The Dalai Lama and Amritsar

Scurrying down the hill from Dharamkot to McLeod Ganj in the morning I ran into a few others from my group who were also on their way to the Dalai Lama. They’d already been to his temple before our Tushita course, so they knew where to go, although it wasn’t hard to find anyway. Fortunately I remembered not to bring my phone nor my camera, because electronics other than a radio were prohibited and kept on a shelf outside. After being thoroughly searched, we made our way within the thick crowd to see if we could squeeze in on the upper floor where the Dalai Lama would be teaching. Outside many people sat, waiting to see if they could get a glimpse as he walked into the temple from his home. His temple is very modest; most of it is concrete floors and pillars to house the massive crowds that gather for his teachings. Only a relatively small space in the middle would remind you of a temple, a token Buddha statue in the back. We were able to find a few spaces on the cushioned floor amongst the sea of red-robed monks just outside the main temple room, although not in front of a door which would have allowed a direct view of His Holiness. It was no matter, I was listening to the translation on the radio anyway, and a TV not too far away displayed him as he lectured from his seat at the front of the temple.

It took a while to locate the right station, not only because there were translation channels for about half a dozen languages, but also because the radio was so tiny that any movement on the scanning dial would skip several channels. The translator must have been taking notes, because the Dalai Lama would speak for about 10 minutes before a translation was offered. It was funny to see all the Tibetans laughing at one point in time, then wondering what they were laughing at, then seeing all the westerners giggling at the same point in time during the translation 15 minutes later. The Dalai Lama had a lot of important things to say, but was not a serious or imposing man. He has a lot of good energy and enthusiasm, but is not forceful or intense, contributing to a jovial and lighthearted atmosphere.

Some select notes that I took: Although all sentient beings experience mental states like mental pain, the human-experienced mental pain is more intense than that of animals because we harbor a greater depth of hopes and fears. This contributes to a greater amount of anxiety. Some issues require using the mind itself to solve, others require other antidotes. For instance, anxieties and suffering due to outside attachments are only solvable by cultivating a sound state of mind. Poverty in Bihar, though, can only be attended by science/technology and the administration of the government. Through life, we put our faith and hopes into deities, gods, institutions like the government, science, technology, etc., but it should never be forgotten that mental peace can be attributed to none other than the mind itself, not even faith in the Buddha will afford this. Additionally, the advancements of neuroscience, despite how extensive they are, cannot detect whether a cognition is valid or invalid (for instance, mistaking a rope for a snake versus recognizing an actual snake). In this way, the validity of reality cannot be explained in terms of the brain, only the mind. This delineates a boundary where on one side the sciences explain things and on the other, the ethics, epistemology, and metaphysics of a field of thought such as Buddhism. On the same note, just as we cannot detect via the brain a valid or invalid cognition, we cannot detect compassion versus suffering from the brain alone, as the same part of the brain is stimulated during both. Perhaps feeling deep compassion means feeling the willingness to take on great suffering, hence the overlap. The “foolishness” and ambiguity of the brain applies in a simple way to the eyes as well: a tear alone cannot tell you whether it is of joy or sorrow, or even of heavy laughter. The audience laughed when the Dalai Lama proposed that if the eyes were honest about their tears, only the left eye would release tears of sorrow and the right eye would only cry when experiencing joyfulness. But obviously this is not the case, just as the scientific acknowledgement of a mental cognition does not reveal the entirety of the cognition’s nature. True to his stance on collaboration and conversation between the sciences and Buddhist thought, a good portion of the Dalai Lama’s lectures commented like this. Despite how Buddhist ideas of reality may initially clash with a Western perspective, the Dalai Lama is NEVER about suggesting that Buddhism holds the truth above other perspectives and the advancements of western sciences; he only comments on the useful fruit that can be grown through the conversation of both. Much of what he mentioned I remember hearing at Tushita as well. Another interesting point for instance was about independent versus dependent existence. We conventionally recognize things as existing independently, as entities with qualities and values that exist by their own side, contained within. Conventional language is a testament to this: me versus you, and I, me, mine. Such terms suggest a ‘self’ that exists by its own side. Buddhist perspective suggests that things exist relatively and through dependence rather than separately. Just as we cannot recognize a nature that is not dependent on some prior cause or condition, the self is a convention that carries along with it the baggage of the ego, an attachment-laden aspect of ourselves that is founded on a faulty recognition of reality. Reality does not consist of separate, independent selves and objects; all are related and exist through each other; the nature of reality is one of relative existence, not absolute.

About half an hour into the first lecture, robed men came around distributing small, flat, circular loaves of bread, and later they had large pots of hot butter tea, common in the Tibetan region. My friends had brought extra cups in anticipation of the tea, and I was grateful that they gave me one because it was an experience I did not want to miss. I’ve heard about butter tea, mostly negative comments and grimacing faces, but also a few soaring compliments. The director at Tushita compared butter tea more to a soup than a tea. The butter tea they served at the temple was very light in color, almost white, and was liquidy enough for me to recognize it as tea. Its initial taste was very salty, as if you were sipping salt water. Soon after, the palate was filled with the taste of butter, followed by an aftertaste of whole milk. The best part was dipping the bread into the tea itself. Filling enough to make you want to hike up a Himalayan mountain.

After the two hour lecture, we had a two hour break for lunch, which was followed by another two hour lecture. For lunch, the three I had been sitting with (Anna-Sweden, Jonah-Ireland, and Ankit-England) and I went to a Japanese restaurant. It came highly recommended by them, and with good reason too, the food was astounding. The restaurant is a portion of an NGO that does a great deal of work and advocacy for Tibetan refugees; Ankit had spent a few weeks before with the NGO teaching working-class Tibetans English, a powerful experience which he wanted to continue in the following days. Ankit told me that one of his students questioned why Ankit thought any western government like the US is intervening with the situation in Tibet. Did they know that over a million Tibetans have been killed and continue to face sever persecution? No one seems to be doing anything about it. Ankit spoke about the deep relationship that the US has with China, forged on strong trade relations (and a bottomless debt owed due to the recent costly war in the Middle East). “What are they trading that is so important?” Ankit was speechless when thoughts of toys and other consumer products ran through his head.

After the second lecture had ended and we had waded through the thick crowd, Ankit and I found an internet café to check mails and skype. Afterward, we decided to head over to the Common Ground restaurant for an ice cream dessert (with a side of almond toffee and drizzled with warm caramel) that we were craving. Although I had thought about meeting some people at a pizzeria later on, I decided to get some food at the Common Ground, loving the atmosphere and salivating at the thought of the delicious dishes I had sampled last time. Ordering up some Tibetan specialties, a few others (from India and Holland) trickled in. Eventually we all ordered dinner and chatted for a while, reminiscing more about Tushita as well as talking about social similarities and differences amongst our countries.

That evening Ankit and I went to the local cinema to see Inception (which I had heard a great deal about in the US). Right behind us in the theater were 3 Tushita-ers from the US. It put such a smile on my face that literally every place I would wander to in McLeod and even Dharamkot, I would inevitably cross paths with friends from the mediation course.

Late that evening back at the guest house in Dharamkot, I was disappointed to find that my room key was missing from my pocket. It must have slipped out during the Dalai Lama’s lectures, maybe when I was taking out the radio or something. With little else to do, I took the restaurant owner’s suggestion and slept on the cushioned floor of the restaurant, along with the blanketed handful of kitchen workers. The next morning I had intended on catching a bus to Amritsar. Since that journey would take some time, the earlier I left the better; however, if I couldn’t get into the room, perhaps it would prevent me from getting to Amritsar altogether and missing my train to Mumbai, which was departing the next evening.

The next morning I asked the owner if he had a spare key; he didn’t. We both concurred that the only option remaining was to break into the room, and the owner was nice enough to locate a nearby crowbar and steel rebar which he used (along with a good deal of effort) to burst the lock open to the door. Relieved and thankful, I sorted through my things and packed everything up. I was able to leave Dharamkot in time for a quick bit of breakfast in McLeod, but not before buying a new lock for the door and also getting some new holes repaired in my pants from auntie next door. Scurrying onto the bus, I had about 20 seconds before it departed the bus stand.

During a stop in Dharamsala, I was happy to see that Nuria, a Tushita-er from Spain, was also heading to Amritsar. She is an art teacher at a university in Barcelona, and is going back home in a few days for the start of a new class. We spoke a good deal and marveled at the far-reaching views of vast river gorges and sheer mountain drops outside. I was glad to have spent so much time in the Dharamsala area; as the terrain got flatter and the temperature hotter, I was realizing how refreshingly different the past few weeks had been. After a 4 ½ hour bus ride to Pathankot and a 3 hour bus ride from there to Amritsar, we had finally reached the Punjabi city of the Golden Temple. I only had a few hours here before my train left for Mumbai, so we made it count by walking around the Golden Temple complex and also eating there, after Nuria had put her stuff in the guest house across the street. The Golden Temple provides free accommodation for Sikh pilgrims and others, as well as meals in the temple area, all donation-based. Nuria and I were surprised to see Teo, a Tushita-er from England, also staying in the accommodation common area. He was also catching my train in the evening, but getting off at Delhi. I guess running into fellow mediation students was a phenomenon that extended well outside the area of Dharamsala!

After circumnavigating the shimmering temple, we headed to the kitchen area, recognizable by the loud clashing of metal trays. The process was very synchronized. Upon entering, we were handed a tray and a spoon and a bowl and were shuffled to the upstairs floor, basically a massive room the size of half a football field with burlap strips stretching across the length for sitting. The room filled with people in minutes and food runners immediately began their distribution system, scurrying from person to person, dumping a splash of food into one of the sections of the tray. The dinner included 2 chapati breads, rice, dal, veg curry, and water. If you wanted more food, all you needed was to lift a finger when the runner would pass. Snarfing down my food and the Nuria’s leftovers, my 15 minute dinner picked up its pace as I saw people were already leaving and water was being spread on the stone floor to sop up any mess. Just as I stood up, the floor squeegee ran past, cleaning my area for the next batch of people. Down the steps, we handed our trays to a chain of about 2 dozen men who handed dishes in succession to the cleaning area, where amongst deafening clanging, the metalware was cleaned by hundreds of hands. An energetic and smiley Sikh gave us a tour of the cooking area, where we glimpsed massive vats of dal, having the diameter of the width of an entire care, as well as chapatti machines, churning out a million flatbreads every day. The temple area feeds about 55,000 people daily this day, running entirely on donations.

Nuria and I walked around the temple again as Teo showered to get ready for our train. As Nuria and I gave each other a hug goodbye, we were immediately swarmed with a few Sikh men shouting *NO, NO, NO, NOT ALLOWED!* No cross-gender displays of affection in this area. So, with a few words and a smile, we bid each other farewell. Soon after at the train station, Teo and I also said goodbye, as we’d be traveling in different train cars.

The train ride to Mumbai would last 32 hours. The length of the trip came into focus when I told Dad in a phone conversation that I’d get there at 5:45 am not tomorrow but the day after. That’s a long time on a train! It surely isn’t as droning as a car ride though; on the Indian trains one has his own berth to stretch out on as well as bathrooms, corridors to stretch the legs in, and passing countryside views out the windows and doors that will entertain for hours.

Tushita Meditation Retreat

My one-night stay in McLeod Ganj was a great break from traveling, as well as an awesome sight. McLeod Ganj wraps around steep mountains and there are spectacular views all around. Despite its mountainous terrain, the area has many great places to eat as well bakeries and internet cafes etc. The population comes from all around, constituted of Indians, Tibetans, and many backpack-laden tourists. My guest house owner and I spent a good amount of time together, sharing Kashmiri tea and a homemade dinner of rice, dal, salad, and mixed veg curry over stories of beautiful places he would take tourists through Kashmir, as well as other places in India that he had owned guest houses.

The next day I was eager to settle into the mediation center. Giving myself about an hour, I packed up all my bags and headed in the direction of Dharamkot, the town where Tushita is located. I had quite the setup going, my waterproof bag with my clothes on my back, my backpack around my shoulders but in my front, one hand under the backpack to support it from squishing my stomach, and the other hand holding the umbrella covering up everything over my head. Not knowing how far up the road Dharamkot was from McLeod Ganj, I kept at a slow but steady pace up the windy road. Up and up and up and up. That’s been the general direction of travel since leaving Delhi…always higher and higher and higher. No cars and traffic on this road to Dharamkot. Every once in a while a rickshaw would putter past, slow going up this slope. To my left was a steep slope up; to my right, a steep slope down…“steep” meaning anything from a quickly rolling hill to a drop-off extending about 50 feet down. And trees all around, as well as mist.

Tushita was clearly marked by a sign once I had reached the first shops of Dharamkot. Check-in included us deciding what kind of room we wanted, paying, locking our electronics in a safe, getting the room key, and getting our “karma yoga” job. Room: 4-person as opposed to 8-person dormitory style; payment: 5500 rs. (about 12 dollars a day); karma yoga job: operating the recording/sound equipment during mediations and lectures. I was pleased at this random selection, we all had a job to keep things running, I much preferred turning on and off the sound system as opposed to dish-washing and toilet-cleaning. After moving in and a tea break, we had a practicality meeting about keeping silence, refraining from drugs, sex, and leaving the center’s grounds etc, how to treat the monkeys everywhere, and how to use the laundry service.

From my first moments at Tushita, I was captivated; quite difficult to wipe the smile off my face for the first day or so. The area as a few dorms and bathroom houses, a dining hall and kitchen, above which is a small meditation hall, patios overlooking the mountains, a main gompa (mediation hall) and offices, another retreat building, and a stupa (holy pyramid-wedding cake-like structure symbolizing the enlightened mind of the Buddha). The main gompa was where we spent most of our time; on the wooden floors we each had a mat, a few cushions to sit on, and a small table to keep our books and notebooks. At the front sat a massive golden statue of someone meditating, other auspicious objects like statues and lights and offering bowls, and pictures of prominent lamas.

Just about every day it would rain, although not incredibly hard. Because of how high up we were, clouds frequently would envelop the area. When this happened (sometimes for entire days at a time), Everything would be misty and the view that normally displayed vast mountains and rolling flatlands in the distance would be opaque white. You would see a few trees near you growing on the steep slope downward, but past them, just thick white. “Tushita” means heaven; sometimes it certainly felt that way, with clouds all around it was as if we were in the sky. Sometimes the clouds would be so thick that I remember my first day I was having a conversation with someone from Holland outside, and I literally noticed the mist drifting between us.

There were about 40 of us, ranging in age from about 22 to maybe 40s; a few were much older too. We came from all around including the US, Holland, England, Ireland, Austria, India, Australia, Spain, China, and Switzerland to name a few. Few people I met had a strict plan in place; most were staying in the Dharamsala area for weeks without having a definite idea of when they’d leave. Buses to many areas leave regularly, no need to book in advance, the area affords itself the ability to assume a fluid schedule. Not many had too much experience with Buddhism, although a handful had participated in retreats before, such as the intensive 10-day Vipassana retreat (9 hours of mediation daily, with strict silence). This course was a nice combination of the mediation and contemplative silence with discussion and a relaxed atmosphere. Perhaps total silence or the intensive all day mediation would have been too much for a beginner like me, so a perfect balance was struck for my introduction into things. Silence was to be observed outside the gompa (in the dorms, walking around, in the dining area), especially to protect the concentration and atmosphere for the 3-month retreat running at the same time. This retreat was a special tantric purifying retreat that is reserved for experienced individuals, and it would have been a distraction to have chatter in the background outside. However, during lectures we were free to ask questions (I certainly had a few!) and have personal convsersations with the teachers; additionally daily we had an hour long discussion group of about 7 people, where we would compare and contrast ideas and responses we had from the lecture.

The daily schedule ran like this. At 6 am there would be the ring of a gong to wake up, then at 6:35 there would another ring indicating that the first mediation would start in 10 minutes. Our mediation sessions would last 45 minutes and would be followed by a 15-or so minute break. Mediation sessions were guided by Richard from Holland. Richard was grown and very tall but had a boyish face. He would speak quietly but not seriously. His choice of words was slow and deliberate, as if carefully chosen. This probably was the case not only because of his contemplative nature but also because of a limited handle on English. The atmosphere of mediation sessions was deep and thought-provoking, but always lighthearted somehow; Richard would usually let out a giggle or two at us after we were finished, and would make jokes here and there that eventually had us erupting in laughter toward the end once we had figured out his subtle humor. I spent a good deal of time laughing internally as well during meditation sessions. With Richard’s Holland accent, every time he said “others” it sounded as if he was saying “otters.” “We are only here because of otters. Think, all the food you eat, the clothes you wear, comes from otters. Without otters…we would not be able to exist, if even for one day. When we look inside, we can actually find no self, only otters. May we continually cultivate loving-kindness…and everlasting compassion…for otters.” An otter pops up in my visualization, turns its head to look at me, and smiles as if to say… “you know, he’s right.”

After mediation from 6:45 to 7:30, therewas breakfast. Breakfast usually consisted of a vat of rice, wheat, or oat-based porridge, bananas, rolls, hard-boiled eggs, butter, honey, and homemade peanut butter. Yummm. Boy did my appetite return quickly. On antibiotics for the first half, I was feeling back to normal in no time too. After breakfast was a 2-hour lecture (w/ a break) led by Jimmy. Jimmy is in his mid-60s and is from the US. He spent much of his time traveling though and has lived in India for quite some time. His relationship with Buddhism is extensive, and he had been an ordained monk for 15 years. Despite his handle of the dharma (Buddhist teachings), the atmosphere of his lectures was never oppressive. He would often tell funny stories that his teachers and other lamas had said or been involved in. Many times he referenced his crazier past, which included all kinds of wild stories and interesting characters, usually prompting a loud, ruckus, belly laugher from the group . If you have a conversation with him, it feels as if you’re in the atmosphere of a bar. Jimmy has recently been suffering from liver/digestion issues; you could tell he was fatigued, sometimes pausing after a sentence with his eyes closed for a second or two before continuing.

After lecture on the dharma as an hour-long yoga session with Richard; we would do some simple stretching and gentle postures, most of which could be done right from the meditation mat. The 2 sunny days we had, yoga was held on the roof. Richard’s lightheartedness combined with our stumbling on a few balance postures meant a good deal of giggles from everyone involved. It’s funny how I mention laughter so often; it certainly doesn’t feel like we were laughing all the time, as silence was kept outside. My memories are calm and contemplative, having a good deal of time to think during meals and during personal time, time that we usually fill with conversation. After yoga was lunch, the largest meal of the day, consisting of a vat of rice, a vat of dal, a vat of mixed vegetables, cucumber/tomato salad, sometimes paneer, sometimes other dishes too. I usually took a nap after lunch, no need to set an alarm, the gong-ringers were prompt with their soothing strikes 10 minutes before every session.

From 2-3 was our discussion group. I think people in my group were mostly my age, 2 from the US, 2 from England, one from Ireland, one from Israel. We’d bring up questions or issues we took with the teachings, as well as point of agreement, referencing our past personal experiences. It was a great space to articulate our responses to the dharma, as well as get some perspective on how others were taking the teachings. From our group as a whole, you had a wide range of responses including skepticism to the teachings and anger at the difficulties and pains of mediation to complete captivation and even tears during some sessions. Most fell somewhere in the middle. For half an hour after discussion was a tea-break (always hard to return to silence after our group’s conversation), which was then followed by another lecture time where we’d hash out with Jimmy a few of our groups issues. After a break and a mediation session with Richard on the days topics, it was dinner time. Dinner was always a large vat of seaming soup and a large warm basket of rolls (fully accompanied by the butter, honey, and delicious peanut butter). The soup sometimes had beans, sometimes noodles, sometimes other vegetables. One time we had pumpkin soup; another, tomato. My appetite was completely restored compared to the sickly previous week; every meal at Tushita I would load up a whole plate and usually go back for seconds. Especially for that peanut butter and homemade bread.

After dinner was a final meditation session with Richard, usually my favorite one, mostly because there was no upcoming meal to distract me, but also because sitting throughout the day meant I was sufficiently stretched out to tolerate my half-lotus posture. Or maybe I was calmed enough to direct my mind away from discomfort. If pain in the knee or back got too distracting, it was no problem to adjust the seating position, although I would stay in half-lotus as long as possible (usually the whole session) to maintain concentration. After the mediation, I would stay in the gompa to read before heading to bed. Evidently I was interested in the dharma enough to read a great deal; by the end of the 10 days I had burned through 4 books.

My favorite book I read was one I bought at Tushita’s library, called The Universe in a Single Atom by the Dalai Lama. The Dalai Lama discusses a great deal how collaboration between science and Buddhism has and will lead to extremely beneficial advancements in how we conceptualize and understand the mind and reality around us. His developed, but easily understood language goes through the epistemological differences of science and Buddhism (1st person account and experiences versus 3rd person experiments and objective intellectual concepts), but also the empirical similarities between the two; both are rooted in observable phenomena and bounded by the laws of cause and effect. The book resonated with me because it articulated my feelings of how the dharma compliments neuroscientific and physics advancements. One question that comes up in neuroscience is even if we knew all there was to know about the brain from a 3rd person perspective (all the neuronal workings and correlates of consciousness), would we know what there was to know about the mind? Would we be able to know the experience of what it was like to be a bat for instance if we knew all there was to know about the bat’s brain? Conceptually, it doesn’t seem like it. Developing the mind and getting to know the workings of the mind from an objective standpoint are priorities of the Buddhist Dharma. This subjective component to the mind/brain relationship is a piece of the puzzle that is sorely needed if we are to have a comprehensive understanding of the two. It seems that where science leaves off, meditation practices and Buddhist philosophy pick up, and vice versa. Additionally, with the introduction (or rather, complications) of quantum physics into scientific thought, questions arise as to the objectifiability of experimentation. Namely, we are becoming more and more aware of how the observation is as much a part of the observer as of what is observed. For instance, a photon or electron behaves at times like a wave, at times like a particle, it all depends on how it is observed. As the role of consciousness and challenges to objective measurements step forward in importance, again Buddhist thought has a great deal of useful perspective to comment on how we understand the world around us.

Our teachings outlined the basics of the dharma, the principle ideas being that suffering is caused by attachment and aversion to the outside world, but that everything is impermanent, relative, and empty. Emptiness is the claim that nothing exists inherently “from its own side,” that it is not independent from its own originations, its causes and conditions. Similarly, when we try to conceptualize or articulate a ‘self’ what arises are factors dependent on others and influences around us. Additionally, everyone is in the pursuit of happiness, and we should strive to cultivate endless compassion for all sentient beings. Other teachings like that of karma, rebirth, and timeless mind I had more difficulty grasping, but as the analogy goes, don’t eat the whole pizza in one sitting, you’ll throw it up. Take one piece at a time. There were plenty of teachings that really resonated with me and plenty of ideas to chew on for some time to come.

Tenzin Palmo also came to give a talk on our last day. Tenzin Palmo is a Buddhist nun who was one of the first female Westerners to be ordained. She was born in London in 1943, and after ordination spent 12 years in meditative retreat in a high-altitude cave. She is highly regarded in Buddhism and is pushing for the first motions of equal gender treatment in the Buddhist system (for instance, it is thought that women cannot reach enlightenment). Her lecture was on getting to know the mind. A few of her thoughtful analogies included the idea that the mind was the sky and thoughts are the clouds. Our mind, our pure awareness and consciousness, is easily covered by the clouds, but our mind is not the clouds. Similarly, our bodies are not our clothes. Fundamentally we are always naked, but it doesn’t seem that way because we cover up. The problem is when we identify ourselves with these thoughts, when we think that the sky is the clouds that cover it or that we are our clothes. Thoughts in reality are like bubbles, they are shiny and eye-catching, but if you look closely they are hollow and easily pop. In meditation, it was easy to see how this analogy relates to my thoughts, constantly surfacing and then receding, like bubbles popping. It takes some time and concentration to see past neuronal habits.

The monkeys at Tushita were quite a sight. They were everywhere and had no fear of you until you acted as if you would hit them. I guess they were used to having people around. They’d get into massive fights and shriek at each other sometimes, getting the dogs barking as well, and offering a challenge to some meditation sessions. They’d come right up and take your food too. One time I went outside to sit down outside with my dinner and enjoy the view, I had my warm roll all buttered with honey and peanut butter. As I glimpsed at a few monkeys in the corner of my eye, another came out of nowhere, maybe from a tree above and snatched my roll, practically turning the bowl of soup over onto me in the process. Another time during yoga on the roof, one stole someone’s bag of socks. Richard said “not to worry, they have tiny feet, your socks won’t fit. At some point, the bag will fall down from the trees, just keep an eye out.” Another yoga session one got a hold of a tea cup, and it soon shattered on the ground two stories below. Richard, calm as usual, “Oh, Tushita has one less tea cup. Lesson in impermanence.”

It’s funny how by the end of our 10 days together, I had the feeling that I knew all the students or that we were friends somehow, although I had only spoken with a few of them in discussion group. The last day it was nice to have some conversations with people, as well as get to know their names. Many people are staying in the area for some time, especially because the Dalai Lama is teaching for two days soon. My favorite quote from the Dalai Lama that we learned about in lecture was “If you can’t do anything about a problem, why worry? If you can do something about it, why worry?” I guess if you can change something then good and if you can’t, you can’t and there’s no need to worry about control over it. His teachings are very moving, I am going to see if my schedule will allow me to hear his lecture.

Our last day we all decided to meet for dinner at a restaurant called “Common Ground,” advocating for peaceful Tibetan-Chinese relations. Over great food and awesome company who I felt connected to but who I was finally getting to know on a conversational level, our dinner lasted a good 5 hours. That evening I stayed at an awesome place in Dharamkot, a town near McLeod Ganj. Tushita was so closeby, I figured it would be a perfect place to stay, and it’s much less crowded and noisy than McLeod Ganj. The room is only rs. 100, or about 2 dollars, and above on the second floor is a great restaurant with cushion floor seats and low tables. Both the patio of the room and the lookout of the restaurant have a spectacular view of massive mountain hillsides descending into a distant valley. Houses and temples scatter the nearby area, trickling out in density to nothing as the mountains ascend higher and higher.

The next morning I woke up at 6 am right as usual. After writing a bit, I headed out on the thin windy roads of Dharamkot to find an internet café to talk to the parents and to check the emails. I stopped back again at Tushita for a quick yoga class and to say goodbye to Richard, then hopped over to my place for a tasty veg thali for lunch. While I was there I also picked up a few clothes that I had given the day before to the guest house owner’s “auntie” a few houses away. After only a few weeks in India, already my pants had a few tears in them at the more worn parts. One of my collared shirts also had a massive rip down the back, from the neck all the way to the bottom, no idea how it got there. Perhaps the weight of the bags? Anyway, everything was patched up good as new, stitched heavily and reinforced with extra cloth for support when I picked them up.

Then in the afternoon I headed to McLeod Ganj to run some errands, including figuring out the bus timings to Amritsar, as well as visiting a Tibetan doctor for a check-up. I’ve heard sometimes they will give you some Tibetan medicine to maintain your health or to treat internal organ issues that they can detect by your pulse and a urine sample. Don’t be fooled, this stuff is really supposed to work. Jimmy is using Tibetan medicine for his liver treatment and claims that there are limited treatments for the liver in the West aside from a transplant. Tibetan medicine is strong for liver and kidney evidently. Anyway, I stepped inside, the energetic Tibetan woman doctor checked my pulse and asked a few quick questions. *Very good! No non-veg foods and no eggs. Also only cooked food. A little weak but you are fine.* “Oh good, thank you. Do you need a urine sample or something?” *No, not unless you are ill, you are in good heath.* She was right. I was. My urge to consume Tibetan culture and customs shrugged its shoulders. I giggled; of course I didn’t need any medicine, I was fine.

Anyway, I got some passport photos and a radio receiver for the Dalai Lama’s lectures at his temple the next day (it is delivered in Tibetan, and a translator transmits it in English over the radio), and waited in line to register to attend the lectures at his security office. The line was lengthy, about an hour wait, but I’ve heard it can be much longer! Filling out a form, and handing over ten rupees, the passport for a quick check, and two passport photos, I had my registration for tomorrow’s teachings. Most everyone from Tushita is going, should be quite the experience, of course I may not get a seat in order to see him, evidently his teachings are packed. While waiting in line for registration I spotted a sign for an afternoon yoga class and stopped by. Their afternoon Hatha yoga class was just starting. It was a great two hour class, and only for rs.200, just what I needed. The class actually was the conclusion of a month-long certification course, and the students were westerners, relieved that finally they had finished their 200 hours of training. This evening I’ll meet Tushita people again for dinner, then tomorrow the plan is operation Dalai Lama. What an awesome place this is :)

Varanasi, Gaya, Bodhgaya, and McLeod Ganj

The next morning was, again, an early one. Not sure if it was the heat or the time adjustment or the excitement, but I woke up at about 3:30 and was out of bed at 4:50 to see if I could find a boat to take me down the Ganges to see the activity on the ghats coming to life. Lonely Planet recommends early morning for a boat tour because it’s cool and—even so early—there is a lot to see. Right outside of the hotel there were about half a dozen boatmen waiting for tourists. Haggling the price down was tough, but I managed to get the fee down from rs. 400 to rs. 300. One boatman steered and the other rowed; at times we were stagnant because of the current. Seeing the ghats from the river was a great experience, especially to get a sense of how many there are and what goes on on them. My favorite sights were some large elderly maharaja palaces. Also of note is the electric crematorium. Vanranasi is considered a very holy place to die and to be cremated. The richer are burned with fire on the ghats; the poorer go to the electric factory-like location.

Back at the hotel I peeked my head into the room to check if Melissa was sleeping. She has been having a difficult getting sufficient rest; being exhausted yet unable to sleep because of the heat is a poor combination. Glad to see she was snoozing (I guess it was still very early) I headed off into the winding streets of the old city.

I came across the “Brown Bread Bakery” again that we almost ate at the night before. Their muesli with banana, milk, and honey was a tasty breakfast; it was a fun restaurant with cushions on the floor for seating. A relaxed atmosphere which, coupled with the bakery-like items on the menu, was obviously a hotspot for tourists. Stepping out of the bakery I found my eyes caught by colorful strings in a street-side shop. The red and yellow color was easily recognizable as a Hindu emblem worn around the wrist and signifying good luck. Many people wear them and usually they are tied on by a guru or other holy man. Figuring it was time for new wrist wear, I allowed the store owner to cut the loose red string around my wrist—having until that point in time been on my wrist for 2 years—and replace it with a new red-yellow one. The pieces of the old one I released into the Ganges later that day. The new one has been working out ok, although the dye is getting all over my clothes. Perhaps it won’t be as bad later on when the string’s vibrant colors fade. Or maybe it will keep staining my cuffs and sides with more and more red and yellow.

Continuing to wander the streets, I found myself at the main cremation ghat, a few ghats up from Meer ghat where we were staying. I sat on a small wall and got talking with a kid and his brother. We had some lemon chai—less tasty then it sounds, I’m more used to milk chai. The brother spoke good English, although had only learned from having practiced with foreigners. He also helped me practice Hindi. I enjoyed his company; I could tell in some way that he was more interested in a few conversations and sharing information than adopting the wide-eyed, overbearing and overwhelming I WANT TO BE YOUR FRIEND demeanor that many others do, especially the ones that maybe want to form a good relationship so that money can be part of the equation. I forget the brother’s name. We talked for some time and he offered to show me around the places where they burn the bodies. This is something that Lonely Planet makes out to be a tourist objective, and many people visit to see, although I’m sure you can imagine it was a strange feeling for me to be taking in sights as a tourist which must be emotional and significant for the members of the dead’s family. I asked the brother what people thought of tourists coming here a few different times, each time he suggested that it was no big deal, that people didn’t mind having people come to observe. The air was dense with the smell of smoke. We stopped at the place where several people shoved ashes into the Ganges; the black ashes covered the entire side of a dozen-step ghat. On the ghat platform itself were about 3 or 4 spaces for burnings. They would stack wood up about to waist-level (the most expensive being sandal wood) to construct the pyre. The body would be wrapped in shiny silver and gold lining and dipped in the Ganges before being burned. We also visited the adjacent home where many old would come to live out their final days. Remember dying in Varanasi grants moksha, or the freeing of the birth and death cycle. After visiting the site where the wood was cut and weighed, I bid the brother farewell and thanked him for his time. I offered him rs. 100 for his time, which he took without having the expectation for it yet without having the surprise of it. Our whole interaction that day was educative yet soothing.

Back at the hotel Melissa was reading in bed. We had been thinking about going to a yoga class. The day before I visited a nearby studio but didn’t take a class because the off-season classes were halted and the private sessions were too expensive. I was thankful for the hour-long conversation I had with the yogi though instead. He explained about his life doing yoga as a child here and there, then joining the army in Hyderabad, then getting a degree in Psychology, then eventually running the yoga studio. His animated behavior was punctuated with eruptions of laughter. The other studio that Melissa and I had in mind though we didn’t make it to. She wasn’t sure if she was up to it and in any case we needed to check out of the hotel lest we be charged with another day. Packing up all our stuff ran well into the yoga session, so I just did some small exercises in our room. I had been accustomed to running etc at home about every other day; the same kind of exercise is more difficult to set aside time for here!

In the afternoon we enjoyed the central patio views over lemon juice and sparkling water, which also tastes good with a few shakes of salt in it actually. Quite a treat. A new taste yet quenching. I haven’t been eating very much—the appetite is very low still—yet somehow I had the strongest craving for this lemon drink. For lunch we headed to the Brown Bread Bakery. Remember the huge menu? Thai, Chinese, Continental, international Cheeses and breads, Indian, etc etc etc. Melissa tried the palak paneer. Unimpressive. I tested out the Thai green curry. How out of line my expectations were with the actual product was comical. The brown sludge smelled like the interior of an old dusty piano. The taste was worse. It reminded me of the smell wafting about in urine-laden toilet rooms. After a few bites, I was finished. No problem wasting this food. I settled with the white rice with ketchup drizzled over top, an unexpected lunch to be sure. Again, first impressions are only part of the picture. Just as a book cannot be judged by the cover, neither can a restaurant be judged by the impressiveness of the menu.

Back at the hotel, Melissa and I had some more lemon drink. I could have ordered food but wasn’t hungry. With a few hours left before we needed to make it to the station for our next train, I decided again to wander. Hopefully I would locate a place where I could look into why my Vodafone connection was not working. Melissa had been using the phone at the hotel to arrange plans with her family when the line cut out. It refused to receive reception after that. A sitar shop owner told me that to rearrange the plan I would need to visit a place far away, so I spent about half an hour or so soaking in the hustle of the main road before heading back to the hotel. Simply standing in one place and observing everything around you in a situation like that can entertain for hours. On the way back to the hotel while walking along the ghats I ran into the massagers that I had been introduced to yesterday. Yesterday after having initially arrived in Varanasi a boy invited me to his shop. Refusing like usual, the boy reached his hand out to shake goodbye. As our hands met in a flash he grabbed my hand and pressed his thumbs into my palm. Stunned but intrigued, I didn’t pull my hand back. In a few seconds he was squeezing up and down my arm in alternating clockwise and counterclockwise directions with the thumb and fingers. I was sold. Yes, take me away to wherever it is you give massages. Right here atop a burlap blanket on a wide step of the ghats? Ok. Up and down my arms and legs he and another went. As well as the back and the shoulders. Oh OH and the feet. That was my favorite. Toward the end I sat up and…how did this work…I sat and he had his chins to my back and he grabbed my arms in front of me and pulled back. And then to each side. A ripple of cracks ran up my whole spine each time. The mentality was always *don’t worry about the money* until the end when they asked for rs. 300each. While being messaged it’s hard to haggle. When on my feet after some time I negotiated down to rs. 50 each, which probably was still too high. I felt it was worth it though. Oh my, what a sensation. I was happy to have another that afternoon on my way back to the hotel.

I had booked the train to Gaya from Varanasi in the sleeper class because it wasn’t overnight. We had always traveled sleeper when traveling in Hyderabad 2 years ago. You still get beds and all, just not a/c and no sheets. With Melissa drained from the constant heat over the past 7 months in South Asia (the most hot of which being the entirety of the last 4 months, right throughout the summer), I negotiated to have us relocated to a/c class for an upgrade charge. Good move. I also slept the whole 5 hours to Gaya.

Gaya is a city that is usually only visited by foreigners and tourists as a jumping off point to Bodhgaya, the location of Buddha’s enlightenment. Because the train got in after dark, we decided to stay at a hotel across from the station in Gaya and head to Bodhgaya the next day. The room had everything we needed, but had a dark feeling to it. My whole memory of Gaya seems to be steeped in this dark shadowy hue. Gaya is located in Bihar, the poorest state of India. It’s a good idea to play it safe traveling through this state, although crime used to be a whole lot worse a few years ago than it is now. The government is really stepping up things like education throughout the state from what I hear; I believe it, Melissa saw so many schools and school children running about the next day.

With no check-out time, we decided to explore around Gaya a bit; the guide book spoke of a mountain in the southern part of town with great views; also Buddha preached his “fire sermon” here. I thought we could walk there, so on the way we stopped at a local eatery for some rice and daal and mixed veg curry. We also stopped at one of the many sweet shops; I spotted a milk-pistachio fluffy white sweet that I liked, Kalakan. Getting sufficiently lost, we hired a rickshaw driver to take us to the mountain. I don’t know why I thought I could navigate there, it would have taken all day. Realizing how much the richshaw wallah had to exert himself to transport us both there, I paid rs. 50 instead of our agreed price of rs. 30, a bonus that lit his face up. I didn’t mind the children beggars that followed us up the mountain. Melissa had had enough of the begging throughout her time in South Asia. I bet that in a few months’ time, I will be similarly intolerant of it. Shooing them away, there was nothing to be concerned about at the top aside from the 2 temple dwellers that asked for a donation. The view was indeed splendid. Gaya is huge and wound around as far as you could see in one direction, rice paddies extending in the other direction. The city did look like it was falling apart though somewhat. The crumbling brick walls were visible from the mountain, just as the half-finished roads and mud were noticeable while actually toiling about in it.

By the time we reached the base of the mountain, it had cooled quite a bit and became windy. It was such a nice break, but we knew a big rain was on its way. Being on the outskirts of town meant few autos, but we felt like searching for one rather than hire a cycle rickshaw. As the rains started, a diesel tank truck pulled up beside us, the driver and his friend poking his head out of the window to ask us where we were headed. He offered to take us to the train station (across from which was our hotel), he was headed to the station anyway to drop off the diesel for the trains. Eyeing Melissa a few times, we agreed with each other that the risk was acceptable and hopped in, me smooshing beside the two men and Melissa by the window to avoid any funny business. The rains poured and poured. How grateful we were not to be sludging about in the mud and puddles below us. We didn’t recognize the way the truck was taking (although of course we didn’t know the city), and were slightly fearful that we may have to resort to hopping out in the rain if things got too suspicious. We questioned his direction but he assured us he was going a back way to the station and not to worry about it. Out of nowhere our hotel popped up in front of us. I dug into my wallet for some compensation for the driver; he smiled, waved his hand and nodded his head, a claim that money was not necessary. With a return smile and a “thank you” our diesel truck was off and Melissa and I headed into the hotel to pack our things.

Bodhgaya is about 12 km away from Gaya. Annoying jarring speed bumps made me choose to hold my backpack on my lap for fear of the laptop inside breaking from the hard metal floor of the auto. The scenery was nice, more amiable than the crowded and noisy streets of Gaya. Gaya had the loudest horns I’ve ever heard. And they lay on the horns for many seconds at a time, in an auto it can be deafening. Many times I had to cover my ears. Especially during that time that the bike behind us blared his horn at us for about half a minute while waiting at a stop light simply because he saw that we were covering our ears. I suppose an adolescent having a little fun has turned out with worse outcomes before. Whatever, I could have been more upset, it was just dumb.

Dazed by the passing forests and countryside in the auto, something strange suddenly caught my eye up ahead. Focusing as I looked forward, in a split second I realized a cow was on its side sliding at high speed in front of a bus, heading in our direction. As we veered off the road, I braced myself for an ugly sight and my face cringed, eyebrows tensing. How the cow became propelled in front of the bus is a mystery, perhaps it was hit and thrust forward. The bus decelerated at about the same rate as the cow did, so it never went under. At the high speeds though, the cow slipped about as if it were on ice and slid at least 40 yards or so. The bus stopped and the cow got up and walked past us without a grunt, its friend catching up close behind. That was the second bus-cow incident Melissa had witnessed. The previous on a few weeks before ended up much worse, the victim ending up with a bloody horn and a limp.

We had hoped to stay at one of the monasteries (each dedicated to a different country, and made in the image of that country) in Bodhgaya, although the guest houses in all were being renovated. An energetic thin Indian, Sudhir, about my age found us and started talking about his family’s guest house as soon as we stepped out of the rickshaw. After investigating a few other options, we decided that his guest house was a great deal for the price and took him up on the offer. Sudhir drove us and our luggage to the guest house. That evening after settling in Melissa and I walked about the town and ran into Sudhir again, just as energetic as before he started talking about all the places we could go in town to see the tourist sites or to use the internet etc. Melissa went to an internet café and I went to a local phone shop to see what I could do about a new sim card for the phone; the Vodafone card was still without reception. The AirCel chip had the lowest rates I’ve seen for international calling to the US at rs. 1.5 a minute, about 4 cents. Loads less than the 3 dollars or whatever with my AT&T phone. The card required not only my passport and visa photocopy and passport photo but also a local’s id. I’m still puzzled why this is. A local reference? But what if I didn’t have a reference? Sudhir was more than willing to photocopy his passport, jumping in the opportunity to help.

That evening the three of us went to a local restaurant with Tibetan specialties. What we ordered was ok but the soup I’m pretty sure gave me quite the bout with diarrhea that night. After Sudhir left to go home, a talkative schoolboy fired some questions at us, followed by a computer science college student talking to us for a good half hour about this schooling and studies.

That night: diarrhea diarrhea diarrhea. Not much sleep. Melissa wasn’t feeling too well either. Darn Tibetan soup. Still without having recovered my appetite from many days before, I was mostly living off of rehydration salts. That morning Melissa and I went to a nearby café with wireless internet access where I was able to post my last blog entry. Also got some porridge. Sudhir dropped by and was anxious to take us through the sites of Bodhgaya.

Although he rattled off mountains we could visit and….something else I can’t remember…and a lesson with a Buddhist guru, Melissa and I really only had the time and energy for the main sites of the tree under which Buddha achieved enlightenment, the nearby temple, and exploring the monasteries. Well, the original tree was uprooted by a ruler bent on ridding the area of Buddhism, but a sapling from it was stolen and cultivated further in Sri Lanka. The relative tree was replanted in the spot of enlightenment and is now about 2 millennia old, about a dozen steel pillars supporting its massive and lengthy branches. A few dozen people were meditating under it. I sat under the tree too. What did I think about? My seventh grade history class. We learned about Buddha’s enlightenment then, and the Bodhi tree. I found it such a cool kind of thing then, the story of the enlightenment being tied to a tree under which it happened. Reminiscent of Newton and his apple. Revolutionary event occurring in a simple space connected to nature. And now 9 years after seventh grade, I was here.

We walked around the area and made our way to a massive 60 foot high Buddha state and the monasteries. A salesman outside of one offered for me to listen to his prized largest hand-crafted singing bowl. The sound was so deep and relaxing. Making you still. The deep pitch, about as low as you can hum, had an overtone pitch floating softly above it, exactly a fifth (+octaves) higher. The result: still music that could make anyone pause in peace for at least a moment. I hadn’t the space to lug around something like that. Curious, I asked the price anyway. A whopping 400 Euros.

From five to six in the afternoon Melissa and I attended a meditation session at the Japanese monastery. Maybe 2 dozen people sat in the open-aired and high-ceilinged room with a large Buddha statue, murals, dangling gold plates, and other beautifications at the front. The smell of incense filled the air. Our monk slowly rang a large gong a few times, beat a large drum once or twice, and chanted in a sustained low tone for about 20 minutes. The remainder of the hour was held in silence. I was able to have my legs in lotus position for the majority of the time. Just as I readjusted to half lotus due to pain, the session was over. Calm and spaced out, we were driven back to the guest house by Sudhir to collect our bags. Sudhir arranged an auto for us to take us back to Gaya. I gave him about 5 dollars in rupees for all of his enthusiastic help and guidance. Despite all his time, he never mentioned about us paying him, even at the end. I doubt it if he would have brought it up. He was appreciative and accepted it graciously.

And again we were back in Gaya. I liked Gaya. Somehow. It was dirty and chaotic and LOUD LOUD LOUD. And dark. And the smell made my stomach turn a little. But somehow it was nice, like I was forging a frontier or facing discomfort head on or managing something unmanageable. I guess that means I appreciated it for reasons that had to do with me in the place, not for the place itself. Sharing a final meal and lemon-salt fizz water together, Melissa and I reminisced over the past week, sweat dampening our clothes and the jingles of obnoxiousness echoing from outside.

Melissa wasn’t surprised to see that her train was delayed, that specific one was notorious for it. We used it to get to Gaya and it was only 10 minutes late, but the time before that Melissa used it 2 years ago and it was delayed 7 hours. It was only delayed 10 minutes at a time, so we didn’t really know how long it would amount to. I was fearful of the station. People were everywhere, most of them just staring at us. Very little English was understood. I fidgeted constantly as every other second I would feel another bug on my skin or crawling in my hair. Once for a few seconds, the power went out and nothing could be seen. I kept bags close by. All the while we continued to retell events from the past week, giggling at strange bargaining situations and remembering old Hyderabad study abroad friends. After an hour, Melissa’s train to Calcutta was still absent and mine showed up to whisk me away to Delhi (the express train got you there in under 12 hours, an impressive feat for the distance travelled). I knew she would be fine being there alone. She would take it like she takes most things, level-headed and calmly. With a hug goodbye, we parted. I hope her train was not delayed 7 hours into the night.

Serious diarrhea followed me throughout the night on the train to Delhi. As we pulled into the station at 11 am, I was geared up with my bags (one in front and one in back) and jug of orange rehydration salt-elixir in one hand and jug of regular water in the other. Again, without an appetite, the rehydration salts were my best friend, lest I have much less energy than I did. Slightly weak, I embarked to find a place to keep my bags for the day before I caught my train in the evening to head up farther north.

New Delhi train station has 16 platforms. That is a long distance. Going to one end, I was disgruntled to figure out that luggage storage was on the other side. After finally getting to the cloak check, the line was huge and I rethought my plan. Perhaps there would be a cloak check at the station I had to be at that evening, Anand Vihar in east Delhi. I’d rather have my bags there waiting for me than have to contend with the commotion of New Delhi station in the evening again, possibly making me late. To try to figure out the best way to get to Anand Vihar, I tried my luck at the enquiry booths, each one having a crowd of about 60 people contending for the booth operator’s attention. Standing off to the side, I realized the inefficiency of the whole mess. Everyone was shouting and pushing in the humid, sweaty outside area. The booth operators sat calmly with slight frowns on their faces in swivel chairs behind computers in a/c, protected from the bustle outside by thick glass. It seemed that every once in a while she would look up at someone and half listen. Taking a few seconds to…think? she would maybe whisper some response. Every once in a while she’d talk into the microphone so people could hear outside. No one was angry, just pushing for the front of the line. I fumed. Ticket salesmen operate the same way. It takes forever.

After asking a few people I figured that that Anand Vihar was accessible via the metro system. Shoulders aching, I slowly made it to the metro station nearby. While waiting in the lengthy security check line, I had to support myself against the wall and was out of breath under the weight of the bags, my shirt and pants drenched with sweat from the extra insulation in the already heavy humid heat. The a/c in the metro cars themselves were a blessing, I’m sure you can imagine. Yet still standing for the half hour or so to get to Anand Vihar was taxing. Anand Vihar metro station was spacious and looked new, as did the railway station I’d soon find out. As I stepped out of the metro station, I gladly handed over the bags to a rickshaw driver who took me to the station. Although it was visible and certainly within walking distance, I was caught at a good time for a nice sit.

Although Anand Vihar station was new, there was no cloak room. Sitting for a few minutes with a crooked look of frustration on my face, I wondered if there were a hotel nearby where I could leave the bags. A taxi driver outside offered to take me to one after I negotiated the price down 4x less. The guest house he took me too would keep the bags for thousands of rupees. I guess the generosity of the guest houses I had stayed in before to hold onto bags was not consistent everywhere. Disgruntled, I decided it best to head the whole way back to New Delhi station to the cloak room that I knew was there rather than drive around looking for a place on the off-chance they would house them. Safely. The taxi driver demanded I pay him his original price back at the station. I gave him half and despite his protests walked away.

Again with the long metro ride. And sweaty back-breaking walk to the New Delhi Station. I forgot which side the cloak room was on. I trudged through the crowd of people to platform 1 on the other side because someone on the metro claimed that was the correct side. Nope. Trudged back to platform 16. Cloak room. Ok. Made it. Oh, oops I’m on the return side of the cloak room. Ok walk around a few hundred feet to the other side. Fill out the form. Whew I can take the bags off. The cloak room man looked at the bags and shook his head, fingering the loose zippers. *No lock, no storage.* My heart sank. What the hell was I going to do with these f***ing bags. It was 3 pm, perhaps my best option was to go back to Anand Vihar and wait 6 hours for the train. After catching my breath and drying the sweat from my forehead, the cloak room man pointed to a vendor booth nearby and said *lock.* Perhaps that meant I could by locks. Yes, it did. Remarkably still disgruntled, I bought locks for the zippers (If you wanted the bag, you could take it anyway, it’s not stored in a safe, just placed on a shelf). Locks in place, the cloak room accepted the bags and finally after 4 hours of trudging around Delhi I was liberated.

At nearby Connaught Place (CP—basically the city center of Delhi), I found a park located at the center of the three concentric circle roads that make up CP. I bought a raspberry-mango popsickle. Then a lemon one. And laid sprawled out on the grass. Ahh.

Glancing through the guidebook to see what places to eat were nearby, I realized that all the Indian options (that I had always sought out and for which Delhi was prized) made me feel sick, perhaps my body saying ‘dammit stay away from that stuff, you’re pissing me off with this shit.’ I hope my appetite and taste for Indian food returns soon. A smile spread across my face when I read about a Ruby Tuesday’s nearby. Mmmm a burger and fries. Or maybe a salad. It was funny how I was definitely not hungry for some things (sickened by them actually), and yet hungry for another. It wasn’t food that mattered but the kind of food. A few seconds later I caught myself. I would never NEVER eat at a burger chain like Ruby Tuesday’s in the US. In fact, I seek out Indian at home. I’ve only been here in India a week and a half, and you’re in the Indian food capital of the world, and you want to go to….a Ruby Tuesday’s. And then I was like…well, yeah I do. I guess what you want is what you want, and I knew that I needed to eat after my lack of food for so long.

I made my way in that direction. CP had all kinds of higher end a/c stores and clothing places etc with police guards in front ready to welcome you inside by pulling the all-glass door open for you. Yet outside—a dichotomy that falls in line with so many opposites existing side by side in India—was a tangled and dusty/muddy mess of concrete chunks, steel bars, deep holes in unexpected places and thin workers with dirt-stained and torn clothing. CP was under some kind of heavy construction. Kind of like Pahar Ganj was torn up too. Ruby Tuesday’s must have been too, as I couldn’t find it, but ducked into a Starbucks-like coffee shop for a cool mocha/vanilla ice cream latte. Yum. Then nearby I found Subway. That peaked my interest. Again, 2 weeks ago I would have kicked myself for going to a Subway for my last meal in Delhi. My appetite now guided me differently. I ordered one 6-inch sub, then another. And a diet coke. How rejuvenating. After eating I spotted 2 other foreigners and talked with them—study abroad students from France—for about an hour. Filled with energy, I headed back to the New Delhi Station to collect my bags, much more manageable after my rejuvenating day, and boarded the much less-crowded metro to Anand Vihar to catch the train waiting there for Chakki Bank.

Chakki Bank is a station near Pathankot, a bus/train hub in the north, right below Jammu/Kashmir and right by Punjab and Pakistan. Today I after arriving at Chakki Bank, I caught an auto to Pathankot station where I waited an hour for the 5 hour train ride to Kangra (only rs. 16). The train serpentined through high mountains and across bridges that towered over massive river basins. From Kangra train station I caught a bus to Kangra bus station, then another bus to Dharamsala, then another bus to McLeod Ganj where I’m staying the evening in a guest house run by an energetic Kashmiri. McLeod Ganj is the seat of the Tibetan government in exile and is the residence of the Dalai Lama, as well as a backpacker hub.
As soon as I arrived the rains came and poured and poured. The steep hills of the area flooded with rushing water. The guest house owner claims such rain happens every day during the monsoon season. The climate is cool, with green and moss and trees everywhere all caught up in the mist of the clouds. You can’t see the bottom of the mountain where Dharamsala is from here, the clouds are too thick. Tomorrow I will go to Tushita Meditation Center to participate in a 10-day Buddhist philosophy/meditation course. This area looks like the perfect place for it.

Khajuraho

The second day in Khajuraho began very early. For whatever reason, my body didn’t want to sleep for a second night either I suppose. Perhaps I was excited. Springing to my feet at 5 am, and feeling much better (yet still without an appetite, which still has not returned fully as I write this several days later), I settled on going to explore an ashram a few kilometers away to see when their morning yoga class was. By the time I walked back though and additionally realized the high prices autos were asking for to go back to the ashram, Melissa and I just took the yoga class that our guest house offers every morning. Good time, different. Didn’t feel too stretched out and all like I usually do, perhaps because our teacher spent a good amount of time talking about the benefits of certain things like eating only veg, which causes *automatic digestion no problem*. Also there was that period of time at the end when we practiced ‘laughter’ yoga (how does one make himself laugh?) and did some dances to the painting of a god on the wall.

As we stepped onto the main road just in front of the guest house, an 18 year old that we had met yesterday greeted us energetically. The ‘English’ name that he gives himself is Debit. He likes the sound of it. Debit and Melissa and I had a breakfast at a nearby place recommended by our guide book. Banana lassi and potato paratha (stuffed bread) with curd. Debit had been trying to get us to agree to let him show us around. It’s always difficult to figure these people out. Debit reminded me of Vijay from Ellora in many, many ways. Always talking about how many foreigners he’s become friends with, how he will alert us of people charging unfair or commission-laden prices, how he doesn’t care to ask for money because it’s not as important as meeting new people and treating foreigners fairly. I figured I’d take him up on his offer and see where it led us, confident that whatever the outcome, I would not pay anything much extra at the end. See this is the difficult thing to come to terms with: friendships like this are founded on flowery terms and built to look strong but all the same to some degree (and I never quite know to which degree) in some way expect a monetary reward.

Debit, a friend of his who calls himself ‘Harry Potter’, Melissa, and me all rented bikes for the day to explore the area. Only the ‘western’ group of temples had an entrance fee (Indian: rs. 10; Foreigner: rs. 250), so there was a good deal to see riding around with no charge. Khajuraho is known for its erotic temple carvings and could be known as housing the kama sutra in stone. I was never quite sure why such racy images would be carved in holy temples, usually religious sites and practices steer away from such earthy pleasures. Some seem to say that these desires need to be satiated before any further enlightenment can take place, others say the carvings were the doings of one king with specific opinions, others have said it simply depicts daily life. In any case, I saw it as somewhat paradoxical.

At the first group of temples we visited, Melissa thought it best for her to return back into town to rest because the heat and sun were so oppressive. The day proceeded with Harry and Debit showing me card tricks, showing me another temple area, directing me through a small town nearby, taking me to the top of a tall stone edifice to see the sunset, taking me to see their school, and taking me to see Debit’s home and family. We also spent a good amount of time eating lunch at a restaurant and swimming in an outdoor pool at a hotel (it took some courage for me to jump in; the water was opaque green and the sides and bottom slimy). I was happy to pay for our lunch, colas throughout the day, and the entrance fees for the pool; I was grateful for such a tour throughout the town.

By the time we ran into Melissa again at the bike return booth, it was dark. She had rested, seen the western group of temples, and had talked with a local for a few hours. We concluded the day by visiting Debit’s uncle’s Kashmiri shop. It was filled with carved wooden boxes, colorful shawls, and intricate rugs. The owner offered us Kashmiri tea, really delicious with its accents of cinnamon and cardamom. We explained a few times to them that we were not interested in buying anything, but were very thankful for their hospitality.

That evening at a restaurant Debit and Harry asked for a souvenir from the US. I handed over to each of them a silly band to wear on their wrist, claiming that they were very popular in the States. I also gave each of them a US dollar. They each looked remarkably non-plussed. During our final hour before Melissa and I left for the next train, our conversation consisted of Harry asking for ‘support’ in various ways, and phrasing himself again and again after I would reply with something like “No, I cannot offer you anything else. We have done many things today, I hope you have enjoyed our time too, but we will probably not see each other in the future, and I cannot support you more now nor later on. There are many people in India that I would like to help, but helping them all is an impossibility.” He would always find some way to not actually ask for money, but skirt around it in clever ways. Debit mostly didn’t say anything. I wasn’t fazed by the conversation, partly because I had learned in a way how to deal with it and also because I had expected it.

That night on the train Melissa and I talked about the people we had met. She (after having been in South Asia for 7 consecutive months now) had simply become immediately skeptical of excited Indians coming up to her, even if they seemed friendly. Granted, not one of the dozens and dozens of people that would jump up to us while we were walking down the streets of Khajuraho seemed as excited to be ‘friends’ with us as they were for us to see their shop. *Hello friend! Where are you from?* “The US” *Oh good country! Many friends from US! This first time India??* “No” *First time Khajuraho???* “Yes” [continuing to walk away] *Hello! You just look my shop?* “No, thanks.” *Just looking, no buying!!....No charge just looking!!* Melissa was through with people seeming like they wanted to be friends but just in the end would ask for money or to see their shop. Perhaps this is why a good friendship takes time, so that you each party has a better idea about what the other’s intentions are. Although instinctive first impressions are valuable, knowing someone requires time.

The autorickshaw driver in Varanasi only took us a certain distance from the train station. Something about high river waters or something? In any case, we were dropped off with a great deal of distance to walk in the busy streets of Varanasi before we would make it to the guest house we had eyed in the Lonely Planet. With heavy bags, oppressive heat, and sweat dripping into my eyes, it was difficult enough to manage walking let alone navigate this new place. Melissa led the way; fortunately she had been here before and had an idea of what to do. The ridiculously crowded main street led to a ghat, steps, that led into the water of the Ganges. Varanasi is known for these ghats that line the riverside; they are hubs of various activities ranging from conducting colorful religious ceremonies to yoga to bathing to washing clothes to selling goods to burning corpses. Because the water level was high enough to preclude us from walking along the ghats parallel to the river, Melissa and I weaved our way throughout the old city to get to our hotel. Although we had a shared bathroom, the hotel rooms wrapped around a large central open-aired patio with a good view of the river.

The streets of the old city were one of my favorite parts of our time spent in Varanasi. They were too narrow to have noisy autos and other smoky vehicles. Maybe a few motorcycles here and there. The streets seemed so antique; stone slabs instead of asphalt, aged tiny shops, no organized plan or design. So many smells, colors, and activity in so little space.

That evening we navigated our way to a main ghat to see a daily ceremony of dedication to the Ganges god. Many foreigners were also there viewing the colorful, fiery, musical display. During that time I also met a sadhu (holy man) robed in red, with a long beard and piercing blue eyes. He sat in front of a shop and had a dreadlocked man from Spain to his side. Evidently he was teaching the man from Spain to paint. Our lengthy conversation was difficult to follow, moments of profundity were punctured with eruptions of laughter at jokes, including his questions of why the angles in Los Angeles were lost.

For dinner we headed back to the hotel; the power had gone out and indoor eating was too hot without fans. Melissa and I ate pizza and paneer overlooking the river, only slightly annoyed by the diesel exhaust being pumped into the air nearby from a generator powering the hotel. We offered some of the banana fritters we got for dessert to the Italians next to us. Lots of ‘foreignized’ food in tourism places like this. You don’t find baked goods and pizzas many times in India! Somehow they rarely hit the spot you have for them though. A formidable, lengthy, and nominally appetizing menu is no suggestion about the food’s taste. I guess a restaurant can’t be judged by its menu.

First few days in India

Well I’ve arrived at a point in time when I can sit down to type. What precedes this moment of repose however ended up being a very tangled mess. But first, let me start off with some words about a simpler place, home.

As the days wound down to my departure to India, I found myself becoming significantly more emotional. It was difficult preventing thoughts about how long I would likely be away from friends and family. I was fortunate though to have a warm send-off that would make anyone feel loved. The morning of the day I left I woke up around 9 to organize some final things; Mom was up too and together we brainstormed more and more things that I should take along. However, as we started packing, it became clear that it would be a tight fit. I only wanted to have 2 bags that I could carry because I plan to be traveling quite a bit before going to Bangladesh. 2 carry-ons for a year and 2 months is no small task. Through careful rearrangement, we were able to fit it all in, and actually it works out that one bag I can have over my shoulders in back and the other in front, leaving my arms free. The bag with my clothes was a graduation present from Aunt Karin; it’s waterproof and collapsible, so it should prove to be a great asset while traveling.

Around 11 my old roommate from college, Dan Kuhn, came by. Although he lives all the way out in New Jersey, he was visiting his relatives out in Pittsburgh, and it was a stroke of fortune that he was able to meet up with me one last time before I left for South Asia. It was so good to see him again; the last time we had been in the same place it was at school on the day of graduation several months before. He made me realize how grateful I am for our strong friendship, but also how much I will miss being around the friends that I’ve grown with at school. Chris and John showed up at around 11:30, and also Sam ran all the way from his house because he didn’t have a car. All 5 of us went to eat lunch at Panera, just the kind of food that I knew I would be craving in a few months’ time. 3 more people were waiting on the front steps of the house when we got back: Luke, Nathan, and Madeline Badaczewski, and it wasn’t long before their mom and another sampling, Eli, arrived as well. Dan Ochs also came by after a few more minutes. After exchanging our goodbyes (and receiving some delicious cookies and scones from Mrs. Badaczewski), it was just Muhlenberg Dan, me, and my mom left to straighten up everything else in about half an hour before going to the airport. I am still processing how blown away and deeply affected I was to have witnessed so many friends come by on my final day to bid me their farewells.

Dad drove home from work, so after saying goodbye to Dan, it was just us family heading to the airport. Both of my bags ended up being sufficiently small to carry on the plane. Security took longer than expected, and despite rushing to make a departing tram and running to the gate, the door had closed ten minutes before departure, leaving me about 2 minutes too late for the plane. Dad had already been talking to the registration desk, and after some discussion, we were pleased to know that I could be put on the next flight to Chicago for no extra charge and still make the connecting flight to Delhi. During spare time at the airports I made some final calls to friends and family, wondering where I’d be and what I’d exactly be doing in about 16 hours’ time.

The flight from Chicago to Delhi was 14 hours. American Airlines was okay; I wasn’t as wowed as with Jet Airways for certain. The entertainment system was so sparse I didn’t even use it. Breakfast was cancelled because of turbulence from a thunderstorm we were flying through to make it to Delhi. The terminal we arrived at was brand new and had opened about 3 months before I think. Everything was wide open and clean and white, fortunately enough space for the hundreds and hundreds of people going through customs. There were massive sculptures of hands in traditional Indian dance poses above our heads to keep us distracted. After about a 40 minutes’ wait, I was through and just about to leave the airport. The metro is from the airport to the city is not up and running yet (it will be in about 3 months I think), and I was disappointed that the bus I was counting on to take me into the city was not running. That left a taxi as a final option. I’ve heard it’s best to get a prepaid voucher from the government run taxi booth, and it was a great suggestion because my driver ended up being quite a savior this evening.

The humidity was so thick it made you think like you were walking around on the ocean floor; sights and smells rushed back to me. It was easy to see that indeed I was back in India. The drive to New Delhi Train Station was about 20 km; from there I was hoping to find accommodation in an adjacent area littered with backpacking lodges and guest houses. The driver knew before we got there though that the area was “broken” and had so much construction, and something about upcoming sports games or something, that many places were closed and full. The situation looking grim (and the time being about 10 pm) we drove—by suggestion of the driver—to a government operated tourist agency. I used their phone to call many places I had been looking at, only to find out that they were all entirely full. The process was extremely slow. The telephone line had to be repaired a few times. The person helping me was asking me about my stay and insisted that I call to confirm the times of the train tickets I’ve booked to places outside Delhi. Due to storms many were cancelled or delayed. For my first ticket to Khajuraho from Delhi a few days from now, our operator told us that it was 42 hours delayed.

Accommodation possibilities were looking bleaker and bleaker. I admit that part of the issue was me not wanting to take the openings at the 3-5 star hotels that had vacancies, but I also must admit that their fees for a single room for one night exceeded 5 and 6 hundred US dollars. My tourist person brainstormed some schemes to get me out of the city by bus or mini-bus to stay in Agra or Jaipur instead. Without wanting to complicate the situation further (I still need to meet with Melissa tomorrow, as we’ve planned to travel for a week together), I insisted on staying in Delhi and trying to find a less expensive place. By now the taxi driver had been waiting about 2 hours.

We decided to drive to Market Place, about a five minutes’ drive away, to investigate some possibilities that were not in Lonely Planet. At midnight though, not many places are open for business to say the least. The second place we stopped at, was the cheapest accommodation yet and also looked like the last option I could take. Although I wasn’t tired (it was early afternoon for me), I took the room at $120 for one night, credit card was not accepted, only cash.

I need to try to rest some so that I can scout around for another place tomorrow. Especially if the train is delayed for so long, I cannot afford to stay here multiple days. My AirTel Indian cell phone is not receiving the network, I’m not sure whether it’s a problem with the phone or with AirTel itself. That will need to be investigated tomorrow as well, perhaps I can get in touch with my friend Vipin who lives in this area to help me out. I also need to see whether my other train tickets are delayed as well. I’m very thankful for my taxi driver, he was how I found the tourist agency in the first place, and it was through his concern for my safety that I was able to get to the places I needed to go. In addition to what was hopefully a healthy tip, I thanked him and apologized for the confusion.

So, suffice it to say, things are not going as hoped for. I’ve learned some things though. Namely, reserve a hotel before coming to Delhi. Although I tried to call a few places from the US and it wouldn’t go through. Hmm. The situation could be better, it could be worse. I could be more fazed by the situation; I guess I’ve built up my nerves ahead of time in anticipation for unexpected issues. Let’s see what happens tomorrow.

Hello again, India.

Last evening closed on a bad note, not only because of how uncertain I was about everything, but also because the surge protector I put into the outlet erupted with a boom, sparks, and smoke from the unfamiliar current. Badly shaken and feeling pretty defeated, I resigned and tried to sleep. Although it felt like ‘day’ perhaps the lack of sleep on the airplane made it possible to sleep soundly (minus a few nightmares) all the way until the phone woke me up at 8:30. Hoping to sleep until just before check out at 12:00, I was disappointed to say the least. The staff wanted me to go to another room in 15 minutes because of a preexisting reservation for my room. Whatever.

When I stepped out of the room into the lobby, an enthusiastic man approached me, asking the traditional questions of where I was going and what I was doing in India etc. Only half-heartedly answering him, my ears were caught when he started talking about cheaper accommodations for tomorrow. *You don’t want to stay here. What is it..5…6 thousand rupees? I take you to gowarment operated tourist office. Der they will help you to find less pricy room, also check you train booking reservation. Come come, taxi free of charge, paid for with fee for room.* Well I didn’t really feel like going back to sleep, and there was work to be done today sorting this all out, so we departed from the most expensive night in India I’ve spent for the office.

Very little of what I type in this blog should be taken as a truth. In fact, really none. After today, the entire tone of what I wrote yesterday would have changed. The tourist office we went to looked more professionally-run than the one yesterday, they claimed that it was likely that the place I was at yesterday was not a valid agency and that much of what I was involved in may have been a scam. Again you never know. The taxi driver: “So, do you think that my driver from yesterday got a commission to take me to the expensive hotel?” *No I don’t think so, but maybe he try, maybe so maybe not.* Today’s tourist agent: “But I watched him dial all the numbers of all the guest houses…every one said that they were full” *He may dial, but dial may be go to same person, same person say same ting.* “But we called the number on the IRCTC reservation to confirm the booking when they told me it was delayed.” *Again, maybe same person. Maybe maybe not. Here we check on internet, official gowarment website. Here. Yes is confirmed ticket tomorrow. No delay.* “So how do I know when to trust someone??” *You trust what’s inside, that’s all you can do. Done, is finish. Yesterday is yesterday. How much you pay for room?* “About 6 thousand rupees” *Whoosh that’s a lot. Again, done, finish, you learn for tomorrow, you trust what’s inside.*

I guess trusting my inside at that time was not going back to the Pahar ganj area where I had intended to stay. If I had gone back, I would have had to have left the taxi driver and walk around in an unfamiliar place to search for a guest house. Today’s agent claimed it would have been fine to walk around to find a guest house, there would have been some open. Perhaps it was worth the 120 dollars to stay in a place that the taxi took me to? Perhaps it was better to be involved in a scam? That’s a little harder to answer. Of course, perhaps nothing was with bad intentions. Maybe we’ll call last night an ‘ouch’ moment. You end up accumulating a good deal of those while in India. We’ll never know the intention behind the wound, the reason for what happened, but in the end it’s best not to carry the wound and its pain with you.

Today’s agent saw that I was heading from Nizamuddin station tomorrow from my train ticket, that is in South Delhi. Rather than trying again to find a place in Pahar ganj, he knew of a family guest house in south Delhi near the station that I could go to. Less crowded, home cooked food, only 600 rs. or so a night.

The owner of the guest house was very helpful and had internet which I used to contact Melissa (Melissa and I became friends in Hyderabad, she’s from Chicago and likes to travel; we intend on traveling for a week together). I was surprised to read on facebook that she was waiting for the train to Delhi in one message, then in Delhi and going to Pahar ganj to see if she could find me, then in the final message actually in Hotel Rak International (where I had wanted to stay yesterday) looking for me. When I called the hotel I found out she had already booked a room there. With me in the south and she in the north, we decided to meet up in Pahar ganj today then maybe go to the south tomorrow.

Before finding an auto to go to Pahar ganj, I wanted to square away my phone. Gopal, the cook/helper in the home, took me to the local AirTel station where I inquired about a new sim card. Needing passport/visa photocopies and a passport photo for one, I went back to the house, then walked back to the AirTel station with another housemate from England, Joel. My new cell plan enables calling to the US for only 2.5 rs. a minute, that’s about 6 US cents a minute, much more economical than the 3 dollars a minute or whatever roaming AT&T charges.

Back at the house, Gopal had prepared lunch: rice, daal, palak (spinach), and a potato/cabbage dish. My first meal in India was all I could have hoped for.

At about 3 pm (hours after I had told Melissa I would be in Pahar ganj, things operate more slowly in India, especially when Joel and I tried to find an auto that would take us up there) Joel and I arrived at the elusive Pahar ganj. I the area in my head was in so much dispute yesterday (should I go back, should I not?) that it was like finally arriving at a goal when we got there. I had worn the sandals I had throughout Hyderabad and last summer in India/Bangladesh. Those sandals ripped last fall. I’ve been waiting for almost a year now to get them sown back together for the third or fourth time. Who else takes worn out, broken sandals in an already tightly packed suitcase? Well, they are my favorite. And no place repairs broken footware like India As soon as Joel and I stepped down onto the ground, a shoe repair man scurried over to us offering his services, probably readily tipped off that my gait was off balance. “Well yes you CAN repair my sandals! I’ve actually been waiting a long time for this!!”

Melissa ran out to greet us as we approached the hotel; it was amazing to see her again after about 2 whole years. It was just like old times, especially because we were both back in India. She told me about her internship the past 6 months in Bangladesh and was excited to get me in touch with the friends she made there. She did not like Dhaka though. Too crowded, too hot, to unhealthy. She’s curious what my impressions will be next year, and so am I.

Walking around Pahar ganj was not like something I’ve ever experienced in India before. Remember how I said the driver told me Pahar ganj was ‘broken’? It is. It’s like a crowded city area, except all the roads are torn up, bricks are everywhere, rubble is piled up to your head in some places, and the facades of all the street structures are ripped off. While trying not to trip on a brick or get sprayed with a shower of sparks from a metal welder over head or get clobbered with falling rubble (these are overstatements really, I mean, if you heed to the steel bars lining dangerous areas, it’s not an issue), I would glimpse all of the rooms in all of the structures lining the streets. You could tell, there’s a kitchen, there’s a bathroom on the third floor, it’s tiled and has a toilet. There’s a bedroom, that woman is sleeping. It’s like cutting a block of swiss cheese, and the holes are the rooms. Metal cross bars jutted out from the floors and walls out into the street area, or what is ‘now’ the street area. The reason for the mess is a street expansion. How do you widen a street that is packed on either side with structures? Well, slice the structures a few feet thinner to MAKE ROOM. The commonwealth games coming up in October evidently are a big deal to necessitate such renovation. And also necessitate wide streets? Not sure why. Are they playing the games in the streets?

The three of us went to the metro. To get to Old Delhi. Getting off at distant Old Delhi, we planned on walking back down through Old Delhi to Pahar ganj. I like Delhi more and more, and Old Delhi was in-credible. Keeping an eye out for my favorite street foods, sweets, and snacks, we chose to walk in a southern direction (due to the sun setting in the west). We passed the massive Red Fort, a landmark of Delhi, the whole way (the walls span for quite some time). Every once in a while, crowds of people dressed in dirty orange and carrying massive colorful stick apparatuses (and also usually shouting) would pass us. They are Hindu pilgrims, trekking for an entire week to a holy site, and usually without footware.

Consulting a map, we saw we needed to head west towards the setting sun to approach New Delhi station and Pahar ganj. A glorious mosque stood in our way. Making our way around it and all of those getting ready for the evening call to prayer, we veered off into a crowded and colorful side alley. One’s senses are overwhelmed with sparkling bangles, colorful cloths, animal heads and entrails on butcher’s front stoops, mountains of fruit, dense hoards of people and richshaws, and smells ranging from body odors to sweet fruit to exhaust and cigarette smoke to soothing incense. The road winded and branched and winded and narrowed then widened etc etc. Then we kept going. Then it branched and winded and narrowed and branched and widened and winded. We stopped for a snack. And winding and branching and winding and branching. What direction are we going in again? The sun is blocked by the buildings. Look, there’s a wider more populated road, let’s go there. This continued for quite some time. By the time we had emptied out into a major thoroughfare, I had delighted myself with a mango shake, several sweet and spicy kachori chaat puffs, 2 samosas, several fried-crunchy but syrup-drippy jilebis, paan, lime soda, squeezed mosambi citrus juice, a few mangos…there must have been more. Hey, when you’re in Old Delhi. Asking folks for the New Delhi Station, we were pointed what felt like north. Just as it started to get dark, we stumbled upon the first sweet shop we had visited after just having gotten out of the metro. We had made a massive circle. One giant, adventurous, unintended, tasty, smelly, dizzying Old Delhi circle.

With our unanticipated-ly thorough self-designed tour of Old Delhi, we took the metro back to Pahar ganj and ran into an…energetic, elderly, bearded, turbaned,…mystic? man. He approached us and claimed that Melissa had great potential but was lacking good vibration. Her energies were off. Of course realizing that he’d be wanting money, but also knowing we wanted to give none, yet at the same time somewhat intrigued what the man would do, we gave him our attention and stepped into a nearby open-aired eater to sit down. For the next hour we chatted intermittently. The man asked Melissa questions like how many letters her father’s name had, which…holy man? she first glimpsed in a picture, how many this, what that, etc. All the while writing single capital letters on a scrap piece of paper. In no order. Then he gave Melissa a crumpled slip of paper. *What is the first color that you think of now?* “Green.” The paper uncrumpled read G-R-E-E-N. I ordered veg Manchurian and veg chow mein noodles, the place looked like it had some good Chinese food. He sat at one side of the table; we, the other. *Your mind is blocked. You have too much concern for your money. Money is you eat and you shit, and dat is all, finish. I am talk about what is here (point to head) and here (point to chest). This last. Your mind blocked.* “You want rupees, I’ve given you 20 but will offer you no more” *you are blocked, I give you 5 year challenge, you go, you face the crazy world you face crazy outside, then you come back, you find me in 5 years you still have problem, give and take.* “Is this religious advice?” *Shit religion, there one God, religion no, I know what I need to know, you know what you know, but you not know what I know, and you never know what I know. Your aura I see, I see everybody aura, many many tings people don’t see.* “(me) And this advice, how much will are you wanting for it?” *Tousand rupees* “Sorry, I’ve run low on money after last night. How about we trade advice, I offer mine, and you offer yours. Money blocks the mind anyway, right? Let’s keep it about what is here (point to head) and here (point to chest)” *I give you 20 year challenge* “I’ll be 42!” *By then you will want to come back to here, you can find me. You want to look for something but never find it. I help you, later. 20 year challenge you go into crazy world, you realize your problems, then come to me.* “(still me) How about a piece of advice while I’m taking this challenge” *Advice, is dat you don’t see it, is here, is go away, you don’t see. Is here, is go away. Every moment. You don’t see. You don’t get back.* “…” *Is like you travel, you need return. Confirm ticket. Book ticket confirm, go home. Travel, no.* “But what about everything there is to be gained and exchanged from travel?” *You no need, confirm ticket* “…” *You born out of mother stomach a teacher?* “…” *You born, right then, a teacher like you go teach now?* “[! No one mentioned to you that I am teaching next year]” *You born teacher right then?* “No.” *Der, you see? Other people make you who you are, you learn from others. Just remember, 20 year challenge, you come find me you want to know after you go all into crazy world outside. You take it, you leave it.” This conversation is no more confusing than the majority of conversations I stagger through with people in India. See how it might be difficult to detect a scam? You can never really tell what’s going on. You must be thinking this man is out of his mind. After time in India, maybe it’s not so much crazy as it is a mixture of enthusiasm, the drive for money, the experienced tactfulness in tickling a foreigner’s interest, and the love of the whole game. There were no hard feelings that we gave no more than 20 rupees. If he had wanted ‘money,’ he would have accepted our offers of 50 rupees. But no, it was more about the advice. And that advice was evidently of great value. I was interested, but not rs. 1000 worth, and it was an exciting dinner conversation anyway. Our last glance as I turned my head upon exiting the restaurant to say goodbye seemed to last much longer than it actually would have. He was standing calmly with deep, still eyes and a smug look on his face as if to say *and best of luck to you in this crazy world.*

The next morning I spent relaxing around the guest house. Three mangos and cinnamon tea for breakfast. Ruby, the house owner, and her mom sat/laid on the sofa in the middle of the living room. Every once in a while they would shout *GoPAAL* and he would hurry out of the kitchen or back room to receive their requests. Then the phone would ring and Ruby’s mother would shout on it for a half a minute, then hang up whenever the conversation would be finished, with no audible goodbye.

Melissa, Joel, and I went that afternoon to the India gate, an Arch du Triumphe-like monument about a kilometer away from the president’s estate, a massive grassy lawn between the two. We spent a few hours wandering around that area talking, and sat under a tree for a good bit too. Eventually we took an auto to a promenade mall-esque area in the southwest of Delhi where there was a restaurant I wanted to eat at. Its posh interior reminded me of a Cheesecake Factory. As Joel and Melissa and I talked the afternoon away, I remember feeling just as if I were in the US. Our discussions of career interests, philosophies, physics, impressions of culture, and past memories lasted until 7 pm, when we booked it back to the guest house to pick up the bags and then straight to the Nizamuddin station where we fortunately caught our train just in time. The next morning we were to be in Khajuraho, a famous temple town.

On the train I talked some with the others in our compartment; they were going to Khajuraho as a sight-seeing vacation through their business or something. Things went well until I tried to go to sleep. Fortunately I had the bottom tier bed, as I would be up and down many many times that night. An angry stomach kept me up (likely made worse by the shaky train). Multiple bouts of diarrhea and vomiting followed. Despite finding the extra blankets, I shivered constantly as a fever grew. In addition to the shivering, I couldn’t stay in one position very long before stomach pains made me shift again and again. As my condition got progressively worse and worse, at about 4 am I tried calling the parents to see what they thought of the situation. I tried to call with a pre-paid phone card, but unable to figure out all the numbers, I considered it justified to use the US phone (regrettably at almost three dollars a minute). This was the first I had spoken with them since leaving. They thought the antibiotic I had was a good idea along with pepto bismol, and of course water. Unfortunately I was fresh out of water stores and the small stations we were stopping at didn’t seem to be selling bottled water, and my friends were out of water too. Ended up using some bottled water from someone I didn’t know and never met, as everyone was asleep.

I arrived at Khajuraho the next morning very drained, without sleep, and able to walk but not stand for long before getting out of breath. Melissa and I sat at the station for a while before getting a rickshaw into town where we checked in to a close by hotel. The dissolvable rehydration salts she bought for me ended really helping. That morning we talked more and she told me stories about her travels in Thailand and Cambodia and Bangladesh before I napped in the afternoon. In the evening I felt much better and we went to a rooftop restaurant where you could see large temples across the street. Still without an appetite, I just got a lemon soda. Finally I also got that pre-paid phone card to work, quite the asset as it is about 40x less expensive to call the US than through AT&T.

As we walked around the town that night, every few steps another shop owner would pop out and start asking us where we were from, how we liked India, etc. We have become pretty jaded to such small talk because most often, especially in a tourist place like this, the conversation would always end with the shop owner insisting that we have a look, and we replying with a “no thanks” or “sorry just exploring.” It is always so difficult to determine what one’s motivation is to talk to one of us. Many times it is for money one way or another, in some places more than others. And it’s gone about in so many ways. Perhaps the few people that offer an informal tour even for no charge want to do so because a relationship is formed that in the end usually leads to a tip. People offer advice, people lie, etc. Let me give you a hypothetical scenario. A taxi driver advises a tourist to stay out of an area late at night because the guest houses there will be hard to find and will be full anyway. For safety’s sake, it would be best to go to a tourist office and call from there to book a reservation. Through calls and advice, the tourist office suggests getting out of the city, as the only accommodation options are so expensive. The tourist wants to stay in the city, so he is taken by the taxi driver to a safe place to stay that is the least expensive of the bunch. Sound familiar? Sound like everyone has each other’s best interests at heart? A behind-the-scenes picture can be painted: The guest houses are not full. They are not located in a dangerous area. The tourist agency routes all the calls to someone who says what they want. They want you to take one of their tours, so they make it seem like staying in the city is an impossibility. The taxi driver walks with you into the hotel lobby, offering to carry a bag. The manager catches sight of the driver and skyrocket’s the room fee to include a commission for the driver. Three simple words: I don’t know. However I do know that the agency claimed my train to Khajuraho was 42 hours delayed. I also know that that same train left exactly on time when Melissa and I left 2 days later from Delhi.