I woke in the sleeper train at four in the morning, and around 5:35 or so we arrived at the Delhi station. On the platform in Delhi this morning, Rachel told me that some guy who worked for the train pulled aside my curtain four times and stared at me, till finally she yanked it shut again. He did the same thing to her, and he even invaded Paula’s bunk, getting on the other side of the curtain. It turns out that essentially the same thing happened to at least three people. Sure, we weren’t in the exact assigned benches, but that’s not a good enough excuse. The numbers had been messed up, so that Marsha and I had the same bunk number, so I went ahead and took a different numbered bunk that was available.
Paula said, “That’s invading your space, and at our worst time, when you’re sleeping and you’re the most vulnerable.” Oh, the experience of an Indian sleeper train! Rachel and Paula had said that earlier on the trip they traveled first class and had compartments with a sliding door. I asked if it included a Western toilet, like in the film Darjeeling Limited, but no, it had an Indian toilet. Still, the separate compartment with a sliding door gave them some security. It also reminded me of the Hogwarts Express. I told them that on the pilgrimage last year, we traveled second class just like on this trip to and from Dharamsala.
Be prepared for anything when you ride the sleeper train--Paula had warned us on the taxi ride. I had earlier mentioned to Rachel that last year riding the sleeper train wasn’t so bad, except for when first thing in the morning a guy was staring at me, so I pulled my curtains shut. And then there was the old guy who sat and talked with us, no doubt because he was curious and fascinated by a bunch of Western females. But he seemed harmless.
Our arrival in Delhi at a bit after five thirty in the morning may as well have been five thirty in the evening, considering how many people were on the station platform. Inge told me, “If you look behind you to your right, you’ll see a fellow getting ready for business.” I looked and a guy had vast numbers of shiny silver keys hanging from his white shirt, and over one arm hung large silver chains. Inge explained that he sold locks for suitcases, and that she’d read about this but never saw it before. It sure looked odd. I have very tiny padlocks for suitcases, and they’re very useful if you’re staying in a hostel dorm room with several other people.
The porters carried away our luggage. We got to the littered, disgusting parking lot while it was still dark out (so you’d think I wouldn’t have seen the litter so well), and for the last time we climbed aboard a tour bus. It reminded me of the pilgrimage, during which a tour bus was sort of our mobile home. Jagdish and one of the Davids, as I saw looking out the bus window, got into a motor rickshaw and went separately, but for now everyone else—except the ones with whom we parted in Dharamsala—was on the bus.
We passed the Red Fort, which around six in the morning was a dark silhouette backed by a dark blue sky. Soon Shantum took the microphone and gave us a bit of a tour/history about Delhi, by which time, as he explained, we were in New Delhi, unlike the Old Delhi location of the train station and the Red Fort. Shantum told us that Delhi has been the capital of India five times, and the first time was in ancient days when it was Indraprata, the setting for The Mahabharata. The emperor Asoka also made it the capital, and Sha Jahan five hundred years ago moved the capital from Agra to Delhi, and of course New Delhi was the capital during the British Raj, and it continues to be now after independence.
Ashok Hotel
As the bus pulled into the driveway of what looked like a majorly fancy hotel, Shantum said, “Friends, we have arrived.” We were at the Ashok Hotel for breakfast and for parting. When we stopped in front of the regal columned entrance to the fancy Ashok Hotel, named after the Buddhist emperor, I not only noticed the water fountain and the fancy burgundy uniforms that the doormen wore, a concoction involving gold-trimmed Nehru jackets and burgundy turbans topped with a sort of fontage—that is, a fan-shaped piece of silky fabric. But what truly caught my eye was a skinny little grey striped cat. It was the first cat I saw on this trip! On the bus I exclaimed, “There’s a kitty!” as I saw the cat move around the fountain and disappear behind a column to the left. After we got off the bus, I snooped around at the potted plants where I thought the cat went, but it was nowhere.
We left our suitcases at the front, and Shantum said they’d be guarded. Then we entered the posh hotel, where the enormous front lobby was decorated, among other things, with bodhi leaves in yellow, red, brown and orange painted on parts of the walls. The lobby split off to the right, forming a sort of very large hallway with cushy chairs and couches, and beyond that were the restrooms and phones. We went straight, eyed Hindu sculptures, and went down a corridor, past a shop with shawls and other pretty things in a glass display case, to have breakfast in a corner of the restaurant.
I sat with Arturo and Jeff for the first time. They were both Kashmir Cottage people and I’d scarcely spoken with Jeff before, but at least I’d had a good talk with Arturo once in a taxi. I’ve had quite a few good talks in taxis on this trip. Coming to think of this, I guess we spent a lot of time in taxis. Jeff is a tall and skinny older guy from Rhode Island. Everyone is either from the east or the west, and I live in the middle—or rather dwell in the middle. But not for long!
Anyway, we talked about our meditation practice. I said that I practiced vipassana or Theravada. According to Jeff, samatha is calm abiding meditation, which goes along with vipassana; I’m so concentrated on metta that I don’t remember reading about samatha, but I probably have. Vipassana is mindfulness meditation, samatha calm abiding, and metta is loving-kindness. Because of my situation with poisonous relatives, I have focused almost exclusively on metta for the past four years.
We had a choice of continental breakfast or a breakfast that involved eggs, and I chose the continental breakfast: fruit juice, papaya, and your choice of different breads, including sweet rolls, muffins and croissants, besides sliced bread of various colors. I returned to the table with Jeff and Arturo, and we talked about sanghas and where we’re going and all that. I told Jeff about the rather disappointing sangha in Lawrence, Kansas. I particularly talked about how the group turned me off with their anti-vegetarian conversations. He used a good word choice when he described them as “too opinionated.” Returning from a trip to the buffet, he also added that solitary practice is better than getting with groups like that, because “they’ll want you to do things their way.” Good point! His saying this helped me to no longer feel ashamed of the aversion I’ve developed toward that sangha, or perhaps that’s too strong a word—certainly I’ve experienced very strong disappointment in that sangha. No, aversion isn’t too strong a word.
After we all got back to the tables in the far corner of the restaurant, Shantum spoke to the group about a few things, namely about how we would be parting and the gifts that he had for us, wrapped in newspaper like last year. He mentioned that after parting with the sangha he’ll be checking his e-mails for about five hours.
It’s hard to believe Shantum would devote that length of time to reading e-mails! I doubt he read any of the ones John and I sent the sangha last year, but I shouldn’t assume that just because he never replied.
Meanwhile, Shantum performed the moli ceremony with each of us who was at the hotel. He did this at the end of last year’s pilgrimage, but this time we were in a restaurant with lots of background noise. I think I was the last one, since I had slipped off to the restroom. Before Shantum approached me, I pulled up my sleeve slightly to display last year’s string around my wrist, and Marsha, among others, asked me about it. The string, which had started out as bright red and yellow wrapped around three times, was now one pathetic, ragged pale pink string. Shantum walked up to me with a smile and explained to Marsha “Yes, that’s from me last year,” referring to the faded old string. She was astonished that it had lasted so long.
Shantum pressed his palms together, and I pressed my palms together. He unrolled a long red and yellow string and as he wrapped it around my left wrist said, “I’ll tie them together,” and wrapped the new string around the old ragged one. Wrapping the moli around my wrist, Shantum said, referring to the number of times it was wrapped, “One for the Buddha, one for the dharma, one for the sangha, and one for the journey.” I smiled. I didn’t feel blissed out as during the pilgrimage. We shared a mindful hug like last year, although it wasn’t really like last year. I felt a certain melancholy, in contrast with the transcendent happiness I felt during this ceremony last year.
I wasn’t feeling terribly emotional through all this; I had a sense that I should mention the book again, but time was getting short and it was noisy with so many people around. I meant to say that I’ve been thinking maybe my pilgrimage memoir will stand by itself without including Shantum's storytelling, but I’ll nonetheless have to at least summarize why such-and-such place was important to the Buddha. I’ll just have to see how it works, copy and paste the manuscript into a new document and give it a try. Really, I didn’t mean to be a nuisance. If I had broached the subject—and I’m terrible at broaching subjects—I probably would have burst into tears right there in front of everyone, so it’s just as well that I didn’t mention my book.
The sangha had a big farewell. I don’t feel like I spent enough time with this sangha, but at least we’re sharing e-mail addresses. I exchanged hugs with Sheila, Samaya, and Inge. I also, in addition to the hugs, had some conversation about safety in Kathmandu. Marsha said that I might, as I had suggested earlier, be better off just staying in my hotel room. Samaya told me about a friend of hers who owns a sweater shop in Kathmandu, in the Thamel district, and that if I meet her I should mention Samaya. She said that if there are bombs or anything, I should be willing to have a change of plans for my safety. Also, Marsha gave me a hug and said, “We’ll all be praying for you.”
Actually, I haven’t felt so nervous about it since talking with Gary again—he had earlier been describing a protest against the government and said I should be OK and that they love tourists—even the Maoists love tourists. I had asked him specifically, “Will I be safe walking around Kathmandu with a camera?” He replied in the affirmative. We left the restaurant, walked down the hall and into the lobby, and went out the grand front doors.
We went down the front steps, Shantum ordered taxis, and we organized our luggage. The whole group formed a circle and did some touchy-feely singing before we split up. I didn’t put much effort into trying to sing with the group. Marsha had told me that she, David, and I could take the same taxi, because they were going to the Radisson Hotel, which is close to the airport. We got the third taxi that stopped in front.
David, Marsha, and I rode a taxi to the Indira Gandhi International Airport. David sat in the front seat and Marsha and me in the back seat. Marsha and David were going to stay at the Radisson near the airport, and I told Marsha about the unbelievably posh Radisson we stayed at in Varanasi last year. I made the comment that it’s bizarre to stay at such a shamelessly fancy hotel when the streets are full of beggars and there is so much poverty and squalor. Marsha explained that this is what people in Asia assume Westerners expect in hotels: they think we expect hotels to be extremely fancy. I guess it’s their perception of Westerners—I guess they think we’re very spoiled and wealthy. I’m glad I requested budget hotels in Tibet; I’m curious to see what they will be like, and I’m imagining cigarette burns in the carpet, and a squatting toilet and bucket bath in my room. But that’s OK; it’ll be part of the Tibet experience.
On the street, a book wallah had a handful of guess what, books, and I jotted down one of the titles: The Argumentative Indian. It sounded interesting because it was an anthology of essays by Indian authors, but now I don’t remember anything more about it. It seems likely that it would include Arundhati Roy.
In the taxi, Marsha point out that Shantum did this rather secular tour (that most of the group was in) and will continue doing secular tours because he has kids now and has to support them; he wants to put them through private school.
I said my farewells to Marsha and David when I got off at the airport. They were going on to the Radisson, very close the airport, but guys who came to take my suitcase also wanted to take theirs. We had to explain a few things. I stood in line and an employee, a slender young man with an official name tag hanging from his neck, asked me which gate I needed, and so I told him, and he led me to a different door, where I proceeded to stand in line. I thanked him profusely and smiled, and both as we were walking toward the proper entrance and after we got there to the line, he said, “250 rupees.” I seriously thought I was supposed to pay him 250 rupees, but when he took the money, he sneakily and quickly slipped it into a pocket. The cheating bastard! It was only about five dollars, but that's not the point. I was only on my own for a minute, and I fell for a scam artist! Jagdish would be so disappointed in me; he had told me last year that there are beggars who have jobs and therefore have no need to beg, and here I was fooled by one of them. I was glad when the jerk walked away.
I stood in line a lot, before I got into the building and after I got into the building and went through a security fiasco. Since Jet Airways only allows for one carry-on rather than the usual two, I wanted both my suitcase and my backpack to be checked. Both pieces of luggage when through security, but for whatever reason an employee only put the “Security” tape around my suitcase and not my backpack. After I approached another employee, I had to go back to security, put my backpack through again, and wait for someone to put tape around it, before I checked in my luggage. To think the Indira Gandhi International Airport had seemed so efficient and organized the first time I arrived in it!
While standing around in line and whatever else I was doing at the airport, I noticed tall white panels marking airport construction display the rather amusing lines: “We are upgrading to serve you. Inconvenience is regretted.” An American airport would have had the words “Sorry for the inconvenience.”
Dharamsala, by the way, is a fascinating and wacky town. It probably has many odd characters—it’s the sort of town that would. I saw at the Dalai Lama’s temple a tall and skinny white boy who had somewhat spiky hair that was too long for a monk’s, besides a punk look; and yet he was dressed just like a Tibetan monk, whether or not he was one. His upper arms were tattooed with Buddhist symbols such as the endless knot.
Oh, yeah, at some point I ran into the Kashmiri shopkeeper on the street, and we recognized each other, though he wasn’t wearing his hat. That was possibly when we gathered in the square and Jagdish stopped at the little shop below Mc’llo’s and got himself a luscious chocolate birthday cake and some other snacks for all of us, which we ate high up in the Himalayas.
I’m in the hotel in Kathmandu. It’s shortly after 4:30 am. But I’ve been in bed for hours—I have a virus (as in hacking up yellow phlegm), I woke in a sleeper car at about 4 am, I have a slight touch of altitude sickness that I didn’t even notice till the middle of the night, and I’m afraid I’m a bit in shock—here in Nepal on my own, where people apparently don’t speak English as clearly as they do in India. But maybe I’m generalizing. Maybe I’m just so used to how Jagdish and a few other people speak English; Shantum and the Raj speak it with a British accent, and the Rani almost had a British accent. I’m sure it doesn’t help that my ears are congested.
