind face of Dr. Ganesha. I shake his hand and start to tell him about my plan for spreading learning's to my family and friends in America. I tell him I want to help heal body and mind by focusing on the question of life and God. I say that the plan would be to start with breathing exercises, meditation, do some physical exercise, talk about philosophy, and then nutrition. He was eager to help and gave me some great suggestions. He said the most crucial thing is to START with nutrition. "Everything starts with nutrition." He suggested a book for me to buy and we departed with a big smile on my face.
Ok lunch time. We make our way to a huge tent and I marvel at the operation. Hundreds if not thousands of people are seated. As flocks of volunteers, carrying buckets of delicious vegetables, curries, rice and bread feed the hungry masses, 25-30 men are preparing jumbo sized portions of excellent vegetarian Indian fare. It's all served on leaf plates, and its all free. As a chef this is magic.
With lunch time done we decide to make the short drive to Riskikesh. More singing ensues. As we are crossing a bridge one of the Germans points out a tree that George Harrison apparently wrote a song "OH shit, watch out!!" A huge truck nearly runs us off the bridge. In India lanes are merely a suggestion. After that I was in the mood for Beatles so I decided to kill everyone with my singing. Lucky for them I fell asleep soon after and didn't awake till we where right next the Ganaga. We reached the holiest river in the world and started to make the steep downward climb to the shore. My head is spinning from the car ride and the narrow suspension bridge makes me feel dizzy and just plain awful. I stumble to the River Ganaga and instead of the euphoric feeling of Hindu pilgrimage I fell like I need to lay in the sand. Thankfully it works and my head feels a whole lot better. A mother and her son come over to talk. I figured they where either beggars or friendly. Turns out both.
As the rest of the group joins me, after their dip in the river, we make our way to a cafe for a late afternoon snack. I thoroughly enjoy the leisurely stroll, nutella and banana toast, plus silly pictures overlooking the river. We look at the clock and decide to trek back towards the car. Rishikesh is a pretty cool town but its nation-wide fame makes it a mecca for Hindu pilgrims and foreign hippies. This strange brew attracts long-haired sadus (holy men) and long-haired guys trying to sell you chalis (hash). Only the orange robe distinguishes them.
The care ride back is dark and much more dangerous. My decision to take the front seat is proving to not be very wise. Luckily Felix is a great driver and got us back unscathed. It's time for the nights closing ceremony. I take a seat in the VIP area (yea I know big shot) and watch the classical Indian musicians warm-up/ tune-up. There is a violinist, tabla player, a percussionist playing a gourd type thing, and a the center of the Quartet, a female vocalist. The deep rhythm, and piercing melody touches the part of my soul that music is supposed to touch. I am moved so greatly that devotion, in the form of words, came streaming to my head. I try to suppress them so I can concentrate on the music, but as my eyes are on the brink of tears my hand scrawls a poem in this notebook. As the performance closes, I have a strong desire to read her the lines. I find Aman and ask his advice. He leads me to her husband who with a smile, tells me she would be flattered. I wait on line as the rows of Indian fans wait for pictures and autographs. With my hands trembling and voice shakey I say "Hello, your voice is so beautiful, That I was compelled to write some words down, I would be honored to read them to you"
"Of course" she replies with a kind smile.
"Perhaps the only thing that could match,
Your voices Power and Finesse,
Is Water.
What else could crash
Like a wave over my emotions,
Or sooth my never-ending thirst.
It's as if I was blind,
And the first color I saw was the vibrancy of a red rose.
Maybe that could match it's subtlety,
Or grace,
Or the delicate taste,
Of Honey.
If the nimble dancer could soar,
Or the artist, turn clay to life,
Then maybe they, could turn the night,
Into Day
Or candles into Stars
Or words into far-
Reaching strokes.
That turn my heart, body, and mind into strings,
And my soul into beautiful music."
As her two hands out-stretch for mine she says "That was very beautiful can you please write me a copy in your own hand writing."
"Thank you you have the most beautiful voice I have ever heard." I say redundantly.
She signs the poem and I scurry off to write her a copy in the shakiest hand-writing ever. The rest of the night is a blurr, but I know I got home.
We run around for a while and I am confident in my decision to be a kid. As the two German's join us I go to a park bench and do some reading and my daily meditation.
"You read more than anyone I know" interrupts Ankit.
"Thank you" I smile
"Hey kids come over here" Aman yells. He introduces us to the 'Lord of Lords' (a former doctor, turned wealthy business, in order to give money to charity), and Dr. Ganesha (sorry most certainly spelled wrong) a leading holistic doctor. These men where crucial in the founding of the great hospital. The Himalayan Institute is unique in many ways. Not only is it a fusion of Eastern and Western medicine, it is a full-fledged medical school, and it's all targeted towards the poor of India.
"This is David, He is a chef and is learning how to cook Indian food" Aman proclaims.
"Come to my house I'll teach you to cook" The 'Lord of Lords' says (still not smiling). I half chuckle not sure if its a joke and pose for some snap-shots.
We still have time to kill before lunch and I can feel my stomach churning. We decide to wait at the bookstore. After browsing for a while I turn around and see the kind face of Dr. Ganesha. I shake his hand and start to tell him about my plan for spreading learning's to my family and friends in America. I tell him I want to help heal body and mind by focusing on the question of life and God. I say that the plan would be to start with breathing exercises, meditation, do some physical exercise, talk about philosophy, and then nutrition. He was eager to help and gave me some great suggestions. He said the most crucial thing is to START with nutrition. "Everything starts with nutrition." He suggested a book for me to buy and we departed with a big smile on my face.
Ok lunch time. We make our way to a huge tent and I marvel at the operation. Hundreds if not thousands of people are seated. As flocks of volunteers, carrying buckets of delicious vegetables, curries, rice and bread feed the hungry masses, 25-30 men are preparing jumbo sized portions of excellent vegetarian Indian fare. It's all served on leaf plates, and its all free. As a chef this is magic.
With lunch time done we decide to make the short drive to Riskikesh. More singing ensues. As we are crossing a bridge one of the Germans points out a tree that George Harrison apparently wrote a song "OH shit, watch out!!" A huge truck nearly runs us off the bridge. In India lanes are merely a suggestion. After that I was in the mood for Beatles so I decided to kill everyone with my singing. Lucky for them I fell asleep soon after and didn't awake till we where right next the Ganaga. We reached the holiest river in the world and started to make the steep downward climb to the shore. My head is spinning from the car ride and the narrow suspension bridge makes me feel dizzy and just plain awful. I stumble to the River Ganaga and instead of the euphoric feeling of Hindu pilgrimage I fell like I need to lay in the sand. Thankfully it works and my head feels a whole lot better. A mother and her son come over to talk. I figured they where either beggars or friendly. Turns out both.
As the rest of the group joins me, after their dip in the river, we make our way to a cafe for a late afternoon snack. I thoroughly enjoy the leisurely stroll, nutella and banana toast, plus silly pictures overlooking the river. We look at the clock and decide to trek back towards the car. Rishikesh is a pretty cool town but its nation-wide fame makes it a mecca for Hindu pilgrims and foreign hippies. This strange brew attracts long-haired sadus (holy men) and long-haired guys trying to sell you chalis (hash). Only the orange robe distinguishes them.
The care ride back is dark and much more dangerous. My decision to take the front seat is proving to not be very wise. Luckily Felix is a great driver and got us back unscathed. It's time for the nights closing ceremony. I take a seat in the VIP area (yea I know big shot) and watch the classical Indian musicians warm-up/ tune-up. There is a violinist, tabla player, a percussionist playing a gourd type thing, and a the center of the Quartet, a female vocalist. The deep rhythm, and piercing melody touches the part of my soul that music is supposed to touch. I am moved so greatly that devotion, in the form of words, came streaming to my head. I try to suppress them so I can concentrate on the music, but as my eyes are on the brink of tears my hand scrawls a poem in this notebook. As the performance closes, I have a strong desire to read her the lines. I find Aman and ask his advice. He leads me to her husband who with a smile, tells me she would be flattered. I wait on line as the rows of Indian fans wait for pictures and autographs. With my hands trembling and voice shakey I say "Hello, your voice is so beautiful, That I was compelled to write some words down, I would be honored to read them to you"
"Of course" she replies with a kind smile.
"Perhaps the only thing that could match,
Your voices Power and Finesse,
Is Water.
What else could crash
Like a wave over my emotions,
Or sooth my never-ending thirst.
It's as if I was blind,
And the first color I saw was the vibrancy of a red rose.
Maybe that could match it's subtlety,
Or grace,
Or the delicate taste,
Of Honey.
If the nimble dancer could soar,
Or the artist, turn clay to life,
Then maybe they, could turn the night,
Into Day
Or candles into Stars
Or words into far-
Reaching strokes.
That turn my heart, body, and mind into strings,
And my soul into beautiful music."
As her two hands out-stretch for mine she says "That was very beautiful can you please write me a copy in your own hand writing."
"Thank you you have the most beautiful voice I have ever heard." I say redundantly.
She signs the poem and I scurry off to write her a copy in the shakiest hand-writing ever. The rest of the night is a blurr, but I know I got home.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Ashram Part 2
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...
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...
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.
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