Return to Delhi

At 12:40, I woke and some guy pulled the curtain away from my feet, reached across me and turned the light on over me. I was pretty freaked by this, but within seconds the light was turned off and the curtain drawn again. It took me a long time to get back to sleep. About a minute or two after that bizarre experience, I heard Rachel snapping, “I’d like to get a good night’s sleep, if you don’t mind!”

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.

Bodhicitta, Gratitude, and Generosity

This morning I had a good therapeutic conversation with Lynn and Mimi at breakfast. It started with Mimi talking about her family, and the topic led to how distressed I have been lately because of my verbally abusive relatives.

I told Mimi and Lynn about my mother and her siblings, and how I’m only just starting to confront the situation and try healing from my childhood, and that only in the past few years I’ve stopped being in denial about what my relatives are really like. I told them that my most poisonous relatives were victims of incest when they were children, and I described the way they ganged up on my nephew as if they were a gang of playground bullies, and I said, “Seeing them treat him that way, I realized that they have treated me like that hundreds of times. And I figured out that they pick the youngest person, because they believe that the younger you are, the more powerless and the more abused you deserve to be.”

Mimi was outraged and said, “You feel so helpless when you witness things like that.” That’s very true, and I neglected to mention that I had just done five or six weeks of intensive metta meditation before that family reunion and was therefore remarkably equanimous. We talked about healing, and I mentioned the book by Alice Miller called The Drama of the Gifted Child, which I read shortly before this trip, and Lynn is familiar with the book. They pointed out that the healing process takes a long time. Mimi said, “If even just one person begins to heal, it is healing the previous generation and the next generation.” That was very encouraging, although she also said that it’s highly unusual, very hard, to recover from child abuse.

I said, “Who knows how many generations this has been going on.”

After breakfast, we gathered into the courtyard of Cloud’s End, where some plastic patio chairs had been set up in a sort of circle. I spread out my straw mat in front of some chairs and settled down on it, taking off my boots and sitting cross-legged.

The Mindfulness Trainings Ceremony was the reason we gathered in the courtyard; it had been such an exciting and joyful experience in the Jetta Grove last year, and yet this time it seemed to me like a meaningless ceremony. During the ceremony, I was in the center back and going through the motions but lacked last year's enthusiasm. The ceremony last year had been such a great inspiration.

Stacy and I had already done the Mindfulness Training Ceremony previously, so Shantum didn’t call us up and give us the certificate, which seemed a little anti-climactic but to be expected. However, he later asked me what my dharma name was, and I told him “Fearlessness of the Source.” He seemed in a cheerful mood when he asked and even smiled at me, but I didn’t feel like smiling. I really do have to wonder if it’s possible for me to coexist with humans at all, since everywhere I turn I get rejection. A little later he gave me a fresh Mindfulness Training Certificate, and I remembered that the one from last year is slightly dog-eared.

Shortly after the ceremony, Shantum gave an instruction in mindful hugging and demonstrated with Inge, and there was hugging going around in the courtyard. I went back to writing depressive thoughts or whatever in my journal, and it looked like everyone would ignore me. But Samaya approached me and I grudgingly agreed to a mindful hug. Mimi also gave me a mindful hug and afterwards whispered to me, “You’re beautiful.”

The sangha settled back down in chairs and on the lawn to have a talk. We discussed the topics of generosity and privilege, since generosity was such a huge topic in the Dalai Lama’s teachings and so significant to issues we encountered outside the teachings, such as the decision to donate to the Tibetan Children’s Village and the Tibetan Nuns Project.

One of the things for which we should be grateful, and that came up in conversation, is the gift of nonfear: fear, fear of death, how the person who died an hour ago is gone and a new person is there. This includes your work, karma, with mind and body stream not dying but continuing beyond physical death. One can experience nonfear in facing the basic fear of death.

Mimi gave a long list of examples of privileges: she was able to get education and go through college, she has the privilege of being a woman in America, to live in a country where you can be a feminist and not be persecuted for it (which just goes to show that the Midwest isn’t part of America!), having plenty to eat, money, the ability to travel and go from place to place and do many things, being able to go, the privilege to have silence and solitude. Shantum or someone said that you can make a gratitude list comparing yourself to the rest of the world. Someone else pointed out that white skin is a privilege in racist society. That proves that privileges are not a deserved sort of thing. Someone mentioned the privilege of travel and of being here. Gary said, “The privilege of being a human being.”

On the subject of generosity: give what you can. I am not open to hugs and to showing emotion, which could be seen as a sort of generosity. But I donate money and food and things, regardless of how uncomfortable (and/or incompetent) I am about displaying emotion or showing that I have a heart. You should give of yourself; it doesn’t have to be a big thing.

The discussion also covered the subject of generosity with money: supporting causes, supporting people, supporting yourself. I do all of those things, certainly, for all my seeming worthlessness. As Gary pointed out, “Some people have huge amounts of money but are poor in their outlook;” plenty of very wealthy people don’t give to the poor. “The world has abundance. Generosity for me is about connecting with the abundance of life.”

“You can’t keep it unless you give it away,” David said.

Etiel said, “The Jewish tradition of generosity. You’re obliged to pick up and carry someone who’s ill.”

“The generosity of affection is liberating,” someone said. Great, I don’t experience much of that, and I have to accept the fact that I never will…except from cats. I can’t forget cats, but for most people they’re not enough—you need affection from your own species.

Mimi or someone also spoke of giving money and saying, “It’s not ours to keep.” We don’t own anything.

Shantum said, “Current governments have invented property to keep track of what’s there, separation into categories.”

Sheila said, “Generosity to yourself—giving yourself time, space, and quiet to help others do the same.”

In the midst of this conversation, I said nothing but wrote in my journal: “Is there such a huge difference between the street beggars in India and my begging for travel money from my dad?” At least street beggars are poor and therefore have better reason to beg. I on the other hand have begged for money from my dad for the luxury of traveling to the other side of the world. And of course it’s easier to beg from your dad (at least, if you have a dad like mine) than to beg from a stranger whose reaction could be just about anything.

We also experience generosity of the sangha with each other, often in the form of small gestures. That addition to the conversation reminded me how so many people in this sangha have, in effect, been my mother. It has reminded me of the Tibetan saying that everyone has been your mother in a previous life.

The topic of generosity next led to the support of certain organizations, in particular some of the places that the sangha visited. The group that has been traveling for over a month went to a girls’ orphanage. Of course the Tibet Nun’s Project and the Tibetan Children’s Village came up, and I definitely want to donate to the latter and possibly also the former. Mimi earlier had discussed this with me and had asked why I wanted to support the nuns but not the Children’s Village, and I had said, “Well, maybe I’ll support the Children’s Village also, but I knew about the Nuns Project beforehand and have read a lot about Buddhist nuns and how unappreciated they generally are, so it’s a topic close to my heart.” It might have been more to the point that women’s issues are invariably close to my heart. Of course, I think of peace and revolution--and therefore education that emphasizes peace, nonviolence, and good communication skills—to be close to my heart and relevant to feminism, and I have been bringing it up in petitions, surveys, and letters, even though I’m certainly not a teacher.

Shantum mentioned his volunteering with the U. N. for a dollar a year to run a whole program on his own. Self development—the U.N. didn’t get it and, didn’t appreciate his attempts to reform the system. He had mentioned this in the taxi on the way from the Norbulingka Institute, and I thought it was no wonder he had concluded that the U.N. is useless. It seems to me that although he’s been so much more distant and brusque on this trip, he has opened up about his own past more than he had on the pilgrimage. His employment is a part of practice, it’s hard to give, especially to himself.

Mimi said, “To quote Helen Boyle, ‘I love my money because I can give it away.’”

2
For lunch, we ate on the balcony at Chonor House. I picked up a Tibetan Independence Movement brochure that included a post card inside, to send to the Chinese government. I would have to hide it in my suitcase before going to Tibet and refrain from mailing it until I got back the States, because I didn’t want to get in trouble with the Chinese government until after I left Tibet. It wouldn’t do to be kicked out of the country. I hoped no authorities would notice that I have a panda bear with a Tibetan flag on its back; I hadn’t thought of that when I purchased the toy for my nephew.

Before I sat down, we saw a large, beautiful black-faced monkey in a tree by the balcony. Of course, I had to get as close as possible and watch the monkey, or specifically the Hanuman langur, climbing and swinging, before I sat down and got out my radio.

We listened to the English version of the Dalai Lama’s teachings on our radios all through lunch; I remembered to bring the radio this time. I felt nonetheless crappy and kept blowing my nose, and Stacy passed me a packet of a vitamin C and honey supplement in pink powder form; you put it in a glass (or teacup) and it fizzles and bubbles. Very interesting. It didn’t taste gross, and I drank it down quickly.

The Dalai Lama talked about generosity and altruism, different forms of enlightenment, and different forms of bodhicitta. He spoke at some length of bodhicitta, the “ultimate altruism to benefit all sentient beings.” When your everyday state is like your meditative state, you’ve reached Buddhahood. The Dalai Lama spoke about reciting a bodhicitta mantra on a daily basis; I think that’s a lot like practicing metta (lovingkindness) meditation.

I gathered up my stuff and headed for the temple shortly after two pm. I wanted to get a look at the Dalai Lama before his dishy translator’s four o’clock teaching. I got through security and moved up the steps, where Westerners stood with radios. I stood behind someone and arranged my radio. The reception, I discovered, was much better at Chonor House, and it was rather less comfy to stand there with my bag hanging from my neck rather than sit on a mat, but I didn’t mind. I did get a look at the Dalai Lama as he went by, and again I smiled back at him glowingly.

I then hung out at the temple and people watched until the translator’s teachings. It is definitely quite a place to people watch, with all the Tibetan pilgrims with different regional dress. I remembered that there wasn’t a lot of point in leaving the temple, even though I had a full hour. I first waited for the crowd to die down while I stood in the courtyard and people-watched. As there came to be more elbow room, I slowly made my way up the path to the temple, and next I stood at the front of the balcony and looked down at people. I saw an old lama blessing people by taking a large rolled-up thangka and gently touching them on the foreheads. When it was close to four o’clock, I turned and headed up to the Kalachakra Hall for the final time.

The translator talked about bodhicitta also, and he pointed out that if you want to be famous, you should be famous for being altruistic, for being like, say, Gandhi. If you try to be famous like Michael Jackson, your voice and your dance moves aren’t going to last forever.

With Mimi, Arturo, and David, I sneaked out of the hall early, so that we could pile into a taxi and get to Cloud’s End in time for the talk with the Dalai Lama’s brother. I’ve been feeling terrible—it’s a cold, I’m sure, not just allergies. By the time we gathered into the little sitting room at 5:30—actually, some of us got there earlier—I was exhausted and yawning. During the discussion, I couldn’t help yawning widely, even though I felt terribly guilty about doing it and was genuinely enjoying listening to Tenzin. Hopefully he could tell I was sick; I blew my nose enough.

We gathered into the living room at Cloud’s End to have a talk with the Dalai Lama’s brother, Tenzin Choegyal. He was also identified as a reincarnate lama at an early age, but he ditched the post because it didn’t suit him. I was one of the first people in the room, and I plopped down on the floor; I always sit on the floor because it seems to me appropriate for the youngest person in the group, and because I’m more comfortable sitting that way than sitting up in a chair and not knowing what to do with my legs. Shantum walked up to the dais in the bay window and pulled up a seat for our Tibetan visitor, but Tenzin Choegyal mischievously plopped down in the center of the couch next to David and grinned.

I looked up at Tenzin Choegyal from about three feet away and couldn’t help but stare: the Dalai Lama was in disguise! I thought he looked remarkably like the Dalai Lama, except he had short hair instead of a shaved head, and instead of red robes he wore Western pants, an oxford shirt, and a brown jacket with the message “SF San Francisco” on the upper left side. He wore squarish glasses like the Dalai Lama’s. Shantum had said something to the effect that Tenzin Choegyal isn’t very sociable and spends a lot of time in retreat, so I had visualized a crazy, stern, cave-dwelling yogi with long braided hair and traditional Tibetan clothing. In the course of the discussion, we learned that he’s sixty-one years old. He does look a lot younger than his brother and still has totally black hair.

Shantum introduced Tenzin by saying, “This is my teacher. Well, a friend.”

Tenzin said, “A friend who led him astray!” He even sounds a lot like the Dalai Lama! Well, his voice isn’t that deep, and his English is more fluent. Members of the sangha asked him questions, and he happily, eagerly, answered.

“Some people think Buddhism is pessimistic, because it talks about suffering. All spiritual traditions talk about suffering. If you mention spiritual traditions, people automatically think of fighting,” he said. He mentioned that religions become political parties, for there is tremendous division instead of uniting, and this is a big challenge we have at this age. It’s a great time to make amends, to transform. He condemned political parties as being about selfishness and imposing one’s view on others, including through money. It’s no wonder I now refuse to even try associating myself, limiting myself, to a political party.

Shantum introduced Paula as the rabbi who took the Three Refuges, and Tenzin said, “Should we throw a party?”

Tenzin Choegyal is so not a fan of blind faith, which is something people have if they don’t examine or analyze things; I think that is connected to fundamentalism.

“May I ask a question?” Richard asked.
“No, you may not,” Tenzin joked.
“Is the empowerment ceremony appropriate for householders, or just monastics?” (The Dalai Lama did the empowerment ceremony for at least a couple days, in addition to teachings.)
“The empowerment ceremony is OK for householders.”

“I’d like to ask you a personal question,” Etiel said.
“No personal questions!” Tenzin joked with a grin.
“Why didn’t you remain a monk?”
“I wasn’t up to the task. It was like wearing the skin of a tiger.”

Tenzin Choegyal told us a lot about himself, about his life, and about how different his views are from his brother’s. While he’s a big fan of nonviolence and dialogue, he’s not so serious a fan of the monastic system, which has a lot of power. While he does believe in reincarnation, he doesn’t have faith in the Rinpoche system of identifying little kids who are supposedly reincarnations of specific lamas. As he pointed out, everyone’s reincarnated, not just lamas.

“Our community still suffers from following rituals and not looking at the creed. It’s not about religion but psychology.” He mentioned that meditation is about attempting to lose negative thoughts. What a challenge, given the conditioning we grow up with!

“I have no authority except my big ego.”

“Identifying with religion gives you pressure to identify yourself,” said the David who’s from Florida.

“Labels are very misleading. If you identify with the label, attachment comes,” Tenzin Choegyal said. He talked quite a bit about labels, including money, which is just paper, but we’ve labeled it and given it the meaning of currency, so we accept it. “How do you remove the label? If you skillfully handle it, it’s OK. Nonself of the self, all names are labels. Even a label is subjective. All depends on how we handle it.” He said, “I think I’m talking like a wise person, but I’m not.” But he wasn’t done with labels yet, saying that “I” and “myself” are just labels; “it’s functional, but it lacks all substantiality.”

“We tend to return to events that are pleasant and block out unpleasant events. It goes to things not being the way we want.” I guess that’s how people are nostalgic; they remember a vacation and focus on the good parts.

He said, “I don’t like rituals…I don’t like temples.” At some point in the conversation, he said, “I’m kind of a nut, you know.”

John said, “All of us are in some continuity of mental balance.” Mine certainly is drastically off kilter.

Richard asked about depression and meditation, and Tenzin said to embrace it. “Probably it’s grounded in self-centeredness.” Tenzin experienced depression during the winter (seasonal affective disorder). Depression is physical and mental, interdependently between the physical and spiritual. He went to doctors, was diagnosed as bipolar, which is both depression and mania. A doctor treated him with lithium. “Incidentally, the greatest deposit of lithium is in Tibet.” It helped and people were encouraging. Depression is what drove him to a regular meditation practice, and he’s feeling so much better because of it. Now he’s focused on studying the dharma.

“When people are desperate, thoughts are going everywhere. Then I became interested in Buddhism and it helped. People who become depressed are undisciplined. We are meditating all the time, but not properly.” I have come to the conclusion that I shall have to leave Kansas in order to truly make progress with meditation; as long as I dwell there, I shall make one step forward to every fifty steps back.

“What if you were in that role [Rinpoche], and it was discovered you were bipolar?” someone asked.
“They’d know they made a mistake,” Tenzin replied. “We are all reincarnates from previous lives—identifying reincarnation, it only exists in Tibet, and I don’t know why—this continuity of the practice and to a particular lineage. In history, it became a problem. I personally don’t feel it’s a good idea.”
“Why?”
“Look at me…. There are many loopholes—it is not handled properly, a tulku becomes a symbol of earthly existence. When I talk like this, people think I’m a traitor.”

“Do you discuss this with your brother?”
“He accepts.”

“There’ve been a lot of books written on mindfulness,” Richard said.
“And they made a lot of money,” Tenzin said with a grin. He encouraged us to read root text (as a Theravada practitioner, I translate that as, in particular, the Pali canon, which is more or less the words of the Buddha, passed down for centuries). He added, “We should read more deeply and study more deeply.”

Marsha said, “Your wife is a delight. How did you meet her?”

“I don’t think she’s a delight,” Tenzin said. They met in Darjeeling when she was in college, in 1964.

“Are there arranged marriages in Tibet?”

“It was self-arranged.” He added that they first met in a movie theater; the film was George Scott Flimflam Man. I’ve never heard of it.

Someone asked him about nonviolence, and Tenzin said, “Nonviolence—most people think it’s passive, but it’s active. You’ve got to have the right understanding.”

He went on to talk about attachment and emptiness, and dependent origination, not to mention impermanence and our failure to recognize things as impermanent, which leads to suffering. “If you have tremendous anger, impermanence means it’ll go away.” Rather relevant to his comments about political parties, Tenzin talked about how attachment causes “lots of arguments take place.”

“What are your views on vegetarianism?” Natalie asked.
“I’m strictly nonvegetarian.” He added, “I think it’s very desirable to be vegetarian. But you must get requirements for your body. Among Tibetans—Younger ones are becoming vegetarian, it’s becoming more common. Tibetans subsist on carbohydrates in monasteries, some have overweight, have diabetes, not enough exercise.” Tenzin said. “Three cheers for vegetarianism!”

“In attachment to the Tibetan land, is there a difference between generations?” Paula asked.
“I have walked on the soil of so-called Tibet. Yes, there is a difference. Sons and daughters have not been there, and it’s all a mind thing.”

“I think human beings are going through an evolution. I don’t think one hundred years ago people talked about this,” someone said.
“Jews did—going back to the land,” Paula said.

“Everyone in the world thinks Tibetans are perfect!” Tenzin said with a laugh. “If Tibet becomes peaceful, where spiritual pursuit is encouraged, I’d go for it. Otherwise, I’m happy elsewhere.” Someone asked him why people think Tibetans are perfect, and he said, “I think it’s because of the novel Lost Horizons by James Hilton.”

He mentioned that he thinks a family person has more compassion than a sangha member; if you’re around difficult people rather than secluded, then you have on-hands experience practicing compassion and all. This has certainly occurred to me often enough, but if you’re in such a painful situation that you’re crippled with depression all the time, you’ve got to get out of that unhealthy situation; I don’t think that meditation alone is enough, even though part of my sense of guilt and my staying in Kansas so long is because I read that an enlightened being is happy no matter where they are.

Tenzin is highly critical of the Tibetan monastic system and explained that it’s intellectual understanding rather than practice. (Well, they do practice meditation and chanting, but that’s not the same thing as experiencing equanimity when mean people are attacking you. It’s much more challenging to practice when you’re not in a monastery.) He said some people join the monastery because they get free food. Basically, there are some things he likes about Tibetan Buddhism (otherwise he wouldn’t be so into studying the dharma now), and other things he doesn’t like about Tibetan Buddhism. He would like practice to be more secular.

“Mishandling freedom is a universal problem,” Tenzin said, reminding me how unfathomably hypocritical war-mongering white male Americans are with their talk of freedom, when obviously they don’t even know what it means. “The most difficult thing to do today is how to handle freedom.”

“I can’t resist…” John said.
“Go ahead. Use your freedom,” Tenzin said.
John is critical of the level of monasticism and the Dalai Lama’s support of this. He called it “confinement of thought of the worst kind.” He said, “Isn’t this monasticism a cancer to the Tibetan cause?”
“I share your view,” Tenzin said. “In monasteries we have trouble with discipline. Are these people genuine?” John mentioned that nobody agreed with him about this, but as it turned out the Dalai Lama’s brother agrees with him.
“Shantum, why did you bring him to this kind of teaching?” Tenzin asked with a grin.

“I really know nothing,” Tenzin said. “My ignorance—I’m an exhibitionist. I like to show off. I’m quite sincere in my feeling. I try to call a spade a spade.”

Tenzin said, “The Tibetan issue—it’s a small speck.” This has occurred to me often enough, like when I’ve donated to the International Campaign to Tibet, even though I don’t think that organization is half as important as the Global Fund for Women. “The Tibetan problem comes from carelessness, not caring, so what does it say?”

“Why did the Dalai Lama mostly read from the Dhammapada?” someone asked, and several people expressed dismay that the Dalai Lama did this.

“I think we should go on strike?” Tenzin said. Someone asked if he has discussed this with his brother, but he said, “Since the teachings, I haven’t seen him. I’m a crowd-shy guy.”
He also said, “I think it’s a genuine grievance here.” For those who don’t speak Tibetan, the lack of commentary is not fair.

“He’s teaching primarily for the Tibetan community,” Shantum said. Some Tibetans are illiterate or barely literate, or otherwise have reasons why they won’t ever get a hold of the Dhammapada; Westerners on the other hand can easily get it in English at a bookstore or library.

“But that doesn’t help these people,” Tenzin said. “I’m listening at home on the FM. I thought it was odd that he didn’t explain for two days…in his commentary, tremendously powerful.”

“It’s different when we criticize, different than when you do,” Stacy said.

Tenzin said, “For people who are interested in spiritual tradition, study it, and study it in groups, with no leader.”

After a little more discussion, Tenzin asked, “Any more questions?” He looked around the room, but we were silent. “I think everyone is shocked.”

The discussion went to plans for having dinner at Kashmir Cottage. “Can someone give me a ride?” Tenzin asked.
“No, you have to walk.”

Our lively and enthusiastic discussion lasted at least two hours. Although I enjoyed it, and Natalie was also there, my cold was terrible, and I went to bed afterwards, like around eight, rather than have dinner.

People were leaving and I was in the little hallway outside the living room, where we all put on our shoes. Only a couple of other people were in the room as I slipped into my boots. Since I wasn’t up to having dinner, I said to Sheila, “If anyone asks about me, I’m going to take a shower and go to bed.” She’s had the same cold (or probably the same cold) that I have and said that resting did her a lot of good, so she knew what I was going through. I was so exhausted! I went to bed at about eight o’clock, and a servant guy came with the hot water bottles when I was already in bed. I think I startled him.

“No dinner?” he asked.

“No, I’ve got a cold. I need rest,” I said, and thanked him as I took the water bottle. He apologized, and I think I might have sounded grumpy and regretted it, but I didn’t mean to sound that way. When I’m feeling ill, I say things like that and afterwards suspect I wasn’t polite—this was one of those situations.

Norbulingka Institute

Some of us climbed into the taxis but others (including moi, as Miss Piggy would say) walked to the next place: the Norbulingka Institute. It was only about a mile away. I greatly enjoyed the walk, on such a beautiful and bright sunny day. On the left side of the narrow dirt road, we passed cows standing around and chewing their cud at a barnyard. On the right side, we passed fields of yellow flowers, bright green tall grass, and some idyllic trees. John and Lynn got so far ahead of me that John became concerned and went back to make sure I didn’t get lost. I think someone else was quite a bit behind me. The view and route seemed flat compared to the valley and dizzying roads we’d been using in Dharamsala.

The Norbulingka Institute, a beautiful and idyllic place where Tibetan arts and crafts are taught and kept alive, is a registered trust under the leadership of the Dalai Lama, and it is preserving Tibetan culture. This complex includes: offices and reception, guest house, café, workshops, academy for Tibetan culture, Deden Tsukhang (the Seat of Happiness Temple), Norling Arts Shop, and the Losel Doll Museum.

At the Norbulingka Institute, we passed through a Tibetan-style gateway into a courtyard of tree-lined paths, landscaping, potted plants, ponds and waterfalls. It was like paradise—or perhaps I should say it was like Shangri-la. I noticed in the distance Shantum talking on a cell phone, and his posture and movements suggested that he was impatient. I tried to ignore this as we followed a path up to a café, where we sat at small round tables in front of a Tibetan-style building colorfully painted in flowery murals, and a couple of young Tibetans gave us menus and took our orders. I sat with Sheila, Lynn, and John, and a very friendly brown dog came along and let Sheila and me pet her.

John’s lunch came first, and it looked yummy, a stir-fry concoction, while I waited for my lunch. Maybe it was just as well I overdid the snack at the nunnery. Finally after everyone except me had lunch, the waiter came back to the table, and John reminded him that I didn’t have my lunch yet, and the waiter finally informed me that they didn’t have that particular dish; so I pointed at John’s plate and said, “I’ll have that instead.” The lunch, when it finally came, was as delicious as it had looked on John’s plate. Meanwhile, I enjoyed the company of the other people at my table, to say nothing of the dog.

On the previous day, Jagdish had handed me his cell phone, and Bina had informed me that it turns out that the travel agent hadn’t mentioned $300 that I still owed for staying in Kathmandu. Sitting at the Norbulingka café after finishing my lunch, I wrote a check and gave it to Shantum, who suddenly snapped at me. He began by saying imperiously, “Ms. Susan;” it’s odd how people most often use my name when they’re chastising me as though I were a bad little girl, an attitude that has not improved my relationship with my name—but going by a different name wouldn’t make it any better, because no doubt people would use it the same way. That might indeed be the reason why I almost never address people by their names.
In short, Shantum demanded to know why I wrote “so many checks.” I was shocked by his behavior, in part because I had already had this discussion, or rather a much more civil version of it, with Bina via e-mail, when I explained that I was concerned about checks getting lost in the mail, and she had informed me that the bank charges a fee for every check and that if the check didn’t get to them, I could cancel it. Since I was deeply shocked and hurt by Shantum’s behavior (even though it was nothing compared to the verbal attacks I have continually received from relatives ever since I moved to Kansas), I did not know what to say and spoke in a stilted voice. “I wrote this check because Bina called the other day and said I owed another three hundred dollars for Kathmandu.”

Shantum sternly explained in front of everyone why it was a nuisance to receive so many checks. The entire time he spoke, I sat slumped in my chair, staring at my lap and not seeing anything, and feeling deeply humiliated and hurt. Without even knowing what he was saying, I muttered a couple things like, “Oh, is that so,” and, “I didn’t know,” and felt too shocked and incapable of speech to actually point out to him that Bina had explained everything to me.
During last year’s pilgrimage, Shantum had seemed very nurturing and supportive and kind, and he had paid me complements (the opposite of what I am accustomed to) and had seemed to have a grasp of psychology, since he figured out that I’m shy. I had subconsciously turned him into a surrogate mother to make up for my verbally abusive relatives and for the fact that I had been bullied instead of nurtured throughout my childhood. Shantum was the second person I stupidly turned into a surrogate mother and who had rejected me. I finally figured out that the only person who can nurture me is myself.

While we still sat at the café tables, Shantum also acted impatient with Mimi for not being decisive about what she wanted to do this afternoon. I put on a cheerful façade and said, “Somebody’s a grumpy Buddha.” John and Lynn got a good laugh out of that, but it didn’t change my overwhelming sense of rejection and despair.

Another “mother” had rejected me and once again I was completely rootless. I have known since the age of five that I am on my own and that nobody is around to truly nurture me, so it is absurd for me to not be accustomed and resigned to this. If I were not still traumatized by my childhood, if I had not just been through six years of regular verbal abuse from relatives, and if I had not put Shantum up on a pedestal and turned him into a surrogate mother, I would not be hurt by his behavior.

The Norbulingka Institute is a remarkable learning center where Tibetans learn and practice woodworking, thangka painting, making appliquéd thangkas and banners, furniture building, and other crafts. We climbed precarious stairs and passed stone structures, including a wall that curved around dramatically. I should have enjoyed the tour, but the entire time I felt so humiliated and ashamed of whom I am, that it was as if a dark raincloud hovered above me and nobody else. A Tibetan boy gave us a tour of the Institute before the group went on our own, and while I should have been excited to see students painting thangkas in a studio with the Dalai Lama’s voice on the radio, and to see colorful murals on a woodworking studio’s walls while students built an embossed cabinet or wardrobe, I wanted to be invisible.

After we parted with the tour guide, we ended up in a gift shop, but I didn’t feel like buying anything and would have been very ashamed if I had done so. But really, I feel ashamed of everything I do and of being myself. I wish I could be someone else, a decent human being, someone whom people respect, but I’m stuck with being a worthless loser. Feeling miserable and dejected, I idly wandered around the shop while everyone else seemed to be eagerly chatting and looking at merchandise. I would have preferred to go to the doll museum, but it had a separate entrance fee and I didn’t think I would have enough time, for I was under the impression that we would be leaving soon.

People dispersed from the gift shop, and I overheard some people, including Paula and Richard, were going to the temple, and so I tagged along. In the center of the Norbulingka Institute is a standard Tibetan temple with a shiny gold roof and with colorful murals galore. I followed the others up the temple steps and stared around at the murals. I looked down at my feet and to my utter embarrassment saw that I was still wearing my hiking boots. I hurried back to the entrance to slip them off. I couldn’t even feel good in a Buddhist temple; the positive energy that it might have contained did not penetrate the oppressive raincloud that surrounded me.

In the taxi with Shantum and me, Etiel said something about Shantum as a tour guide, and I made a sarcastic remark in response. She said, “I think he’s doing a fabulous job! It’s hard to be a guide for so many people.” She said it plenty loud enough for Shantum to hear, and she tapped the top of his seat back.

Shantum said, “I am unemployable.” He added something to the effect that people have labeled him “unemployable.”

“I know the feeling,” I said, thinking nobody could be as unemployable as I, but Etiel also agreed, although it was hard for me to think of her as unemployable. Shantum proceeded to talk about some of his previous employment, how he’d get a job and try to do it his way, but his employers didn’t want him to do it his way. He worked for one dollar a year for the UN for six years, and he tried to make the program work, but the UN didn’t like the way he did things.

After a brief pause in the conversation, Shantum brought up the subject of my pilgrimage memoir, and of my including the notes I took during his storytelling. He said, “I’m not sure it’s kosher, you see. It took me twenty years of research. Penguin has a contract for me to write a book, and it’s been sitting on my desk—I just haven’t gotten around to it.”

I explained that the book is about both my path and the Buddha’s path, and that I wrote his comments in quotation marks, as dialogue. I also said that I’d go ahead and send him the current draft by snail mail, since it’s five hundred pages and would be easier to read in print rather than on a computer screen.

In the late afternoon to early evening we went to a tea plantation, or more specifically the tea plantation owner’s guesthouse, to admire the view and watch the sunset. The guesthouse included two charming white bungalows, and we went through the main building, admired the décor in the process, and went through glass doors at the back of the house to step out into the back yard. There we had a view not of tea plants as I had expected, but of what looked like a forest touching the borders of the yard, and best of all we saw the Himalayas in the distance.
We met a very friendly older man, whom I at first thought was the owner of the plantation, but he was more like the butler; he wore a business suit and a blue turban and spoke English very fluently, with more or less a British accent. He told us all about the plantation and the guesthouse. (We even saw Western guests sit out on the patio at some point in the evening).

Male servants in dark brown Nehru suits served us beverages, and they set up a table with tea and snacks, something breaded and similar to tempura vegetables, with green minty dipping sauce. I got a small plate and would have served myself a tiny portion, but Jagdish served me a generous portion of breaded veggies and sauce. He knows my gluttonous ways too well. If I had not been around people, I would have eaten nothing for the rest of the day, because I didn’t think I deserved to eat.

While those of us who had gone on this particular outing—for it was not the entire sangha—sat admiring the view and snacking, we had a discussion. Shantum reminded us that today is Thursday and we need to turn in our Mindfulness Training essays tomorrow. This led to some discussion about the Mindfulness Training, which a surprising number of people have said they wish to do, even though some of them aren’t even Buddhists. Not that I’m into labels or identification with just one religion or spiritual tradition. I much prefer the word “spirituality” to “religion,” of course.

Marsha asked about alcohol and said that she drinks wine at night. Shantum said, “You should drink mindfully and think about whether you’re causing suffering…and you might just end up swearing off alcohol.” Shantum explained that originally he only did four trainings; he didn’t drink alcohol and was at the time only interested in ganja. (I had no idea what ganja is, but since then I have looked it up and learned that it’s a Sanskrit or Hindi word for “marijuana.”)
“The Mindfulness Trainings aren’t vows, they’re just guidelines,” Shantum said. He said that at the wedding, he drank two sips of champagne, because they were doing a toast; he wasn’t going to drink, but someone put a glass in his hand. I was surprised to hear he actually drank even that much; the pilgrimage last year had seemed very anti-alcohol, and I had been comfortable with this after reading Sharon Salzburg’s remarks about alcohol and meditation being a bad mix. If you drink in front of children, Shantum said, “you’re planting the seed of alcohol in them.” (I’m glad my brother doesn’t drink in front of Malcolm.)

The topic of vegetarianism also came up. Someone said that animals feel fear, know that they’re going to be killed—on some level of consciousness, but they’re in fear when they’re about to die. Shantum said, “There are fear toxins in the meat—you’re eating fear.” (There’s another reason for me to see meat eating as unclean.) There are plenty of other reasons for being vegetarian, such as it’s much more ecological and economical to plant fields and eat the grains or produce directly rather than have animals grazing, using up the grain and causing deforestation, but I don’t think that came up in the conversation. And in my experience, taste buds are a perfectly sensible reason to be a vegetarian, even if it is self-centered and trivial compared to other reasons. I don’t need to do Mindfulness Trainings for that; laying off sweets and aspiring to use something that vaguely passes off as mindful speech are the biggest challenges for me when it comes to the Mindfulness Trainings, which I did on the pilgrimage last year.

Shantum talked a little about Indian vegetarianism and said that it is perfectly acceptable in Indian vegetarian tradition to eat eggs. Despite my overwhelming self-hate and rejection, I actually spoke up at this point. I said, “I’m not a vegan, but ninety-five percent of chickens in the United States live in inhumane conditions, packed tightly into cages and never seeing the light of day. That’s a good reason to refrain from eating eggs.” I have gotten the impression that chickens are treated the same way in Ireland; I remember eating a great many eggs there but only seeing chickens once. In India, however, it’s not unusual to see chickens and chicks running around, like so many animals in India.

Shantum, referring to his younger days, said he was “a guy with no limits, like a free bird,” only he wasn’t free because he was “trapped in samsara.” So the Mindfulness Trainings have been his guidelines.

You take refuge in the Buddha three times for these reasons: 1) the Buddha Shakyamuni, 2) your potential for awakening, and 3) your awakening. “This mindfulness practice is your refuge,” Shantum said. He also used the word “aspiration.”

We stayed at the tea plantation long enough to admire the sunset as Shantum had proposed earlier. I could see a very bright pinkish-orangey sunset between trees. We went around to the front of the house, and while people stood around talking and I didn’t feel like talking to anybody, I watched the sunset amid other trees that, since it was getting darker, looked like black silhouettes. The sunset was bright orange and very dramatic.

Here is my new insight poem:

Mindful Trek

Mindful steps over rough terrain
rocks glistening in the sun
sparrows singing and crows cawing
elk footprints and rhododendron trees
the scent of pine and cedar
hawks soaring in blueness with a backdrop
of snow-capped triangular mountains
are more spiritual to me
than any temple or ceremony.

During our dinner conversation at Cloud’s End, I heard such unusual phrases as, “Rather dishy monk” and “I think he’s rather yummy”—the sisters Jill and Pat were commenting on the Dalai Lam’s translator. As listening to them often is, it was like being in a British sitcom. They have charming British accents and are around seventy years old. Someone asked for my opinion and I said, “Yes, I think he’s attractive.” At some point, I did add, “but he’s Tibetan, so what do you expect?” but I don’t think anyone heard me in the big echoic room with all the talking going on.

The sentence, “Shantum is angry with me,” became a sort of mantra that I repeated in my head over and over again. At some point it shifted to: “Shantum despises me.” The unkosher aspect of my book dawned on me more and more in the evening, and I felt very foolish and ashamed for not having realized it. By midnight, I became convinced that I’ve done something horrible.

I had foolishly thought that if I went back to India, I’d again experience the bliss, happiness and confidence that I had had on the pilgrimage last year; I had, in short, tried to run away from my depression. But no matter how far I travel, I can never get away from myself.

Despite this depression, I began to very dubiously think that maybe there’s a possibility that my book will be fine without the notes…but it will have to at least include summaries of why each location was important to the Buddha, and I should still send it to Shantum. From what I have read about trying to get nonfiction books published, I have the impression that no publisher would be willing to publish the stupid book unless it had Shantum’s written approval, since he was the meditation teacher and tour guide.

Sister Yeshe

After the translator’s teaching, I went out into the courtyard and tied my two clusters of multicolored string to ropes in the foreigner’s section. The ropes hold up tent-like structures here and there. I went to Chonor House and wandered into the little shop just outside the restaurant and visible from the balcony where we eat lunch. I stepped outdoors and met up with the group at the balcony for dinner. Sister Yeshe is a Tibetan Buddhist nun who’s from Australia, and she joined us at dinner. She’s working with organizations that support nuns, mostly Western, and also Buddhist Dalits.

“Connecting with the energy” of nature—that’s a phrase care of Sheila. Pat and Gill (the funny British sisters) have been talking about a study showing that plants grow better if you’re nice to them. You should talk lovingly to them; plants that you swear at die. “The plant whisperer,” I said. Pat also said that plants taken care of by people who are depressive don’t grow as well as other plants. That might explain my rather bad luck with gardening in Topeka. Sheila mentioned a book called Eco-psychology; it’s an anthology, about 15 years old, that incorporates nature etc as spirituality.

When everyone finished eating and the conversation was loud, Shantum gently hit a fork against a glass, making it chime. He said, “This is the voice of the Buddha.” He explained, “The Buddha reminds you to come back to yourself,” as does the bell. “Anyway, blaah-blaah. Now we can go inside, upstairs, and blaah-blaah there.” We did just that, going upstairs to the Norbulingka Room, where we had “Strucks” with Sister Yeshe and a couple of Indian friends of hers whom I believe are Buddhist Dalits.

Although I’ve tried to suppress or ignore it, I have felt depressed since last night. It certainly hasn’t been as severe as my depression in Kansas customarily is, but I have had a sense of inferiority, a faint wish to be invisible, and a feeling of shame at being who I am. These are probably emotions that I’ve experienced all my life, but now that I’ve been meditating for several years, I’m more aware of such emotions and more inclined to observe them.

Sister Yeshe spoke to us about the Untouchable caste, because she is a member of an organization that helps the Untouchables and wants them to become Buddhists. She said, “Dalits do the worst kind of work, and atrocities happen to them every day.” She has been living in the slums, sleeping on the floor with a family of five. I was rather shocked that this still happens, especially on such a huge scale, in the twenty-first century.

“Slums and Buddhism go well together,” one of Yeshe’s friends pointed out, to our amusement.
The Untouchable, or Dalit, class is having a movement toward conversion to Buddhism, a movement that Doctor Ambeker, a contemporary of Gandhi, started more out of political than spiritual motivation. That is, Buddhism is casteless, and Ambeker came to the conclusion that in order to eliminate the Untouchable caste, Dalits had to give up Hinduism. To this day, Buddhist Dalits are trying to eliminate caste. Buddhism died out in India centuries ago, but this Dalit movement is helping to revive it, as is the large population of Tibetan refugees.

India is dominated by caste, and the information authorities have their own mindset. “It is embarrassing to some this is the state of India, especially around foreigners,” one of Yeshe’s Indian friends said.

“They’ve come a far way from where they were. The last president of India was a Dalit and was interested in Buddhism,” Shantum said.

Also, Shantum said, “They are the Indian sangha.” It seems to me like last year at Bodh Gaya he was dismissive of Dalit Buddhists, but I guess that was just some in particular, when we passed what looked like Theravada Buddhists and Shantum said that beggars can put on robes.
Tonight’s discussion really makes me want to read the book Untouchable, which I once checked out from the public library but didn’t get around to reading. Actually, I’d like to study up on Dalits in general, not necessarily just that book.

I was impressed with Yeshe and the causes that she works for: what amazing, compassionate, hard work. A self-absorbed part of my mind, however, became conscious that I am a truly useless human being. I grabbed onto that negative label and became acutely, painfully aware of being a totally useless and inadequate person. Another part of my mind harshly and scathingly chastised me for being so self-centered, so self-absorbed, as to think of such a thing. I should indeed forget about myself.

At some point far along in the discussion, we did our regular “Strucks.” Arturo said of the Children’s Village that it is a similar situation to the poverty and suffering in Spain. Someone mentioned Thich Nhat Hanh’s book Anger, which says that “the seed of violence or love and compassion is planted in children.” I scowled at the coffee table, thinking of my extremely unhappy childhood. I reminded myself that I’m in India and shouldn’t be so negative and gloomy here; I didn’t think I was capable of being depressed in India. Arturo also spoke of the impression these happy children, who have been displaced from Tibet, made. Sheila contrasted the children at the Tibetan Children’s Village with the children on the streets in Delhi.

Paula talked about the trek. She wasn’t sure she’d make it up the hill, and Jagdish had turned around and said, “Paula, stop thinking.”

Marsha turned to Yeshe and asked, “Why doesn’t India have compulsive education?”
Yeshe said, “It does. But it’s hard to keep it organized with over a billion people. There’s a baby born every two minutes. Under the circumstances, it’s amazing the country isn’t in total chaos.”
“And then there are these Australians moving into the country,” Shantum said, “adding to the population.” This was followed by much laughter.

Marsha pointed out, “She’s not having children,” which triggered more laughter.
When it was Inge’s turn, she said she was upset about “people sending their children away, until Paula said that’s what Jews did during the Holocaust.” The room was dead silent.
Etiel said, “Ever since I got into a plane to come here, I haven’t heard a child cry. I’ve seen many children all over.”

Stacy said, “You weren’t on my plane.”

Richard said that Shantum’s younger daughter was on the pilgrimage for the first ten days, and she never cried. I remembered the Dalit child crying in the dig, after we had stepped out of the Oracle’s temple. That may be the only time I’ve seen a child crying in India.

Mimi said, “The trek was about mindfulness, being in the present moment.” (I could have said the same thing). She “finally felt at home,” in part because she had a lack of fear.

I looked down at the coffee table and said, “During the trek, I didn’t use a mantra, but it was like meditation. You can’t be spacing off or daydreaming, when you’re carefully stepping on a bumpy rocky path or moving along a very narrow ledge of a mountain. The scenery was beautiful, and I remembered something I’d read about Shambhala, that it’s not a stereotypical paradise but rather it’s about being challenged and transformed…um, I thought the Oracle was bizarre—it was about ceremony and was just weird. And a cow steadily pushing past me reminded me of being in a crowd of monks, it was a gentle push.”

“A groovy group of people,” Yeshe said after we each spoke.

Sister Yeshe, a Western monastic herself, also works to help Western monastics, who come to India and are not supported and can’t stay in Tibetan monasteries. They often disrobe because of this lack of encouragement. Unlike Tibetans, they are not supported by the government, so they are in need of support. Yeshe told us that if a Westerner goes to a Tibetan monastery, they’re told, “Sorry, no accommodation, but you’re welcome to sponsor us.”

“Please leave your wallet. We’ll teach you about impermanence,” Gary said.

Richard sees the Dalai Lama’s teachings as esoteric, and not a lot of political struggle seems to be coming from his teachings. But, as Yeshe and Gary pointed out, he’s the most popular and successful refugee and has gotten people to notice Tibet and help refugees. Richard or someone spoke of organized religion as elaborate rather than meaningful; I could have added that power-tripping males use their organized religions as a tool to oppress others.

“What does karma mean? It means your life is in your hands,” Yeshe said. Theravada monks from Sri Lanka are the ones teaching Dalits, who want to go with the Theravada tradition, which is much like the Buddha’s own practice. It’s therefore the tradition that they’re into.

I’ve seen many ex-patriots in India. Last night there was the British young woman Richard was talking with at the restaurant about her activism with victims of torture. Then there was Yeshe tonight with her activism for Dalits and for Western monastics. Richard talked about this a bit during “Strucks”—some Westerners go and stay abroad for spiritual reasons, some for a political movement.

Part of my mind is full of the wonderful impression I get from the work people like Sister Yeshe are doing, and another part of my mind is disgusted with myself, my worthlessness and inadequacy, my utter dysfunction in human society. These are self-centered, selfish thoughts or feelings, but the truth is I have them, and rather than try to block them out, I should look at them straight in the eye and poke them with my foot. But I have my writing, and that is something that can help to change the world. I have nothing to offer except my art, my writing, and perhaps that is trivial, but whether or not it is, I should do what I can to get people to read my writings.

I also sense—certainly not for the first time—that I’m stupid and shallow and not very spiritual. So what if I can make Tibetan-style clothing? That’s no way to reach Enlightenment! On the other hand, I have to create art, including clothing as an art form; it’s what I’m capable of doing competently and compelled to do….even if I’ve had instructors who might disagree.

I’ve got a sore throat and had a cough yesterday; I definitely have a cold, which may be affecting my mood. Enid said this cold is because of the pollution in Delhi. I’m not the only one in our sangha who’s congested. Here there’s gasoline, probably diesel trucks, and open fires, but I don’t think Dharamsala has enough pollution to cause this congestion. But we were in Delhi for a day, and stuff gets into the respiratory system and takes a bit of time to be noticeable.

TPAC and Mc'llo's

We arrived in the evening at the Tibetan Performing Arts Center (TPAC) and followed the crowd into the auditorium, a theater with a slightly slanted floor facing a wide stage. The performance was apparently sold out, and the audience was almost entirely composed of Tibetans. We sat in two rows and I had no idea what to expect. The play turned out to be a sort of variety show, and a very professional one at that, like a Broadway musical in New York. Each skit, or whatever you call it, involved a chorus of singer/dancers, about half male and half female, wearing colorful and beautiful traditional Tibetan costumes from a specific region. In one skit, the women wore extremely long sleeves that hung way past their hands and they swung the sleeves around as part of the dancing. In another, men wore red fringed circular headdresses that I recalled seeing in the film Kundun. We must have seen just about every possible chupa, the traditional Tibetan jumper; in one region they only have one sleeve (so that it’s easier to use a bow and arrow), and in another region they have two long sleeves, and the kind of chupa that you normally see women wearing on an ordinary day, and which I was wearing, doesn’t have any sleeves. The dancing, acting, and singing were on a par with a musical you might see at any professional American theater. The performers didn’t generally speak lines but almost exclusively sang; however, one of the skits involved some dialogue that we didn’t understand because it was in Tibetan; the rest of the audience was delighted and laughed heartily at the jokes.

We went to Mc’llo’s for dinner; it is a very popular hang-out for Westerners and is located in the heart of the central square of Dharamsala. When the cat’s away, the mice will play. Shantum is at a wedding two and a half hours away and won’t be back till lat, maybe tomorrow morning. I saw few Tibetans or Indians, but unlike at an American restaurant, the tables were very close together. We followed Jagdish up a staircase to the second floor of the restaurant; the bottom floor is quiet and sedate in comparison. The restaurant upstairs was somewhat dark, and large star-shaped paper lanterns hung over all the tables. The outer walls were almost completely windows, overlooking the main square, of which Rachel said, “It’s like Times Square, or Piccadilly Circus.”
Paula said, “But without the neon signs.”

The tables were crowded close together, and next to Richard, at the next table inches away, was a British woman who works at the Tibetan library and has been here since November; she also is part of the organization Free Tibet, which she said is going well. She explained that winter is the only time that Tibetans can escape across the border, because there are fewer Chinese guards. Indians and Indian organizations have been giving a lot of support for the Tibetan cause. The British woman mentioned the Tibetan Center for Human Rights and Democracy. She and Rachel have both lived in London and Swansea. There was indeed a demonstration in the square before we got to TPAC. It involved a megaphone, the flag of Tibet draped over a building’s outer wall, and monks handing out white candles.

The restaurant has loud Western rock music playing; Peter Gabriel was singing “Sledgehammer” as we left. Between the music and the conversation, it was very hard to understand what anyone was saying, and the only one who understood me was Rachel, since she was next to me on my left. Sometimes she’d repeat my response to others, since my voice is hopeless. Actually, Richard might have understood me—he sat straight across from me.
Most of the group drank alcohol, which weirds me out after last year’s pilgrimage with the all-Buddhist and distinctly anti-alcohol sangha. This sangha passed around several bottles of beer called Sandpiper, and Richard has discovered a whiskey called Royal Challenge. It must be a royal challenge to endure the burning sensation as that liquid goes down your throat. Yuck. I pulled out this notebook, and Rachel, who sat to the left of me, said, “Everybody stop talking! Susan’s writing everything we say!” We’ve had a lot of joking around about Shantum not being here. “When we’re at Strucks, she’ll pull out her notebook, and say, ‘Shantum, you won’t believe what happened while you were away…’”

Earlier, Richard and Rachel et al made comments like, “Shantum’s at a wedding. He’ll probably get drunk.”
“I’ll bet he’s smoking.”
“He’s smoking pot. He’s doing LSD at the wedding.”
“Oh, no, no!” I said, appalled but simultaneously amused, if that’s possible.
“I think he’s done with those days,” Richard said. Oh, yeah, majorly!

I wonder if anyone’s going to the Dalai Lama’s teachings with a hangover tomorrow morning.
We all ordered Tibetan food, which turned out to be a big bowl of noodles with veggies, like chives and carrots, and a side dish of momos. We were packed into a corner, and Kathy ended up at the other table (although she was inches away from me) and talked with a guy on her other side. In the taxi on the bumpy and fast ride back to Cloud’s End or Cloud Nine, as John called it, Kathy said she was practically sitting on the guy’s lap, and that he must have been thinking: “This is like my mother sitting on my lap.” She added, “Sometimes I forget that I’m fifty and someone else is twenty-five.” Yeah, sometimes it’s hard to remember I’m not a twelve-year-old. It’s weird being so much younger than the rest of the group. Oh well. Actually, I don’t usually have a sense of age gap.

Now that I'm alone in my room at the guesthouse, I feel horrible, so unlike I felt on the pilgrimage last year. My usual inferiority complex has come with me on the trip, although of course it’s not as overwhelming as it is in Kansas. I don’t know, it might be in part because we aren’t doing the forty-five minute meditations that we did just about every morning on the pilgrimage last year. I’ve been awake since three am and it’s a bit after 10—I have so got to get some sleep. And I’m a bit on the grumpy side. I think I’ll always be a total freak and a total reject, no matter where I go. Nobody will ever like me.

Kansas after London

After I got back to Topeka, Aunt Heinrich Himmler invaded my house, and I should have known better than to say anything against her precious Kansas, even a criticism of the weather. Actually, she showed up about an hour after I got home, and she was soon followed by some of my local cousins, even though I really wanted to be alone. I said, “I’m finding it harder to adjust to the weather than to the time change. I’ve gotten accustomed to temperatures typically in the sixties.” She actually claimed that Kansas is a great place to live, and she said to go ahead and complain about the weather and such, because then people won’t move here, won’t know what a “wonderful place” it supposedly is. The only reason behind this that she actually expressed is the cleaner air in Kansas, something that she mentioned after I had said I occasionally blew my nose and saw black spots on my tissue. The majority of Kansans, like Aunt Heinrich Himmler, eagerly vote for politicians who are out to destroy the environment; as usual, her psychotic delusions are the height of absurdity. You can have your hellhole, and eat it too. Topeka pollutes the mind, the heart, and the soul. It is a fascist hellhole, a cultural wasteland, and an intellectual graveyard. Fortunately for me, however, I have books and Internet access and have turned my house into a one-woman artist commune. I may be in Topeka physically, but I am rarely here otherwise. Big cities have a reputation for being alienating and lonely places, but in St. Louis I was never as alienated as I am in Topeka.

This encounter took place in my house only an hour or two after I arrived from my trip. Not only Aunt Heinrich Himmler, but also a few other local relatives dropped in, and I would have been exhausted after traveling without having alienating relatives in my house. One of them is a teenage boy who was picking on his sister. Cooties. It all felt so invasive and inappropriate for them to come to my house when I had just got back from a vacation that my sister ruined and I desperately wanted to be alone. When they left, I hastily bolted the door, feeling deeply depressed. Relatives are an abomination.