Goodbye India, Hello Thailand

So much has happened since my last blog. No sooner had I hit post, My head started to hurt. by the time I got back to my room, I had a high fever, and within an hour, I had a very and explosive case of . . . well, you know.

Needless to say it slowed me down a lot for my last few days in Varanassi, which was a bummer because there were a few more ashrams I wanted to visit while there. The illness did seem to line up nicely with another breakthrough of sorts. This time, it was more psychological than emotional though.

India is a very poor country, and as such, anyone from another country, especially those with white skin are seen as rich (and an endless source of money) This means you have to be on your guard all the time. While India is very safe and you never get the feeling you are gonna get mugged, may people are there to take your cash through deception.

The entire time we were there, we had a team of rickshaw driver outside our hotel waiting for us to step out the door. They seemed nice enough, but got more an more pushy about taking us to places we didn't want to go. I got taken to a whore house at one point. Thank god I had some condoms with me. (just kidding mom.) Christopher was taken all over the city on his last day too.

The ring leader was a young man named Babpoo who befriended us the first day we got there. He kept on us every chance he could to go with him to some silk shop. This continued even through my sickness on the few occasions I would leave the hotel for some fruit or water. I tried to explain a nice way that I was ill and that I would not be going anywhere until I felt better.

finally, on our last night there, He approached us again as we were going out for some soup. I snapped. I just couldn't take it any more. The odd thing is that this snapping wasn't into insanity. It was into one of those moments of clarity where you really let go and let spirit guide you. "Look," I said, a complete calm in my tone. "I have all I can do to keep shit from dripping out my ass. I don't want to go to the silk shop. Can you understand that?" Shocked, he shook his had and backed off. Christopher just looked at me. "You ready to go get that soup?" I said.

In any event, we made it back to Delhi where we stayed in a five star hotel. It was so nice to take a nice shower, stay in a clean room and really pamper ourselves after a long trip through a very tough country. Unfortunately, my computer got fried when I tried to charge it with one of the train power outlets on the way to Delhi. I will have to deal with that when I return to the States.

We are now in Bangkok, Thailand. A much more civilized country. Now Cows in the streets, People obey the traffic laws here, and the food is made largely without curry. I spent most of today on the top of my hotel lounging by the rooftop pool, swimming laps and doing yoga. Project Indian Recovery has begun. I think it will be a while before I can really process this whole trip. Although hard at times, I know it has changed me forever.

(more photos when my Macintosh is fixed)

Goats, Ghats and the Swami

This morning I got up early to practice. It was such a nice treat to do yoga again. While my meditation practice has been strong, my asana practice has been lagging for the past few days. Between our train travel and settling into a new city, it has been hard to make time and space for asana work.
I got up early and went down to the Assi Ghat near our hotel. Because it was so early, I expected to be alone down there. There were, however, hundreds of people moving in and out of the river. Colorful saris, flower and the orange robes of the swamis moved around the ghat like a kaleidoscope of color and chants and prayers filled the air. I did my best to find a secluded corner to practice.
It was a challenge to my ego at first. I am in India after all. To practice yoga here, with so many eyes trained on the white boy was a trick. Given that I teach yoga, I am no stranger to doing the poses with folks watching, but these were Indians. Of course this is all ego and not based on anything real.
Christopher and I have remarked a number of times that hatha Yoga is noticeably absent here. You might see a sadu do something that loosely looks like a sun salutation (Surya Namaskar) to greet the day, but hatha yoga, as we know it in the west is quite rare. Aside from the few big Yoga centers in Southern India, There are very few places to really practice, and for all the yoga “stuff” for sale, we have yet to see one yoga block, strap or mat for sale.
I was feeling strong this morning, so I did a more vigorous flowing practice. Even at six in the morning it is hot here, so there was a lot of sweat and fire in my practice. Once I got into my practice, I nearly forgot that there were tons of people around. The animals, however, were true to Indian form. They love to meditate with people and I acquired a goat friend who, in spite of his master’s best efforts, insisted on coming up and standing in front of my mat to watch me practice. Sure he was distracting, but so cute I could not help but smile.
After practice, I purchased a flower boat and candle for 5 rupees (less than ten cents) and offered a prayer to the river. As I emerged from my prayer, a beautiful old swami and his two grandsons approached me. He was so feeble that he could barely walk, but he wanted to take the time to thank me for bringing my yoga to the river. What an honor. I know I say this in every bog about my morning practice, but this was one of the deepest Sadhanas (spiritual practices) I have had in quite a while.

Guru

One of the first books I ever read about yoga beyond just the poses was, “Autobiography of a Yogi” by Paramahansa Yogananda. In it he recounts his life in India and his journey to America over 50 years ago to bring yoga to the west. He also lists a number of ‘miracles’ performed by various gurus and swamis. One of the main influences in his life was guru to both his parents and his own guru— Lahiri Mahasay.
I remember reading about this legendary guru with such excitement when I was 20 years old. In a very direct way the stories about him influenced me to make yoga my main spiritual discipline in life. In fact, for many years I had a photo of him on my altar at home. Yesterday, I had the opportunity to visit his home, so see the remains of his well-worn meditation cushion and to pay my respects at a mausoleum, which contained his ashes. It was an important moment for me and one that I have been waiting nearly 15 years for. Actually it is one of the reasons I chose to include Varanasi in my travels.
It took us the better part of the morning to find this tiny ashram, which was tucked deep in the maze of ally ways behind the Chauthasi Ghat. It was like a hot steam bath and it took us far from where most tourists usually go. Our journey took us past squalors the likes of which I have never seen, and everything smelled of urine and cow dung. Still, we pressed on with no address, just a note in a book that gave a very general location.
When we finally found the place, I felt like someone had dumped a bucket of sweat over my head. It was almost embarrassing to enter this Ashram looking the way I did. To our surprise, white woman who must have been pushing ninety opened the door. I don’t think she spoke English, but I can’t tell for sure. In any event, she invited us in and motioned to us to bow before the statue of Lahiri Mahasay after which she promptly disappeared leaving Christopher and I to simply stare at each other. The ashram was cool and clean, so we decided to stay for a bit, not knowing what to expect.
Eventually a little man in a loincloth call us up stairs to a small room where we sat down and learned more about this great guru. Today, his great grandson has taken over running the ashram and instructing people in this powerful meditation technique. Unfortunately, he was not there, so we were not able to study with him. Still it was a great honor to pay my respect to a man that, though dead for many years, had changed my life.
Given all my writing about Gurus, I thought I would include a blurb here about that subject and about Yogananda’s work. Important to the way yoga has traditionally been taught has been the Guru-disciple relationship. That has changed quite a bit in the west for better or worse, but it is an important part of yoga’s history. Basically, a seeker would find a Guru and study with him/her. When the Guru enters mahasamadhi (a conscious exit from the body at death) another person or group of people are chosen to continue passing the information down through the generations. Just as the Pope is believed by Catholics to be the direct successor of the Apostle Peter, who, according to the Gospels was Jesus point man; Gurus pass things down from teacher to student for many generations.
Yogananda, one of the most important figures in western yoga also falls into a succession of gurus who taught a meditation technique referred to as Kryia Yoga. Here is a brief list of the line of Gurus that led to Yogananda coming to America with yoga.

Bapuji- believed to be alive still and walking around the Himalayas. According to legend, he is thousands of years old and will appear to anyone devoted enough to go looking for him. He is the Guru of Lahiri Mahasay

Lahiri Mahasay- There is only one photograph of him known to exist as in all others his image would not photograph. Yogananda writes about him extensively in his Autobiography. Lahiri Mahasay is the Guru of Sri Yukteshwar.

Sri Yukteshwar.- Is the Guru of Paramahansa and the one who sent him to the west to teach Kryia yoga to non-Hindus. (A very controversial move at the time).

Paramahansa Yogananda- One of about five major Gurus to come to the west with yoga. His autobiography is used in many college courses on Eastern philosophy and a must read for any serious student of Yoga. In America, he founded Self Realization Fellowship, which now teaches Kryia Yoga to thousands around the world.

The City of Light

Hindus believe Varanasi is the most sacred place on Earth and many try to make a Pilgrimage here at least once in life. In fact many people come here to die because they believe that to exit the body here will mean liberation (moksh) from the cycles cause and effect (karma) and that no more lifetimes will be necessary. It is often called the “City of Light”
Because of the belief that your karma will be erased if you die here, Varanasi is the retirement location of choice in India. Think Florida but replace the golf carts with rickshaws and the golf courses with a polluted river and the dirtiest dust and grime you can imagine. Evidently there is a medical facility just outside the city limits that many of the elderly will not go to for there that death will come while they are there.
It has been said that if you only visit one place in India and you want to get the whole Indian experience you should come to this city. Now I know why. Everything here is distinctly Indian by a factor of ten. While the poverty, pollution, and filth are excessive, so is the spiritual fervor.
Yoga, meditation and devotion are at every corner, but so is the commercial exploitation of that faith. For example, when we first went down to the main Ghat where all the action is said to happen we were accosted by tons of people wanting to take us to gurus (teachers), to sell us flowers to off the river, to take tours of the temples, and beggars telling us that we can work off our bad karma by giving them money. (They are selfless that way.) It is not just that they are selling such things it is the pushy and relentless nature in which they do it. It is like they all trained at a Radio Shack employee convention or something. You can’t leave the store unless you buy something and if you do buy something you will now need something else to go with it.
My personal favorite was a persistent gentleman who wanted to give us a boat ride up the river; his sales pitch being, “I can take you to a place in the river where you will see many floating human corpses.” A few years ago when Laci Peterson’s body and that of her unborn son washed up in the San Francisco Bay, the whole country was in shock. While the twenty-four hour news service had a disgusting news orgy with it, there were not boat trips being offered to see. Here, death is a tourist attraction. We passed on the boat ride. From what I have been told, it is likely that we will come across a floating body while we are here and I am ok with that, but to sell tours to see it is disgusting and tasteless. (be sure not to tell Fox News or they will be here with camera crews)
There is something powerful about this place though. You can’t help but get swept up in the bhakti (devotional yoga) of this place. Even thought there are car horns, it is the chants that stand out. Even with the plentiful amounts of car exhaust, it is the incense that I will remember, and even with the polluted river which doubles as the city sewer system, you can’t help but drop down to pray and meditate when you are near it.
This morning, we took a sunrise boat ride up river to see the thousands of people in their ritual bathing. Young and old, short and tall, skinny and fat. They all found their way to the river to dip in to its spiritually cleansing water, to drink from the Mother Ganges and to offer prayers for another day. Some may have prayed for a loved one, others for world peace, still others for and end to poverty. I know if I drank that water I would be praying for my own healing.
At the end of the river we were invited to witness a cremation on a funeral pyre. There was a body tightly wrapped in white cloth, which was burning. Oddly it didn’t bother me. In fact I found it very liberating. In America, we try to ignore death as much as we can and when we are forced to deal with death, we embalm the corpse and put makeup on it, something that always seemed more creepy than comforting to me. Here it is right there in your face. Your body is temporary home so don’t get too attached. Your body will be ash soon, so you had better take the time to find the bigger part of who you are. I’m not suggesting that we put funeral pyres on the peers of the San Francisco Bay, but it is a nice exercise to really look death in the face instead of pretending it doesn’t exist and then acting all surprised when your time is up.

A Slap in the Face

Christopher and I took an overnight train from Agra where the Taj Mahal is located to Varanasi. Our train, running on what the locals call India time, was two hours late. Because the station wan outside of Agra, few of the locals had regular contact with white boys from America. This gave us the opportunity to spend two hour being stared at and to have children beg us constantly for money. At first the kids were cute, and my heart went out to them. I wanted so badly to give them money, but I know that once you do there will be hundreds more with their hands out.
There was one boy who was especially persistent and my annoyance with him was growing. After about ten minutes of his begging me and not getting any response, a man, I assume his father, called him over. I was grateful that the father was teaching the boy some manners. Then the man slapped the boy across the face so hard that he was knocked back five or six feet. The boy ran off. I stood there in shock. I wanted to kick the shit out of the father; I wanted to hug the boy. I wanted vomit. Between the filthy train station and the shameless display of child abuse, I was left wanting a bath.

Taj Mahal

Perhaps the most famous tourist attraction outside of Disney Land (kind of hard to beat the Mouse) is the Taj Mahal. This is for a very good reason. It is an architectural wonder like nothing I have ever seen. It’s marble so white that I wished I had remembered my sunglasses, and the story behind it something that is just twisted enough to make a great mini-series on CBS.
According to the “Lonely Planet” guide book, (my Bible for this trip), the Taj Mahal was build by Emperor Shah Jahan as a tribute and mausoleum to his second wife who died in childbirth. I’m sure his first wife is still bitter about the whole Taj thing to this day. In any event, construction began in 1631 and ended 1653 putting both the Boston ‘Big Dig’ and the new San Francisco Bay Bridge projects to utter and complete shame.
In total, more than 20,000 people worked on the Taj Mahal though most historians believe none of them were part of a union as many had there hands cut off when the project was done to ensure the Taj Mahal’s beauty would never be challenged.

Taking to the Rails

According to our ‘Lonely Planet’ guide, India has the largest rail system in the world and it is the world’s largest employer. Christopher and I had the chance to experience this legendary rail system first hand as we trekked from Rishikesh to Agra, the home of the Taj Mahal.
Our train left from the neighboring city of Haridwar at 6:00 AM. This meant leaving our hotel at 4:30 AM and taking a taxi. When our hotel was booking the taxi, 4:30 sounded a bit early but they wanted to leave time for traffic. I found it hard to believe that there could be traffic at that hour, but sure enough, there were people out doing there chores, bringing produce to market and beginning their day. Really I don’t blame them. It is so hot during the day that the earlier you get started here the better.
The train station looked more like a refugee camp with families camped out all over the place. Being white, we walked in with all eyes on us. It is odd to be treated like a celebrity when the only thing you have done that is noteworthy is to be born with white skin and blue eyes. In any event one of the railroad employees was nice enough to tell us where to go. Our first class ticket across India cost about $20. This, we were told, would afford us air conditioning and a bed to sleep in.
India has long been a country with a very disproportionate distribution of wealth. You see it all the time on the streets, but nowhere is this more apparent than on the train. As we stood in front of our first class car, the people surrounding us were either Westerners or wealthy Indians. The women dressed in expensive saris and the men in fine suites. Everyone was neatly groomed and clean, and there were no disabled or malnourished people at all.
This stood in stark contrast to the folks at the next car over. The car itself looked like something you would transport livestock in. The people in front of it were obviously poor and many were unkempt with matted hair and soiled clothes. There were many families and many barefoot children. There were no white people at all, or any other race for that matter, and most of the Indians had darker skin. Although Indian’s tend to have darker skin in general, there is a notable separation between the Indians with lighter skin who tend to be more well off and people with darker skin who frequently live in poverty. (Thus Christopher and I being treated like royalty). Discrimination based on skin color is not something that is government sanctioned, but like racism in America, it very much exists and is quiet systemic.
As we boarded the train we found our seats, which folded out into comfortable beds. There were power outlets for my laptop and the whole car was refreshingly air-conditioned. Shortly in to our journey and conductor came by and brought us pillows, blanket and sheets should we wish to take a nap.
At one of the stops, another train had pulled up next to us. And we could clearly see the third class passengers hanging out of the neighboring train. There were children and elderly women. It had to be over 100 degrees out there. We tried to take a photo, but the refection of the tinted glass would not allow us to even to that. We were completely separated from their world, and while I was grateful to be riding in such comfort, I couldn’t help but think of the family of five in the neighboring train and just how patently unfair life is.

The Snake Charmer (update)

I ran across our friend the snake charmer again. It would appear that they got some couples therapy. Last time it looked like the snake was on a sedative, this time it looked like he slipped it some Viagra. Still, I can’t help but think the snake is going to get fed up with him blowing his horn in its face and we will see the two of them on ‘When Animals Attack’

Delhi Belly

The other day, during my morning practice I wept. Not just a little cry, I really lost it. On the side of the river, surrounded by chanting sadus and annoying flies, I simply broke down. I’m not sure what I was even crying about. My best guess is that is has to do with my ego mind beginning to crack under the pressure of Mother India’s thumb.
I came to India expecting to be shocked by poverty and to see things that would startle my conscience. To be sure that has come to pass. But what my tears were about had less to do with their pain and more to do with my own suffering and that of my people. I often tell my students that “Pain is stubbing your toe and suffering is what your mind does with that experience.” There is a lot of ‘pain’ here, a lot more than in the USA for sure, but these people ‘suffer’ so much less than we do.
Mother Theresa once remarked that America was the most poverty-stricken country on Earth and while I thought it was a true statement at the time, I didn’t think I was included. Being here among the poorest of the poor, I have begun to see that indeed I have, to a certain extent, been one of the people Mother Theresa referred to. Don’t get me wrong, I live a blessed life and I have the most amazing family, friends and students. But there is always room to grow, and we can always widen our circle of compassion. My brake down was more about my heart going through another growth spurt. Ironically, that growth spurt was inspired by people I expected to feel sorry for.
That cry on the river was deeply cleansing and something that has needed to come out of me for some time. Like most cleansing, however, it did not confine itself to just one level. My body joined in the fun with a nice case of “Delhi Belly”. That is polite way to describe a condition in which you have explosive diarrhea while traveling through India. It is also the time that you thank God you paid a little extra for a western style toilet or kick yourself for being cheep and getting a room with an Indian style toilet. Here is a photo to help you get the idea. (No, I’m not really using the toilet, just doing a demo)

In any event, the storm passed through me like a monsoon leaving me on the other side cleansed and refreshed. I’m not sure how that happens or why, but I do know that the experience felt like a continuation of something that started on the river. The good news is it was a relatively mild case of Delhi Belly, which has now passed; the bad news is that Christopher is dealing with his own cleansing. He too is feeling better though and I expect we will both be in good shape for our long train ride to Agra and the Taj Mahal tomorrow.

Meet the Parents

Anoop has become a good friend to both Christopher and I and has been such an asset when it comes to finding our way around this city. He knows the ins and outs and has steered us toward the best aspects of local culture. Perhaps the strongest thing in India is family. Last night, Anoop invited us to have dinner with his family. Since we have been eating in restaurants for several weeks, a home cooked meal sounded great.

Anoop’s mother greeted us at the door with hugs as kisses. She doesn’t know many worlds in English, but the bulk of the words she does know have to do with welcoming people into her home. Both she and Anoop were dressed as if they were going to church leaving us with the feeling that this was a special occasion. It was very apparent that they put a high priority on hospitality.
Once inside we were shown to a small family room, which served a both a space to relax with guests and a place to share meals. The house was simple in its décor and immaculately clean. No sooner had we taken our seats, than his mother appeared again with creamy and refreshing drinks made of mango and milk. Before we could thank her she was off again.
A while later, a tray of assorted Indian foods floated through the door, her smile and blue sari trailing behind the tray like the tail of a comet. As I was informing Anoop that that would be way too much food for four of us, he smiled as if there was some sort of joke that I wasn’t yet getting. His mother appeared again. This time with a second tray which was placed in front of Christopher and then a third in front of Anoop. The first tray that had come out was not for the four of us— it was for me. My stepmother, Adalina is Italian and I think they went to the same school for housewives where the motto is, ‘I’m only force feeding you because I love you’.
“Lets try to clear the table a bit more to make room for your mother’s food.” Christopher said. That was when Anoop explained that Indian women usually serve the men first and then take their own dinner privately. I consider myself a feminist and I could feel anger growing inside me. Here was this beautiful and kind woman who worked all day to prepare a meal for us and she wasn’t even going to sit down and enjoy it? Of course when you visit another culture, it is best to be an observer, so I kept my mouth shut. Then something happed that defused my anger completely.
Anoop’s mother came in with more Indian bread and before leaving gave me a huge hug. It was not just the superficial “pat your back three times quickly” American hug. It was akin to the kind of hug my own mother gives me when we are saying goodbye after a visit. She smiled and thanked me for coming and for honoring her by letting her cook for me. For a moment, I didn’t know what to think, but I quickly realized that she was a woman filled with joy and loved what she did. I still think it would be nice to have shared more of the meal with her, but I realized that her life as an Indian wife and mother was not one of suffering and oppression. It was a beautiful life that she would choose again given the choice.
Anoop’s father also joined us after dinner. He was a delightful and well-educated man who had taught at the local high school and college for many years. Once he retired, he continued to teach to make education more available to poor students. It reminded me of the idea that Gandhi espoused about how healing the world begins with a strong family. This family is certainly proof of that idea.
After dinner, she took us on a tour of their home. It was small but elegant with marble floors throughout. We even had the honor of seeing the small upstairs room where she would meditate for two hours twice daily. There was a small alter with a photo of her guru, flowers and images of Hindu deities. Each day she would go to bed at midnight and get up at 4:00 AM to sit. The rest of the day would be spent tending to household chores and helping out at the school that Anoop started. She has also taken it upon herself to work with the poorest people in Rishikish. It was truly an honor to meet her.
As we said goodbye, both Christopher and I were showered with hugs and kisses again and were made to promise that we would return. I told here that I hoped to be back in a year or so and she lit up. It wouldn’t surprise me if she went right back into the kitchen to start preparing.

The Shave

One of my fondest memories from childhood had to do with my father’s grooming rituals. Not sure why that is, but I still love the smell of Old Spice aftershave. As a child I loved the feel of his whiskers before he would shave, and I loved to go with him to Ray’s Barber shop to watch him get his hair cut. Like the beauty salon for women, Rays was a place when the men could talk about distinctly guy things. Whose sow delivered the most piglets, the new Ford truck someone just purchased or the way the articles in ‘Playboy’ were so informative and enlightening.

Unfortunately, all this went out the window with the advent of the disposable razor and cheep salons like ‘super clips’, which bring that hometown Walmart feel to the experience. Now grooming is a chore that is done as an after thought and judging from the popularity of the show “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy” it would seem that many straight men have giving up grooming all together. The male grooming experience has lost something, at least in America, and I didn’t realize how much I missed that experience until I got a shave last night.

It turns out, Barbershops are still in fashion here in India, and so we had to go in for a shave. Because my barber spoke no English, I was not sure what I had just agreed to, how long it would take or even how much it would cost.

The experience started with a moisturizing for the face. Then he lathered me up, and up and up. When I shave, the lather is something that takes all of ten seconds. He took a good five minutes to really massage the foam into my face. Once my beard of foam was Santa-like in shape and consistency, he broke out the straightedge razor.

We had just gone to the ATM to get money to pay for our hotel and some train tickets. Between us we had 20,000 rupees. It makes me feel rich to say that, but in reality it was less than $250 each. Not a huge amount of money to us, but 20,000 rupees is much more than most Indians will make in a month, so when he put the straight edge to my throat, I tried to push the money from my thoughts in the off chance that he could read minds.

The shave was amazing, and when he was done I started to sit up. He pushed me back into the chair and sprayed sandalwood water in my face. We were far from done. He dried me off and smeared cream the consistency of butter all over my face and began a deep face massage that included some slapping, an eyelid massage, and a face flossing. Again, he wiped my face clean, and I began to sit up. He pushed me back into the chair again and reached for the sandalwood water.
Next came the sandalwood ash treatment. He mixed up a gooey paste made for the ash of sandalwood tree and smeared it all over my face. It felt cool and refreshing. I was then instructed to lay back and relax. The ash would take fifteen minutes or so to dry. It was heavenly. Once they washed the paste off and dried my face, I was allowed to get up.

The treatment was over and my face looked like I as a newborn baby. Ok, a newborn with laugh lines and crows feet. Because of the language barrier, I never got clear on the price before we started the treatment. I had expected such an extensive process like this to cost several hundred rupee, to my surprise it was only fifty rupees, about $1.10. I love this country.

Orphans and Hindu Mothers (follow up)

This is a follow up post to two previous posts.

First, the really good news regarding the children (see Karma Yoga post). I spoke with Anoop and the three children who were found on the street after their mother died have been reunited with their father. He is very poor and was looking for work. The School Anoop started is allowing them to sleep there. It is a cement floor with nothing but Burlap, but it is still better than the streets. The School is also paying the father a very small wage to help him get back on his feet in exchange for some handy work around the school.


Second, I went back to Arti again with Christopher. In a country of over one billion people, at a ceremony with thousands of worshipers, I bumped into my Hindu mothers. (See Mother Ganges post) We must have some sort of karma. One of the women was there with here husband who walked with a cane. He asked me if I would help him to the river to bless himself. I guess I did a good job because I soon had a whole line of older men and woman who needed help. One of the men wanted to show me how to bless myself so I knelt by the river with him and splashed water over my head the way he demonstrated. Then he cupped his hands drawing up some river water and slurped it down. Evidently drinking form the Ganges is especially cleansing for the spirit with the ability to blow open the crown charka. Since it would no doubt blow out my colon as well, I politely declined.

Mother Ganges

Last night Christopher and I went down to the river for Arti again. This time we went to the large children’s Arti where young boys are invited to dress in orange robes and lead everyone in chanting. Arti, the celebration of light and gratitude for the day’s blessings, is traditional for all Hindus and is akin to many Christians who find spiritual unity in sharing the Eucharist. At this, the largest Arti ceremony in Rishikesh, thousands of devout Hindus show up to chant and give thanks with the children.


We got there early to get good seats and we found a place on the large Ghat. (A Ghat is a set of steps leading into the river to make it easier for pilgrims to bless themselves with the river water) Next to us were two older Hindu women warped in beautiful saris. As we sat there surround by people who dressed quite differently from us, had a different color skin, and were engaged in a religious ceremony that was very important to them, I wondered if we were welcome. Were we just two more annoying American tourists snapping photos at the wrong times, or were we a welcome part of the ceremony? My question was answered very quickly when the woman next to me took my hand and asked me where I was from. She only spoke Hindi, but my new friend Anoop translated for me. When she learned I was from America, tears filled here eyes and she told me her son now lived in Canada. She wondered if I knew him. I tried to explain that Toronto was a long way from San Francisco, but she didn’t understand. Perhaps she didn’t want to understand. All she knew was that I had been near her son and at that moment, I represented some sort of emotional connection for her. It made me think of my own mother (hi mom) and how close I feel to her even when I am around the world.

Once the chanting began, the other woman, again, not speaking any English took my hand and began teaching me the chants so that I would feel a part of everything. I was raised Catholic, and bringing other non-Catholics to share in the Eucharist was strictly forbidden. There was always this sense of “us and them”. This beautiful woman, not even speaking the same language, made me feel at home. Both women began to cry as they chanted. Not tears of pain, but tears of faith and compassion and joy.

When the Arti lamp (a large brass object with many tiny candles called Ghee Wicks) was passed through the crowd, everyone reached to touch it and hold it up. Not wanting to get in the way of such devoted people, I began to step back. My newfound friends grabbed my hand and pulled it up to the lamp. I sent out a prayer of gratitude for Mothers. The Mother River Ganges, the mother of the three orphan children at the school who had passed away, my beautiful new Hindu mothers and most importantly my own mother a world a way in Connecticut.

Holy Cow

Yesterday I was practicing on the Ganges River. Usually the experience is perfect except for the flies. These little creatures seem to travel in two modes. Either they tip-toe over my body like they were sneaking up in a tasty pile of cow dung that they fear might grow legs and run away, or they fly at me like the Japanese suicide pilots of WWI going in for a final glorious kill. Sometimes I can tune it out, other times, well, not so much.
Yesterday I learned something very cool, however. I lit a stick of sandalwood incense as an offering to the river. For whatever reason, the flies dispersed and let me alone to practice. It occurred to me later that day that the animals here are as much a part of daily life as are the people. The flies were a part of my practice and while I was glad to have a break from them, they were, on some level missed. Even the annoying flies here seem to have lessons to teach.
It was hard to ignore the fact that the flies are drawn to cow dung, rotting and decaying garbage and me; while they are repelled by the sweet smell of sandalwood. In my life back in San Francisco I find myself a lot like a fly’s life here. I am so easily seduced by activities, foods and relationships that are on symbolized by cow dung. While the sweetness of clean, mindful living can seem like such a chore. Why I would choose pizza over brown rice and vegetables or b-rated Hollywood movies over some quiet time with a spiritually uplifting book? It is a mystery to me because I know what serves me, and I know the effect of unconscious living. Why then to I fly toward the dung and away from the sandalwood so often? Maybe, as I grow and open spiritually I will become more and more like the sandalwood and the flies will leave me alone. Or maybe, I will become more and more like the other mystics at the river and I will no longer notice them.

The Cows here are also amazing. Growing up on a farm, cows are not new to me. Unlike most Americans, I grew up surround by cows, not just eating them. But the cows here are wholly different than anything I encountered on the farm. They live in and among the people and they rule everything. I don’t just mean religious life either. Every part of life in India moves around the cows like the river Ganges flowing around a rock.
The Rickshaw (a cross between a taxi and a golf cart) drivers will not stop or even slow down for the elderly and children, and Christopher and I are convinced that they get money from the government if they take out annoying tourists. They think nothing of laying on the horn and screaming things in Hindi, which I can only assume, are spelled with four letters. To a Westerner, this can seem a bit crazy— ok, more than a bit. While small children, the elderly and Christopher and I have no business walking on the side of the road, they will come to a dead stop to let a cow sleeping in the middle of the road and they will nearly swerve into a steep ravine to avoid hitting a cow. I guess no one told them that a third option is to slow down.
In any event, I can now see why cows are sacred in India. They are slow and intentional and they always look like they get the cosmic joke that is fully illusive to most humans. Kindness, gentleness and serenity come effortless to them. Each one has personality and wisdom that far exceed most people I know. (Readers of this Blog are the exception to that of course). I have been a vegetarian for many years now, but if I were not, I can assure you I would be after spending time with the Cows on the streets of India.

Karma Yoga

We met a great yoga teacher named Anup and immediately had a nice connection with him. Although the meeting was seemingly by chance, both Christopher and I feel he will be a great friend. In addition to teaching hatha yoga and meditation, he is devoted to the practice of Karma Yoga (selfless service). He has started a school for poor children here in Rishkesh and invited us to visit the children. We took him up on his offer and brought bunches of Bananas with us as most of these children only get rice to eat.

The experience of visiting with these children was so rich and rewarding and I found myself choking back tears the whole time. I fell in love with all of them. While we were there three new students arrived with Anup’s mom who strikes me as a good candidate for sainthood. The three children, two boys and a girl, were living on the streets after their mother died and their father disappeared. Anup’s mom found them and brought them to the school.

When the new children were introduced to the other students, they were welcomed in both Hindi and English and each got huge rounds of applause. Some of the children even hugged the new students. Christopher and I were also showered with hugs. We were a bit nervous about taking photos, but the kids loved seeing their photos instantly on my digital camera so it was not hard to find models. I am going to make prints of them and send them to Anup so the children can decorate their tiny classroom with the photos.

In spite of a small one-room classroom where children sit on burlap on the floor, these beautiful little ones are learning and growing. They were exceptionally well mannered and I never felt anything but respect from them or directed at one another. One girl noticed I was sweating profusely and got me her teachers hand fan to help me cool off. It astounds me that those who have so little can be so thoughtful.

I am thinking about starting some sort of non-profit fund for this school when I return home. Such beautiful and wonderful souls deserve and need support. I don’t feel like I can continue to turn my back while so many people in this world go without food, medicine and a basic education.