burning and learning

After a clay cup of fresh yogurt and watching a local man practice his downward dogs, Rasha, my tout and guru on day one here, told me this---"Varanasi is the city of burning and learning"-the learning, because of the great university down river, and the burning, because people come from near and far to be put to rest with flames and prayers along the holy Ganga. My train rolled into the station seven hours late- (due to fog) putting me in close to midnight. Anxious about the intensity of this city and the fact that I hadn't booked a room in advance, added a phantom of the opera meets the sopranos feel to my arrival. After being turned away from the Hotel Surya, Mudhak and Swarika my leathered up taxi drivers, found me a shoebox room suitable for Stewart Little at the Hotel Buddha. After a short sleep and a tomato omelet, I made my way to the historic Ghats (ritual steps leading into the Ganges).These steps bring Varanasi its fame and promise of eternal moksha (liberation). There are no hidden ceremonies here at the ghats and in the river, our most private western rituals are exposed---bathing, urination, shaving, cremation...----the death ritual was explained in depth to me as I watched white cotton wrapped bodies covered in marigolds carried on wooden stretchers to the water...They were dipped for purification and then brought to the burning grounds--the flowers then removed, and ghee (clarified butter)drizzled on the body as it rested on split banyan logs and sandlewood (for the higher caste---a kilo of sandlewood costing 1500 rupees/30$, and 100 kilos needed for the cremation). A holy man then circles the body with a bundle of burning grass five times--the face is uncovered and blessed--more wood is stacked on top of the departed, and a lower caste attendant burns the body. During the 3 hour cremation, family members stand watching from a distance--the women not allowed, as their tears are troubling to the departed's soul. Faces are solemn, though children fly kites along the periphery of the ghat. Once the ashes of the fire smolder, the men bring water to dowse the ashes. Then their heads are shaved. When the family departs, and the ashes cool, lower caste members sift through the cinders for jewelry to sell.
I learned that two houses near by offer room and board to those waiting for their death------after making a donation to one of the death houses, I was blessed by an wrinkled and tired old woman waiting to die---Her sinewy hands on my head, "Long life, happy life, healthy life!" she wished, and then crawled back to her blanket in the corner waiting for another donor and her death. Most Hindus dream of such an auspicious departure---with the exception of brahmins, pregnant women, lepers, those bitten by cobras, and children under ten--their fate provides them a different ritual---for their bodies are too pure or too tainted for this rite---they have a stone tied to them and they are dropped to the bottom of the holy Ganges.
"Burning and learning.....Welcome to Varanasi, please, no photos of the dead."

Red and Green ChRISHIKESH

Very nice to wake to clear, warm skies on this Rishikesh Christmas morning. The day started with a sugar-bomb and a cup of coffee at the Swiss Cottage Bakery. Doris (a German tourist) handed out the coconut treats to diners, "Feliz Navidad"s were exchanged between spanairds in the adjacent booth, and the Hindu Times mentioned nothing of the western holiday. I strolled across the Ram Jula (Bridge) delighted by the abundant sunshine and the absence of monkeys screeching along the rails. I bought a flower boat and made my way to the water----I kicked off my adidas court shoes, rolled up my pants and entered the water between a bathing saddhu and a woman doing laundry---my flower boat filled with marigolds and incense sailed down the river with a prayer sent from the Ganges and around the world to my family. Last night, I was feeling a little empty and far from loved ones---Good fortune delivered me an ashram flier invited me to spend Christmas Eve with the Sivananda community where a "holiday program" promised to fill our stainless steel cups with cheer. It was somewhat surreal-----Silent night sung by Hindus, monks, westerners, Japanese, and the homeless----readings by swamis about the significance of Christ's birth, and the promise that comes with the magic of Christmas morning---Cultural dances were performed and an evergreen tree, dressed in a string of short circuiting colored lights-stood next to an altar with Krishna, Christ and Swami SHivananda-ji---conch shells and temple bells, Hare Oms, Namastes, and prasad (blessed sweets) were all shared amongst strangers feeling very close to one another so far from home. On the way back to my room, an anonymous passanger paid my rickshaw fare, and the change in my pocket rained on a sleeping man wrapped in a blanket on the road. Santa is everywhere.
Today, Diwari's family invited me over for Christmas Lunch----the traditional fare, of course,-----as the guest, I was served mounds and mounds of spinach, sabji, chapatti, biryani, dal, raddish, onion, and carrot pudding---We took chai in the parlor and talked about how good the man Obama is. When the conversation slowly slipped from English back to Hindi, I took this as my signal to exit-----holding back my tears of gratitude, I thanked them and said my final good-bye to my family away from family---their heads wiggled.

Sunday, day of rest

It's non-stop here at the orphanage--India is non-stop. As soon as you step out the door, where ever you are, you are assaulted by the concentration of people, animals, and vehicles moving at a quick clip with seemingly directionless purpose. Constant road work without machinery, men and women breaking rocks with hammers, crews mixing cement in wheelbarrows.....shopkeepers baghwans (stores/buildings)smacked side by side, all competing with each other to sell the same laundry soap, prayer beads, bottled water, and Cadbury chocolate.
But today is Sunday, and at least inside the ashram things are quiet at 7:45 am. Though the kids have been up since the bell rang at 6:30 am, and they've said their prayers and are doing their laundry. Today is the one day of the week they don't have school. Time to chill out----relax and read, play cricket, do homework, pass around the newborn, capture a chess queen.....
Yesterday, I walked around the village outside of the ashram to take some photos. The "tween-agers" showed me their Henna tatoos, high school girls in school uniforms read the Hindi Times--taking a break before arriving to their first class, and truant boys shot arrows from homemade bows at me. Shoeless and school-less were many of them.
Meanwhile, the orphan kids were all in school. Their curriculum is demanding, Environmental Science--the nitrogen cycle, in 6th grade, taught in English. It would be very impressive if the delivery were effective, but the teaching methods are rote, and for the learning challenged, no modification...As an educator, this is frustrating to see---despite the economic and IT boom, I'm learning that it will take lifetimes for much of India to modernize.
Each day, despite the distance in the orphans' attitude toward me, I feel I make a little headway. "Batman" (age 8--eating dal in my previous post)gave me a rose off of the December birthday party cake yesterday. Arpita, age 6, told me "Vee are gud frenz now.", and Soniya,(age 14) the toughest of them all, sat next to me at dinner and continuously elbowed me to show me how many hot chiles she was able to withstand-(following each elbow in the rib, her right hand quickly grabbed her steel cup of water). On my way to bed, Kavita,(age 15)invited me to watch a Bollywood video....
...and Shin-bone's leg is covering with protective muscle-y growth.
It will be harder to leave than I thought, but tomorrow, I return to Rishikesh-homebase-----one more time--to study more with the ayurvedic doctor, and Friday, I head to Varanasi---India's holiest city. From the land of Shiva, Vishnu, and Ram, I wish you all a very happy Christmas.

Gratitude, my friend

I'm having a hard time trying to come up with the words for the experience here at the Ashram....."Shin-bone" dog has taken a shining to me, no one will help him, and I'm advised not to touch him....My stomach is challenged by the water--boiled as it may be, and a baker's dozen of dark chocolate brown eyes continue to question my intentions (the cow-milker has one eye)...Though there's a deep sense of emptiness here, the understaffed community loves the children with big hearts and a life of service, and the damaged youngsters,(ages 6 weeks to 19 years), are full of appreciation for the little they've been dished-out this lifetime. My Rishikesh routine is now replaced with the "Haridwar" one----cow milking, baby rocking, shoe tying, study halling, face wiping, freesbie catching, hand holding, chapatti making, and trying to keep it together in the face of simultaneous suffering and joy.
Nothing like joining a kid on the floor at dinner, dipping our fingers in the rice and dal and discussing (in broken English) our favorite animals, sweets, and colors. The stockings will be stuffed with a Kit Kat, a comb, a trial size bottle of lotion, and a hat. Happy, Happy Holidays my fortunate friends.

Coming Down to "Hard"war

Well, it had to happen....I had to extract myself from the cozy nest of the High Bank Peasant's Cottage. Leaving Rishikesh was not easy--there was an autorickshaw strike AND the last days there I fell into a rhythm....--There were daily meetings with Dr. Suchit Katiyar to discuss the basic philosophy, diagnostic methods, and applications of Ayurveda for the 3 doshas. We'd meet at the Niketan temple and I would follow him away from the medicine shop down to the river's edge where the background sounds of ringing bells, sweeping sweepers, and the occasional "seagull" mixed into my hand held audio recording of his lecture. Following the lecture, against his recommendation, I'd stop off for a dose of butter cookies baked in a tin fired stove atop a travel cart. Along the way, each day, others' routines would etch their karma along the river. Holy and unholy bathing, the scrubbing and drying of clothes, gurus and fake gurus meditating while seated on smooth grey stones, the intentional sadhu picking up trash, children and strolling young couples keeping him eternally employed by mindlessly tossing wrappers on the sand.
I'd stop off at bookstores, browse for long periods of time at titles like "The Secrets of Pulse Reading" or "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus" or "Tantra in 30 Seconds"... then I'd scurry across the bridge to make it to the 4:30 yoga class at the Sivananda Ashram. This was my favorite of my yoga poo-poo platter--a ladies only class led by a Japanese nun ("Gents" at 6am)----The nun and I realized our paths had crossed at the Sivananda Ashram in the Bahamas. (small world here in "Inja") Her classes overlooking the Ganges, were accompanied by chanting sounds and burning smells wafting from the river. Monkeys swinging on the window chains made headstands hard to hold. My routine would end with a quick chat with Diwari, telling me the news from his daily paper, and a spicy dinner of mixed curried vegetables and chapati in a garden under Japanese lanterns---as i said, it was difficult to leave. Now, I'm at the Sri Ram Orphanage-in Har"I"dwar (the city invoking the images of the name "hard" and "war")--After paying a kings ransom for a taxi (due to the rickshaw strike), I was greeted by a dying dog with his entire shin bone exposed, a group of suspicious and shy children, and Swapna, the absent-minded nurse who's maybe been here a little too long. Jury's out regarding how this will go--moving out of the head and hopefully, coming down further into the heart.

"Would you like a look-see, Madam?"

Holy men, Holy mountains. The adventure to the edge of the Himalaya was pure fantasy. Steep green steps of rice lining the curves of the Ganges, pommegranite sunsets, small villages dotting the hillsides- we drove 7 hours to the holy ground between India and Tibet, hearts opening and family forming on the way. Negiji, our slender, uniformed and focused driver, carefully tooting his horn as a warning to oncoming trucks and buses--Brig-mohan (our lead guide),India's version of Fred Flintstone, pointing out temples and wildlife, looking over his shoulder from the front seat, frequently asking, "Madam, would you like to stop and have a look-see?"--- Karan, the self-confident, young guide from Nepal, adopting me as his "di di" (sister), attempting to teach me hindi on the drive----And Pandi, our shy quiet cook, silently giggling in the back with the luggage. Unimagined sites along the way, both to, and from, the majestic views--drums keeping rhythm to mantras and chants at the Kalimaht temple, the hooves of brick-laden donkeys, clicking along the road, women swirled in color swinging machetes at branches for firewood, monkeys chatting from treetops, steam rising from early morning chai cups, temple bells ringing at 12,000 feet, hindi songs around the evening campfire, a roadside holy man touching my heart with his hand,the silence of Nanda Devi--the 7,830 meter peak blessing us under clear skies, and the somber gathering on the river bank as the pyre is lit and a village woman's body is separated from its soul by fire. To have lived this dream is another jewel.
Ram, Ram, Hare Om. We are blessed.

Diversion from original "Yoga Plan"

Taking a trip up the hills to catch a glimpse of the Himalayan Peaks, my dear Dutch friends, Olav and Paula, and I became intoxicated with the distant mts. Within an hour from returning from the temple visits and views, the 3 of us have planned a 5 day trek to get a little closer. This will be a civilized excursion--walking 6-7 hours a day after the 8 hour road trip from Rishikesh to "base camp". None of us had come to India intending to venture into the Himalaya, but the raw, vast power of the young mountain chain is seductive. So today, we run around town gathering chocolate, snacks, gloves, and extra layers to support us while exploring the lake and temple area on the edge of a glacier. We've been gifted a bottle of whiskey to help with the below freezing temperatures under the stars, and the cook has promised warm chai and coffee at sunrise. A different kind of sun salutation---the "ashram" yoga will have to wait. The photos here are just a few images captured around town between errands.
More soon

Kali in Rishikesh

I met her!!! Kali! Goddess of Destruction....in the form of a thali (south indian food sample platter) here in Rishikesh. She purified my soul and my belly. Now, two days later, I am stronger and able to enjoy the beauty of this magical village town on the banks of the powerful Ganges. I have been befriended by Diwali, my elder, statesman-like hotelier. Under a cool sun, we sip chai while sitting in wicker chairs on his porch. He likes to discuss politics, geography, and how dreams become reality. Rishikesh, land of Gods, is nestled in the foothills of the Himalaya. The town is full of seekers, sadhus, pilgrims, merchants, snake charmers, monkeys, yoga ashrams and ayurvedic treatment centers. The slate green Ganges winds around curves and boulders and pujas (rituals) are performed on her banks each evening. The first night here I dipped my hands in the water, tears rolling down my cheeks---for the first time here, I felt the timelessness of sorrows and joys of this place. It's a powerful spot, Rishikesh, and it has humbled me and slowed my pace. After the rickshaw rapidness of Delhi, it is very good to breathe more deeply and begin to surrender to this wild dream called India.

rickshaws and curries

Careening through the streets and alleys of Delhi, a haze of curry, incense, and diesel blankets the city. Mudukar, the rickshaw driver, dropped me at the country's largest mosque, the Jama Masjid where the tensions of Mumbai's news melted into peace. Ablutions, pigeons, prayer, and smiles--this was the perfect stop in the center of chaos. The rest of the day was spent speeding through spice markets, bazaars, sari shops....zig-zagging between ox carts and handicapped Hindus, we returned safely to the hotel where 12 hours of divine sleep awaited me. Today was election day---the town was buttoned up as people lined the streets to cast their ballots.... The only riot, was a riot of color broke out in the form of ceremonial dance en route to a wedding... Two days ---already India's magic spell has begun to hypnotize the heart.

ecpdreams

Photobucket Album

Swami dreams....
It's bedtime in Taos and on the other side of the planet, autorickshaws swerve between skinny cows, chai guzzlers wait with presence, and smash clay cups on village train platforms---the red sun glows above, while the snow falls from a black sky here.
17 sleeps between us.