Boudhanath Stupa

In the morning Naresh and the driver first took me to the Boudhanath Stupa, which Samaya had told me is “full of spiritual energy.” It is indeed, although I feel a difference between going to Buddhist temples with Shantum and a sangha I’ve gotten close to and going to temples with a Hindu travel agent who’s just doing his job and doesn’t speak English clearly. There I go, griping again—but overall, I really enjoyed it and sensed the energy that Samaya had mentioned, though I would have preferred live chanting to the recorded New Age-ish “Om mani padme hum” chant that I could hear presumably coming from a merchant’s booth or shop.

After the car stopped, we walked past many tall buildings and many people and under a colorful, elaborate gate reminiscent of the gate to a Shiva temple in India, or of the Chinatown gate in San Francisco. Straight ahead was the Boudhanath Stupa, which is surrounded by shop faces that could have fit in a German or Swiss city, though the merchandise was primarily related to Tibetan Buddhism, such as ritual tools, prayer flags, statues, and thangkas. It was all like a colorful and lively square around the stupa.

The sky was blue at last and the sun was shining! Under this bright blue sky, the stupa’s most noticeable feature, seen from a distance, is the huge whitewashed dome, upon which sits a square structure with big Buddha eyes gazing in all directions, and above that a pointy roof. Colorful Tibetan prayer flags are strung around the stupa. I’ve read that Kathmandu has many Tibetan exiles, and indeed I saw some, particularly women in dark chupas and spinning prayer wheels as they circled the stupa.

While we circumambulated the temple, a young woman in a sari and carrying a baby approached me and begged for milk for her baby. One of the Garys in Dharamsala had talked about a scam artist who begged for milk for a baby in hopes that someone would get the milk at a specific store, so that the beggar could return the milk for money; in other words, this was a scam. What would the beggar use the money for—drugs? I remembered that situation but I also remembered the woman I had given money to in Dharamsala, and so I went ahead and gave this woman a one dollar bill so that she could go buy the child milk. She reluctantly took the money and continued to indicate the grocery store where she wanted me to get her a package of milk, but I kept circumambulating and thought she gave up with me.

We went around the Boudhanath Stupa three times total and came across a staircase leading to the first roof; the higher levels had stairs blocked by potted plants and bilingual signs saying “No entrance.” But before we got up there, I started turning rows of prayer wheels set into rectangular niches in the whitewashed outer wall; the wheels were about six in a row and a gold-black color and some one foot high. Naresh said, “Faster,” and demonstrated a quicker way to spin the wheels and get them really going. I got the hang of it, until I came to larger and heavier prayer wheels and decided against trying to spin them so fast.

At a Hindu shrine that is part of the outside wall of Boudhanath, Naresh stopped to put his palms together and put a red mark on his forehead. He explained that the stupa was for both Buddhists and Hindus. I rather like that, the tolerance and the mixture and all; and Buddhism originally branched off of Hinduism.

Still on the ground level, we stepped through an entrance and saw a mixture of both Buddhist and Hindu shrines. A wall was awash with red paint and ancient-looking carved stone artwork. To the left was a room filled almost entirely with a huge prayer wheel, which I walked around and spun. I stepped back out and looked at a brightly painted wall. We went back through the doorway, and on the outer white walls of the stupa, not only were there many prayer wheels but also very small niches containing little Buddha reliefs. At least one person was going around and painting these little niches, so that before my eyes a little Buddha went from a terra cotta color to pure white.

I liked walking around on what was sort of the roof, where we were on a more or less flat whitewashed surface and circled around, looking at prayer flags and at the steps covered with potted plants and flanked by grand elephant sculptures. I saw a few people prostrating, Tibetan style, on a nearby roof. I saw many pigeons flying or walking around. I saw a mound of red, yellow, white, blue and green prayer flags on top of a little roof to the my left, as I walked slowly and took in my surroundings and continued listening to the recorded chant. The temple is beautiful and peaceful, and I smiled gently as I walked.

Perhaps part of my reluctance to shop comes from shame: the shame of having materialistic values, combined with a general sense of being ashamed of myself, a feeling I usually only have in Kansas. At Boudhanath, I briefly looked at the many little shops around the stupa, where you can buy thangkas, malas, etc, but while I was in a better mood I certainly wasn’t in the mood to shop. I can get Elaine a statue after I get back to Kathmandu from Tibet. I’d also like to get some other gifts—I saw Dalai Lama postcards, a shop that sells Tibetan women’s paper crafts, and countless shops that sell statues, all in the Thamel neighborhood, a short walk from the hotel. I think I could get to like the Thamel neighborhood, though it would have been more fun to travel with Cara, or it would’ve been great if Etiel had decided to come instead of staying in Dharamsala; I hope I didn’t make a bad impression and scare her off. I have a knack for making bad impressions, except on cats.

Amid the many shops surrounding the stupa, we saw a typical Tibetan temple, reminiscent of those I’d seen in Dharamsala, with steps leading up to a rectangular red building with a gold roof.

While Naresh and I headed back to the car, the beggar who had accosted me earlier returned, with her baby (surely that kid was getting heavy), and she again begged me to buy milk at that particular store. She tried to guilt trip me by asking, “Don’t you care if my baby wants milk?” She also tried to give me back the one dollar bill that I had given her earlier, and she claimed, “I don’t want your money” and insisted that she wanted the milk instead. The driver opened the car door for me and I got in quickly, and he closed the door on the woman. This situation was not a stellar moment in my spirituality; I felt very embarrassed and helpless and incompetent, under the circumstances, rather than blissed out from circumambulating the temple. But at least I was mindfully embarrassed, helpless, uncomfortable, and incompetent.

As I told Naresh in the car, “Now I kind of wish I hadn’t given her the money,” and went on to say that I’d totally forgotten that this wasn’t like India, that I was in Nepal and that this country strongly discourages giving money to beggars. It’s all rather frustrating—it’s so tempting to give money to beggars. Naresh said that the beggar woman is from India; I didn’t ask how he could tell and wondered if he was just prejudiced, assuming that since she was begging surely she wasn’t from Nepal.

Swayambhunath

The Swayambhunath Temple is way up on a hill or very small mountain, and guards in uniforms stood under a dark red archway reminiscent of the archways to Hindu temples in India. After Naresh and I passed through the archway, straight in front of me was a round artificial pool, currently empty of water, above the center of which stood a gold Buddha statue. I turned to the right to approach the temple itself, which is extremely elaborate, with if possible more little reliquary stupas than the Mahabodhi Temple in Bodh Gaya. The small reliquaries are mostly dark old stupas in rows, some with red coloring (probably the kind of powder paint used for the third eye chakra or for throwing on people during the festival of Holi), and some with flower offerings. Here and there beyond these small stupas stand medium-sized whitewashed stupas, like at Boudhanath.

It was sunny while I was at the temples, and my mood was much better than the day before. I felt so much better at these Buddhist temples than in the rainy streets of the Thamel or at the airport. There is indeed spiritual energy at these temples, and I could have put some more effort at tuning into it.

The temple complex contains several buildings, including a festive red, yellow, and gold Tibetan temple decorated with gold Buddhas and Bodhisattvas. Some buildings were small rectangular one-story structures that seem simple at a glance, but up close the detail on these buildings is breathtaking. Columns and doors are elaborately carved of wood, and windows are covered with hand carved wooden trelliswork. One little red brick building displayed a wooden door flanked by red snake reliefs, probably representing either Nagas (snake spirits) or the snake that according to myth protected Siddhartha Gautama during a rainstorm. Both Boudhanath and Swayambhunath have countless colorful prayer flags blowing in the breeze; but you generally see prayer flags billowing in Kathmandu. The center of Swayambhunath Temple is a large white dome, the main stupa. We circumambulated it, and I’m tempted to say some devout monkeys did the same.

Near the center of the temple is a Hindu shrine where many visitors prayed and delivered flower offerings and rang a metal bell, and where photography was not permitted. The shrine in question stood to the left of the door to a formidable stone square structure covered with elaborate carvings. I gazed at this structure and peeked into the dark interior through a latticework window.

During my circumambulations, I stepped inside a one-room museum full of stone Buddhist and in some cases Hindu artwork. Statues and plaques lined the walls on simple wooden shelves, and mostly these ancient works of art had paper labels that looked like they had been written a hundred years ago; the English was in old-fashioned script.

Something I found disturbing at Swayambhunath, despite all of the above positive comments, was not the quantity of scruffy stray dogs, but the condition of one of the dogs. I suddenly heard very loud and suffering whimpering and howling coming from a lookout point, a balcony overlooking Kathmandu. I turned to look and watched, to my horror, a large scruffy dirty black dog that was walking very slowly and awkwardly away from the lookout point. It kept howling in agony, and nobody seemed to care. It moved slowly, slowly, toward a downward flight of steps and started getting a little quieter, then loud again as it went down the steps. I wondered whether it had rabies or was wounded, and although I was horrified by its pain, I didn’t want to get anywhere near it. If it had rabies or some other disease, staying away from it was a good idea. I walked well around the dog and headed for the lookout point, where indeed I had a fine view of Kathmandu. I still thought of the dog as its whimpering died down and I felt helpless. The suffering this dog experienced and my inability to help and everyone’s apparent indifference did not sit well with me.

The rather amusing aspect of Swayambhunath Temple is the monkeys, monkeys, and monkeys. They run around freely, climb on the little stupas and the big stupa and the walls and window frames, and you should really be careful not to stand below a monkey while it’s pooping. I was just about to get closer to the big stupa, and thought better of it as I warily eyed a monkey. I encountered families of monkeys while climbing the steps, and that’s the point at which I started taking pictures of them. Near the large stupa is a lotus pedestal of several feet around, on top of which lies an enormous gold dorje or thunderbolt; it was probably about six inches long, lying from side to side, and a large monkey climbed up it and sat in the center. I can never get tired of monkeys. Oh, yes, they’re the pink butt kind, not the black-faced lemurs.

Another disconcerting thing at the temple is all the merchants. They’re right there amid the little stupas, occupying sacred space. Sure, they’re selling Buddhist and Hindu items, mostly statues, incense, and malas, but it seems like an odd spot for shopping and I still was not in the shopping mood. Worse, as you start going back down the stairs to leave, there’s a little café labeled “Fast Food” where you can get packaged food and cold beverages. I went in and got a big bottle of water, despite my apprehensions. Outside the café are a couple of very old and beautiful three-foot-tall black reliquary stupas, like the ones around the large stupa. Propped up in front of one of these stupas was a sign with an arrow saying “Fast Food.” Tacky much?

I wasn’t sure whether I should be appalled or amused, but I took a picture of them—I’m not avoiding the ugly bits completely even with the camera. Perhaps I am being too harsh by judging the “Fast Food” sign as irrelevant; after all, in my house Buddha statues sit in front of fantasy novels on bookcases. I believe in mixing art into everyday life, so who’s to say it isn’t appropriate to mix spiritual things with everyday things? Nepal is like India and London; everything is crowded together in riotous chaos, and it’s best to go with the flow. For that matter, I probably shouldn’t be critical of the merchants around the stupa, either; they need the money.

Naresh led me toward the stairs leading down the mountain. Indeed, from the top of the steep stairs, it didn’t look like a hill anymore but rather a genuine mountain, although I’m sure it’s very short by Himalayan standards. As we headed down the stairs, an orange-clad Theravada monk stood silently, sideways in relation to the steps, and he held a large silver begging bowl. I recalled that people put food in the Buddha’s bowl rather than money, and the only food I had with me was dried candied ginger in a plastic bag. In hindsight, it occurred to me that I really could have put money in his bowl, but by the time that occurred to me, we were far below the monk on the steps.

After the temples, we got back to the hotel, and Naresh told me that my visa, etc, would be ready at five pm. I was happy to hear it, after all the waiting. I wanted to part with him then, but we walked back to his office, Blue Bird Travel, and I still wasn’t entirely sure that I’d be able to find it for myself, so he said that he’d go to the hotel rather than let me get lost looking for his office. He didn’t phrase it that eloquently, but that was the gist of it.

I’m in the hotel restaurant for lunch. I ordered something experimental and, as it turns out, very delicious: dumplings made from vegetables and nuts and in a sauce that is reminiscent of hummus but more watery and hot, and cilantro floats in it. Also, I had two pieces of roti, which I broke up and dipped in the sauce. The server brought me a glass of water, but it was hot water in a little juice glass. I had asked for water because I wanted to conserve my big bottle of water so that it would last till the morning (which it did).

Only two other patrons occupy the restaurant. One speaks fluent British English and the other one isn’t so coherent; the older one with the fluent English does most of the talking and expresses a very anti-polyandry stance and criticism of women who sleep with more than one man, but oddly he doesn’t say anything against polygamy or male promiscuity. Double standard much? He mentioned Elizabeth Taylor saying that she only has sex with men to whom she’s married, and says she slept with a lot of men, but she was also, I might mention, married to a lot of men. At some point in the conversation I heard him say, “You can criticize America,” and I got a sense that he believes promiscuity to be typical of American women but doesn’t care whether or not it’s typical of American men. At least Americans typically only have one partner at a time.

2
After lunch, I briefly attempted to take a nap up in my room, but after fifteen minutes I decided to get up and go to the cyber café while it’s sunny and the electricity is working. Impermanence.
I walked to an Internet café very close to the hotel, and the connection is unbelievably slow. It’s been ten minutes and I haven’t even logged onto AOL…OK, I got logged on and was selecting addresses and was having some trouble getting it to cooperate—I don’t have everyone’s address memorized, of course, and at first typing the first letter was enough, but then that stopped working. And then the screen went blank—the power is out, like yesterday. If it’s anything like yesterday, it won’t be back on for a long time. Soon I was the last person in the café, and I approached the boy who worked there, but he didn’t understand what I meant when I asked how much I owe, and he didn’t want me to pay, which was a relief since I didn’t get anything accomplished.

I wandered the streets of Thamel and tried not to get lost this time. The shops did not put me into a shopping mood, just a gawking mood. I quickly dodged crazy noisy motorcycles that came zooming along; too bad the streets of Thamel don’t have any sidewalks. I wandered the narrow streets for a while—probably not more than half an hour.

It rained lightly and I heard thunder before I went back to the hotel room and made another futile attempt at a nap. The thunder and lack of electricity certainly motivated me to be lazy. That and having a cold and being somewhat discombobulated again. But at least I meditated while lying down. The Buddha said there are four positions for meditation; they include not only sitting but also standing, walking, or lying down. While I lay in bed doing a reclining Buddha meditation, the thunder got loud, and at about four fifty I went down to the lobby to wait for the travel agent and felt bad that I was making him go out in the comparatively heavy rain for my sake. With all the power outages, it’s a good thing the hotel room contained candles and matches. I relaxed in my room with my journal while I listened to the rain pouring down.

Naresh was supposed to meet up with me at five. At five twenty I lost patience and put my bag in my coat, zipped up, put the hood up and tied it, and went out… and met up with Naresh on the street. It turned out that he brought my paperwork with him, so we went back to the hotel and I didn’t have to go back out in the rain again—I stayed in the rest of the evening. As I came through the door, the very young doorboy’s jaw dropped, I guess because I returned so soon after going out, or perhaps because the travel agent was sharing his umbrella with me. Scandalous. From what I understand, sharing an umbrella has a compromising connotation in Japan; maybe Nepal has the same attitude. Anyway, Naresh gave me my tickets, Chinese visa and a photocopy of the visa, my itinerary, and a business-sized envelope containing an itinerary and U. S. dollars for the Tibetan tour guide, whom he explained I’d be meeting at the airport.
I was cheered up since I had all this official stuff settled, and I skipped back up the stairs. I took a shower and lay down and this time did fall asleep, while it was pouring out. When I woke up, it was after 10 pm, and I wrote in my journal for a while. My cold is definitely fading away, which shouldn’t be surprising given how much I’ve rested.

I’m thinking I don’t recommend traveling to Kathmandu by yourself, even though I’m a loner and like to think of myself as a free spirit, I’m really an introverted Virgo personality type who’s mentally unhinged. Of course, since I am a loner it should theoretically be excessively appropriate for me to go places on my own—and really it was no big deal when it was San Francisco or Washington DC—or London, though technically I was with my sister.
My head is spinning like a prayer wheel.

I again went to bed very early; I’ve been doing this ever since the cold set in, and I suspect that the air in Tibet is a lot cleaner and will therefore take away my illness. I rather think the worst is over: I’ve had scarcely any yellow phlegm, and I feel more human than I did yesterday.

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.

Kathmandu, Nepal

View from my hotel window in Kathmandu

I arrived at the airport in Kathmandu, where it was gloomy, grey, and pouring out. I didn’t hear thunder and the rain was nothing compared to torrential downpours in Kansas, but it was certainly raining steadily. I remembered that on the pilgrimage last year I had no trouble using Indian money, and since I was running late I didn’t want to hold up the travel agent anymore, so I didn’t stop to exchange money. I furthermore figured I could do it at the hotel front desk. I met up with the travel agent Naresh, who in the airport stood with a sign with my name on it, and he led me out to a small white car with a driver.

I climbed into the back seat through the left passenger door, but the travel agent started getting into the car through the same door, so I quickly slid across the seat. Oddly, after we were settled into the back seat of the car, I noticed his right hand was draped across the back of the seat, almost as if he were trying to touch my shoulders. I scooted as far as I could to the window and wished he’d sit in the front seat, next to the driver, a skinny young male with curly hair. The travel agent, Naresh, was rather ordinary-looking, with a conservative short hairdo and a pencil-thin mustache, and he wore Western clothes, including a windbreaker; he looked to be between thirty-five and forty years old.

By the time I was riding in the back seat, the rain came down pretty heavily. I asked, “Has it been raining like this for long?” Naresh, said, “Only the past fifteen, twenty minutes.” I laughed. “As soon as I got here!” I said. I had seen the rain before the plain landed.

On the train early that morning, my virus had reached the hacking-up-yellow-phlegm stage, and I was excessively spacey for someone who’s been meditating for several years. Very congested, complete with congested waxy ears, here I was in Nepal on my own and having trouble understanding Naresh’s English or just about anyone’s English, when they actually spoke English.

During the rainy ride, I did some sightseeing, as I observed to Naresh, “Kathmandu looks a lot like India.” He agreed, fortunately for me; I wouldn’t want to offend. It has much the same architecture, in particular simple two- or three- or more story buildings that are like blocks gradually put on top of each other and with balconies stuck on. Typically they are painted some variation of yellow, white, or off-white. Many buildings and shops include roll-up garage doors or wooden double doors that are open during business hours. What I find different about the architecture was two things: 1) the wooden double doors in shops often have nothing but a narrow doorframe between them, so that they weren’t so much double doors as multiple doors and you’d be looking at a one-story brick building in which the front is a row of three or four sets of accordion-like doors. 2) Elaborately carved wooden window and doorframes, but maybe it’s just the particular style that I found different. However, it’s definitely different in that the windows tend to be covered with elaborately carved wooden trellises.

Between the airport and the Thamel, the touristy neighborhood where the hotel is located, I saw many more cars (Japanese or Korean) than I would have seen in India, and absolutely no rickshaws or motor rickshaws. This was sort of a culture shock. Certainly the Thamel neighborhood has the three-wheel bicycle kind of rickshaws, but I haven’t seen any of those odd little motor rickshaws in Kathmandu.

Rickshaws on a typical Thamel street.

At the hotel I got my room key and, in the lobby, gave my passport to Naresh, and got an update. Basically, at some point the following afternoon he would have my passport and Chinese visa and plane tickets and bring them to me. I was so out of it and confused, I had looked at my itinerary and thought I was supposed to get a Chinese visa at the airport, and I asked around and found out that I supposedly had to go to the Chinese embassy, so I mentioned this in the car on the way to the hotel. But no, the travel agent was taking care of all that stuff. Whew. Naresh asked me if I wanted to do any sightseeing tomorrow, and I expressed an interest in visiting the Boudhanath Stupa and the Swayambhunath Temple, and so we made an agreement on that, and he told me how much it would cost; he also didn’t want me to pay in Indian rupees.

Another scatter-brained thing I did, having a cold and having gone for a while without a shower, was to take a quick shower in my hotel room after I took my bags up; really I should have taken the shower after we parted. It was really inconsiderate of me to leave the travel agent waiting in the lobby, although the couches in the lobby are far more comfy than the beds.

The hotel looks flashy out front and in the lobby, complete with bellhops and shiny gold Buddha statues, but the room is plain and has no bottled water (maybe supplying two complimentary bottles of water is just an Indian practice in hotels and guesthouses), and the beds, which have very dark green coverlets and white sheets, are sunken in the center. I suppose if I were less lazy I could take the mattress and turn it over, though it might be just as sunken on the underside. Of course, I did request budget hotels, so I should be surprised I don’t have to squat and take bucket baths.

I parted with the travel agent at the Vaishali Hotel in the Thamel neighborhood and felt relieved to be on my own instead of with Naresh. I wandered the narrow, medieval, dirty and potholed streets, which are full of white Western tourists and colorful shops. While I stood in front of a tiny shop and bought bottled water, the electricity went out. Despite the rain and lack of electricity, I wandered around sight-seeing for some time; I didn’t want my melancholy to prevent me from getting a taste of the neighborhood. I felt ashamed for being melancholy when here I was on the other side of the world, where I should be excited. My father gave me a lot of money for this trip, and it seemed ungrateful and unappreciative to not feel blissed out, but emotions happen whether you like it or not. The shops were certainly fascinating: puppets hung from rafters, thangkas hung in windows and beyond doors, books and postcards were lined up inside and facing open doorways, many statues and masks stood or leaned or hung from walls. I was completely uninterested in buying anything, however; I just wanted to observe and walk. Perhaps because I am a social phobic introvert with a cold, or perhaps because of shock induced possibly by the contrast between being on my own and being with a sangha, part of me just wanted to be alone and invisible.

The Thamel reminds me of the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood in San Francisco and is really quite charming, especially if you overlook all the trash in the street and don’t think about it being too influenced by tourists. Well, it is Nepal, not the USA. Right up next to each other stands row upon row of tiny shops selling backpacks, shawls, statues and other Tibetan Buddhist ritual tools, puppets, books, postcards, handmade paper products such as journals and lanterns, wool felt items, thangkas, patchwork tapestries, wooden masks—really, everything you’d expect for sale and everything you could possibly want if you were a Westerner in Nepal. And there were plenty of Westerners slumming around: backpackers and dharma bums. However, I think most were French, German, or Italian, and I felt like I’d never hear English spoken clearly again. Maybe I’m the only American in Nepal; the travel agent in Kansas had given me a print-out warning about terrorists and burglars in Kathmandu, but that was six months ago, before the king stepped down.

As I wandered through the very narrow and bustling streets, I gawked and occasionally took pictures and dodged zooming motorcycles. It began to rain again, but only lightly, and I pulled up my coat hood and zipped up and trudged on. A man behind me called, “Umbrella, ma’am?” I raised my hand and said, “No, thanks.” I didn’t feel like buying anything but rather felt like wandering around as if I were in some bizarre dream. To be honest with myself, I truly felt like going up to my hotel room, hiding from humanity, and sleeping. When you’ve got a cold, you need a lot of sleep.

The traffic in the Thamel consists primarily of motorcycles, rickshaws, and pedestrians. I thought that I could simply go in a certain direction and not get lost in the Thamel, but the streets have no street signs and no names that I can tell, and sometimes, I came to a dead end and turned and kept walking, and unfortunately I didn’t count how many blocks I walked, nor did I take note of prominent landmarks. I noticed little detailed things such as certain puppets or sculptures. My eyes were overwhelmed with the sights around me, and I was focused on my fascinating surroundings rather fortunately at that point. In short, I got lost.

As I wandered with the uneasiness of someone who is lost in a strange place, several rickshaw drivers accosted me, and I kept trudging on, but I started thinking that maybe I should climb onto a rickshaw, because I really had no idea where I was and wanted to get back to the hotel and rest. I heard thunder for the first time.

A young rickshaw driver, like so many parked at the side of the road, got my attention and was quite persistent. While I was somewhat nonchalant, or rather had deadened my emotions, more and more I liked the idea of just getting back to the hotel and closing myself in my room, alone and quiet. I mentioned the name of the hotel, Vaishali Hotel, and the driver recognized it and said he knew the way there. After some hesitation, I took up the rickshaw driver’s offer. “How much does it cost?” I asked, after he asked me where I was going and I said the Vaishali Hotel and he enthusiastically said he knew where that was.

“It’s no problem,” he said and waved me into the rickshaw. By that I thought he was saying that he was taking pity on me and my discombobulation and giving me a free ride. I climbed up, first feeling some hesitation due to my fear of heights, but it turned out to be easier than I expected, and as I settled on the little padded bench, I thought this was not scary at all. Of course I decided I’d definitely pay him anyway, despite his seeming indifference to a fee. A rickshaw driver needs money, of course.

The ride was very bumpy because of, guess what, the condition of the roads. They were full of pot holes and the usual trash. I held on tight to the wooden slats that made the old-fashioned canopy. The rickshaw bumped into the back of some guy’s motorcycle and he cussed out the driver in what I thought was a German accent, and I had no idea what he was saying; it was probably in Newali. The rickshaw driver didn’t seem to think the accident, which involved no damage to persons or property, was worth sticking around, and after a few words he continued driving. He looked like he was about twenty years old, and I got to thinking he wasn’t a fabulous rickshaw driver.

Oddly, the driver took me on a route that included a good look at the royal palace, or at least the wall around it, on a big busy street that contained no other rickshaws. He pointed to the palace and told me it was the Red Palace, as if this was an amateur tour. I began to wonder if he was deliberately taking a longer route to gain my pity, and I felt very suspicious. I was correct in feeling suspicious. Finally, he stopped the rickshaw in a narrow Thamel road that seemed like an alley. He pointed to a tall beige building and said, “There is the Vaishali Hotel.”

After a beat I recognized it and said, “Oh, great, thanks!” I jumped down and said, “Really, I have to pay you something…” as I opened my passport bag and reached in.

“Fifty dollars,” he said. I laughed. “Forty dollars.”

“Not hardly,” I said. He went the long way around and wanted me to pay him a ridiculously high sum of money, as if he’d taken me as far as New Delhi! It’s no wonder that, shortly after I climbed into the rickshaw, he had asked me how long I’ve been in Kathmandu; perhaps I should have lied instead of saying this was my first day. Beware of scam artists while traveling alone.

“Thirty dollars, no less. That was a very long drive,” he said. He was quite demanding, after seeming so amiable earlier (like a jerk you’ve just married under false pretenses, the best explanation for why my next door neighbor is married) and the rickshaw driver went on about how he needed money for education. I tried to give him three one dollar bills, but he refused to take it and by then demanded ten dollars.


Finally, just wanting to shove him off, I pulled out a five hundred note in Indian rupees. I said, “This is worth ten dollars.” He wouldn’t take it because of the currency, and I lost patience and said, “That’s final.” I threw the piece of paper at him and marched off to the hotel. I was suddenly afraid he’d chase after me, but he didn’t. No doubt he didn’t take me past the wall around the hotel because he didn’t want the guard or the bellhop to witness his scam. (500 Indian rupees are about $10 in U. S. money, and I didn’t yet know that 500 and 1000 Indian rupee bills are illegal in Nepal!)

Earlier, before I took my walk, I had intended to exchange Indian money for Nepalese rupees at the hotel’s front counter, because I needed three thousand Nepalese rupees for the tour of the Boudhanath Stupa and the Swayambhunath Temple tomorrow. The clerk had told me they can exchange Indian money but not five hundred or one thousand rupee bills, and he showed me a placard on the wall behind the desk that also announces this. Unfortunately five hundred rupee bills were almost all the money I carried. He had called a little jewelry shop around the corner, inside the hotel, and they said that I could do it later.

I checked again after I had been out wandering, and this time the store could do two thousand rupees, but what they did was exchange it for Indian 100 rupee bills, which I took to the front counter to exchange for Nepalese rupees. The little shopkeeper I swear looked like a pimp, in need of a shave and wearing a black leather jacket and having the top few buttons of his shirt open to display a gold necklace; this didn’t help to make me more at ease. I was very addle-pated, tired, and finally desperate enough to mention going to a money exchange place, since, as I pointed out, I needed three thousand for the tour, and the clerk warned me about going to money exchange places: he said that they charge twenty-five percent interest. Probably because of my cold, I still felt terribly stupid and even strangely stressed out. I was pathetic enough that the front desk clerk took pity in me and took money out of a safe, so I ended up with thirty-five thousand Nepalese rupees. Whew! He then went into a long conversation with me, telling me the front desk number and asking how my room was and all, and going on and on for a long time, while I was anxious to go up to said room and take a nap.

The young man behind the front desk at the hotel was very friendly and chatty. On one hand, perhaps he was flirting, though I didn’t think so; I think it more likely that he was just using me to practice his English (which, incidentally, is significantly clearer than Naresh’s). Although I acted patient with his chattiness, I found it kind of annoying, really. I recently read a novel by Spider Robinson called Escape from Kathmandu, which explains a tendency people have of using foreigners, such as the main character, as tools for practicing their English, and the protagonist found this very annoying and wasn’t as patient as I appeared.

It certainly didn’t help that I was making an ass of myself: I felt really out of it and congested, not to mention somewhat bummed out. I felt terribly stupid and ridiculous and wanted to be invisible, to not be seen by any human. I don’t know if I often felt that way while I lived in St. Louis, but I have regularly had a frequent strange wish to be invisible since moving to Topeka, Kansas, so not my kind of town, where people stare at me as if I have two heads, when they’re not harassing me.

I didn’t understand my befuddled emotions since arriving in Kathmandu; I only knew I had to get to the privacy of my hotel room and have some solitude. As soon as I got a chance to leave the talkative desk clerk, I eagerly started heading to my left, toward the staircase.


Unfortunately, I noticed the bar: a few Nepalese men were sitting at the bar and staring at me, and at least one of them smiled unblinkingly at me as though he thought I was insane. I certainly didn’t feel sane and rather abruptly ran up the stairs. Near the top of the staircase, I stumbled, but fortunately I wasn’t in sight of anyone.

After I finally got upstairs and locked myself in my room, I set up my meditation cushion on the bed, sat cross-legged on top of it, and began to observe my breath. The phone rang. It was the front desk clerk. He wanted to chat, and he asked me what part of America I’m from, and said he’d been to Mexico but not the United States. He chatted on about that, and I figured out that, like in the novel Escape from Kathmandu, he was indeed practicing his English. He apologized for bothering me, and I said with a cheerfulness I didn’t feel, “Oh, it’s alright. Good-bye.”

I finally got off the phone, sat back on my cushion, crossed my legs, closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and began to breathe mindfully. The phone rang again. It was the desk clerk again. He asked, “I am sorry to bother you again, Susan, but do you need a wake-up call?”

“No, thank-you. I have an alarm clock,” I said. I gave up with my sitting meditation and instead got under the covers and, after a few minutes of reclining meditation, went to sleep.

I still hacked up bits of yellow phlegm, and I rather suspect Kathmandu has its share of pollution, though I don’t think it’s as severe as Delhi; still, it wasn’t good for my respiratory system. The power was out for three hours, till about 8 in the evening, but fortunately my room contained two candles and two small boxes of matches. No doubt the rain and my illness were not the only reasons why I felt melancholy. During my first day in Kathmandu, I lived in the present moment—an easy thing to do in a strange place. I went to bed around six o’clock in the evening, while the electricity was not working, and I mostly stayed in bed, though I recall waking up and seeing a couple of glowing lamps. That may sound like I was getting an abnormal amount of sleep, but I still had that virus.


My visit to Kathmandu so far was excessively surreal, and I was feeling lonely, grumpy, exhausted, congested, and stupid. Not to mention acting stupid. It’s like if the director of Lost in Translation decided to make another, similar movie.

Last Day in Dharamsala

Pictures at Pathnkot Train Station

I’m sitting outdoors, it’s morning, and I’m listening to birds. One makes a soft peep-peep, and several make a series of chirps, not in unison. Periodically I hear a bird that calls continuously and sounds a lot like an alarm clock; I’ve heard it frequently throughout this stay at the guesthouse. Last night, weirdly, the roof of my room was assaulted by the bizarre sounds of either birds or monkeys (or some sort of creature, possibly mythological) scrambling around and either chirping or emitting high-pitched chatters. It sounded like the creatures might fall through the roof—they scrambled so frantically. Oh, I just heard a crow.

At Chonor House one day, Gary identified a gliding bird as a vulture and others as hawks, and since then I’ve noticed hawks with white undersides. Here I am surrounded by trees, and it just occurred to me that I haven’t seen any squirrels since we were in Delhi. Perhaps they’re not into higher altitudes.

I gave my stack of postcards to the Maharaja this morning and said, “Could you please mail these postcards? I haven’t found a post office.” I refrained from mentioning that I didn’t try very hard to find one. There were much more interesting sights to distract me.

Enid asked the Raj about one of the photos in the sunroom, and he explained that was one of his sons and explained several portraits over several generations. The sunroom contained modern color photos and old black and white photos. The Raj showed us an elaborate picture that’s the family tree dating to before Alexander the Great, and over one window was a very old yellow parchment that he explained is the original family tree. It was framed and behind glass. The Raj’s dad had nine wives and fifty-two kids. No wonder India has a population of over a billion. The current Raj and Rani have one son; one of the pictures was of his wedding, and he wore a spiffy pink silk tunic and turban. In the midst of the conversation, the Raj led us into Kathy and Inge’s suite and opened a far door into a charming room with a large bookcase and wall panels hand-painted with a white background and a colorful tree in the foreground.

Before this, Kathy and Inge showed me their beautiful suite, with a fireplace much like ours and an elaborately carved dark wooden bed and chairs. There’s a sitting room in front complete with an alcohol-filled sideboard in a corner and an empty leopard on the opposite wall. I realize it was killed a long time ago, but I’m glad my room contains no dead animals. Past the sitting room is the big bedroom, and beyond that a little whitewashed anti-room and a larger but similar bathroom to ours, and connected to the bathroom is a separate toilet room—rather convenient when you’ve got a roommate.

2
At approximately ten this morning, we got together in the courtyard, and Jagdish sang and told us the story of the Ramayana. Mimi pointed out that the story is rather patriarchal and that Rama was very unkind to Sati, testing her instead of showing that he was glad to have her back. As I mentioned in my pilgrimage memoir, Rama needs a dog, not a wife.

Gill said, “I think Kashmir Cottage is having trouble getting it together. We ought to share our insight poems and run away.”
“Gill, you are a mischievous girl,” Manny said. It was all the more funny, because she’s about twenty years older than he. Shortly after she said that, the Kashmir Cottage people have arrived.

Shantum said, “The sixth element is consciousness. All the elements are related.” Birds singing has to do with both earth and air. “We are all one with the elements.” He led us through an element meditation in the style of Thich Nhat Hanh. Afterwards, we shared insight poems, and I went ahead and read aloud my poem “Mindful Trek” even though I figured few people could hear my horrible voice. We had another but briefer discussion on generosity and such.
“When you feel like buying something, put the money in your pocket and give it to someone,” Shantum said.

We had some practical discussion. Address lists from Kashmir Cottage and from Cloud’s End will be e-mailed to the sangha; Marsha has one list, and Inge has the other. Kathy’s going to try making a website to share photos from the trip. I am glad to hear that; she took, among other things, group photos.

Shantum read from the Happiness Sutra. Perhaps if I had concentrated I would have learned something from it, but my mind was more undisciplined than usual.

After we shared our insight poems, Etiel had to go to a travel agency to confirm the next segment of her trip, so Shantum did the moli ceremony with her before she left. This ceremony is one that Shantum did with each of the pilgrims last year: he silently and mindfully ties a hand-dyed red and yellow string around your left wrist, a thicker string than the Three Jewels strings that monks tie around your right wrist. That was the last we will see of Etiel, because she’s staying behind in Dharamsala while most of us go to Delhi. Shantum then did the moli ceremony with Lynn and John, who also left.

At some point, Enid said to me, “You have got to get out of Kansas!” I agreed enthusiastically, with what was probably a stupid laugh. The trip has certainly reminded me of the urgency of my moving far away from Kansas, to the west coast, though I think I said the same about the last trip. However, on last year’s pilgrimage, I found considerably more acceptance and a sense of belonging, a sense that got me fantasizing about living in India. On this trip, I’m getting a message that India is not where I need to be to seek healing after all; even dogs have been unfriendly. Anyway, I’m busy writing journals instead of getting ready to leave. I can do both, really.

At some point in Dharamsala, Lynn asked me, “What do people in Kansas think of you?”
I laughed heartily and said, “They think I’m a freak!” I may have expanded on that slightly.

At some point Enid said, “You should wear that hat all the time,” referring to my new hand-embroidered burgundy Kashmiri fez.

“I just might!” I said.

“You should even wear it when you go to bed, and in the shower.”

She suggested that I should wear weird clothing in Kansas all the time, and I said, “I do!” and laughed. “People stare,” I added.

The sangha enjoyed a nice Indian lunch at Cloud’s End. It was everyone who was left, including people who stayed at Kashmir Cottage.

We climbed into five white cabs, as we had before, and experienced a queasy-dizzy drive from Dharamsala. We circled around and around down the mountain, as we had up the mountain, and I felt dizzy. This time I uncharacteristically refrained from keeping quiet about it, and I said to Rachel, who sat beside me, “I’m feeling dizzy and nauseous.” Rachel thought I meant that to the extreme of needing to stop the car so I could vomit on the side of the road, but no, I said that wouldn’t be necessary.

We stopped at Mao Fort, the same derelict hotel/restaurant we had stopped at on the way to Dharamsala. We had tea and enjoyed the view again.

One of the Davids offered me Chinese herbal cold medicine that he had gotten earlier on the tip and didn’t need any more. Given the way I was coughing at that point, it was obvious that I wasn’t feeling well. I eagerly said, “Sure! That’d be great!” and he went out to the taxis to rummage in his suitcase for the drugs. I felt flattered that he was going through all that trouble—again, a mother! While we sat in the circle, he came over to me and gave me two biggish pill bottles one labeled “Cold Away” and the other something beginning with a B. I thanked him profusely. It seems like just about everyone I traveled with was being my mother. Stacy noticed the drugs, and since she and Paula have more or less the same thing I have (like, the pollution in Delhi probably has something to do with it). Anyway, Stacy gave me advice on the drugs—she’s a professional homeopathic healer and in fact gave a couple of us fizzy pink vitamin C supplements for breakfast yesterday morning, our last breakfast at Cloud’s End.

Everyone sat in a circle at Mao Fort and sipping tea, the two sisters Pat and Gill (with a few comments from Shantum and Richard) paged through their journals and summarized the trip, starting at the very beginning, about a month before I joined the sangha. As Sheila later described it, “It was like a British sitcom.” At least one other person said this was boring for people who weren’t on that part of the trip, and they pointed out that we should have been doing that in the courtyard the other day instead of waiting till we were at Mao Fort.

I haven’t written about Boom Boom yet. Lynn and John went to the café, Boom Boom the Fifth, on a Monday night. Normally Boom Boom doesn’t do her cabaret show on Mondays, but she did it special just for them (I think because it was John’s birthday). Lyn said, “It was like we were in an independent film.” Boom Boom played a Bessie Smith record and sang with it---I get the impression she’s a very good singer. She’s a bit overweight and wears excessive make-up, with lipstick that goes high above her lips and forms a pair of sharp points, under her nose. Lyn said that Boom Boom had a relationship with the Raj that she can’t explain because that would be unmindful speech. So, like, presumably “Boom Boom is or has been the Raj’s mistress,” as someone put it. I wouldn’t have used that archaic term. Shantum later smilingly said that Boom Boom likes to gossip, to spread gossip, not just be the subject of gossip. Oh, yes, also, she’s Australian.

The Raj himself is a bit odd. I mentioned that he wore pretty clothes. In addition to the regional hat, he wore a hand quilted, or a dark red or navy blue velvet robe in the same wrap-around, vaguely Tibetan-looking style. I never thought I’d want to pet a Maharaja. He is pale for an Indian and has deep-set eyes and white hair, what’s left of it—Enid said she’s never seen anyone who looks like the Raj and said, “He’s Indian, isn’t he?” Paula or someone pointed out that he’s from Northern hill tribes, and I remembered the family tree on his wall in the sun room, a family tree that goes back to before Alexander the Great.

Oh, yes, the Rani is the one who comes from the Maharaja family, and their marriage was arranged—they met on the day they married. I’m glad I didn’t know this while I was staying at Cloud’s End, but on the ride away Paula said that the Raj said men should be masters and women should be submissive. As Paula pointed out, he’s married to a woman who used to be the M.P. (Member of Parliament) for the region. The Rani, who sorted out and returned laundry to sangha members, said, “I used to work for the government, and now I sort underwear. This is not in my league.”

Anyway, on the bright side, Shantum and the Raj were never close friends. He’s actually Vikram Seth’s age rather than Shantum’s, so they would have been five years apart. The oddest thing about the Raj is the way he talks: he scarcely moves his lips, like a ventriloquist, and it’s therefore hard to understand him, even though he speaks English with a British accent. James did a funny impersonation of this after we got into the taxi to leave Cloud’s End for the Pathankot station.

On the way to the train station, we rode through the filthy dingy hazy downtown of Pathankot. The air is grey with haze, the traffic is mostly rickshaws, motorcycles, and trucks, and right up next to each other are countless open-front little shops. Litter lies or flutters on the ground before these shops. The occasional horse cart clops and rattles past. The buildings and everything around is overwhelmingly grey, with some exceptions, in particular the bright salwar-kamiz women wear; I hope they’re wearing washable cotton.

We arrived at the Pathankot train station, where the first thing I recognized was the cartoonish grey elephant sculpture in a blue jacket and holding a lantern. Numerous rickshaws and a very dirty man hovered around, watching us; he wore a mustard yellow shawl and matching turban.
At the station, we stood around and saw four red-clad Tibetan monks waiting on a bench; a guy with a metal cart on which he was making roti; and another guy with a fruit cart piled mostly with oranges and bananas. The haze was still really obvious. When the train came along, the engine billowed black smoke and chugged by, rapidly followed by the third class cabins in which people appeared to be tightly packed and the open windows had horizontal bars. As the cabins went past close to us, I felt dizzy and had to turn away, but my curiosity compelled me to turn back to the train. The next windows were long rectangles, with glass, and next was sleeper class, which we would ride again.

On the platform, Shantum had gone over a list assigning us numbers, and both Marsha and I had the number 37, so I ended up taking number 17 instead and letting her have 37, which makes sense especially since that would put her with her friend David from Florida. (She lives in the San Francisco area and he lives in Florida, but they keep in touch regularly anyway.)

We got on the train and I noticed that my bunk had a bundle of used sheets on it, so I scooped them up and said, “It looks like I get the dirty laundry!” and put the sheets on the bunk above me. James was coming up behind me and laughed at my comment as he moved by, but a skinny 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.

Jagdish handed out carry-out diner, a basic Indian meal, from Mao Fort. It consisted of a cardboard box containing two plastic bags, one full of a cauliflower curry and the other a paneer; an aluminum container full of rice; and two pieces of chapatti. I sat cross-legged on my bunk—again, an outer one with my own curtain and window—with my backpack and handbag and jacket and velvet shirt spread out on the bench. Jagdish also passed out bananas and oranges, although the once hot food was sufficiently filling. I had expected cucumber sandwiches, eggs, and fruit like the picnic lunches on the pilgrimage last year, so this was a pleasant surprise…except I really shouldn’t be eating right before going to bed, which is essentially what I did.

I took the Chinese drugs with dinner and promptly went to bed afterward.

After eating on the train, and having a chat with Stacy and Manny, who were across the aisle from me, and Paula was visiting them. (What a relief—at first I was afraid that strange men would be across the aisle from me, after Paula told me a disturbing true story, on one of these trains, in which there were a couple of English women in their twenties, and some creep was not only staring at them but also jacking off). Anyway, I made my bed, putting my passport bag (which contains a bunch of money) under my pillow, and on top of that my handbag, then my coat, then my pillow, and at my feet were my shoes and backpack. As I drew the curtain, I heard, “Good-night, Susan!” and replied, “Good night!” as I lay down with my face toward the curtain, like a reclining Buddha.

Insight Poems

Although this trip to India was not nearly as inspiring as last year's pilgrimage, I still managed to write more than one insight poem in Dharamsala.

Mindful Trek

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


Nurturing

I have heard that everyone
has previously been my mother.
While I cannot see myself as anyone’s mother,
it is clear that everyone in this sangha
has been my mother previously
and briefly in this lifetime.