While My Sitar Gently Weeps

Shantum moved down the aisle and sat next to me during the bus ride, and it now was my turn for the farewell ceremony called moli. Shantum pressed his palms together and closed his eyes, and I did the same. I breathed in and out and attempted to concentrate exclusively on my breath rather than on the string he would tie around my wrist; I anticipated it, since I saw him do this with Peter in the Jetta Grove. I totally didn’t think about the fact that I would depart soon. Shantum placed his praying hands over mine and my mind continued doing what it had already been doing. I opened my eyes by the time he held a bright yellow and red string, and I held out my right wrist, but he smiled slightly and pointed to my left, so I held that out instead and watched as he wrapped it around twice and knotted it several times. It would remind me of him as long as it was on my wrist, and over time it would fall off, just like the Three Jewels strings that a Tibetan monk had tied on my right wrist.

Shantum said, “Thank you for being with us.”

Slightly tongue-tied and not sure what to say, I said, “Thanks for having me!” We exchanged a hug and somehow I refrained from shedding any tears and instead was blithe enough to smile.

He smilingly said, “You are a wonderful person and have a great deal of exuberance and personality behind your shyness.” This was overwhelming, and I smiled slightly and tipped my head downward, finding it hard to make eye contact under the circumstances. My poor ability to take compliments doesn’t usually get in my way, since I rarely receive compliments. I was truly tongue-tied this time, unable to articulate anything.

Shantum told me a story about a previous pilgrim. A few years ago, another young woman’s father noticed how much his daughter transformed after going on this pilgrimage, and out of curiosity he went on the pilgrimage himself the following year, even though he was a businessman who wasn’t into Buddhism. He also found the trip transformative. I grinned and said, “I’ll tell my dad that story.”

Later on the bus, when we were almost in Delhi, Shantum said, “As my friend Pico Iyer has said, ‘The last destination isn't the final place on the itinerary, but what happens when we get home and try to make sense of it.’” He added, “Whenever you go to another country, it expands your outlook.” I mentally repeated that a couple times; I had thought my consciousness was global before I went to India, but this was the first time I had ever set foot in the opposite side of the world.

The first place we went to in Delhi, or rather in the vicinity of Delhi, was Shantum’s house, which technically is in a suburb called Noida on the other side of the stinky Yamuna River. The bus parked on a somewhat wider residential street around the corner from the house. Shantum said, “The house has nine bathrooms, because Indian houses have bathrooms attached to each bedroom.” Gee, if you wanted to run a bed and breakfast, you wouldn’t have to renovate.

We wheeled the suitcases up the street, and I nearly had another collision with a bicycle. It seems like I’ll never be able to judge which way to dodge. The stylish black wrought iron gate outside the front door of the Seth house was ajar, and Erika and I slipped in. I dumped my suitcase next to Erika’s on the patio; quite a few were parked there just outside the front door, which was open.

I entered a part of the house that I didn’t recognize, a white-tiled little hall, in which I ascended a few steps and where to my right was a staircase going upstairs; otherwise the room contained some artwork and a side table. Shantum’s younger daughter, Animika, stood nearby and looked at me; a woman in a sari, presumably a nanny, held her hand.

I smiled at the kid and followed Erika through the door straight ahead of me and instantly recognized the next room. The Seth family, as I’m sure I mentioned before, lives in a beautiful house decorated with antiques and books and both Hindu and Buddhist art. Leila Seth’s law books are there in abundance, and one back corner room has a desk that displays a long white block with her name on it. The room I entered after the little hall contained floor to ceiling bookcases packed with books, a grand piano, and luggage on the floor.

It didn’t take me long to spot, on a long and low dark wood piece of furniture like a sideboard, two stacks of books: multiple copies of A Suitable Boy by Vikram Seth and multiple copies of On Balance by Leila Seth. I took a peek inside the top books, and both titles were indeed autographed. What an amazing family; Leila Seth is the first female chief court judge, Vikram is a world-famous novelist, Shantum is a Zen teacher who gives Westerners pilgrimages, and Shantum’s sister, Aradhana, is a scene designer for prominent films, such as those directed by Deepa Mehta. It seems not all families are dysfunctional and unsupportive.

I dropped my backpack and mirrorwork bag onto the floor and admired the artwork around me and wandered around, noticing people setting out plates, silverware, and food on the dining room table. I listened to snippets of conversation and sipped masala chai. When I saw Premo Seth, Shantum’s dad, I pressed my palms together and said, “Namaste!” He smiled and did the same.

At Shantum’s request, we gathered into the living room and sat down for gift giving. Shantum said, “It is true that we’ve celebrated two people’s birthdays, Dean’s and Erika’s, but everybody has a birthday, sometime, so everyone gets presents.” He announced that Nandini would dance for us, and she came into the center of the living room and began to dance, while people pulled out their cameras.

Shantum placed a large quantity of “In the Footsteps of the Buddha” pilgrimage brochures on the coffee table and said, “You’re welcome to take as many as you want. This is an advertising segment.” I took a few, thinking I could deliver them to the Zen Center in Lawrence, Kansas that I have yet to visit, and also to a dharma center in Kansas City that I found out about shortly before the pilgrimage.

The first gifts to be passed around were the calendars, inspired by the upcoming film adaptation of Thich Nhat Hahn’s novel Old Path White Clouds, like those Dean and Erika already had. Shantum also brought out gifts wrapped in newspaper and smelling faintly of sandalwood; they were taped together in a neat stack and include a tube, which Dean, sitting next to me, identified as the pilgrimage poster Shantum had mentioned. The presents also include a strangely shaped big package, and a package the size and shape of a music CD. I thought Shantum’s generosity was amazing; he had already given us handcrafted gifts at the beginning of the pilgrimage.

It was time to pass out the envelopes containing tips over to Mukesh and Jagdish. Previously, Shantum had calculated appropriate sums and written them on envelopes, and we had placed the tips in the envelopes and passed them around. Sangha members gave Mukesh and Jagdish speeches about what a wonderful job they did and what a help they were. Mukesh was quiet and sort of cast his eyes down while he was being praised, and Yvette to my left murmured, “He’s shy.”

Mukesh said, “Your love, praise, gratitude and appreciation are enough. I don’t need the money.” He stepped forward, placed the envelope on the coffee table, and backed away. Wow, I don’t think I could have done that. Liz suggested the money go to the Ahimsa Trust, the organization that Gitu founded.

Jagdish’s envelope was passed down to him. He grinned and said, “I’m keeping the money!” Everyone laughed, and he said it’s for his son.

Next it was Shantum’s turn to receive a praising speech for all he has done for us. Jennifer was sitting next to me on my left, and the group wanted one of us to deliver the speech. Jennifer has a powerful voice and unlike me is good at projection, as she’s proved often enough when we needed someone to read aloud. Several people urged me on, to my surprise, and Dean described me as an “eloquent speaker” and used the phrase “great orator.” I smiled and said, “I’m a writer, not a speaker.” I couldn’t remember saying anything particularly eloquent on the pilgrimage.

Thus the speech was up to Jennifer. She praised Shantum highly, and highly deservedly, and her concluding words stick in my head: “You are so full of love. In my next life I want Erika to be my mom and Shantum to be my dad.” That struck me as delightful and brought a Big Smile to my lips. And it would be wonderful indeed to have Shantum for a dad. And for that matter Jennifer for a sister, though I think I’d rather have Erika as a sister than a mom. Oh, heck, the whole sangha could be One Big Happy Commune in our next lives.

Some minutes later, after the ceremony was over and the house filled with a cacophony of conversations and people moved around and drifted into other rooms, I spotted Feroza crossing the living room. I took this as an opportunity to speak just to her, since I’m squeamish about speaking in front of many people. While we stood in the center of the living room, I said, “I wanted to say: I agree with Jennifer, except I want Feroza to be my mother in my next life.”
Feroza chuckled, said, “Ahh, that’s sweet,” thanked me, and gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. The living room was still full of people, and Shantum was seated on the couch between two other pilgrims. Feroza turned to him and said, “Shantum, you have to listen to what Susan just said.” I repeated it to Shantum, and we exchanged beaming smiles.

I took my gifts to the back room and somehow managed to squeeze them into my firmly packed luggage, while most people already started eating. I had to detach the three wrapped gifts from each other in order to pack them separately, since my suitcase and backpack had so little remaining space. I had packed mostly old clothing and left almost all of it behind throughout the pilgrimage, but my suitcase was full anyway, thanks to the silk, shawls, books, and statues I had purchased. Hopefully I’ll practice more restraint on my next pilgrimage and be less like a typical tourist.

I went to the dinner table and put basmati rice and small scoops each of each curry on my plate while talking with Bina and Mukesh. Bina asked me, “Has Mukesh told you that he’s a journalist? You have writing in common.”
I smiled and said, “No, he didn’t mention that!” I turned to Mukesh and added, “My dad was a newspaper journalist, and he just retired.”
“What newspaper did he work for?” Mukesh asked.
“Just a local Indiana paper called the Post Tribune,” I said. I didn’t mean to trivialize my dad’s job, but he didn’t work for a huge internationally known paper like the Chicago Sun Times, about which Mukesh might have heard. Now as I write this, it dawns on me that I didn’t ask Mukesh what paper or magazine he worked for. Oh well, the pilgrimage hasn’t stopped me from continuing to be flaky. On the other hand, plenty of nonfiction writers are freelance and send articles or essays to numerous publications.

The rice and curries were scrumptious, but I chose not to overdo it: I didn’t want to gorge myself before waiting around at an airport and sitting on airplanes for many hours, so I only ate small portions. Although I knew I was one of the people who were supposed to be at the airport at eight forty-five, it had not registered with me, and I didn’t feel rushed. Everyone was either eating and talking or bustling around and getting ready to go.

Immediately after I showed up at the house and was in the big room with the books and the grand piano, for a short moment I saw a guy who I rather suspected was the world famous novelist, Vikram Seth. He disappeared into another room. I knew the extended family lived here and Shantum had said that his brother arrived in India on January twenty-seventh and would therefore possibly be available to autograph the books for us. The moment Shantum had mentioned that his brother, who usually lives in England, would be in the country, I had wondered if we could meet him. Yet according to Buddhist teachings, one shouldn’t care about fame. This magical pilgrimage would be quite enough without meeting a famous novelist.

After eating dinner, I wandered back into the living room, and Vikram Seth was seated in a corner of the couch and talking with a few other members of the pilgrimage. Dean and Valerie were there, and so were Rick and Dornora. Across the room from Vikram, I sat in the armchair I had occupied during the gift exchange. Dean was taking a picture of Vikram, and Rick said, “Hey, that’s a good idea,” and got his camera out. I had been seated for maybe a minute.
I jumped up and said, “I’m gonna get my camera!” I scurried off to the back room, pulled out my camera again, returned to the living room, and took a couple pictures of the world famous writer sitting and talking with Dornora.

Vikram came across as quieter than Shantum, but of course he’s a writer, and Shantum comes across as more like an actor. It came up in conversation that Rick is from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and it turns out that Vikram had gone there for a book signing. Vikram also speaks English with a British accent, and quietly. He looked around and asked if any of the rest of us were from around that area, and I said, “I’m originally from northern Indiana, and that’s pretty close, like maybe a ten-hour drive away.” And I’m afraid that’s all I remember of that conversation. I wasn’t about to blurt out, completely out of the blue, “I’m a writer too!” It would have been fine with me if the opportunity to talk about it had come up in conversation, like if someone else had mentioned that I’m a writer.

Some people had to leave earlier via taxi, because their flights were earlier, and Dean and Valerie were leaving later. A lot of hugging and saying of farewells soon took place, and although I’m normally not at all touchy-feely, it didn’t bother me now, and I hugged everyone. Jagdish walked up to me, and in a forlorn pouty voice I said, “Oh, are you leaving too?” and he said, “Yes, I’m leaving too,” and gave me a hug.

The next time Shantum entered the living room, those riding the taxi had already left, and only four of us remained in the room. “We’re all bawling in here,” Erika told Shantum, who stood beside me, and I laughed. I wasn’t bawling yet but felt like I could start any second. Strangely, I was sniffing only because of my cold and the tears didn’t come.

It was time to part, and Shantum put his arms around me and gave me a long-lasting hug. Normally if someone hugs me, they’re lucky if I hug back with one loose arm, but in this case I hugged him back with both arms, as though he were my purring cat Atisha. Tears started up in my eyes again, but they didn’t fall. I was still living in the present moment and not looking into the future.

Shantum urged me to return to India, and I said, “I’d love to. Actually, I’ve been thinking I’d like to go to Dharamsala and Tibet on the same trip.” It happens that Shantum takes a group to Dharamsala each year, to attend an important teaching of the Dalai Lama’s. Shantum said he knows people who take pilgrims to Tibet, so I could attend the teachings with him and go to Tibet with his friends. Wow, now that’s something to look forward to!

Shantum said, “See you in March!”
Dean, overhearing, said, “Oh, you’re coming back in March?”
I laughed and said to Shantum, “How about next year!”

I believe the reason I didn’t cry during our farewell was not because I was squeamish about people seeing me cry, but rather because I didn’t consider this the end. I shall communicate with the sangha by e-mail, and in a way it’s a beginning because this has been a healing and transformative experience. The pilgrimage, Shantum, and the sangha have affected me deeply and will continue to influence my life. To what extent the pilgrimage will affect how I feel in Topeka and react to the negative and psychologically unhealthy environment, I don’t as yet know. And how long-lasting an effect it has, I shall see. But as Christine pointed out, I’ve taken the Refuges and the Mindfulness Training, and that is a big step and a positive sign.
Shantum said during our parting: “I’m really glad you took the Five Refuges and the Mindfulness Training.”

“I’m glad too,” I said. It wasn’t the most expressive response, but I think it’s safe to say that he understood what I meant.As Shakespeare put it, “Parting is such swe