Arrival in Dharamsala

Monkeys watching traffic from the side of the road, in the Himalayan foothills

During our drive through the mountains or rather foothills, Shantum’s car had a flat tire, so pulled over in front of what I guess was an auto repair shop, and we had to wait for a bit. I wasn’t bored. Some boys out front were attempting to fix a bicycle. As we waited and chatted in the car (and probably made some jokes that I’ve failed to jot down), a couple of Hindu guys walked by along the side of the street. They were dressed identically in white kurtas and dhotis and bright blue turbans, and they had identical bushy beards. Jamie commented on them; maybe they were brothers.

After this interlude, we rode up and up and up. We passed, of all things, an amusement park that was under construction. Sometimes the United States doesn’t seem like a fabulous influence on other parts of the world; you know, malls, guns, nuclear weapons. But I digress. The amusement park is for tourists coming up to Dharamsala, although it’s hard for me to believe that people interested in Dharamsala would be into amusement parks; they’ve never amused me. Furthermore, this amusement park doesn’t improve the scenery. Did the Dalai Lama approve of this? Who knows. Maybe there’ll be a haunted house shaped like a three-dimensional mandala and with hungry ghosts leaping out unexpectedly. And it will have to include something inspired by yetis and snow lions. OK, I’m downright nauseated now.

We stopped up on a mountain, in an area that included a few shops and the occasional colorful truck passing by. To the right of the road, down below, was a river, and directly at the side of the road were monkeys that sat and watched traffic go by; they moved their heads back and forth as if they were watching a tennis match in a cartoon.

We rode past rows and rows of little shops and countless pedestrians, mostly Tibetan, including monks and nuns. The road became a very narrow curving path, and sometimes we passed a sea of red robes. I was afraid the taxi would hit a monk or nun, but somehow it didn’t happen. I often looked downward into the valley, and it was excessively steep! Foothills or not, by most people’s standards these are full-size mountains. It’s no wonder I felt so dizzy. I looked down into the swooping valley and saw very green terraced fields and a few buildings.

We had been riding for a long time, when we came to a village setting. Stores packed right next to each other lined the sides of the narrow road. Indians bustled about their business, and I was struck by all the bright colors, thanks to the painted buildings, the merchandise (I saw at least one fabric store), and of salwar-kamiz on the women walking by and barely looking at us. No doubt the locals are very accustomed to Western tourists.

Finally, the taxis stopped in a drive in front of a house in the woods, at the top of a mountain. We got out and met a very friendly, big black dog. I had my Indian book bag and my backpack handy but still had enough hands to pet the dog. I admired the trees around us and saw some vestiges of older architecture. Along a sort of ledge was a low stone wall, and in front of it some old columns lay on the ground, amid the leaves. I looked up at the house itself, Cloud’s End, the Maharani’s and Maharaja’s summer home and guest house. The house itself is a bungalow that looks like it could have been an add-on, and it has additional buildings out in the back courtyard. Out front, the Maharaja himself greeted us along with at least a couple of his servants. The Maharaja wore a lavender hand-quilted coat with red trim and local cylindrical hat that was off-white with green trim. Shantum introduced him and explained that he was an old school friend at Dehra Dunn. The Maharaja corrected good-humoredly, “Or perhaps school enemy.”

I gawked when I got up to the regal room that I’m sharing with Enid. The doors to the room are glass doors framed in a dark wood and flanked by matching windows that filled that section of wall. To my left was a small shelf, sort of like a deep wainscoting, along the wall, and then a desk and chair, and next to that a stone fireplace, and then a sideboard with, among other things, a platter containing bottles of water and two glasses. In the center of the room, facing me, was a very large bed, and next to it was a nightstand; on the other side of the nightstand was a door.

A corner of my room at the guesthouse

To the right, there was a charming nook full of bookshelves, and another ledge along the wall, but this one was covered with paperback books. Below it was a very low silver settee with a big cushion and accented with very colorful patchwork cotton pillows. In front of this was an equally low coffee table. All of the furniture looked antique, from the nineteenth or early twentieth century. The only light sources in this luxuriously decorated room were a lantern hanging from the center of the ceiling, a small lamp on the nightstand, and another small lamp on the desk. Despite all the books, the nook had no light source.

The door and windows of my room

Beyond the large and ornate room was a very small bedroom with a wardrobe facing a Victorian dressing table, and in the far corner was a small and simple bed, in sharp contrast with the big regal room. A door next to the dressing table led to the white porcelain bathroom. It has a slanted roof and is basically a lean-to, and in the far corner is a small bathtub for bucket baths. After asking Enid if she’d mind, I took a squatting shower and was delighted that the water was very hot. That’s something you can never take for granted when you travel to the other side of the world.

Shantum had announced that lunch would be at 2:45 at the Snow Lion Restaurant, Hotel Tibet, in Dharamsala. We walked there, and it was good to be walking after sitting in a car. Inside the restaurant, I sat at the end of a long table in the far corner, and I was close to an open window. Despite my dizziness, I was compelled to pause by the window and look out at the fascinating mountain view. We were very high up, and the mountains descended and disappeared below. We ate vegetable rice, noodles, roti (bread, like pita bread), veggie balls (made of ginger and cabbage), all after a tofu soup. Also soupy mushrooms and greens. We drank ginger lemon tea afterwards. Throughout the meal, I talked with Etiel, who was trying to figure out if we’d get along well enough to be roommates in Tibet. I felt dizzy and nauseous throughout the meal, but I didn’t think it was worth mentioning and assumed it was because of the ride through the mountains. I also assumed it would fade soon enough.

While we were still inside the same building as the restaurant, out in the hall waiting as people took turns using the loo, Samaya asked me how I was feeling, and I said I’m dizzy and was also nauseas earlier, but now I’m only dizzy. She said, “You’re looking very pale.” I smiled and said, “That’s normal.”

She said, “I know you’re usually pale, but you’re more so today. It’s probably altitude sickness.” Etiel said, “You definitely weren’t this pale in Delhi.” Meanwhile, I was surprised that they’d noticed I was feeling ill, just by observing me. I hadn’t told anyone how I was feeling and had assumed it was from the movement of driving and driving around and around on the mountain; I had been too focused on the breathtaking scenery and didn’t want queasiness to spoil the bliss. Samaya suggested I tell Shantum how I’m feeling and ask him to get us altitude sickness pills. So in a few minutes I had an opportunity and asked Shantum. He knit his brow in concern and said he’d stop at the pharmacy in just a bit. So after we got outdoors and started the tour, Shantum asked who all was having altitude sickness, and it was only about three people. I seem to be the worst case, and I’m the one who plans on going to Tibet! Like a hypochondriac, I have to admit I enjoyed the attention; however, since the altitude had such a strong effect on me, I thought I was a wimp. Shantum went into the pharmacy and came out with circular orange pills and gave me the packet.

“You take three a day,” he said. “Do you have water?” “No, I’m out,” I said, shaking my big empty bottle. Shantum held out his own plastic bottle, took a sip and asked me if I could drink from the bottle without touching it, and I smiled and said, “Sure.” “Take the pill now and I’ll give you some water,” Shantum said.

With my gloved finger, I fumbled as I attempted to open the package, so Shantum opened it and handed me the pill. I swallowed it and he held the water above my head and tilted my head back, and I gulped down some water as it fell into my mouth. We did this a second time in the center of the crowd, in the middle of the street. With the second gush of water into my mouth, I placed my hand over my lips and had trouble swallowing because I was on the verge of laughter.

As we started to move on, a couple of people asked me for an altitude pill, and I let them each take one. Manny said he didn’t feel quite right but wasn’t entirely sure it was altitude sickness.

The central square in Dharamsala, with many monks

Shantum gave us a walking tour of Dharamsala, or Macleod Ganj, as this mountain is called. In the bustling crowd, mostly pedestrians but also some white cars, we followed along, gawking at the other pedestrians and the shops. At least I was gawking; I’m sure everyone else was so much more sophisticated than me, the youngest in the group. We moved through the crowd, with Shantum showing us particular restaurants and hang-outs, and I was mesmerized by the store fronts displaying colorful shawls and other fabric; statues and ritual tools; thangkas and just about anything else. Someone wandered into a store and got behind, so Jagdish stayed with him. We paused in the street, waiting for them to return, and I noticed an old Tibetan woman selling yak wool shawls, so I bought a burgundy one for only 250 rupees; that’s about five U. S. dollars. I finished up just as the group started moving on. I hugged the folded-up shawl for the rest of the walk, with the wool against my face; it’s so warm and smells like a cow. A clean cow. I had myself a security blanket. We briefly stopped to look at merchandise, and merchants spoke to us, but we knew this wasn’t the time to do hardcore shopping. I was amazed at the sight of monkeys walking on telephone wires overhead. It was like a circus act, tightrope-walking monkeys.

Shantum led us to a bookstore and went in to quickly get us the Wisdom Publications edition of the Tibetan version of the Dhammapada, which is the main text that the Dalai Lama will be using in his teachings this week. As it turned out, there were only thirteen copies left, and they were photocopies. So Shantum led us to another bookstore, which he described as the finest one here, but it was closed. That bookstore was just to the right of a narrow lane leading up to the restaurant where we’ll have lunch tomorrow. Shantum explained how to get up to it and then we walked to the temple where the Dalai Lama gives his teachings.

I doubt we’ll get a chance to walk up to the Dalai Lama, bow, and exchange greeting scarves with him, but you never know. If he’s as tall as his waxwork figure at Madam Tussaud’s, I’d have to stand on tip-toe and stretch to get the scarf over his head. I hope I don’t stumble, fall on the Dalai Lama, and give him a heart attack. I don’t seriously anticipate meeting the Dalai Lama; it’s more important for other people to meet him, particularly Tibetans who have risked their lives and possibly lost toes to frostbite by walking out of Tibet.

The temple is a large, predominantly white and blockish building with several balconies. On a long veranda down below, a throne is draped in yellow fabric. That is where the Dalai Lama sits for the teachings. In front of it was the area we walked around, a courtyard with various pillows and pieces of fabric lying on top of a huge sheet or tarpaulin. Sections were cordoned off, one for Tibetans, and one for foreigners, and they were labeled with pieces of paper attached to the cords. Here and there I saw clusters of string hanging from the cords; the string was yellow or red or multicolored.

We walked past a many-tiered building that Shantum explained is monks’ quarters. I looked up, and on the third floor balcony stood two red-clad monks who smiled down at us and waved. I grinned and waved back, as did many of us. It was getting quite dark by that time.

We climbed into white cars, after visiting the Dalai Lama’s temple, and we headed down the mountain to have “Strucks” and dinner at Cloud’s End Villa, the Raj’s guest house where about fifteen of us are staying. We went into a living room with a dais, where Shantum was seated on the center front, and I settled down next to him after taking off my coat.

I was feeling very dizzy again, so after we meditated, I covered my new red bag with my new red coat, lay my head down, and used my new red shawl as a blanket, with my feet facing Shantum. I didn’t think about the Indian tradition of not facing your feet toward your teacher; it is a sign of disrespect, which I totally didn’t mean. Shantum massaged my feet and my top leg during “Strucks.” In hindsight, I should perhaps have gone ahead and taken another altitude sickness pill at about that time, but I was out of water to wash it down.

“Does anybody have a bungee cord?” Richard asked. He’s Paula the Rabbi’s husband, who practices both Judaism and Buddhism. “Richard wants to leap into the valley,” Rachel said. Now I can’t remember the real reason he wanted a bungee cord.

When it came my turn to speak, Shantum said I didn’t have to, but I sat up and spoke anyway. I said, “Despite feeling dizzy and nauseas, I was mesmerized by the scenery as we moved up the mountain, and I wanted to be like a many-headed deity so that I could see all around. Also, the monkeys sitting at the side of the road were watching the traffic and turned their heads like they were watching a tennis match. Later, I was fascinated by the stores with colorful fabric and statues.”

Gill, one of the two British sisters, said, “I wouldn’t mind if all I got out of this journey is the company of such a wonderful group of people and the scenery.”

I skipped dinner and went to my room, took another altitude sickness pill, took a shower and changed for bed. I have been writing in my journal since. After Enid, my roommate, got back, a servant brought her a dish of brown pudding in a tray and it looked alluring, so I asked about it. Enid said it was dessert and asked if I want some, and I said, “Sure!” So the servant (all of them are male) soon came back with a dish for me. It was warm and a little spicy, and I realized it was halwa.

The Raj stopped by and asked, “Is someone not feeling well?” He was concerned because I wasn’t at dinner. I said, “I wasn’t hungry—we had a late lunch, and I’m not used to eating so much.” I didn’t mention the altitude sickness.

He asked if we wanted the space heater on, and we enthusiastically replied in the affirmative. The room was definitely chilly. I had noticed the space heater earlier, on the floor near the desk, and the electric cord was draped over the back of the desk chair. I unwrapped it and looked around for an outlet, and the Raj took the plug and approached an outlet on the cabinet next to the desk. My Tandem stuffed toy owl, Dewey, was on the desk, sort of in the way, and I giggled as I picked it up and moved it. The Raj plugged in the space heater and, looking bewildered at the toy owl, said, “What is this?”

I said, “It’s an owl,” with another giggle. Before Enid had gone to dinner, we agreed to take turns sleeping in each of the two beds, because the double bed in the big room looks more comfy than the little bed in the smaller room attached to the bathroom. Enid decided to let me get the big bed tonight, probably because of my altitude sickness. I picked Dewey up off the small bed and had said, “Just so you know, I didn’t bring this to use it as a teddy bear.”

“Are you going to take pictures of it in different places?”

“Wow! Yes, how did you know?” She explained that earlier on the trip, a school teacher had been doing the same thing for her class, with a stuffed toy frog, to teach them geography. I’m glad; a large portion of the group will not be weirded out by my behavior. Well, at least not my weird behavior concerning the owl.

It’s a little after 12:30 am. I’ve had some sleep, wrapped up in the yak wool shawl under the sheet, blanket, and bedspread, but I’ve woken to a very loud downpour accompanied by thunder. The rain is beating heavily against the roof—similar to the sound of a hailstorm in Kansas. Really, this weather is like Kansas in the spring. Weird! I totally didn’t expect this.

I Saw the Dalai Lama!

The veranda of the Dalai Lama's temple. The yellow fabric is draped over the throne where the Dalai Lama sits during his talks.

Last night the rain was torrential and thundery and loud and the electricity went out, so I wrote a little in my journal and wrote five post cards…by flashlight, while I was under the covers, since the space heater of course wasn’t working. I even draped my new yak wool shawl over the bed as an extra blanket, so I did rather well. Anyway, sometimes the thunder would stop or even the rain would stop, and I’d be convinced that I’d go to sleep soon. But it would start back up again.

I put on my Tibetan chupa today. It’s made of heavy dark blue cotton with a cotton Thai-style wrap-around blouse of a dull grey cotton made interesting by strips of metallic silver threat and strips of turquoise chenille woven in with the grey cotton.

This is one of the buildings at the guesthouse, Cloud's End.

Those of us who are staying at Cloud’s End had breakfast in the dining hall, which has a beautiful but cold white marble floor and an impressive fireplace with an ancient stele on the wall over the mantle. This particular building is recent and hopefully will someday have more furnishings and pictures in the big, cold and echoic room.

For breakfast, I was a bit surprised the food was very Western. There was toast and jelly, oatmeal or cornflakes (I had oatmeal), and a bowl of fruit—I had an orange and a little banana, which I broke up into pieces and mixed in my oatmeal, though I still wished it had some cinnamon. I also had a glass of orange juice and a cup of chai. Though I ate heartily, I would rather have rice, dhal, and chapatti for breakfast. John said, “It’s funny how they think we want to eat the same American food that we normally avoid at home.”

This is the fireplace in the dining room at Cloud's End

Here I am on a straw mat, waiting near the gate through which the Dalai Lama steps and it turns out that we were supposed to have a radio in order to listen to the teachings in English; I had assumed the radios were passed out when you got to the gate or someplace. Now I’m feeling terribly stupid and embarrassed—I won’t understand a word for the two morning hours—but hopefully I can dash in someplace that sells small radios with headphones. A couple people said it was in an e-mail, and they added that it was an e-mail that came rather late, but I looked out for every e-mail from Buddha Path and didn’t read anything about “Remember to bring a radio with headphones.”

However, Richard said that just yesterday Shantum had mentioned radios and a few people went into a store to buy them. And I as usual didn’t have my head screwed on properly! I had altitude sickness and was gawking at Tibetans, monkeys, and fabric and stuff in shop windows. Fabric is so much prettier than an ordinary radio. So there I was, completely oblivious when I could have gone into a shop with the others and gotten a radio. I’ll just blame the altitude sickness, even though this sounds like my usual stupidity. Given Samaya’s comment about how pale I was looking, I may have been sicker than I wanted to believe. And coming to think of it, given that my nephew has been diagnosed with ADD, it’s very likely that I also have it. But that’s just making excuses for being a total loser.

Marsha offered to go with me for a radio at the beginning of lunch break, and we’ll meet up with Shantum and the Dharma Bums at Chonor House, the restaurant that Shantum indicated last night. Conveniently, Marsha remembers where it was. I’m so glad she’s willing and even happy to do this. It’s amazing how scatterbrained I can be. It’s like I’m the high-maintenance sangha member on this trip, even though I’m normally totally independent and a loner. Ironic. You’d think that after a few years of practicing meditation I’d be less scatter-brained.

Monks are chanting, the crowd is getting bigger and bigger and so I’m sharing my mat with a couple of Tibetan women. Crows are cawing and birds chirping overhead. Sometimes it starts to rain but then it decides not to and now the sun is starting to actually beam—I should put on some sunscreen….

I just saw the Dalai Lama from just about a yard away!! Some monks came through the gate, one carrying a large metal bowl smoking with incense, and behind them walked an old monk holding something mostly yellow and stick-like, probably a rolled-up thangka, and right behind him came the Dalai Lama, who grinned and patted the monk in front of him heartily on the back. I grinned, and many people laughed. I watched the Dalai Lama go forward slowly. He smiled and waved at various members of the crowd. Eventually I couldn’t see him, and a bunch of red- and brown-robed Tibetans walked behind him. I was grinning as silly as can be and had a warm and fuzzy blissed-out feeling.

I looked forward, suddenly aware of much movement in the crowd as people turned to the right to face the temple instead of the walkway. I looked up and saw many red-clad monks standing on the temple’s balcony. The balcony itself is painted a bright yellow and has bright red banners, trimmed with black and yellow, strung all the way across on both levels so it was a festive display of red and yellow. Now the monks are seated, I think facing away from us and chanting. Many monks are chanting. It’s a soothing sound. I might meditate while the Dalai Lama is speaking, since I don’t have a radio. It’ll be rather different this afternoon—hopefully—when I’ll hopefully have a radio at last. What a total flake.

2
Yesterday Etiel said that she’s decided she didn’t want to go to Tibet after all, because she’d like to stay a little longer in Dharamsala. I smiled and said, “When it’s not such a madhouse.” But I hoped it wasn’t because of my personality. I’ve been flaky as usual, of course. On the bright side, I’ll have no roommate, so I’ll have some solitude and do quite a bit of yoga and meditation in the hotel rooms, even if it’s only in the evenings.

I lucked out with the radio situation: the Dalai Lama was just chanting all morning, and Richard and I followed along in his copy of the English translation of the Tibetan Dhammapada.
We went to Chonor House for lunch. As I headed for a table on the balcony to set down my paraphernalia, I passed Shantum, who said with a smile, “Fancy dress, huh, Susan?”
I said, “Yeah, I’m in costume!” even though I didn’t feel like I was in costume and have worn this chupa to work many times. My coworkers are accustomed to my weird clothing.

The hilltop restaurant had a simple buffet of Chinese/Tibetan food, but some of us had to use the toilet first. We stood in line downstairs, but someone said another toilet was upstairs, so Sheila, Shantum and I went upstairs and stood in a line almost as long. However, as we went up the stairs, we were treated to many beautiful framed embroidery and appliqué pictures, mostly Tibetan. A large appliquéd Tibetan flag hung over the stairs. While waiting in line, I commented on the beautiful needlework and took a better look at a couple of the works of art, some hanging above a couch. As I did so, I noticed a mala lying on the back of the couch; it was mostly wooden beads but with two pale blue glass beads and one silver skull-shaped bead. I said, “Oh, look, someone left their mala! In a manic goofy mood, I added, “Well, gee, if they don’t come back for it, then finders keepers!”

Sheila said, cheerfully rather than sternly, “No, no, bad karma!” Duh.

“Oh, yeah, I guess you have a point.” I wasn’t even thinking about the precept that includes not taking anything that isn’t freely given, despite my having done the Mindfulness Trainings. Incorrigible! Maybe I should stop picking pennies up off the pavement. Whatever I do, I need to banish thoroughly all thoughts that are simply repeats of things my mother said throughout my childhood, such as “Finders keepers.” Question authority! Such comments have been, I suppose, stamped on my memory. I felt rather foolish despite my euphoria. Nonetheless, I was still concerned about whether the person who lost the misplaced mala would come back to get it.
Sheila reassured me, “They’ll come back for it.”

“Are you sure they’ll figure out where they left it?” I asked, looking at the beads and picturing someone running up the stairs for them. I wondered how long they had lain on the back of the couch.

While Sheila was in the restroom, it occurred to me that, if nothing else, an employee would find the beads and give them to someone who’s poor. I remembered the pushy beggars on the steps as we went up to the restaurant. When Sheila came out of the bathroom, I said, “Hey, do you think an Indian beggar would like a mala? Just kidding!”
Sheila said in a comic voice and with a wagging finger, “Ah, you funny girl!”

We had lunch on a balcony with a fabulous view overlooking the valley; we could also see the monastery and monks moving like ants on the balconies of a large white monastery on a hillside. I had tea, rice, stir fry broccoli and pink carrots, rosemary potatoes, and stir fry cabbage. I sat with Sheila, Samaya, and Shantum, who sat down after we had already scooted the chairs so that none had their back to the amazing mountainous view. Shantum asked, “Why are the chairs arranged like this?” Samaya and Sheila explained that it was for the view.

The conversation at some point turned to Shantum’s kids, who seem very well-behaved when we’re around. Samaya asked if they’re “really as perfect as they seem around visitors.” Shantum said that the older one (Nandini) is very good, “but the younger one has been acting like a brat.” I was a bit surprised at such a harsh judgment coming from Shantum.
Sheila asked, “How old is she?”
“She’s three,” Shantum said.
“Well, you see, that’s why.”
“She contracted lice,” Shantum said. He went on to explain that she’s been fussy and scratchy because she had lice. Well, it’s no wonder! While we were at the Seth house, she had a couple of times flopped down on Shantum’s lap and he had held her while he was talking. She definitely did not come across as a brat.

During our lunch break, Marsha asked around for a radio at Chonor House. It was great having her take care of me; she wasn’t timid about speaking up. Shantum let me use a spare radio, a small and simple one with an antenna. Rachel let me use her headphones, but I have to return them by tonight. Shantum confirmed with Kathy that I could use her extra set of headphones, which she didn’t have with her but could lend me later, at Cloud’s End. It was rather crazy, but at last, I have a radio and headphones to use throughout the Dalai Lama’s talks.

Everyone has been your mother in a previous life…seems like everyone in this sangha has been my mother.

3
During the Dalai Lama’s afternoon talk, he told the Jataka Tale about the lioness and cubs, how she was about to eat them out of desperation, and that particular incarnation of Siddhartha Gautama—or the Bodhisattva, as his previous incarnations are called in the Jataka Tales—plunged to his death so the lion could eat him instead of her babies. It was about generosity. Still, it doesn’t truly put me in the mood to jump off a cliff so a lion and her cubs can eat. Really, I have a great deal of writing to do in this lifetime, and I think that’s what’s kept me from committing suicide even during my most despairing moments. Practicing generosity, the Dalai Lama points out, is benefiting yourself. Sure, it feels good to help others and to in the process forget \about my lame ass self; generosity takes away depression. Sharing, generosity, almsgiving—such as getting some tea and powdered milk to donate to the monks and nuns who are serving the crowd during the Dalai Lama’s talks. They walk around carrying big teapots, and Marsha noticed that some people give them donations of tea boxes and powdered milk. It’s butter tea and I didn’t bring my tumbler, but I can bring it next time and find some tea to donate.

I’ve been experiencing a lot of generosity on this retreat. The group waited for me at Gandhi Smriti, and everyone’s been helping me out: with the radio, altitude pills, tissues to use in the bathroom, Enid letting me use the nice bed on the first night, Samaya telling me I look pale and suggesting I ask Shantum to stop at a pharmacy, everyone looking out for me and making room for me. Of course, I can’t forget to include Jagdish getting my taxi driver’s attention, jumping into the cab, and giving me a hug. I really needed that; it was the right moment. It’s as if everyone in the sangha is indeed my mother. While we were at Shantum’s house, he said, “Your body is my body. We should be not only a collection of individuals, but a sangha, interconnected with each other as a whole.”

But part of my brain is telling me that I should also help out sangha members, and I haven’t so far. I don’t know what to do to help. Maybe I’ve never been anyone’s mother in a previous life... with the one possible exception of cats. I’m nurturing with cats, if nothing else.
Leaving, the Dalai Lama waved in the direction of the crowd where I was. I waved back and happily smiled. Despite my seeming uselessness, I certainly felt euphoric, thanks to the Dalai Lama. While the crowd was getting up, Etiel got my attention from behind a railing and soon I was also with Lynn. She was on my side of the railing, so we spoke first and moved toward the railing, to wait out the crowd for a bit. Samaya and Sheila and Mimi were also there, and I agreed to go to a coffee shop with them. The Dalai Lama’s talk ended at three, so we had an hour before the English language translator’s talk in the Kalachakra Hall, at the Dalai Lama’s temple (we’re there now, as I write this).

The crowd leaving the teachings was congested. The crowd gently pushed us along at a remarkably slow pace and we held onto each other, forming a sort of chain. I mentioned my claustrophobia before it hit me for real—we had no personal space, no path through the crowd, only an ocean of people oozing out of the temple’s courtyard and down the path out onto the road, which was packed with people. Mostly red-clad monks surrounded us. I warned Sheila, who was right in front of me, “If my claustrophobia drives me crazy, I could be screaming and shoving everyone out of the way.” She laughed with me and expressed gratitude for the warning, and I added, “Not that I would really shove a bunch of monks around. Sounds like bad karma.”

We had moved through the crowd, through the street, till we had some breathing room, and Samaya said, “It’s three-thirty.” We only had half an hour before the next talk! So we turned and headed back, since it would take a long time to return to the temple, but on the way we stopped for big skeins of blessing strings and for mala beads before we got back to the temple.

4
At four pm, we attended the Dalai Lama’s translator’s talk in the Kalachakra Hall. It was back at the temple and in the center of the second floor. We went up a flight of stairs and turned left, and then we passed a hall in which someone was teaching a crowd in the Tibetan language. Outside the double doors leading into the Kalachakra Hall were shoe racks, and we took off our shoes and lined them up on the wooden racks before setting foot inside the big thangka-decorated hall. The room has several columns that, like the walls, display colorful thangkas, Tibetan Buddhist hangings framed in brocade. The floors are covered with cloth, which in turn is covered with meditation cushions. Everyone goes in and picks a cushion, and we sat along one wall, closer to the back than the front. The Dalai Lama’s translator, a younger monk in red robes, appeared at the front of the hall, and some people bowed and scraped and he told them that wasn’t necessary. He fortunately used a microphone and spoke very clear English in a pleasant voice. In fact, his is the same voice speaking English on the radio during the Dalai Lama’s talks. The following are the notes that I took during the talk.

He gave a very eloquent and engaging talk about the four noble truths. He also talked at some length about being devoid of inherent existence, which basically means that something is made of a bunch of things that come together, and a thing or a person is constantly changing so you can’t put your finger on what this thing or this person is. He talked about mental fabrications, such as someone having a hallucination and describing a flower that’s supposedly sitting on a table; one person describes the imaginary flower differently than do other people.

He said, “Say you’re dreaming. You’re so hungry you dream about eating food, suppose someone says wait here, and all this food disappears. This obsession with food doesn’t go away when you wake up. Wherever did it go? It was just a dream, it wasn’t real, it was a part of your own mind. It appears that dream food is real food. Everything you see around you is nothing but a dream. But don’t think that we’re dreaming now. You do exist, but in a different way than you think you exist. There is a gap between appearance and reality. In reality, there is no such thing as solid and independent; as soon as you wake up, you have no such attachments to the dream. When you face reality, obsession disappears.”

Recommended reading:
Dalai Lama: How to See Yourself as You Really Are
By Nagajuna:
Fundamental Wisdom of the Middle Way
Precious Garland
Supplement to the Middle Way
Commentary on Bodhicitta
Ocean of Wisdom: Commentary on Nagajuna’s Wisdom of the Middle Way

5
Taxi Ride
In the taxi back to the guest house, I was in the front seat, clinging to the “Holy Mary handle” as my brother has called it, a bar on the roof by the window. This was after attending the Dalai Lama’s translator’s talk. It was a terrifying ride. Looking through the windshield, I kept thinking the driver would hit other taxis or pedestrians or bikers. When we were driving close to the ledge—the passenger’s seat was on the left, and until then I only sat on the right side in back. And so there was a sheer cliff just to my left, and I kept expecting to fall off. Fortunately, lively conversation took place in the back seat, and I was frequently turned to look at the other passengers, Shantum, Samaya, and Sheila. Gee, we all have names that begin with “S.”

The conversation had to do with among other things Vajrayana (or Tantric) Buddhism, which Shantum described as having “a lot of mumbo jumbo.” Like me, he considers compassion and lovingkindness more important than knowing how to do esoteric Tantric stuff. Furthermore, he’s quite skeptical about Vajrayana but then pointed out that Nicky, a Tibetan Buddhist monk from the USA, whom we’d be meeting tonight, has quite a different attitude and knows more about it.

Shantum’s also critical (for good reason!) of monks, at least in the Tibetan tradition. Sheila—or was it Marsha?—mentioned a friend who was caught off guard by a monk (I interpreted this as rape, but it may have been “only” harassment or attempted rape), which she totally didn’t see coming simply because he was a “monk.” Generalizing, Shantum pointed out that “Monks are nasty” and that “They’re boys in robes.” In the Tibetan tradition, they can start out in a monastery when they’re five years old, and they study to be monks without necessarily being especially spiritual, and eventually they might decide to not be a monk, now that they’ve been educated for nothing else and are a burden on their parents. Yeah, I remembered the book Being a Buddhist Nun when the subject of monks as sexual predators came up.

When we arrived at Cloud’s End, other white cars were already parked and a tall Caucasian monk in red Tibetan robes stood by one of the taxis, and Shantum said, “Nicky’s already here.” We got out of the car, much to my relief, and Shantum apologized for being late, but Nicky said he only just got here. Samaya and I introduced ourselves and shook hands with him, and we all went in. I went to my room in order to use the bathroom before going to the meeting, and Enid was already in there. (At dinner I learned she had gone to the room and spent the afternoon there to have some solitude.) She said, “Do you know who Nicky Breeland is?”
I said, “He’s the Buddhist monk we just met in the driveway.”

As we headed for the door, Enid explained that his mother was a major Vogue Magazine editor who coined the line, “Pink is India’s navy blue,” a comment that I recognized. We were both struck by the contrast between a Vogue editor and a Buddhist monk, one so worldly and the other so not.

“What could be more frivolous than a fashion magazine?” I said. “Actually, I say that even though I find fashion interesting from an aesthetic perspective.”
Enid said, “I like fashion. It’s really interesting.”
“I don’t like it in a let’s-promote-anorexia sort of way, but just in an artistic sort of way.” I could have added, as Ani DiFranco has sung of the fashion industry, “Women should be allies, not competitors,” referring to an attitude that the fashion industry promotes. I set my own fashions rather than follow them; sometimes things I want to wear become available anyway. I discovered this not long after 9/11, when I felt like wearing more Bohemian or Hippie-inspired clothing, and coincidentally embroidered kurtas appeared in catalogs.

For Nicky Breeland’s talk, I was one of the last people in the room and sat on the floor in front of everyone else. During the discussion, servants brought us a strange hot beverage that had ginger and honey in it; it was probably a variation on ginger lemon water. And it was in glasses and steaming hot.

Nicky Breeland is a Buddhist monk who runs the Tibet Center in NYC, and Shantum met him there twelve years ago; they’ve also met in Sarnath and Delhi. Nicky’s own teacher is here and has been coming to the teachings every day. Someone said, “A wise man changes himself.”
Nicky talked about Mahayana and Vajrayana Buddhism, which is an esoteric and tantric Tibetan practice that is for the purpose of gaining enlightenment in a big hurry. He talked about suffering and transcending suffering, having compassion for everyone (even those who are very wealthy, since they will not always have so much. The discussion was a lot about removing others’ suffering and being a bodhisattva.

Nicky said, “Initially you’re trying to remove your suffering rather than change others. If you have compassion for others but don’t acknowledge your own suffering, it’ll be pretty flimsy compassion. It is not enough to wish to remove your suffering and not enough to have compassion for others. You must also have the suffering of change.”

He said some misnomers about Hinayana Buddhism that I’m rather tired of hearing and reading. Theravada Buddhism is Hinayana, which Mahayana Buddhists (such as Tibetan and Zen) smugly call the lesser path. If it’s so “lesser,” then why do I get the distinct impression that what we Theravada Buddhists practice is the same as what the Buddha himself practiced? It is a tradition handed down directly from the Buddha’s original teachings, the Pali cannon.

Nicky said that the Mahayana aim is to work toward attainment of a state where we can help others. Um, guess what, the same goes for Hinayana, which is much closer to the Buddha’s own practice. I’m kind of tired of this dismissing Hinayana Buddhism as self-centered. If it’s so self-centered, then why do Hinayana Buddhists practice metta, loving-kindness? He said, “To pursue one’s own happiness is Hinayana,” but that’s merely what’s popular to say about Hinayana. Sure, Hinayana practice is about healing yourself, but you heal yourself in order to be more able to save the world. If you’re helpless and can’t even change yourself, then how do you think you’re going to save the world? I’m getting tired of Mahayana Buddhists spouting this arrogant misnomer. He also said, “Mahayana, out of wish to help all sentient beings, works to attain state of Buddhahood.” As if Hinayana doesn’t!

He also talked about being devoid of inherent existence and used a candle as an example. “Lots of ingredients make a candle (cotton, bee’s wax). Likewise, there are different me’s—the mind me, the physical me, the way I think about myself. That core “me” is changing moment by moment. According to that truth, as the Buddha used it, there’s no permanent me—the self is a bunch of parts put together because we think of ourselves as individuals. The candle is a changing thing that has seemed real—it exists in time and gets shorter and eventually disappears. Changeability makes it possible for us to develop, to become a Buddha.”

After the discussion, Nicky Breeland joined us for diner in the big cold dining room where we had breakfast. We had rice, dhal, a potato dish, roti, and another curry dish. I didn’t touch the mixture of plain green peas and square carrot bits, because I’m not a fan of peas. Desert was apple sauce mixed with yogurt and honey. Once again, I ate too much. Restraint! So far, I don’t think we’re doing anywhere near as much walking as we did on the pilgrimage, so it’s not like I’m getting lots of exercise to make up for my eating big meals.

We passed around birthday cards for Jagdish and John, and each of us signed the c cards. So Jagdish is six months older than I am.

From the Sleeper Train to Pathankot to Dharamsala

Durga Shrine at Pathankot Station

It’s Saturday, on the train, about 7:20 am. Shantum said the train’s running a bit late and we should arrive around eight. Hey, it rhymes.

I woke up in the middle of the night really really needing to go pee, but I was reluctant to head for the toilet because a) someone had said it’s disgusting shortly after we climbed aboard, and b) I didn’t want to do it while the train was moving. I decided to at least wait till a good moment, when the train has come to a complete halt and seems to be staying that way for a few minutes. It was a long wait, but finally I went to the restroom and didn't think it was any more disgusting than last year's train toilet. Even after that, I had trouble falling back to sleep and lay watching out the window and mindfully breathing. Derelict buildings built right up against each other, like rowhouses, looked like a ghost town without any humans around them, or even stray dogs or cows.

Pathankot is a village that includes a train station and is on the way to Dharamsala. We arrive a bit late, and we go out and get into a total of five white cars.

At the Pathankot Station, we followed the porters’ trolleys and walked down a bustling street. Behind the station was a sort of small-scale square: a circular structure with a cartoonish elephant statue wearing a blue jacket and holding up a lamp. We passed that and saw pedestrians, dogs, and rickshaws passing by, and to the left were many parked cars in a row, in front of buildings. Some guys in beige uniforms stood near a vehicle and eyed us: soldiers. I breathed.

The porters strapped luggage onto the racks on top of white tourist cars while Shantum supervised; he told us to watch the porters get our bags and go to the car on which they strap your bag. So I watched carefully (despite my space case tendencies). I decided to climb into the car that held my suitcase; a central seat was pulled up, so I climbed in behind it to the back (third) row and settled down. On the dashboard sits a Ganesh picture propped up in a yellow plastic frame. During the drive, I took notes on things that Jagdish told us.

The other passengers are Rachel and James, a couple from England, and also Jagdish, sitting in the front seat to the left, next to the driver. We’re riding down Railroad Street, in Pathankot. “Accent on the A,” Jagdish explained.

Kashmir is extremely close to Dharamsala. Jagdish said that Pakistan Occupied Kashmir (P.O.K.) means that there’s fighting in Kashmir, sometimes. It reminds me of Northern Ireland. Each, India and Pakistan, claims they own that area. In Kashmir are beautiful houseboats on a lake, and from the houseboats hang flowers. People poling in small boats sell flowers and fruits to the houseboats. It sounds beautiful, but I doubt I’ll ever go there.

Pathankot is not much bigger than Dharamsala—it just has the railroad station and a military base; otherwise it’s the same size.

The Dalai Lama is the reason why China is unhappy with India. China attacked North India in 1962. Jagdish was born in 1970 (same year as me), so the attack was before he was born. Border disagreement continues between India and China. Nobody will come there, to the disagreeable part of the border; it’s considered a “No Man’s Land.” No woman’s land, I might add, by the sound of it.

We’re crossing a rocky riverbed. Chakki (with an accent on the “I”) is the name of the river. The dry riverbed consists of big rocks and two bridges cross it. One of the bridges is of brick and has collapsed in the center; we can see chunks of the bridge in the river. Hopefully it’ll be fixed before the next monsoon.

The Hindi alphabet has 52 letters. It is very complicated, like Tibetan. Actually, I think I have that backwards, since the Tibetan alphabet is based on Sanskrit.

I asked Jagdish why the trees along the roads are painted with white and sometimes red stripes, and he listed several reasons: 1) Reflects at night for vehicles, 2) Protects from insects, and 3) Beautification.

Eucalyptus—makes toys, the bark is used for paper. India still has a lot of handmade paper (I should know, after buying several journals in Varanasi last year). We see lots of eucalyptus at the side of the road, a narrow road flanked by many trees.

We stopped at a little hotel/restaurant called Mao Fort, where an archway lead to a driveway, and to the right of that was the building itself, with many potted plants out front. We entered through the front door, passed a desk behind which stood a turbaned guy and hung a couple of colorful Rajasthani puppets, and we climbed a flight of stairs. We walked up to the roof, and most of us walked to the edge of the flat roof and admired the view, with foothills in the distance.

Front entrance to Mao Fort

I wandered toward Shantum and a couple of people to whom he was talking about the pilgrimage, In the Footsteps of the Buddha, which I took last year. He patted me on the back and said, “Susan has Buddha miles.”

This conversation came to a break when numerous people, led by Lynn, moved to a location in the center of the roof and began practicing yoga. I promptly got in a back row and mimicked Lynn’s motions, as did most of the sangha. We afterwards approached chairs that were gathered in a big circle, and we had breakfast up there on the roof, outdoors surrounded by beauty. Oh, yes, a noisy generator was next door, so it wasn’t perfectly idyllic. We finished breakfast with herbal tea, which also happened to be for sale. A bunch of people bought some, and I got two boxes.

View from Mao Fort

“Dharamsala means sight of the dharma,” Shantum said. That’s appropriate, especially with the Dalai Lama living there. Shantum also said an airport is very near Dharamsala, but it’s extremely unreliable. Sometimes the planes go and sometimes not. He also said, “Dharamsala is the second most rained on place in India.” I had no idea.

While we were still at Mao Fort, Lynn said she and John wanted to go to Tibet, but they were advised against it. I said, “I don’t know which will be more dangerous, Kathmandu or Tibet. I’m going to both.” Lynn said, “You’re a very brave woman!”

Side view from the roof of Mao Fort. I didn't say it was a classy joint.

After our breakfast at Mao Fort, in cars: Jagdish sang lovely songs, mainly from a traditional play based on the Ramayana. In one song, the lyrics mean: “You are the beginning, you are the end. You are the best saint, Bharamsant.” The word “bharamsant” means oldest and holiest. It’s a very old song, with some words from Sanskrit. Jagdish had choir practice, auditions, and has quite a bit of singing experience. When he was a kid, he played Sita, because the production needed someone cute and shorter, and eventually he outgrew the role and played others, including Rama.

We’re riding a car in the Himalayan foothills, curving around and around on a luscious green mountain, seeing the view and listening to Jagdish sing. This is the life.

All the local people, from a total of ten villages, go to see the Ramayana play—at night, till midnight; the whole play is divided into ten days. Performers, such as Jagdish, already know the songs before the auditions; they’re prepared because they know the music from seeing the play. And Jagdish’s dad played Rama before, so he grew up with it in the environment. Some performers don’t even read notes. The performance lasts for four hours each night, for ten nights. That’s even longer than Wagner’s Ring cycle.

The Mahabharata is set seven thousand years before the Buddha’s time, and yet it has Buddhist themes, long before the Buddha. This is why Hindus say that the historic Buddha, Siddhartha Gautama, was a reincarnation of Vishnu, as is Krishna. “If there’s fighting in the family, we say Mahabharata is happening in the family,” Jagdish said. So I grew up in one continuous Mahabharata. I don’t recommend it.

Jagdish played Sita and later Rama, but he started out playing a very small role. He played a woman whose husband just died. He had to bang his bangles of glass, so that they break, he had to cry, and he had to wipe away the crown from his head. When he did this, suddenly the audience and director were laughing, and he was nervous—really, his long wig came off with the crown! Even the “dead” husband lying on the stage floor was laughing. So Jagdish was a stage success and was asked to play Sita the next year.

The annual Ramayana play takes place between the end of October to the beginning of November, when the people have less work in the fields but not it’s not so very cold. Diwali is very holy, and it is a holiday that takes place for nine days in November.

Jagdish told us that Shantum doesn’t know much about the Mahayana, etc, and he said, “Shantum is only thirty-five percent Hindu.” He knows the books but doesn’t have the upbringing, is Western educated, very unlike Jagdish. Shantum has had mainly book learning rather than living it as Jagdish has. Shantum tends to be concerned when Jagdish doesn’t write stuff down after he says it: it’s stored in his head. Shantum is like a Brahman; he plays the role of protector; Jagdish is like Shakrya, the mother role.

Lots of monkeys sit on the side of the road, just by the cliff. They watch us with their heads moving back and forth, as if they’re watching a tennis match.

Jagdish told us a bit about Indian politics, too. Politicians exploit caste and are manipulative—they became commoners, but don’t have a lot of sense, knowledge. They are familiar with caste but don’t understand it, exploit it, power-tripping—day by day in the civil service, which doesn’t get good quality people. Businessmen follow this sort of system. Gee, that sounds strangely familiar. Some families understand and are giving their kids a good education. Some have such big power, if you say Untouchable to them, they can take you to court. If a son of a Brahman is poor, people help him; if a son of a Dalit is poor, people don’t want to help him.

When Jagdish was thirteen, his dad took him to a bookstore and told him he’d be working here, and he worked there and his dad gave him free pencils and notebooks and said these are free for your life. Later, Jagdish got a job working in a photography studio. (Monkeys at the side of the road are watching the vehicles and looking very cute.) Jagdish prepared the food for Shantum’s wedding; that’s how they met. He worked at a restaurant but was forced to leave and started his own restaurant.

In 2000, his sister’s husband died and her four children depended on Jagdish, and he insisted they study hard (and they have—they’re all hard workers). Also in 2000, Jagdish’s brother had a kidney problem, but he’s fine now. He got a transplant in 2002, got married in 2004, his dad donated his own kidney to his son and is seventy-eight years old now and in good health. He followed the doctor’s orders.

Untouchables lose their spirit because they are labeled Untouchable—so they say they’re poor, unemployed--instead of trying to get employment and work hard.

Brahman the teacher—you have to be a model. No alcohol, pure vegetarian. Who’s having a brain = a Brahman, not a class.

“Use dipper at night” means “Dim your headlights.” I asked Jagdish about this, and he explained. It’s a message I often see painted on the backs of colorful trucks, along with “Use Horn.”

The name “Jagdish” means “the honor of the universe.” It’s a traditional name, and first names are not caste-related. Surnames are caste-related and location-related. “Shantum” means peacefulness. “Chandramah” refers to the moon and is also a surname. “Chandani” means moonlight and is often used as a girl’s name. “Chand” is a Muslim man’s name.

Delhi and the Sleeper Train

We went to Shantum’s house, introduced ourselves and sipped mango juice. It’s an Indian tradition to offer guests mango juice, as I discovered last year on the pilgrimage. Shantum led a short meditation first, because members of his regular sangha didn’t know about this group of foreigners, and so they showed up for meditation practice. Afterwards, Shantum talked to the group while his younger daughter climbed into his lap and sat there looking cute.
“If you come with too many expectations, you suffer. So you may as well just go with it,” Shantum said in his garden.

“In your introductions, you can be whoever you want, with whatever past you want,” Shantum said before we went around in a circle and introduced ourselves, like last year.

During our introductions, Premo Seth, Shantum’s dad, said that with such a wonderful family, “with such a son, and another son and a daughter, and with such grandchildren, I don’t need religion. I am content.” He certainly has a point: if it weren’t for certain nasty relatives, I wouldn’t have gotten as into Buddhism as I have. John Lennon had a point when he sang, “God is a concept by which we measure our own pain.” You might want to replace the word “god” with the word “religion.”

During the scrumptious dinner at the Seth house, I approached the circular table in the dining room, and it did not immediately sink in with me that the little old lady in the silk sari was the Leila Seth, Shantum’s mother and more importantly the first female high court judge in India. We had basmati rice and a variety of dishes. Gitu had requested of the cook that the dishes be colorful. I enjoyed an eggplant dish that was Leila Seth’s recipe, a yummy pumpkin dish, a yellow potato dish, a mostly green spinach and cottage cheese dish (paneer), a soupy sweet tomato dish, and green fried bread. I don’t know why the latter was green, but it tasted good anyway. Leila Seth explained the dishes to two other guests and me. On the side board was a pitcher and glasses of water. I took my dinner into the garden and had some interesting conversations, including the one about Etiel considering going to Tibet with me; she traveled from Israel to India and doesn’t have a return ticket.

Another conversation I had was with a white-haired guy named Gary (actually, there’s a lot of white hair in this group!) who has just been in Kathmandu. I knew that the king has stepped down recently and the Maoists have joined the government, but I was hoping things were better rather than worse, and I have to wonder after listening to Gary. Maoists who used to be terrorists are now garbage workers and in the army. The place is in chaos. People were marching to Thamel with sticks. On the streets of Kathmandu, you can see soldiers carrying machine guns. I said I’d be stopping in Kathmandu for about a day and a half, to and from Tibet, and Gary said, “This is not a good time to be in Kathmandu.” Great. Strangely, I didn’t feel scared but felt obligated, for dramatic reasons, to act a little alarmed. Maybe I should have felt genuinely scared. Maybe I’m crazy.

“Just take it as it comes,” Shantum said after talking about the sleeper train. I was getting mental images of the train we took last year, and that certainly is an appropriate way of looking at it.

When it came time to depart for the train station, we piled into a tour bus. It stopped on a dark street and assistants and porters—the kind who were red kurtas--unloaded luggage onto trolleys there at what to me looked like the side of a street, although technically we were just outside the train station. It was after dark, and I was simply sticking closely to the group. We walked the rest of the way to the station, to an area where buses are not allowed. I walked with Rachel, one of the English members of the group, and we nearly got lost because the group was a little too spread apart and people ahead of us went around a corner. But soon we were all gathered on the train platform, and Shantum was telling us all which train we had to climb on and where our individual bunks were located. We had to get onto Train A2, and my bunk was # 23. We would be riding the sleeper train overnight, just like on last year’s pilgrimage.

I reached my bunk and found a bundle of dirty laundry. Jamie was coming up behind me, and I said, “It looks like I get the dirty laundry!” and Jamie laughed. However, a skinny little guy who worked on the train wasn’t so amused, and as soon as I put the laundry bundle on the upper bunk, he hastily took it down. While I made my bed, Shantum was walking in the aisle and checking on us. He asked Gill (or maybe it was her sister) if she was there, because the curtain was pulled around her bunk. I heard an older woman with a British accent say, “Yes, I’m here, and I’m changing into my pyjamas, you naughty boy!” Suddenly I’d been transported into a British sitcom.

Shortly after the train started moving and we were waiting for the blankets and sheets, Shantum sat down next to me (I was on my bunk, cross-legged, writing in my journal) and I pulled my new red coat off the bunk across the aisle and onto mine.

“Is that yours?” Shantum asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I got it three months ago, when I read your brother’s book From Heaven Lake and realized what the Tibetan climate is like.”
“That coat isn’t warm enough for Tibet.”
“It is compared to the one I was going to wear, a lightweight wool frockcoat I made ten years ago.”
“Tibet’s very cold,” Shantum said.
“I’ll be wearing lots of layers,” I said.
Sheila, across the aisle, said, “You’re going to Tibet after this?”
“Yes, for one week. I’ll be there on Tibet Uprising Day! It could be ugly.”
“Tibet Uprising Day is much more interesting in Dharamsala than in Tibet, where the Chinese are watching,” Shantum said.
“Have you been to Tibet, Shantum?” Sheila asked. Sheila and Samaya are friends who came together from New Hampshire.
“Yes, I’ve been to northern Tibet, not Lhasa,” Shantum said, and he went on to explain that he went there illegally in 1981 and was in the same area that Vikram visited. But he didn’t speak a word of Chinese. The police stopped him and kicked him out. “It was illegal to be in that part of Tibet.”
Samaya made a comment about how bad Beijing is—actually Shantum said, “Beijing is smart,” referring to the government’s ruthless dealings with Tibet.
Samaya said, “You think they’re smart?”
“Ruthless,” Shantum said.
“Do they really think that will make them happy?” Samaya asked Shantum.
“That’s not my idea of smart,” Sheila said.
“Being cruel and torturing people isn’t my idea of smart,” I said.
“The Chinese are nasty,” Shantum said. Even a Zen Buddhism teacher can be blunt.

One guy came through with potato chips and “biscuits” (cookies, in American lingo), and another came through with a big cylindrical metal container full of chai, and with little white paper cups. I wasn’t enticed, but Etiel soon stood in the aisle with baggies containing a couple of enticing snacks. She offered me dried mango slices and dark chocolate chips, and although I had eaten heartily at the Seth house, I didn’t refuse and took very small portions of each. I took just a little bit.

Meeting the New Sangha

Entrance to the Crafts Museum in Delhi, India

The taxi driver from the guesthouse didn’t know the way to Gandhi Smriti. I had explained to the guesthouse manager that it’s near a certain hotel, and he explained this to the taxi driver, who didn’t speak English. We went around in circles and passed the rather prominent and regal-looking hotel a couple times, and eventually the taxi driver resorted to pulling over and asking people if they knew the way to Gandhi Smriti. I’m a bit surprised, since it’s a major landmark: it’s Mohandas Karamchan Gandhi’s final home and where he was assassinated in the garden.

On a busy street, kids approached the taxi and tried to sell magazines through the window. They were school age and probably desperate; perhaps their parents insisted that they go work on the streets because the family needs money right now and is too poor to wait till the kids have an education and could therefore have jobs that would pay much better. I felt sorry for them, but I was completely not tempted to buy magazines like Cosmopolitan. Yuck.

As we took a wide street, a clan of monkeys ran across the street in front of us, and I laughed like a little kid. To the right, a painted elephant carrying passengers slowly walked in the opposite direction. I grinned and thought, “I love India!” I was living in the moment and trying not to worry about the fact that we were lost; the worst thing about that, in my view, was that I was holding up a group of people with my tardiness. It occurred to me that they might give up waiting for me and drive off.

I saw a mud wall with some vehicles parked in a row in front of it, and some food stands at the side of the road—the typical Indian shop made of sticks—and on one section of the wall I saw the engraved words “Birla House,” which I recognized as the former name of Gandhi Smriti. I exclaimed, “That’s it! Now I wonder where are the people I’m supposed to meet up with?” We sat there idling on the other side of the street, while I looked at the row of vehicles and noticed that they included more than one tour bus.

A guy in a yellow shirt ran into the street, calling to the driver, who stopped. The guy in yellow climbed into the taxi and sat down next to me and said, “Susan, how are you!” Jagdish gave me a one-armed hug.

I said, “Jagdish! It’s good to see you!” I grinned from ear to ear. Soon I saw Bina in a purple and dark grey salwar-kamiz and waved back at her. She was by a blue tour bus. It turned out that everyone had been waiting just for me! The group was at this stage approximately only a dozen people, but we would be meeting up with others elsewhere. As I got out of the taxi, I looked at Bina and said, “I’m sorry I haven’t scanned or faxed my passport yet!” Bina said that it’s fine and I don’t have to worry about that, they’ll give me my tickets when I get to Kathmandu. Whew, what a relief!

Bina said, “You look great! Have you lost weight?”
“I’ve lost thirty-five pounds, so far,” I said.
“That’s almost a whole person!” she said smilingly.
The taxi driver was about to drive off, and I anxiously tapped the trunk roof and said, “Oh, my suitcase!” But it turned out that Jagdish had already taken it out of the trunk and put it on the bus.

Delhi is even more chaotic than I remember. Looking out the window at the traffic, I had trouble refraining from laughing. It’s like I’m a different person when I come to India.
We all got out of the bus at a restaurant, the Taj Mahal Restaurant, where we had a South Indian dinner, or lunch rather, with metal dishes and little pots of various spicy goopy things to dip pastry-type things into, and some of us drank laasi. I ate a generous portion and remembered how, on the pilgrimage, I had pigged out at first and later developed enough discipline to eat smaller portions from the buffets.

The lunch conversation involved where people live, and I mentioned that I currently live in Kansas and want to move to the west coast, particularly Berkeley. Some of the tour members, at least two, live in the San Francisco Bay area and talked about what a great area it is to live in. After I mentioned that I’m probably going to move to Oakland or Berkeley, Etiel mentioned that they’re too congested with traffic for her. I could always live in Berkeley for a time and then move somewhere that isn’t as congested with traffic, but I have no intention of contributing to urban sprawl: I imagine staying in a small apartment and possibly reaching a point when I don’t own a car but only walk and use public transportation.

A guy named David is from Florida and he’s a novelist. He’s written speculative fiction that is however neither science fiction nor fantasy, and he is currently working on a horror novel.

Somebody asked Bina if she’ll be with us in Dharamsala, and she said no, but “Shantum will be there, and he’s wonderful.”
“Oh, he can’t be as good as you!” someone said.
“Yes, he’s much better!” Bina said.

Not long after that, one bunch of white people, the rest of the group, showed up, and Shantum was with them, at a table behind us. I didn’t think he saw me; he was behind our table and talking with someone. He came to the head of the table, stood next to me, and made an announcement, and he spoke of already knowing some of us. He looked at Etiel and said, “I know you.”
“Oh, you do?” she said. They hadn’t met yet after all, but I was tempted to say, “In a previous life.”
When Shantum greeted me, I said, “Hey, glad to see you! I mean Namaste!” and I pressed my palms together.
Shantum asked me, “Are you doing well?”
I said, “I’m doing great, since coming here.” I didn’t think to ask how he was. Typical.

Shantum put an arm around me and said, “This is Susan, and I’m glad you’re back!” and he gave me a kiss on the forehead. I was grinning like a Cheshire cat. A bit later, when he told the group that I’ve been on the pilgrimage, he gave me another hug and a kiss on the forehead. Somehow I refrained from asking him to adopt me. Ever since Jagdish hopped into the taxi with me, it has felt like all is right with the world, and that I have a place in it. That’s a highly unusual feeling for me.

After lunch, we went to the Crafts Museum; this was a great coincidence for me, because it was one of the places I meant to visit on my own, if only I hadn’t arrived in New Delhi twenty-four hours later than originally planned. Outside, to the left of the building, we passed terra cotta figures, some life-size, some larger than life. I found them breathtaking.

Inside the museum are many glass display cases full of sculptures, puppets, dolls, and textiles.

Inside the building are sections of an old aristocratic Rajasthani house with squirrels scampering around, and I kept hearing birds.

I left the wall and found where just about everyone else had gone; they were out in a courtyard behind the museum. Vendors and musicians performed on the square; one dancer was dressed like a Hindu deity, in many bright colors and with fake hands. The dancer was accompanied by musicians, one of whom played a loud bleating wind instrument.

After I stepped back outdoors, I noticed a stone wall, several yards long, was completely covered with little, elaborately carved stone archways, typically about two feet wide by three or four feet tall. They looked ancient and very beautiful with all the detail. The arches were typically scalloped and reached a point above a nook that might have contained a Hindu deity at some time; perhaps they were all shrines that archeologists collected and brought to the museum.

New Delhi and Old Delhi

Heritage Inn (guesthouse)

I’m finally here! I’m confused and don’t know where the guest house office is located (although I suspect it’s through the front door) and have several questions to ask but feel hesitant to cal the front desk, especially since I’ll likely have trouble understanding what they’re saying over the phone and they’ll probably have the same problem with my awful voice…but at least I made it to Delhi!

Several incidents have reminded me of Sarah MacDonald’s memoir Holy Cow. Like at the Doha Airport after we waited in line to get to the gate, we went down an escalator to a very small waiting room, and as the shuttle came to the open sliding glass door, the crows was anxiously pushing forward, and I was afraid I would be trampled. That was definitely a Holy Cow moment. As all these guys (most of the people were male, and just about all were Indian. On the other side of the door, a guy in a navy blue uniform was looking at each boarding pass stub before letting passengers get on the shuttle that would take us to the plane. One guy cut in front of me and held out his boarding pass, and the uniformed guy, who was stern and unsmiling and therefore a bit intimidating, told the guy who cut in front of me, “Wait your turn! Let the lady go first. Have some common courtesy.” I smiled at him and said, “Thanks!” He looked at my boarding pass stub and let me get on the first shuttle. I was almost the last person to get on it.
At the Indira Gandhi International Airport in Delhi: More pushing and cutting in line at the money exchange place. Crazy. Again, only males did this, but it was a bunch of them! I must have waited there fifteen minutes. Finally an Indian guy urged me forward and told a guy to stop cutting in front, and he commented to me how they tend to do that. So I finally got my turn and I thanked the guy profusely. Really, I wanted to laugh.

There was another incident that reminded me of Holy Cow. The plane arrived in Delhi, and people were undoing their seatbelts and getting up and reaching for their luggage…while the “fasten seatbelts” light was still on. It started the very second the plane stopped moving, perhaps seconds beforehand, like people had springs in their bottoms and suddenly popped up.
OK, I called the office, and the phone was staticky and all, and the manager asked if he could come and talk to me in person, which was a relief. So he knows about the cat—12:30—he said I could even have a couple extra hours. They do have an Internet computer, and I can use it, but there’s no scanner and the fax machine doesn’t work—he commented that people don’t use fax machines so much, they’d rather use e-mail. Yes, I certainly prefer e-mail. I don’t know why Tandem, the company I work for, doesn’t ditch the fax machines and switch to scanners.

There’s I think an ashok tree right outside the open French window in my guest house room, but I’m not sure if that’s the right kind of tree. Long, very skinny leaves with ridges. I might have it confused with the sal tree, the kind under which the Buddha died.

The ride from the airport was interesting. I sat in the back seat of a white car, and I had trouble understanding the driver; he had a thick accent, or maybe it’s because I’ve only just gotten here and haven’t adjusted to Indian accents yet. And he had trouble understanding me. I have a speech impediment and after this journey I’m less coherent than usual. Dry mouth and all. I gawked and gawked at the scenery. It’s good to be back! The derelict, dingy buildings; the crazy honking traffic; the rickshaws and weird green motor rickshaws that look like something a little kid assembled in a shed; the pedestrians in bright salwar-kamiz or pale kurtas and pants (really, Indian women generally wear prettier clothing than men); the dogs lying on the sidewalks, even right outside the airport….

I saw plenty of apartment buildings with balconies, across which people had strung laundry to dry including towels of a wide variety of colors. I saw walls made of red brick plastered in white—and could tell there was brick underneath because the plaster had come off in places and exposed the brick. Before I noticed this, I assumed the walls were mud. We passed through the embassy neighborhood, like last year, and I noticed one building with lots of police and security vehicles, and we passed an intimidating police station. At some point, I saw behind a fence a mound with a soldier walking on top of it.

We turned a corner, and straight ahead was an elaborate red wall and behind it I saw an impressive red (sandstone?) structure with a huge dome. The driver said, “Do you know what that is?”
“Is it the Red Fort?” I asked dubiously.
“No, it’s the president’s house.”
“Wow! It’s gorgeous!” It makes the White House look like a ranch house. “I didn’t think it was old enough to be the Red Fort.”

It wasn’t long before we saw a high red stone wall with quite a bit of detail work, and beyond it was a huge red stone structure with elaborate little cupolas here and there, and the driver confirmed my suspicion by saying, “That is part of the Red Fort.” Soon we were going past a lot more of the Red Fort, which does indeed look much older than the president’s house, which can’t be more than two hundred years old (and I didn’t mention—the parliament house is near the president’s house, and though it’s Neoclassical it’s circular). Anyway, there was a white structure or series of structures along one wall of the Red Fort, with curving archways filled in with white grillwork. The walls around the Red Fort have curvaceous crenellations. It was all very Mughal-looking, which of course it is. And the red walls went on and on as we went through crazy traffic, and I stared open-mouthed.

When I thought of the Red Fort before the trip, I remembered the story about the emperor who fell down a flight of stairs and died, so I decided to walk mindfully around the Red Fort; it doesn’t look like I’ll have that opportunity. Much as I fantasize about living in India for a year or two, is that ever really going to happen?

Now I’m worried about getting to the Gandhi Smriti on time. The manager said he’d call when the computer’s up, but it’s a quarter after 12, and he confirmed with me that the cab would come at 12:30, if I don’t check my e-mail, that isn’t as important at this stage. I should have asked if someone would bring down my suitcase, and if I should be waiting out front for the cab. All these simple little things, and I just don’t have a clue.