Shopkeepers and the many friendly men of the subcontinent say "Shalom!" to me as I walk past. A few say "Ola!" Maybe I could say, "Guess again, guess again!" It feels like a game.
[Query to Ayelet: My dear is this true? I have a feeling being Israeli in India is a little like being American in Mexico. There's just something about the comments in Hindi that keep getting made by Indian men- It make me somethin' wondering]
This morning at my favourite juice stand 2nd or 3rd generation son of Sonu asks me, "Where are you from?" after we both watched a group of Israelis jump on an enormous motorcycle and roar away. I think it was the fact that I didn't except the invitation to just jump on and ride off with them that made him wonder. Then again, it could be my hair. That's what Manu said. "Your hair me thinking is you Israeli." I do love being mistaken for all kinds of international backgrounds. It makes me feel at home in the world. This part of the world, anyways. I'd still be feeling left out in Oslo, I think.
But back to the rambling non-existant point I was trying to make: there's something about being a tourist I don't like. Or I'm not comfortable with. We already know how tourists are seen in various parts of the world. How about our neighbours, Americans, in our part of the world? "Thanks for your money, now why don't you leave quickly so you can come back again soon. I promise we'll miss you until you come spend money here again. Here's your hat, what's your hurry? Don't let the border guard hit you on the way out." When I worked in the touristy part of Victoria, we all traded favourite "dumb questions a tourist could ask" stories.
It is simply not fair to judge anyone by their country or their ethnicity - but it's done every day, every second of the day.
So what's my problem? Is it the people that become tourists? There are plenty of Canadian folks I might not want to be seen as ambassadors to our country. Is it the way tourists behave? Nice how I separate myself like I'm so special, huh? It's not like I haven't lost my temper here, oh a few times. I've witnessed many people do the same. As one shanti-full fellow described it "India got to me today, it just bloody got to me."
Hmmm. It would appear I really don't like being a tourist.
Commentary from the not-so-nice angel sitting on my left shoulder: Way to go, figuring that out now are we, Eufemia?
My response: Uhm, shaddup.
I will say I have loved this, staying in Pushkar, in one place and building a sense of community. Even if it was a false sense, which you can't help but struggle with when you realise perhaps Mukesh the jeweller doesn't really like you at all but likes your rupees. Even after I dazzled him with all my Hindi sentences and then sang some kirtan for him, at his request: Gauri Ganesha, Uma Ganesha, Parvati Nandana Shree Ganesha, Shadanam Ganesha, Shadanam Ganesha, Shiva Nandana Ganapati Ganesha!
Mukesh: You say incredible India - I say incredible tourist!
Eufemia: ah...Thank you.
Why did I feel disappointed? Well because, you had to be there. Sure, he was paying me a compliment and then, I was paying too much because I stink at bartering. And truly, what did I expect? A few phrases in Hindi, a few questions about this and that, expressing interest in the culture and yoga and knowing about Mirabai and they would say "Welcome home! Only Ganesha knows how many reincarnations it's been since we last saw you, but welcome, welcome. You are family."
There's an expression in Hindi, The whole world is one family. I think that explains all the global conflicts.
I looked into another ashram, just north of Rishikesh, called Phool Chatti and recommended by Mincho. If Mincho with his buck-the-system-no-like-authority attitude could handle this place, I'm thinking it will be like Ashram-lite. Plus what a great name - it means land of flowers, which sounds more appropriate than my first interpretation "Let's sit by the pool and chat ashram." This ashram has a one week yoga program. Up at 5:30 a.m. and yoga, chanting, breathing, walking, meditating and by 7:30 p.m - stick an incense stick in you 'cause you're done.
I'm not sure why I feel like I can't be here, in India, without practicing Yoga. Like my Visa says it's a Tourist Visa - who am I to throw cow patties at that? Turns out I've become a bit militant towards myself and that is causing torah mental tension. Torah? Maybe bahut. Not little, but a lot. When I missed 4 classes last week due to being sick, I felt awful. I felt guilty. I felt like a bad person. I heard my interior monologue - a nasty piece of work. I even questioned if I was sick, or whether it was just psychosomatic-blah-blah-blah-I-created-this-illness-blah-blah-blech.
Advice from the mini-angel I like, the nice helpful angel: You couldn't sleep. Then, you couldn't breathe. Your body was demanding the break because you were getting a bit pagal. Maybe you should go get a Hello to the Queen when your sense of taste returns, and practice some ice cream dessert kindness.
Here's the t-shirt I'm getting designed before I leave: Guardian Angels Kick Angst. Inspired by the Canadian Girls Kick Ass T-shirts, of course, but this one, instead of having that annoying lil' flag that in it's own way says 'we are patriots, separate, distinct, different from you, you are not my family,' it will just have a Planet Earth in the centre, right above the words.
Oh, I know. Deep. I'm sooooo deep. That's what you were going to say, right? Well nevermind, I don't need to know.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Wild Kingdom Continued
Check this out:
Dear Friend,
Let me start by introducing myself. I am Mr. Pang Xiusheng, Chief Financial Officer, China Construction Bank, 25 Finance St Beijing, China .I have a business proposal of $27,400,000.00 ( Twenty seven million Four Hundred Thousand United State Dollars ).For you. contact for more detail.
Kind Regards,
Pang Xiusheng.
I may be able to extend my time in India! Besides Mr. Xiusheng's generous offer, I had an email from an astrological site and an offer to extend some anatomy I don't have and therefor, these services I not be requiring.
To continue where I left off on the animal farm- More Wild Kingdom Moments (just like a Heritage Canada Minute, without the feeling of "I can't stand another minute of this, kill me.") :
There were three geckos in my room this morning, one I thought was staring at me but it's just the way they have of those little peppercorn eyes on the sides of their head looking all open. When I turned on my light, he blinked. I thought it was a nice touch to our goodbye morning (pardon me, our namaste morning to Jessie) but I would have preferred three roses in my room. All the yoga work continues, no attachment, no preferences. I'm working on it, I'm working it.
Many bugs have crawled across my Yoga mat, to say nothing of the ones that crawl across my bed. Black carpenter ants have decided I am their very own personal jungle gym. It's like they're playing their own deadly game of 'chicken' (uhm, you can't say 'their own deadly game of which lentil bean gets thrown out' - it just doesn't work. There's some things you have to expand your vegetarian consciousness for.) Who knew ants were such daredevils. Or lemmings. I imagine when I was an ant, maybe I followed the herd too but you'd think one guy would say "Let's climb the tree instead of Eufemia. The tree won't scream and swat at us."
I don't actually scream. I don't even go "ack!" anymore. There you go, it is a life-changing trip, an adventure in India. For one thing, I tossed the cockroach off my mat without flinching. I just thought "Buddy, I'll help you out. You're going the wrong way." FLICK. I ignore the mini-jumping spiders that are flourescent green in colour, they're almost translucent. The first one I saw I thought "Quick, flourescent green good or bad?" I mean what the heck's a poisonous colour in nature? Once again a subject not covered in my education. Who knew flourescent green existed in nature? I thought those colours disappeared in the 80's.
And why I feel I still have to explain the snake-drawstring, I dunno, but here: This is cobra territory, and Swamiji's nephew stood in front of a cobra at Swamiji's house - that's right, the place where we practice yoga - when he was a one year old. The cobra swayed and did nothing, because, being an infant, his nephew was not afraid. His nephew is now 12. That's 11 years ago, when Swamiji says "That time very badly for cobras here." I prefer the cobra story that goes "Well, now, lemme see, Henry Ford had just invented the car and that made camels obsolete, so maybe, what 85 years ago this cobra problem happen?"
I don't think anyone who knows me would believe I'm now a wild-child-at-one-with-nature, I have this thing about cities, I love the heartbeat of a city, like I love the breath of the woods, like I love the embrace of the ocean. But I have grown happily accustomed to doing my laundry at the same time as I shower, using the same water not just to conserve it but because I love it. (Also, I can finally thank my parents for that 1982 trip to Italy that taught me how to survive without a shower for many, many days. The number of days is irrelevant. You don't need to know. You might look at me differently.)
The jury's still out on which sound I would leave off my India soundtrack: angry cows, unimpressed camels, mating cats, fighting dogs, or whatever the hell it is those bats are doing in the Banyen tree. It's not a happy sound. Two baby bats flew past my head last night, playing 'chicken'. Ha ha. Guess who was the chicken? They flew within 3 feet of my head - that's a little close. So, now I know what bats sound like when they're making out.
Children of the night...what music they make.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Because I Needed to Read it Again
I'm sharing a poem I love, because I have nothing to say, or too much but I can't really express it right now. I love these moments, hey? Where I'm feeling alot and can't really verbalise it. It makes me think that palm reader who read my ink-stained hand and said I was a writer may have been pulling my arm.
In a few minutes I'm off to Swamiji's for Jessie's goodbye kichari dinner. This morning, we had our last class together. Swamiji said "Not worry, not far in our hearts we always together." And he wiped his eyes. I'm telling you, I bit every side of my tongue to not cry, and there's more biting to be done before this day is over.
After class, as Jessie and I were walking away, Swamiji said "One minute please," and walked us over to a rose bush that had just sprouted it's first flowers of the year: 3 perfect peach-pink roses. "Three coming, first flowers this year. Nature shows us."
Later when we showed up for dinner, one of Swamiji's grandchildren gave me one of the roses. I don't know if he had plucked it, but it looked quite bashed about, as if the kids had been running around grabbing it from each other and tossing it in the air, maybe playing at making a Puja, who knows. I told Sarah about the 3 roses seen in the morning and showed her the one in my palm. We both looked at the rose and then at each other. I said "Because Jessie's leaving."
I needed to read this Nick Thran poem again, and I wanted to share it:
The Poem You've Been Waiting For
The poem will never save the world.
The poem won't even draw you up
from your sick bed and make you feel better.
But the poem is trying to do what it can.
It is learning the fiddle. It is knitting a homemade scarf.
It is riding a Bengal tiger through a field of ragweed
and doing summersaults off of a bridge.
The poem has even mastered some magic tricks:
one with a hand-axe, a rat, and a cantaloupe; the otherwith a simple deck of cards.
The poem is satisfying two...no, make that three
beautiful women at once. They can hardly believe
the poem can go on like this. You can hear them singing
like honey and rivers and wine.The poem is putting fresh, crisp sheets on the bed.
It has bought a new pair of socks for you to wear
every day for the rest of your life.
The poem is making an honest man
out of a shyster. It is teaching your sister to read.
It is planning a vacation: one week in Bali
followed by three days gambling at Cesar's Palace
and buying tickets for the novel, the short story, the monologue
and all of the poem's other friends.
The poem is walking on one bad leg
with an injured orangutan slung over its shoulder.
It is spending long nights alone in room
digging its fingernails into the wall, and talking to ghosts,
and reading Hegel, and beading a necklace
made entirely of scorpions who have solemnly sworn
never to hurt you. You're going to have to trust the poem
despite all of its shortcomings.
Word has it, it knows a couple of secrets
about life and beauty and eternity and grace
I couldn't possibly ever hope to reveal
speaking to you, like I am.
See? May rose petals be strewn before Nick's path for the rest of his life.
In a few minutes I'm off to Swamiji's for Jessie's goodbye kichari dinner. This morning, we had our last class together. Swamiji said "Not worry, not far in our hearts we always together." And he wiped his eyes. I'm telling you, I bit every side of my tongue to not cry, and there's more biting to be done before this day is over.
After class, as Jessie and I were walking away, Swamiji said "One minute please," and walked us over to a rose bush that had just sprouted it's first flowers of the year: 3 perfect peach-pink roses. "Three coming, first flowers this year. Nature shows us."
Later when we showed up for dinner, one of Swamiji's grandchildren gave me one of the roses. I don't know if he had plucked it, but it looked quite bashed about, as if the kids had been running around grabbing it from each other and tossing it in the air, maybe playing at making a Puja, who knows. I told Sarah about the 3 roses seen in the morning and showed her the one in my palm. We both looked at the rose and then at each other. I said "Because Jessie's leaving."
I needed to read this Nick Thran poem again, and I wanted to share it:
The Poem You've Been Waiting For
The poem will never save the world.
The poem won't even draw you up
from your sick bed and make you feel better.
But the poem is trying to do what it can.
It is learning the fiddle. It is knitting a homemade scarf.
It is riding a Bengal tiger through a field of ragweed
and doing summersaults off of a bridge.
The poem has even mastered some magic tricks:
one with a hand-axe, a rat, and a cantaloupe; the otherwith a simple deck of cards.
The poem is satisfying two...no, make that three
beautiful women at once. They can hardly believe
the poem can go on like this. You can hear them singing
like honey and rivers and wine.The poem is putting fresh, crisp sheets on the bed.
It has bought a new pair of socks for you to wear
every day for the rest of your life.
The poem is making an honest man
out of a shyster. It is teaching your sister to read.
It is planning a vacation: one week in Bali
followed by three days gambling at Cesar's Palace
and buying tickets for the novel, the short story, the monologue
and all of the poem's other friends.
The poem is walking on one bad leg
with an injured orangutan slung over its shoulder.
It is spending long nights alone in room
digging its fingernails into the wall, and talking to ghosts,
and reading Hegel, and beading a necklace
made entirely of scorpions who have solemnly sworn
never to hurt you. You're going to have to trust the poem
despite all of its shortcomings.
Word has it, it knows a couple of secrets
about life and beauty and eternity and grace
I couldn't possibly ever hope to reveal
speaking to you, like I am.
See? May rose petals be strewn before Nick's path for the rest of his life.
Friday, March 28, 2008
The Night of the Cobra
The night that I imagined a piece of fabric-string was a cobra, there was a gecko in my room. The Night of the Gecko just doesn't sound quite so magnificent, does it? Cobra, iguana, all good. Gecko, nah. Give it a miss. It'll never fly in Poughkeepsie.
The gecko had been hanging out outside my door, where all the wasps, bees and geckos hangout because there's a light right outside my door that illuminates the entire Lotus Patio area. I turned it off my first night in the room at 10 p.m. when I went to bed and it was promptly switched back on by the staff as otherwise hotel and dinner guests would be stumbling around the potted plants and crashing down the crumbling stairs.
He crawled inside, heading for the light of my candles. I blew them out and said "Get out." Then I said "You don't want my company, you want to go back outside and be with all your friends," because I thought I should try being persuasive like Raveen rather than flat out mean and mad. Neither worked.
I heard him crawl in and make like a herd of cows was behind him across my wall. He stopped not far from my head.
Free Advice from the Good Mini-angel sitting on my shoulder: Oh but why would it matter, Eufemia? Don't let this disturb you. Geckos are sooo cuuuuuute. Some people get gecko tattoos!
My response: Uhm, shaddup!
Perhaps an excerpt from Swamiji could explain my concern: "These many problem make. Many die in village, like this, this coming (points to a gecko near our yoga class) in tree, sometime, fall down, is like, when time for prepare food, and they (gestures putting his palm flat) and then like this. Yeah. So many people is like dying." Blogger's note: When Swamiji says 'is like' he means 'it is'. Just like it took me awhile to get that 'as like' means 'like this'. Therefor 'is like dying' in this context means means 'many people die this way' Understand my concern? Not so funny, my fear o' the old gecko monster now, is it? Cute my patootie.
We all stared at him confused, but I tell you I still laugh thinking about the look on Mincho's face. Between him and Swamiji, sometimes the english would get so fragmented, and sometimes Mincho would ask me to say it to him in Italian and he would make the appropriate translation into Spanish, at which point I'm surprised it never came to a pistols at dawn scenario because you know my skill with Italian. I can only imagine some of my translations came out like this: "Swamiji was been saying that yesterday, in the future, you have tried again you do will this pose, yes?"
So Swamiji said Gecko and many people is like dying and Mincho stared at him and said "Sorry, could you explaining this for me another time?"
Yeah, we were all good to hear that warning again. But this is what I understood by the end; either these geckos fall out of trees into the dinner dal pot when nobody's looking, and they die in the pot and somehow dinner gets dished out without anyone noticing the dead gecko in the bottom of the pot and then everyone's eaten a poisonous dinner, or, possibly the gecko sprays it's poison like a skunk, when it's afraid. I'm not sure how it's spray/urine get's into the dinner pot in the second example, but somehow it does and again, people dying is The End. Full stop.
Okay then, so I tried falling asleep but I couldn't breathe out of my nose so I was cursing the fact that I'd be a mouth-breather for the night, and I was terrified that this stupid gecko would spray me in the face and I would get killed. Ostensibly murdered by a gecko going to the bathroom. Can you imagine? At the time, (2:30 a.m. in the morning and with 5 bad sleeps beforehand) I could think of nothing worse, even the thought of a coconut landing on my head seemed a preferable way to say goodbye. (According to the fella from Kerala, people die climbing coconut trees and wiping out, not from coconuts landing on their heads. Well that's one less thing to worry about, thank goodness)
Is it any wonder that 15 minutes later, when that gecko crawled closer to me, I had forgotten all about it and thought the creepy sound effect was a cobra behind me? And did you know, when blowing out a candle, it makes a slight hissing noise? I mean, I knew that, but wow, I never paid attention to it like that before.
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
The gecko had been hanging out outside my door, where all the wasps, bees and geckos hangout because there's a light right outside my door that illuminates the entire Lotus Patio area. I turned it off my first night in the room at 10 p.m. when I went to bed and it was promptly switched back on by the staff as otherwise hotel and dinner guests would be stumbling around the potted plants and crashing down the crumbling stairs.
He crawled inside, heading for the light of my candles. I blew them out and said "Get out." Then I said "You don't want my company, you want to go back outside and be with all your friends," because I thought I should try being persuasive like Raveen rather than flat out mean and mad. Neither worked.
I heard him crawl in and make like a herd of cows was behind him across my wall. He stopped not far from my head.
Free Advice from the Good Mini-angel sitting on my shoulder: Oh but why would it matter, Eufemia? Don't let this disturb you. Geckos are sooo cuuuuuute. Some people get gecko tattoos!
My response: Uhm, shaddup!
Perhaps an excerpt from Swamiji could explain my concern: "These many problem make. Many die in village, like this, this coming (points to a gecko near our yoga class) in tree, sometime, fall down, is like, when time for prepare food, and they (gestures putting his palm flat) and then like this. Yeah. So many people is like dying." Blogger's note: When Swamiji says 'is like' he means 'it is'. Just like it took me awhile to get that 'as like' means 'like this'. Therefor 'is like dying' in this context means means 'many people die this way' Understand my concern? Not so funny, my fear o' the old gecko monster now, is it? Cute my patootie.
We all stared at him confused, but I tell you I still laugh thinking about the look on Mincho's face. Between him and Swamiji, sometimes the english would get so fragmented, and sometimes Mincho would ask me to say it to him in Italian and he would make the appropriate translation into Spanish, at which point I'm surprised it never came to a pistols at dawn scenario because you know my skill with Italian. I can only imagine some of my translations came out like this: "Swamiji was been saying that yesterday, in the future, you have tried again you do will this pose, yes?"
So Swamiji said Gecko and many people is like dying and Mincho stared at him and said "Sorry, could you explaining this for me another time?"
Yeah, we were all good to hear that warning again. But this is what I understood by the end; either these geckos fall out of trees into the dinner dal pot when nobody's looking, and they die in the pot and somehow dinner gets dished out without anyone noticing the dead gecko in the bottom of the pot and then everyone's eaten a poisonous dinner, or, possibly the gecko sprays it's poison like a skunk, when it's afraid. I'm not sure how it's spray/urine get's into the dinner pot in the second example, but somehow it does and again, people dying is The End. Full stop.
Okay then, so I tried falling asleep but I couldn't breathe out of my nose so I was cursing the fact that I'd be a mouth-breather for the night, and I was terrified that this stupid gecko would spray me in the face and I would get killed. Ostensibly murdered by a gecko going to the bathroom. Can you imagine? At the time, (2:30 a.m. in the morning and with 5 bad sleeps beforehand) I could think of nothing worse, even the thought of a coconut landing on my head seemed a preferable way to say goodbye. (According to the fella from Kerala, people die climbing coconut trees and wiping out, not from coconuts landing on their heads. Well that's one less thing to worry about, thank goodness)
Is it any wonder that 15 minutes later, when that gecko crawled closer to me, I had forgotten all about it and thought the creepy sound effect was a cobra behind me? And did you know, when blowing out a candle, it makes a slight hissing noise? I mean, I knew that, but wow, I never paid attention to it like that before.
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Living the Dream
I had this dream back when I first got to Pushkar and started this Yoga regimen:
Bablu sees me eating and points out I have something on my upper lip. I go to the mirror and see that it's not exactly a lassi mustache but a full on mini-mustache and goatee on my face. My dream self goes "Holy Smokes! How did this happen? How could Sarah & Jessie not mention my facial hair was out of control?" It did not occur to me that it would be odd I hadn't seen it before myself. I just thought, why didn't they tell me? It's so pronounced and noticeable - what kind of friends are they?
I woke up and didn't feel too anxious, like I didn't run to the mirror. Or perhaps I should say, I resisted the impulse to run to the mirror. I mean, the image of me with a pencil-thin mustache and goatee was already burned into my neural pathways, why push it? And I was a little disappointed that I looked so....so....sleazy. Within seconds of waking I had the interpretation I needed: The dream just means I'm developing my masculine side with this Yoga practice. Building muscle. Building strength.
Works for me.
The dream came shortly after a conversation with Mincho. Ah, Mincho! You're missed muchos, muchacho. (Heck, I hope that's not a bad word in Spanish) In the early days, Mincho would often comment I that looked so happy, and like years were dropping off my face. "Look like 21 today I think, Mia." I would laugh and say I feel good, even though everything hurt. "Torah, torah," Mincho would say. Little, little. Little by little.
He would ask about my writing and say "Make this your seva (selfless service). Only no ego. Don't care about, and no attachment just write. "
One particular conversation Micho said "You look happy, and smile is good, this yoga and writing. Sometimes ego can give you a mustache on your face," and indicated what he meant by frowning and letting the sides of his mouth go down without using his hands to distort the shape of his face.
I said "Actually, Mincho, I have the mustache already. I'm Italian."
"Ack. But you understand me," he replied.
"Yes, yes I did. Thank you."
Next thing I know, my subconscious creates Mr. Eufemio - my hair was slicked back into a braid too. Like, ouch.
Bablu sees me eating and points out I have something on my upper lip. I go to the mirror and see that it's not exactly a lassi mustache but a full on mini-mustache and goatee on my face. My dream self goes "Holy Smokes! How did this happen? How could Sarah & Jessie not mention my facial hair was out of control?" It did not occur to me that it would be odd I hadn't seen it before myself. I just thought, why didn't they tell me? It's so pronounced and noticeable - what kind of friends are they?
I woke up and didn't feel too anxious, like I didn't run to the mirror. Or perhaps I should say, I resisted the impulse to run to the mirror. I mean, the image of me with a pencil-thin mustache and goatee was already burned into my neural pathways, why push it? And I was a little disappointed that I looked so....so....sleazy. Within seconds of waking I had the interpretation I needed: The dream just means I'm developing my masculine side with this Yoga practice. Building muscle. Building strength.
Works for me.
The dream came shortly after a conversation with Mincho. Ah, Mincho! You're missed muchos, muchacho. (Heck, I hope that's not a bad word in Spanish) In the early days, Mincho would often comment I that looked so happy, and like years were dropping off my face. "Look like 21 today I think, Mia." I would laugh and say I feel good, even though everything hurt. "Torah, torah," Mincho would say. Little, little. Little by little.
He would ask about my writing and say "Make this your seva (selfless service). Only no ego. Don't care about, and no attachment just write. "
One particular conversation Micho said "You look happy, and smile is good, this yoga and writing. Sometimes ego can give you a mustache on your face," and indicated what he meant by frowning and letting the sides of his mouth go down without using his hands to distort the shape of his face.
I said "Actually, Mincho, I have the mustache already. I'm Italian."
"Ack. But you understand me," he replied.
"Yes, yes I did. Thank you."
Next thing I know, my subconscious creates Mr. Eufemio - my hair was slicked back into a braid too. Like, ouch.
Things I May Have Forgotten to Tell You
Number 1:
Men hold hands here. Teenage guys, young men, older men, men hold hands all over town, possibly all over India. Sometimes they've just got their pinky fingers linked, other times it's the whole hand- but in a very casual way, not that grasping, gripping way. I find the hand-hold itself can look extremely dainty, there is no other word for it. Unless you can do a reverse Balderdash for me and tell me the perfect word to match this dictionary definition: held loosely and away from the self, as in the way one might pick up a used diaper. Like, if someone held my hand that way I would think "They're not really into me" or "They're not into commitment" or "I bet they have a wimpy handshake" It does make for a strange sight but only because we're not used to seeing it in the West. For example, Sarah's travelling friend couldn't get over how open men were about being gay here, until Sarah explained it was culturally acceptable to hold hands. In the land of arranged marriages, they're not so big on the rights of gays and lesbians, yet. So yeah, sometimes when a group of 6 or 7 young men are walking towards me, clearly speaking about me, occasionally breaking off and widening their span on the road so I'll have to walk through them instead of around them, well, it's harder to feel intimidated if 2 of them are holding hands. But it can still happen. Then I feel like playing my own mad-dog version of Red Rover and bringing my hand down like a quick and fast Karate chop - breaking the hand hold. Just because I could.
Number 2:
We saw the house where Swamiji was born. Two weeks ago, we headed out with Babaji. It was supposed to be one simple busride direct from the Pushkar stop to the Ajmer stop, but we were with Babaji, so we took two buses, got off at the end of a bridge, crossed a roundabout type area and crossed a street that resembled a highway because it had lanes and painted white lines. Then we took an autorickshaw, got off at the end of some street and walked until one of Swamiji's nieces came running out to find us. When we switched buses, we got surrounded by a mini-crowd. Babaji looked like a bit of a saddhu rock-star, with three western girls hanging out with him. He referred to it like this: "The men, all people look, look, see. They you me think love story." He said it and pointed to each of us "...they you (points to one of us) me (points to himself) think love story." It was quite funny. Funnier than the part where an older woman decided to stick her cane up my legs. Yeah, you heard me. At the bus switcheroo junction, where we weren't supposed to be and where Babaji was trying to be a stoic saddhu and get directions about which bus we needed to take next, this crowd gathers. Babaji tells us to sit down and wait, so Sarah and Jessie sit and as I move to go sit, an older woman sticks her cane between my legs and says something that's a real crowd-pleasing one-liner in Hindi. I say to the girls "I think that woman just stuck her cane between my legs on purpose," because you do have a moment with something like that where you're just not sure, before your brain kicks in and says "Ah, no, that would be a pretty preposterous accident, a stick showing up between your legs and whacking you on your behind." Jessie was facing me and says "I think you're right. Everyone's tittering." Even in these moments I can express gratitude. For example: she didn't use the hooked part of the cane and try to give it good, smacking me on both sides, front and back.
Number 3:
While I stood and waited for my friend to meet me near the entrance to Pushkar, two cars full of Indian men slowed down as they drove past me. One car slowed down as they drove past and they stared like I was an endangered Mallorcan midwife toad (Latin name: Alytes muletensis). Say what? Oh, you know, why else would they stare? Being that white women are not on a list, not one that I know of, unless it's the list Kris Kringle checks every Christmas. I only wished I knew bird calls or could imitate some wild life. The second car stopped and a bunch of college aged guys asked me, me, where the temple was. I said "Which one?" The driver says "The Brahma Temple" Like duh, Eufemia "the reason Pushkar is a famous destination Temple." And then I gave them directions, or I started to. A motorcycle carrying three fully-grown Indian men drove up and proceeded to give these guys directions. Especially here, they don't want to take directions from a female. And who said you never learn something new from a blog? (Okay, it could have been me, I admit, I have curry on my face for how much I'm loving the blog when I said many a time before "blogs bug me.") But in case you were wondering, the Mallorcan midwife toad has now been downlisted from Critically Endangered to Vulnerable. The population suffered severe declines in the past due to predation by the viperine snake and competition for space with the green frog. For more information on this lil' trooper and other toads: http://www.iucn.org/
There's more, and honestly, I'm blogging as fast as I can but it's late and my time's running out and I've sanitized my hands several times due to sneezing. Time to call it a अज.
Things that Make You Go वहत?
The title is "Things that Make you go What?" cause I found out how to type in Hindi on this blogsite. I'm thrilled - it's the simple things in life really. You don't want to know how many times I thought I was just using the Caps Lock Key and ending up switching the keyboard to Hebrew. It meant I had to move to a new computer in frustration and embarrassment.
How does it go? Starve a cold, feed a fever? Since I feel like I'm battling both, I guess I'll take my no appetite feeling-self out for a stroll and see what I can russle up in the market. Or not. My skin has been so hot, too hot for days, possibly weeks.
Everybody ready: How hot was it?
If I could find an egg in Pushkar, I could fry it in the palm of my hand. Or on my elbow. Turns out I'm cooking, all over and everywhere.
Yeah, baby, that's cooking with kerosene.
My forehead, my knee, I can feel it coming from the inside out. It's been this way for a while. I felt warm in February when it was still cold at night and in the mornings. And I'm not the only one who has noticed my temperature has risen. That Ayurvedic phramacist mentioned it, the one how checked my pulse and could see that I was anaemic. (Then again I've heard rumours from sources that say that pharmacist thinks he can cure Aids. I heard it as a rumour, and when I was there yesterday to get cold balm, I realised it's actually painted and advertised on the wall outside his storefront "Can cure for Aids." Uhm, okey-dokey, moving right along now...)
My friend from Hotel Om also mentioned it when he shook my hand in greeting me good morning one day weeks ago: "Mia, I think you full power now, you feel heat alot."
So imagine, that was then, this is now. I dream of jumping into a snowbank. My skin feels like snakeskin even though I slather buckets of cream and oil on it. I'm trying not to worry about spontaneous combustion because like, the 'everyday- grocery-worry-list' is long enough and I've worn out several poor Guatemalan worry dolls this way already - worked them down till they were only a piece of thread.
And yesterday, this arrived in my hotmail inbox from one of those services I love, a service I signed up for a peppy inspirational email from these guys and I get one every day. I've had times where I just deleted those puppies without even reading them. Like weeks at a time - because it was a love-hate relationship sometimes. But the strength of love, it will always kick the arse out of hate, outta fear. Go love go! I'm feeling inspired! Maybe it's just the fever talking, I don't know. Well who cares, just hit my head, my nuggin and say "knock on bamboo!" The just start singing any song you feel like here:
Who am I to tell you what to sing? If you want to know the lyrics that were running through my head here they are: Do you believe in the power of love? I believe!
Here's what the personalised-like-writing-my-name-on-a-piece-of-rice-necklace email said:
Any and all forms of separation - disconnects, divides, partings, breakups, and goodbyes - Eufemia, are temporary. Very.
You'll be together far, far longer than you will ever be apart.
Your oneness, Eufemia, is pure truth; your separation is pure fantasy.
Forever and ever -
The Universe
Good huh? What timing the Universe has. And here I thought it worked in mysterious ways. Thanks, Universe. You Rock!
How does it go? Starve a cold, feed a fever? Since I feel like I'm battling both, I guess I'll take my no appetite feeling-self out for a stroll and see what I can russle up in the market. Or not. My skin has been so hot, too hot for days, possibly weeks.
Everybody ready: How hot was it?
If I could find an egg in Pushkar, I could fry it in the palm of my hand. Or on my elbow. Turns out I'm cooking, all over and everywhere.
Yeah, baby, that's cooking with kerosene.
My forehead, my knee, I can feel it coming from the inside out. It's been this way for a while. I felt warm in February when it was still cold at night and in the mornings. And I'm not the only one who has noticed my temperature has risen. That Ayurvedic phramacist mentioned it, the one how checked my pulse and could see that I was anaemic. (Then again I've heard rumours from sources that say that pharmacist thinks he can cure Aids. I heard it as a rumour, and when I was there yesterday to get cold balm, I realised it's actually painted and advertised on the wall outside his storefront "Can cure for Aids." Uhm, okey-dokey, moving right along now...)
My friend from Hotel Om also mentioned it when he shook my hand in greeting me good morning one day weeks ago: "Mia, I think you full power now, you feel heat alot."
So imagine, that was then, this is now. I dream of jumping into a snowbank. My skin feels like snakeskin even though I slather buckets of cream and oil on it. I'm trying not to worry about spontaneous combustion because like, the 'everyday- grocery-worry-list' is long enough and I've worn out several poor Guatemalan worry dolls this way already - worked them down till they were only a piece of thread.
And yesterday, this arrived in my hotmail inbox from one of those services I love, a service I signed up for a peppy inspirational email from these guys and I get one every day. I've had times where I just deleted those puppies without even reading them. Like weeks at a time - because it was a love-hate relationship sometimes. But the strength of love, it will always kick the arse out of hate, outta fear. Go love go! I'm feeling inspired! Maybe it's just the fever talking, I don't know. Well who cares, just hit my head, my nuggin and say "knock on bamboo!" The just start singing any song you feel like here:
Who am I to tell you what to sing? If you want to know the lyrics that were running through my head here they are: Do you believe in the power of love? I believe!
Here's what the personalised-like-writing-my-name-on-a-piece-of-rice-necklace email said:
Any and all forms of separation - disconnects, divides, partings, breakups, and goodbyes - Eufemia, are temporary. Very.
You'll be together far, far longer than you will ever be apart.
Your oneness, Eufemia, is pure truth; your separation is pure fantasy.
Forever and ever -
The Universe
Good huh? What timing the Universe has. And here I thought it worked in mysterious ways. Thanks, Universe. You Rock!
Thursday, March 27, 2008
The Grass is Always Greener on the Other Side of the Desert
Oh my god I'm sick!
I caught a cold!
It's 35 degrees Celsius outside and I caught a cold!
It started with sneezing while talking to Ayelet on the phone last night. I caught hers, can you believe it?
Yesterday I was out of the Yoga loop so my body could recover, today, same same no different. And at 2 o'clock this morning, when I couldn't breathe out of either nostril, (which made sleeping impossible) I thought I had a cobra in my room.
Seriously, that was harrowing. And I would have laughed, except it wasn't funny. But afterwards I was mildly amused, because that's actually a famous story here in India: "the man who mistakes a rope for a cobra and stays awake all night, terrified, finally falling asleep to discover when morning dawns that his fear was nothing but a coiled rope."
It's quite a beautiful, powerful story, really.
In my case, it might have been the cold medicine combined with my exhaustion and almost despair at not having a good sleep in ages that contributed in making me think that the drawstring from my black pants was the tail end of a cobra. Yes, that's right, I said drawstring. Hey, a drawstring can be quite a terrifying sight by dim, flickering candlelight! Well, whatever. I could tell you the longer, humorous version, but no, forget you. Did I mention I'm sick?
I was trying to be stoic this morning but this was my thought as I lay in bed, sniffling and feeling crummy: "No, no, no! This is not fair, I can't get sick when everyone's leaving! No! Who will look after me?!
I caught a cold!
It's 35 degrees Celsius outside and I caught a cold!
It started with sneezing while talking to Ayelet on the phone last night. I caught hers, can you believe it?
Yesterday I was out of the Yoga loop so my body could recover, today, same same no different. And at 2 o'clock this morning, when I couldn't breathe out of either nostril, (which made sleeping impossible) I thought I had a cobra in my room.
Seriously, that was harrowing. And I would have laughed, except it wasn't funny. But afterwards I was mildly amused, because that's actually a famous story here in India: "the man who mistakes a rope for a cobra and stays awake all night, terrified, finally falling asleep to discover when morning dawns that his fear was nothing but a coiled rope."
It's quite a beautiful, powerful story, really.
In my case, it might have been the cold medicine combined with my exhaustion and almost despair at not having a good sleep in ages that contributed in making me think that the drawstring from my black pants was the tail end of a cobra. Yes, that's right, I said drawstring. Hey, a drawstring can be quite a terrifying sight by dim, flickering candlelight! Well, whatever. I could tell you the longer, humorous version, but no, forget you. Did I mention I'm sick?
I was trying to be stoic this morning but this was my thought as I lay in bed, sniffling and feeling crummy: "No, no, no! This is not fair, I can't get sick when everyone's leaving! No! Who will look after me?!
I'm sick!
I can't get chicken soup here!
Rehydration salts taste like orange flavoured cow dung!
Sigh.
My inner-commando is kicking in again:
"Let's go Private Fifi. You're delirious and dehydrated. Time to march back to the Lotus Hotel. Hut two, hut two, put some feeling and power into it Private, or this could take all day! Alright, then, crawl if you have too. You're a disgrace to the army Private, but I'll give you points for trying. Not. What I mean is, drop and give me 20 sun salutations."
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Do You Believe Laughter Can Save Us?
Mincho left this morning. We had our last class together last night, which was eerily quiet without the loud, mad energy of Babaji. I'm beginning to think when Swamiji said "Babaji pagal" [crazy] he wasn't far off. But then he says that about me too, a lot the time.
Swamiji once said, "First they crazy, then to us making crazy." I thought it was hilarious, at the time.
Time keeps on slippin, slippin, slippin into the future...
Mincho's gone. And then there were three. Jessie's backpack is packed.
And I just lost quite a few very important sentences! Sentences that carried the weight of the word in brilliant, deep, insightful thoughts when the power shut off at the internet place. Stoopid internet place, where the keyboard wouldn't let me use the @ symbol, or punctuation like an exclamation mark. I've been going there for ages and the guy who looks like my cousin Tony gave me a crap computer. (I don't know if I've bothered to tell you that my favourite guys here in India all remind me of my cousins, so I've come to think of them as nice guys and family. And I think they too, have come to see me in a certain way, but I don't know the word for weirdo.)
I stomped outside, annoyed. But then I was immediately happy to see it was raining! But then I realised it was not a good scene for me: the street is still pink from the colour festival, and now the road looked like the floor of a old world style meat house, a butcher's stand. I had to lift my pant legs and I was wearing a white shirt.
My thoughts in quick succession: I love rain! This is beautiful and freaky! Why does this have to happen on the day I'm wearing a white shirt and I forgot my modesty shawl?
The ground was covered in mud and cow patties. Or maybe it was all cow patties, wet and smooshed around by the multitude of motorbikes but I was trying not to think about it, I was trying to avoid wiping out - and let me tell you it was like trying to walk on ice, pure ice with no snow, in flip flops. No wonder we don't wear them during the winter in Canada, they have no tread! I was going slow and trying to be quick because IT WAS RAINING WHILE I WAS WEARING A WHITE SHIRT.
I ran to my new favourite internet place for shelter thinking, I'll hide out there at Kalu's. I ran in and told him, "Hey, what's this? Rain in Pushkar!" and Kalu said "Yes, sometimes rain comes."
I said "Where I come from it rains like this all the time!"
And the lone fellow sitting at a computer behind me said "Vancouver or Seattle?" I was so happy to hear the name of the place I have resided in spoken out-loud, clear and familiar, like the smell of rain, the smell of fresh baked chocolate chip cookies, the smell of comfort. I turned around and said "Vancouver!"
He said "Me too." And added that he thought there could be only two places in the world with that description, of it raining all the time. (Though afterwards I thought he clearly hadn't heard of Prince Rupert, which I've never been to but heard enough of from my boss that I knew, that's not the place for me. It's for vampires and people who have that life-altering allergy to the sun.)
Next thing I know, we're chatting about where we're from, the 'hood, travelling and yoga. Then Jessie comes in, and hey, she's very familiar, bahut atcha (very good!). By then I was feeling like "I have my gulab jamun and I can eat it too!"
Within minutes, all four computers are taken, this particular internet place is a satellite of the place that I decided sucked (Thanks for nahin, cousin Tony look-a-like!). I was looking up another possible ashram place to go to, and the dates aren't working out unless I can fly from Delhi to Kolkatta and race to the airport. Both airports. As in, race to Delhi and then race Delhi to Kolkatta.
Uhm, no thank you. No matter what I blog, I like my life. I'm sorta attached to it, or so I've been told.
And If you think my motorbike traffic stories are scary, you don't want to hear the stories I've heard about using airlines inside of India. Plus, one of the airlines, Kingfisher, the one Jessie joked I may have to take, is named after a beer company. The motto on all their ad posters is Kingfisher, Fly the Good Times. Riiiiiight. As if I would fly Labatts Lines or Molson Canadian Airways back home. I think not.
I was commenting that sure, I really need that cabin pressure headache when the guy sitting next to me says "They're not bad, actually." And so I struck up a conversation with him. He said they don't serve beer on the flight. I asked that ever eternal question: Which came first, the beer company or the airline? Turns out it was the beer company. I shoulda guessed it. I mean, man has been distilling whatever he could get his hands on since the dawn of time, while those flying machines Leonardo sketched took a little longer to get off the ground.
This Kingfisher-is-okay young man looked thoroughly trustworthy. He was looking up trains, asked if I had booked any train tickets online or if I could figure out the India Rail website. But of course, of course, there is nothing to it. And for my next trick I'll split an atom with my mind. Then he says "This is almost as bad as the trains back home."
So of course I said "How hungry are you?" Ha ha. Okay it's like this: in Catskills, the entertainer with the gold lamé jacket comes out and says "I'm so hungry" and the audience yells back "How hungry are you?" And he says "I'm so hungry, a wino came up and told me he hadn't had a bite in days, so I bit him."
Accompanying sound effect: Wah, wah, wah
Way. Okay so what I really said was "Where's home?" and he answered "Toronto."
You don't want to know how close I came to yelling out "GO TEAM CANADA!"
I did say it. I said "Jessie guess what?" I pointed to myself and the two others and said "Canada, Canada, Canada! Go team Canada!" Then I turned and said to Kalu, "He comes from the town I was born in and he comes from the place I live now."
It may seem like I'm making a big deal outta nothing, but it made me laugh. And that's bahut atcha because I was still feeling sad about Babaji and Mincho. I missed Yoga today because yesterday I drank the water and am paying the ancient Indian flutist-piper today.
All this was on my mind as I was pondering why it made me feel so good, this temporary meeting of the Northern Lights commonwealth. And I was thinking about this question I came across just this morning, in Sherman Alexie's The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven:
Do you believe laughter can save us?
I think the real reason I was so thrilled to hear folks from Soviet Canuckistan lies in this other brilliant Alexie line:
The ordinary can be like medicine.
Swamiji once said, "First they crazy, then to us making crazy." I thought it was hilarious, at the time.
Time keeps on slippin, slippin, slippin into the future...
Mincho's gone. And then there were three. Jessie's backpack is packed.
And I just lost quite a few very important sentences! Sentences that carried the weight of the word in brilliant, deep, insightful thoughts when the power shut off at the internet place. Stoopid internet place, where the keyboard wouldn't let me use the @ symbol, or punctuation like an exclamation mark. I've been going there for ages and the guy who looks like my cousin Tony gave me a crap computer. (I don't know if I've bothered to tell you that my favourite guys here in India all remind me of my cousins, so I've come to think of them as nice guys and family. And I think they too, have come to see me in a certain way, but I don't know the word for weirdo.)
I stomped outside, annoyed. But then I was immediately happy to see it was raining! But then I realised it was not a good scene for me: the street is still pink from the colour festival, and now the road looked like the floor of a old world style meat house, a butcher's stand. I had to lift my pant legs and I was wearing a white shirt.
My thoughts in quick succession: I love rain! This is beautiful and freaky! Why does this have to happen on the day I'm wearing a white shirt and I forgot my modesty shawl?
The ground was covered in mud and cow patties. Or maybe it was all cow patties, wet and smooshed around by the multitude of motorbikes but I was trying not to think about it, I was trying to avoid wiping out - and let me tell you it was like trying to walk on ice, pure ice with no snow, in flip flops. No wonder we don't wear them during the winter in Canada, they have no tread! I was going slow and trying to be quick because IT WAS RAINING WHILE I WAS WEARING A WHITE SHIRT.
I ran to my new favourite internet place for shelter thinking, I'll hide out there at Kalu's. I ran in and told him, "Hey, what's this? Rain in Pushkar!" and Kalu said "Yes, sometimes rain comes."
I said "Where I come from it rains like this all the time!"
And the lone fellow sitting at a computer behind me said "Vancouver or Seattle?" I was so happy to hear the name of the place I have resided in spoken out-loud, clear and familiar, like the smell of rain, the smell of fresh baked chocolate chip cookies, the smell of comfort. I turned around and said "Vancouver!"
He said "Me too." And added that he thought there could be only two places in the world with that description, of it raining all the time. (Though afterwards I thought he clearly hadn't heard of Prince Rupert, which I've never been to but heard enough of from my boss that I knew, that's not the place for me. It's for vampires and people who have that life-altering allergy to the sun.)
Next thing I know, we're chatting about where we're from, the 'hood, travelling and yoga. Then Jessie comes in, and hey, she's very familiar, bahut atcha (very good!). By then I was feeling like "I have my gulab jamun and I can eat it too!"
Within minutes, all four computers are taken, this particular internet place is a satellite of the place that I decided sucked (Thanks for nahin, cousin Tony look-a-like!). I was looking up another possible ashram place to go to, and the dates aren't working out unless I can fly from Delhi to Kolkatta and race to the airport. Both airports. As in, race to Delhi and then race Delhi to Kolkatta.
Uhm, no thank you. No matter what I blog, I like my life. I'm sorta attached to it, or so I've been told.
And If you think my motorbike traffic stories are scary, you don't want to hear the stories I've heard about using airlines inside of India. Plus, one of the airlines, Kingfisher, the one Jessie joked I may have to take, is named after a beer company. The motto on all their ad posters is Kingfisher, Fly the Good Times. Riiiiiight. As if I would fly Labatts Lines or Molson Canadian Airways back home. I think not.
I was commenting that sure, I really need that cabin pressure headache when the guy sitting next to me says "They're not bad, actually." And so I struck up a conversation with him. He said they don't serve beer on the flight. I asked that ever eternal question: Which came first, the beer company or the airline? Turns out it was the beer company. I shoulda guessed it. I mean, man has been distilling whatever he could get his hands on since the dawn of time, while those flying machines Leonardo sketched took a little longer to get off the ground.
This Kingfisher-is-okay young man looked thoroughly trustworthy. He was looking up trains, asked if I had booked any train tickets online or if I could figure out the India Rail website. But of course, of course, there is nothing to it. And for my next trick I'll split an atom with my mind. Then he says "This is almost as bad as the trains back home."
So of course I said "How hungry are you?" Ha ha. Okay it's like this: in Catskills, the entertainer with the gold lamé jacket comes out and says "I'm so hungry" and the audience yells back "How hungry are you?" And he says "I'm so hungry, a wino came up and told me he hadn't had a bite in days, so I bit him."
Accompanying sound effect: Wah, wah, wah
Way. Okay so what I really said was "Where's home?" and he answered "Toronto."
You don't want to know how close I came to yelling out "GO TEAM CANADA!"
I did say it. I said "Jessie guess what?" I pointed to myself and the two others and said "Canada, Canada, Canada! Go team Canada!" Then I turned and said to Kalu, "He comes from the town I was born in and he comes from the place I live now."
It may seem like I'm making a big deal outta nothing, but it made me laugh. And that's bahut atcha because I was still feeling sad about Babaji and Mincho. I missed Yoga today because yesterday I drank the water and am paying the ancient Indian flutist-piper today.
All this was on my mind as I was pondering why it made me feel so good, this temporary meeting of the Northern Lights commonwealth. And I was thinking about this question I came across just this morning, in Sherman Alexie's The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven:
Do you believe laughter can save us?
I think the real reason I was so thrilled to hear folks from Soviet Canuckistan lies in this other brilliant Alexie line:
The ordinary can be like medicine.
Resistance is Futile
Oh, you know it's a long day when you're quoting the Borg.
I wonder if they have StarTrek or Science Fiction in India, but really, science fiction here would just fall under the category "This really happened to my cousin, Suresh, one night in the desert/jungle/Mumbai." And of course it did. Anything's possible if you imbibe enough bang.
When I left the Lotus, everyone was sitting around, chatting, being friendly, discussing upcoming travel arrangements and all. Initially, I sat in my room looking at Jessie's Lonely Planet Guide (I know, maybe I gave mine away too soon but the Guide will always find me, I have a feeling) and then went stir-crazy. I meant to nap but I couldn't. A wind blew up and it started to rain so I ran outside, it was over in 3 minutes and then it got hot, the wind having blown the clouds far into the distance.
I haven't caught up on sleep yet, and that's also adding to my feeling wiggy.
I love the wind, and I miss the rain. I love the desert and I miss my dad.
These thoughts keep flooding me. Without the distractions of my western life, this window into my thought process, particularly the 'darkside' thoughts - well good grief, I'm wiped out. It's a lie, I know, but I keep thinking this one ridiculous thought: I've done everything wrong. (And I mean every day, up to this very point in time. I know, that way madness be.) I tried to pretend I was channeling somebody else's problematic thought process. I tried to pretend it was ancestral residue (there's still rupees sitting on that horse, hey?) And I've tried diligently to resist the thought but well, you know what those space aliens say.
It's not about resisting, it's about change. Growth. Love. Acceptance. Why would I want to resist that? Well I don't, really, I'm just not used to thinking of it that way. When you're conditioned to think from birth that the world is a dark, scary and forboding place, it takes time to remember, that was just because they (those they's! who do they think they are?) wanted to keep you down on the farm. You've plucked your last chicken, already, Eufemia. Go! who's asking you to stay?
Good question.
So, before I go, I'll leave you with this. Often I remove myself from the others so they don't have to deal with me like this and I come and search for inspiration online. Today, it's my favourite part of the Desiderata, and the most appropriate part for me now, the end:
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.
I wonder if they have StarTrek or Science Fiction in India, but really, science fiction here would just fall under the category "This really happened to my cousin, Suresh, one night in the desert/jungle/Mumbai." And of course it did. Anything's possible if you imbibe enough bang.
When I left the Lotus, everyone was sitting around, chatting, being friendly, discussing upcoming travel arrangements and all. Initially, I sat in my room looking at Jessie's Lonely Planet Guide (I know, maybe I gave mine away too soon but the Guide will always find me, I have a feeling) and then went stir-crazy. I meant to nap but I couldn't. A wind blew up and it started to rain so I ran outside, it was over in 3 minutes and then it got hot, the wind having blown the clouds far into the distance.
I haven't caught up on sleep yet, and that's also adding to my feeling wiggy.
I love the wind, and I miss the rain. I love the desert and I miss my dad.
These thoughts keep flooding me. Without the distractions of my western life, this window into my thought process, particularly the 'darkside' thoughts - well good grief, I'm wiped out. It's a lie, I know, but I keep thinking this one ridiculous thought: I've done everything wrong. (And I mean every day, up to this very point in time. I know, that way madness be.) I tried to pretend I was channeling somebody else's problematic thought process. I tried to pretend it was ancestral residue (there's still rupees sitting on that horse, hey?) And I've tried diligently to resist the thought but well, you know what those space aliens say.
It's not about resisting, it's about change. Growth. Love. Acceptance. Why would I want to resist that? Well I don't, really, I'm just not used to thinking of it that way. When you're conditioned to think from birth that the world is a dark, scary and forboding place, it takes time to remember, that was just because they (those they's! who do they think they are?) wanted to keep you down on the farm. You've plucked your last chicken, already, Eufemia. Go! who's asking you to stay?
Good question.
So, before I go, I'll leave you with this. Often I remove myself from the others so they don't have to deal with me like this and I come and search for inspiration online. Today, it's my favourite part of the Desiderata, and the most appropriate part for me now, the end:
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.
Monday, March 24, 2008
My So-Called Reincarnation
Babaji left last night.
It came as a shock. Though, had I understood more Hindi, I may have been able to see it was coming. At yesterday's morning practice, Swamiji said much in Hindi. Much was directed to Babaji. Much seemed to be about persistence, constancy, the path of the yogi. But I have to tell you, much also seems to be Swamiji's attachment. Of course, that's my projection. And I've been told several times that's my struggle. Like, what do I need, flashcards?
And I don't need Hindi to understand when Babaji says "Mira, I go. My ashram. I go."
Me: When Babaji?
Babaji: Train eight o'clock.
I immediately think, damn this, this insane way of telling time in India and ask "Today Babaji? Train TODAY?"
And of course, it was. He'd been arguing with Swamiji about whether he would stay and continue his yogic studies. So I took some pictures, and then we went back and caught him just as he was going, to get pictures with Sarah.
I had to say good-bye, which is just about my least favourite thing to say in the world. This is why I love the translation of Namaste. This is also why I love the Italian word ciao, used for 'hello' and 'goodbye'. And maybe you know from Elizabeth Gilbert or etymology elsewhere, but ciao came from the word schiavo: slave. So back in the day, it translated "I am your slave" Think whatever you like, but I still prefer it to "good-bye". Like what's so good about it?
So I said "Babaji, thank you, thank you for practising with me, so good to practice yoga with you. Take care of yourself, Babaji."
He said "Mira, yes. You dot com address give Swamiji."
Oh, can't wait to see his email address: wandering-saddhu-not-an-englishman@something-somewhere-on-the-subcontinent.com
Just a wild guess. Perhaps I neglected to mention Babaji's other favourite expression when confusion would ensue: "Me not Englishman!" Or, when he wore pants, he would point to himself, laugh and say "Me Englishman!"
We watched him leave, Sarah and I, watched him walk across the ghats and watched his orange form disappear, out of sight. (That's another thing, who wants to watch anyone leave? Nobody, that's who. Good God. What I've put my father through, again and again.) Then Swamiji talked to us. I felt heavy with sadness, and felt like crying watching Babaji leave. We both found it hard.
Then Swamiji is asking us how much longer we're staying. Jessie's departure date has been know from the get-go, this is it, like they say in the Indian Railway biz: the end-of-the-time. Ours, not so much. Sarah's ready, I'm ready and waffling. How could I be such a Charlie Brown? But we did tell him, it's soon. Very soon.
Did I tell you? Swamiji once mentioned that "Sure we know each other form previous life, all holy books say so. And if this life practice yoga, was before too." And, there's definitely been for me during all this time, the comforting and crazy feeling of family. He's a father figure for many. And what I believe doesn't matter, I felt pulled here and compelled to stay, and now it's time to face the sitar music: attachments, desire, craving, need for rest, need for change and need for familiar, wanting my path to be extremely well lit. And figuring out Indian train or bus schedules.
Soon, very soon.
"Yes?" he says, nodding his head to the side "but good time we passing."
We agreed.
It came as a shock. Though, had I understood more Hindi, I may have been able to see it was coming. At yesterday's morning practice, Swamiji said much in Hindi. Much was directed to Babaji. Much seemed to be about persistence, constancy, the path of the yogi. But I have to tell you, much also seems to be Swamiji's attachment. Of course, that's my projection. And I've been told several times that's my struggle. Like, what do I need, flashcards?
And I don't need Hindi to understand when Babaji says "Mira, I go. My ashram. I go."
Me: When Babaji?
Babaji: Train eight o'clock.
I immediately think, damn this, this insane way of telling time in India and ask "Today Babaji? Train TODAY?"
And of course, it was. He'd been arguing with Swamiji about whether he would stay and continue his yogic studies. So I took some pictures, and then we went back and caught him just as he was going, to get pictures with Sarah.
I had to say good-bye, which is just about my least favourite thing to say in the world. This is why I love the translation of Namaste. This is also why I love the Italian word ciao, used for 'hello' and 'goodbye'. And maybe you know from Elizabeth Gilbert or etymology elsewhere, but ciao came from the word schiavo: slave. So back in the day, it translated "I am your slave" Think whatever you like, but I still prefer it to "good-bye". Like what's so good about it?
So I said "Babaji, thank you, thank you for practising with me, so good to practice yoga with you. Take care of yourself, Babaji."
He said "Mira, yes. You dot com address give Swamiji."
Oh, can't wait to see his email address: wandering-saddhu-not-an-englishman@something-somewhere-on-the-subcontinent.com
Just a wild guess. Perhaps I neglected to mention Babaji's other favourite expression when confusion would ensue: "Me not Englishman!" Or, when he wore pants, he would point to himself, laugh and say "Me Englishman!"
We watched him leave, Sarah and I, watched him walk across the ghats and watched his orange form disappear, out of sight. (That's another thing, who wants to watch anyone leave? Nobody, that's who. Good God. What I've put my father through, again and again.) Then Swamiji talked to us. I felt heavy with sadness, and felt like crying watching Babaji leave. We both found it hard.
Then Swamiji is asking us how much longer we're staying. Jessie's departure date has been know from the get-go, this is it, like they say in the Indian Railway biz: the end-of-the-time. Ours, not so much. Sarah's ready, I'm ready and waffling. How could I be such a Charlie Brown? But we did tell him, it's soon. Very soon.
Did I tell you? Swamiji once mentioned that "Sure we know each other form previous life, all holy books say so. And if this life practice yoga, was before too." And, there's definitely been for me during all this time, the comforting and crazy feeling of family. He's a father figure for many. And what I believe doesn't matter, I felt pulled here and compelled to stay, and now it's time to face the sitar music: attachments, desire, craving, need for rest, need for change and need for familiar, wanting my path to be extremely well lit. And figuring out Indian train or bus schedules.
Soon, very soon.
"Yes?" he says, nodding his head to the side "but good time we passing."
We agreed.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
How Much Change Would a Woodchuck Change if a Woodchuk Could Change Traveller's Cheques?
How much change does a person have to get used to? How does one get comfortable with change? What's good change? What's bad change? How do you know if it's a change for the better until after? And, while I'm wondering, what's running to and what's running from? How can I tell?
And do I really have to run? Because, I run like a girl.
It's Easter Monday in the Holy Hindu town of Pushkar. I briefly entertained the idea of going to the church I saw in Ajmer yesterday for Mass, but my Hindi is just not up to speed. (Like speed matters in India unless we're talking traffic) And, like I could find that church again, I saw it from the bus, while going around in circles. (That's what it seemed like to me. I mean, if we go left 4 times, isn't that a circle? Or pardon me, a square? Good Ganesha, in India, it's a trapezoid!)
I don't know, the idea of going into the Muslim pilgrimmage city of Ajmer and saying "Pardon me, where is the building that the Christians hang out and worship?" didn't appeal to me. Sing along with me if you remember that 80's hit song I cannot locate the title of but this is part of the chorus: Call me fool, call me stoo-pid.
I called my parents and wished them a Happy Christ has died and Christ is risen Day. And, in the tradition of "Yes, Eufemia, there really is an Easter Bunny" (Everybody clap yo' hands, do the wave and say "HAAAAAAAY BUNNY!") - an Easter miracle: Nobody said anything that made anybody else mad, cry or lose sleep. Isn't that somethin'?
It was a full moon for Holi. Holi Moly. And it's been several nights of poor sleep for me. (Four. Two with almost none at all) Because change is coming. Our time together here is coming to an end. Jessie moves on next week. Oh, actually, this week. The countdown begins. It's getting too hot to practice, even in the mornings, unless you want to practice at 5 a.m. and that's a bit of a stretch that I can't see myself doing right now, much like Paschimottasana, the sitting forward bend stretch. Mincho sometimes comes and sometimes doesn't, but definitely the Yoginis Three are disbanding, making like it's solo career time.
So I need to make a decision about ("Sing-a-long again!" "Get out, really? Do you normally sing this much?" "Sure, I just can't remember the lyrics.") Should I stay or should I go? The time to go is fast approaching. But you know, if there's anything that I build up intense stress around, more than ch-ch-changes, it's probably making a decision. Oh, I know, I've made several in my life. I try to stick with decisions like 'Which pastry should I purchase?' rather than the big questions: Where should I live? How can I assist my parents? Which paper should I print my magnum opus on? Will this hair gel really deliver what it promises?
Sigh.
Where to go? And do I go it alone just briefly? Because I don't like thinking of myself as cowardly. Then again, nor do I like thinking of myself alone on a 13 hour overnight bus ride with the way too friendly Indian men. (I prefer to say friendly and turn this into a positive rather than the negatives I've focused on too much: sexually repressed and freakily disturbed. Yes, friendly sounds nicer, doesn't it?)
Ah well, I'll let you know what I decide. Until then, I found this online today so I thought I'd share: In order to be kind you must open your heart to the gentle qualities of caring and compassion. Be kind to yourself. Have reasonable expectations and give yourself due praise. In order to nurture the gentle quality of kindness, cherish yourself. When you do something for yourself you automatically extend that same energy to others. Kindness melts barriers of ice around people and re-empowers those who are afraid. So reach out to the lonely, draw out the shy, include those who feel isolated and comfort the sad. Your rewards will be a sense of inner peace, warmth and love.
Dhanyavad, Diana Cooper.
So to sum up: Change is coming. I am drinking as much water as possible and even drank tap water yesterday, which everyone refers to as government water. As in, "this government water, is okay." Actually, if we called it that in my country, I might take the ditchwater option. But hey, I'm fine. My belly swelled up like a pumpkin but I think that's just the - okay, okay, I'm just kidding. Some things are maybe not so ha-ha material. For example, there's been some reports of foreigners getting malaria in town. Apparently 2 people have it, I've heard from several sources. (Not the bad kind, so it's okay. My response: there's an 'okay malaria?')
I think that catches us up. May you all be eating and enjoying fine quality chocolate. Please have one extra for me.
Who knew an entire country could be so bereft?
And do I really have to run? Because, I run like a girl.
It's Easter Monday in the Holy Hindu town of Pushkar. I briefly entertained the idea of going to the church I saw in Ajmer yesterday for Mass, but my Hindi is just not up to speed. (Like speed matters in India unless we're talking traffic) And, like I could find that church again, I saw it from the bus, while going around in circles. (That's what it seemed like to me. I mean, if we go left 4 times, isn't that a circle? Or pardon me, a square? Good Ganesha, in India, it's a trapezoid!)
I don't know, the idea of going into the Muslim pilgrimmage city of Ajmer and saying "Pardon me, where is the building that the Christians hang out and worship?" didn't appeal to me. Sing along with me if you remember that 80's hit song I cannot locate the title of but this is part of the chorus: Call me fool, call me stoo-pid.
I called my parents and wished them a Happy Christ has died and Christ is risen Day. And, in the tradition of "Yes, Eufemia, there really is an Easter Bunny" (Everybody clap yo' hands, do the wave and say "HAAAAAAAY BUNNY!") - an Easter miracle: Nobody said anything that made anybody else mad, cry or lose sleep. Isn't that somethin'?
It was a full moon for Holi. Holi Moly. And it's been several nights of poor sleep for me. (Four. Two with almost none at all) Because change is coming. Our time together here is coming to an end. Jessie moves on next week. Oh, actually, this week. The countdown begins. It's getting too hot to practice, even in the mornings, unless you want to practice at 5 a.m. and that's a bit of a stretch that I can't see myself doing right now, much like Paschimottasana, the sitting forward bend stretch. Mincho sometimes comes and sometimes doesn't, but definitely the Yoginis Three are disbanding, making like it's solo career time.
So I need to make a decision about ("Sing-a-long again!" "Get out, really? Do you normally sing this much?" "Sure, I just can't remember the lyrics.") Should I stay or should I go? The time to go is fast approaching. But you know, if there's anything that I build up intense stress around, more than ch-ch-changes, it's probably making a decision. Oh, I know, I've made several in my life. I try to stick with decisions like 'Which pastry should I purchase?' rather than the big questions: Where should I live? How can I assist my parents? Which paper should I print my magnum opus on? Will this hair gel really deliver what it promises?
Sigh.
Where to go? And do I go it alone just briefly? Because I don't like thinking of myself as cowardly. Then again, nor do I like thinking of myself alone on a 13 hour overnight bus ride with the way too friendly Indian men. (I prefer to say friendly and turn this into a positive rather than the negatives I've focused on too much: sexually repressed and freakily disturbed. Yes, friendly sounds nicer, doesn't it?)
Ah well, I'll let you know what I decide. Until then, I found this online today so I thought I'd share: In order to be kind you must open your heart to the gentle qualities of caring and compassion. Be kind to yourself. Have reasonable expectations and give yourself due praise. In order to nurture the gentle quality of kindness, cherish yourself. When you do something for yourself you automatically extend that same energy to others. Kindness melts barriers of ice around people and re-empowers those who are afraid. So reach out to the lonely, draw out the shy, include those who feel isolated and comfort the sad. Your rewards will be a sense of inner peace, warmth and love.
Dhanyavad, Diana Cooper.
So to sum up: Change is coming. I am drinking as much water as possible and even drank tap water yesterday, which everyone refers to as government water. As in, "this government water, is okay." Actually, if we called it that in my country, I might take the ditchwater option. But hey, I'm fine. My belly swelled up like a pumpkin but I think that's just the - okay, okay, I'm just kidding. Some things are maybe not so ha-ha material. For example, there's been some reports of foreigners getting malaria in town. Apparently 2 people have it, I've heard from several sources. (Not the bad kind, so it's okay. My response: there's an 'okay malaria?')
I think that catches us up. May you all be eating and enjoying fine quality chocolate. Please have one extra for me.
Who knew an entire country could be so bereft?
Batten Down the Hatches, The Name of the Game is Survival
Alright, before I forget, this is the other Mary Oliver poem Sarah passed on. I apologise about the spacing being wiggy on the poem, even though I was a cuttin' and a pastin', hi-tech computer scrapbooking. Me and the ever raging battle I wage against my tendency to become a luddite. Dang and 'tarnation paw, what does the F7 key on this keyboard do again?
Wild Geese
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--over and over
announcing your place in the family of things.
Oh but you see why I love this poem, even more than the first. See that second line again: You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. I read it and thought, how does she know me? This Mary Oliver woman? I've never met her before in my life but it's like she's been watching me, following me.
Before you think I'm totally loopy, just let me say I definitely did not drink enough water yesterday, trying to make up for it today.
Yesterday, we stayed hunkered down at the hotel all day, where a young western boy decided to paint ball me while I was enroute to the outdoor loo...and this is why one should consider bargaining for the room with the toilet and shower, even if the smell coming from the toilet keeps you awake at night. Because you never know when it's a National Holiday and time to throw a massive rave.
For Holi, also known as the colour festival, everyone (Read: men, boys, males. The women don't do this. I believe they stay home and weave their loomcrafts) is supposed to drink bang lassis, mix the crazy wild crayola colours with shoe polish or kerosene (depending on who's telling you the story of how this colour gets mixed) and then grab you and smush the colour into your face or any other body parts they can grab.
So, thanks to this boisterous Western kid who, to my skeptical eye wanted to have all the Holi fun but not neccessarily respect anything else about the Hindu religion, a hotel staff fellow, Sir Laxman Esq., sees me and thinks, "Well she's not coloured enough," and grabs my head and then, voila, he rubs dark paint mixed with some kinda shoe polish into my skin. The sides of my face, forehead, and my neck were purple. Deep, dark purple.
I washed my face for an hour yesterday and had a shower and the colour is still on my ears. Now it's faded pink. I knew enough to wear clothes I didn't care about - they're a lost cause. Tons of young ravers types went out dressed all in white, and first they splashed themselves and the other guests, and then they went into the fray and came back looking like something Jackson Pollock would have barfed up. Later, the street was covered in this pale pink dusty powder. It was everywhere. 75% of the shops and restaurants were closed, everyone had had their bang lassis and it was super chill out time.
Then we went stir crazy. When it was safe to venture out (after 6p.m.) we ended up at the best selection juice bar on the road and this one woman told us she'd walked out to have breakfast, got smeared by 4 kids, ran back to her Hotel and stayed inside drinking Nescafe coffee all day and starving as her hotel didn't have a restaurant on the premises. She seemed normal, until she mentioned that one woman she met told her about being was chased down by 7 Indian men and running like mad. "It sounded like it might have been fun" was what this juice-bar-woman said. Uh huh. Like being killed in a stampede, those people who die while running with the bulls in Spain. Like people who do death-defying things to feel alive, to remind themselves they're alive. Like, not my issue, seriously not. I have my mixed bag thank you very much, but that kind of madness is not my particular problemo - as they say somewhere in the world. I know I'm alive everyday, when I wake up and think "What the hell is going on in my lower back?"
I know, I know that sounds sad. But as if you mistook me for a thrillseeker. Get real.
And you thought I sounded loopy. Because I thought of myself as walking for a hundred on my knees through the desert, repenting.
What can I say? I was raised a Catholic.
I think this is called guilt. How else can I account for the sheer good fortune that has allowed me this trip, this time of regular Yoga practice, and all this time away from the maddening crowd to get a look at myself, really listen, watch, observe myself? Hmmm. Keeping in mind that India itself is a maddening crowd of another sort, and well in all that "observation"- it might have been a good idea to remain less attached to the outcome, less attached to my ego, less attached period.
Because, well, many days it weren't a pretty picture I saw. My inner critic was being paid overtime, double time, time and a half. My inner critic, who I really tried to fire before this trip, actually an all-expenses-paid tour of the town of Pushkar.
I had a one full-on week where everything was making me laugh, and for an example, I'll quote Swamiji at an early morning practice, the one where I decided "screw you wheel chakrasana, you hurt, this sucks and I'm just going to lie here where Swamiji can't see me out of the corner of his one good eye."
I lay in corpse pose while Swamiji belted out the instructions. He said, "Yes this next position advanced, difficult position. Ready everybody, please for wheel chakrasana. Okay. Do. Good. Very gooood everybody, so nice this position you practice make, everybody look so goo- Mira! What do? She think maybe I no see her."
I thought that was hilarious and laughed. For some reason, that time, and that week, I could laugh because the inner critic tape loop wasn't so loud, so overwhelming. It wasn't playing in surround-sound, dolby stereo. When something happened, my mind wasn't immediately there with the confirmation and checklist of all the worst possible things I have ever thought about myself. So good, I think, that's all good news. And the rest, all good information. Onward peaceful warriors, marching off to chant.
And lest I forget that Jesus is the reason for the season: we did an Easter Chocolate hunt today (Not an Easter egg hunt, an Easter chocolate hunt. Keeping with the there are no eggs in Pushkar theme, not even Cadbury's Easter cream eggs, nope, I hid tiny dairy milks, chocolates shaped like mini cars, bumblebees and elephants. Jai Ganesha, Happy Easter to you!)
I hid the chocolate before the morning prayers and then the kids, big and little, ran wild. Babaji being the biggest 38 year old kid I've ever met, he cheated because he watched me hide them and then pointed them out to everyone, not understanding the concept. I had hoped to have Swamiji explain the idea of the Easter bunny to the kids but they were off and running by the time Babaji had led them to the hidden chocolate. Can you imagine? I'm still trying to let go of that one. I woulda paid good rupees for that discourse.
Eufemia: Swamiji, this is part of Easter tradition where we come from. After Jesus died on the cross, some people found the best way to celebrate his resurrection was by having a big rabbit called the Easter Bunny hide chocolate eggs. Eggs, but chocolate, Swamiji, understand? The children hunt for them. And the more you find, the better person you are.
How would he know egg accumulation means diddly? Exactly. But I was willing to go out on several limbs (me & Shirley Maclaine) just for a laugh, and that counts for somethin', donut?
Swamiji: I thinking Mirabai last night drinking much bang.
Eufemia: Possibly, Swamiji, I thinking it's the chemical residue from the colour festival seeping into my neural pathways.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Holi is coming, It's time to Hide
Holi is the upcoming holiday where foreign women are warned to stay indoors or they will be attacked (the local women know enough not to go out). Does that sound like a holiday to you? Me neither, but the men loooove it. They run around, act like maniacs throwing paint at each other.
Like paint ball on acid, it sounds like. They rip each others clothes off and try to smother each other in these paints. Krishna of the German Bakery fame said "It's a very naughty holy day. If you go outside and something happens (as in you get attacked, violated) the police will just say 'What were you doing out on Holi? You should know better.' " Because they'll rip anybody's clothes off, and try to smother them in paint. And men will be boys, and you know, there's no telling what could happen. Well there is, but you've already heard how the authorities would handle it.
Alec said, "I wouldn't go out if I was a woman. Sometimes they use sewer water to mix the paint. Just don't leave the hotel."
Swamiji is cancelling Yoga classes on that evening/day, because Holi starts tomorrow night and then goes until Saturday afternoon. After which it's apparently safe to go back out into the market but, like who's going to test that? Nobody, that's who.
So to catch up: I may be blogging regularly again as those Hindi lessons from the Nepalese Krishna of the German Bakery aren't really making me feel like I'm making any headway. Okay, like no headway at all. How do you say "Stick a fork in me 'cause I'm done" in Hindi? Don't you have any forks here? 'cause I don't see any chopsticks. Unless I can say "Alrighty then, use your right hand to slap me 'cause I'm done."
Note to self: Do not try to correct an Nepalese man. See previous notes to self under Errors, correction of, cross-reference Italian men, Indian men.
So, not much to report. I still scream when I fall over in headstand. I still have a huge interior monologue about being unfit for functioning and contributing something usefull to the world every other second. Thank god for those other seconds, where I get a reprieve and I crave Snickers bars. Did I mention how many I've had here? The count is at 10. Do you know how many I've had my whole life up to this point? Thirteen. Ten in a week in a half compared to the 3 I've had in my first 39 years. Because there's better chocolate hey people, no for any self-control. Self control? What's that? A song by Laura Branigan, that's what. Oh, now you're gonna be mad at me, when you can't get this catchy tune outta your head:
Oh, the night is my world
City light painted girl
In the day nothing matters
It's the night time that flatters
You take my self, you take my self control
You got me livin' only for the night
Before the morning comes, the story's told
You take my self, you take my self control
I, I live among the creatures of the night
I haven't got the will to try and fight
Against a new tomorrow, so I guess I'll just believe it
That tomorrow never knows
It's getting hotter by the second. I don't want to give you the impression that Indians are crazy, because trust me, you should meet the tourists.
You know what they say, it takes one to know one.
The struggle continues. The challenges I guess I should call them. And I apologise for not being in touch, but when I get this way, I'm not fit for company. It's just to hot to climb to the temple top and remove myself from the Pushkar crowd.
And now for some poems by Mary Oliver, with bahut gratitude to Sarahji for passing these on at the exact perfect time.
The Journey
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shoutingtheir bad advice --
though the whole house
began to trembleand you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life you could save.
OM Shanti
Like paint ball on acid, it sounds like. They rip each others clothes off and try to smother each other in these paints. Krishna of the German Bakery fame said "It's a very naughty holy day. If you go outside and something happens (as in you get attacked, violated) the police will just say 'What were you doing out on Holi? You should know better.' " Because they'll rip anybody's clothes off, and try to smother them in paint. And men will be boys, and you know, there's no telling what could happen. Well there is, but you've already heard how the authorities would handle it.
Alec said, "I wouldn't go out if I was a woman. Sometimes they use sewer water to mix the paint. Just don't leave the hotel."
Swamiji is cancelling Yoga classes on that evening/day, because Holi starts tomorrow night and then goes until Saturday afternoon. After which it's apparently safe to go back out into the market but, like who's going to test that? Nobody, that's who.
So to catch up: I may be blogging regularly again as those Hindi lessons from the Nepalese Krishna of the German Bakery aren't really making me feel like I'm making any headway. Okay, like no headway at all. How do you say "Stick a fork in me 'cause I'm done" in Hindi? Don't you have any forks here? 'cause I don't see any chopsticks. Unless I can say "Alrighty then, use your right hand to slap me 'cause I'm done."
Note to self: Do not try to correct an Nepalese man. See previous notes to self under Errors, correction of, cross-reference Italian men, Indian men.
So, not much to report. I still scream when I fall over in headstand. I still have a huge interior monologue about being unfit for functioning and contributing something usefull to the world every other second. Thank god for those other seconds, where I get a reprieve and I crave Snickers bars. Did I mention how many I've had here? The count is at 10. Do you know how many I've had my whole life up to this point? Thirteen. Ten in a week in a half compared to the 3 I've had in my first 39 years. Because there's better chocolate hey people, no for any self-control. Self control? What's that? A song by Laura Branigan, that's what. Oh, now you're gonna be mad at me, when you can't get this catchy tune outta your head:
Oh, the night is my world
City light painted girl
In the day nothing matters
It's the night time that flatters
You take my self, you take my self control
You got me livin' only for the night
Before the morning comes, the story's told
You take my self, you take my self control
I, I live among the creatures of the night
I haven't got the will to try and fight
Against a new tomorrow, so I guess I'll just believe it
That tomorrow never knows
It's getting hotter by the second. I don't want to give you the impression that Indians are crazy, because trust me, you should meet the tourists.
You know what they say, it takes one to know one.
The struggle continues. The challenges I guess I should call them. And I apologise for not being in touch, but when I get this way, I'm not fit for company. It's just to hot to climb to the temple top and remove myself from the Pushkar crowd.
And now for some poems by Mary Oliver, with bahut gratitude to Sarahji for passing these on at the exact perfect time.
The Journey
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shoutingtheir bad advice --
though the whole house
began to trembleand you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life you could save.
OM Shanti
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Beware the Ides of March
A memory of my father's:
We were driving to my favourite park, High Park and I was seven years old. We had just dropped my mother off for Mass at St Ambrose Church, and were heading to my favourite childhood spiritual practice of laughing, screaming and running around like mad on swing sets, slides and roundabouts.
I was bouncing around in the passenger seat, buckled in. I turned to my father and said "I wish things could always stay like this. You taking me to the park."
I have a vague memory of this story. My father's is crystal clear. The more he reminds me of it, the more I think I remember that specific day, that specific ride to the park. I remember the desire, that specific longing. I'm not so sure I remember voicing it.
Whenever my father reminds me of it he says "You were little and you had just begun to understand that everything would change. You wanted it to stay the same. But you knew it wouldn't. It's the nature of life."
How funny, I thought, when I was recalling this conversation with my dad from his visit to Vancouver last year. I was seven and the issue was already showing itself. I know, I know, it's not exactly something the town crier needs to tell you.
Hear Ye! Hear Ye! Eufemia is resistant to change.
But still I know, it's the only constant in the Universe.
Change is good. Change is my friend. Ch-ch-changes!
All this to say, the change coming in terms of the blog is I'll be blogging less. It's time, I think. I couldn't keep up last week and the planets were aligned in such a way that indicated yadda yadda yadda. I resisted the change, and so "stress making, 80% tension coming from the stress. No good, no good. We human and this stress making."
We were driving to my favourite park, High Park and I was seven years old. We had just dropped my mother off for Mass at St Ambrose Church, and were heading to my favourite childhood spiritual practice of laughing, screaming and running around like mad on swing sets, slides and roundabouts.
I was bouncing around in the passenger seat, buckled in. I turned to my father and said "I wish things could always stay like this. You taking me to the park."
I have a vague memory of this story. My father's is crystal clear. The more he reminds me of it, the more I think I remember that specific day, that specific ride to the park. I remember the desire, that specific longing. I'm not so sure I remember voicing it.
Whenever my father reminds me of it he says "You were little and you had just begun to understand that everything would change. You wanted it to stay the same. But you knew it wouldn't. It's the nature of life."
How funny, I thought, when I was recalling this conversation with my dad from his visit to Vancouver last year. I was seven and the issue was already showing itself. I know, I know, it's not exactly something the town crier needs to tell you.
Hear Ye! Hear Ye! Eufemia is resistant to change.
But still I know, it's the only constant in the Universe.
Change is good. Change is my friend. Ch-ch-changes!
All this to say, the change coming in terms of the blog is I'll be blogging less. It's time, I think. I couldn't keep up last week and the planets were aligned in such a way that indicated yadda yadda yadda. I resisted the change, and so "stress making, 80% tension coming from the stress. No good, no good. We human and this stress making."
Prem, my peeps, prem (love). And thank you for keeping me company, I wouldn't have made it this far without you. I have felt intensely lonely at times but I knew, I knew I wasn't alone.
And please, not worry, I'll be blogging you.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Hindi Hodgepodge Part Deux
That mouse kept coming back. There's only so much I can take of the Stuart Little's in the world, at least in this part of the world where the dogs and cats can look so mangy, I don't need to see the mice, up close and personal like.
But know you're thinking - "That mouse was days ago Eufemia, days. Thanks for the cliff-hanger, typing everything in capital letters and then not even taking the time to let me know you were okay. Making me think you were bitten or had malaria or God only knows what. Do you know how long I carried you for and the morning sickness and what you put me through as a teenager? Nevermind teenager, what you put me through now?" Oh, sorry, wrong guilt trip. But still, maybe you were thinking such thoughts and you should know, that is mental clutter and ego-talking. Uhm, yeah, I meant you, not me. Me? Ego? Please, I think I poured it down the squat toilet, the one I nearly fell in. The one I nearly dropped my right pant leg in. You know, the squat toliet that in the wee (ha ha!) hours of the morning is a deadly weapon akin to a Burmese tiger pit.
IKEA Tiger Pit Instructions: First, throw away the Allan key. Dig a hole about 5 feet deep and sharpen about 20 three feet tall poles about an inch around. Stick the poles into the ground, pointing straight up (sharp side up). Cover the pit with small sticks and leaves.
I can only say that the Revenge of the Bolognese is not swift and quick. No, they will make you beg for mercy before they're done with you. It seems the Bolognese demand a pound of flesh, closest to your digestive tract. (Yes, in case it's been too long, it was the pasta dish that did me in. Or rather the minced soya product part of the dish. There's nothing like having Swamiji ask you day-in, day-out "And Mia, how now?" while pointing to his stomach in front of the yoga class. Gosh. Koi baht naheen, no problems Swamiji. Why don't we tell all of Pushkar I had a bowel boo-boo by mega-phone? Or can I just leave it at my tummy hurts? As does my esophagus and my colon?)
So to continue with my Hodge podge...
From Honey & Spice restaurant: At Honey and Spice, we sincerely try to pack our dishes with fibre and nutrients because we realise the importance of the healthy body, it is a temple where the "lifeforce" resides for now. Blogger's comment: God bless you people. You're good people, y'know?
Actually, I copied down a few things from the menu like "thoughts for food" and "Morning break the fast Menu" and the owner came by and said "Are you copying our menu?" I replied "No, uhm, just, writing down uhm for things. I'm coming back with my friend who's really into healthy things, she'll be interested in this menu." And fortunately, Jessie was interested and the food was good so we went back again, but I think the owner is suspicious. This is a big deal in a town where 3 restaurants will all have the same name, or very very similar names (for example: Om Buffet, Om Shiva Buffet, Om Shiva Garden Buffet. Or Sai Baba Restaurant, The Real Sai Baba Restaurant, The Original Sai Baba Restaurant and Sai Baba Garden Restaurant) and they all advertise that they are absolutely and positively the one listed/reviewed in the Lonely Planet Guide. Okay then. (Hey, did I mentioned I gave away my Lonely Planet Guide? Bu-bye Book! Don't let the curtain swish you on the way out. Door? What door? Here? Did I mention open urinals? Did I mention the bathroom I chose not to use yesterday, next to Old Rangji Temple? The bathroom that was just a little cement room with a door, sure, but no drain, no nothing, just a cement block room to pee in? Well, I just waited till I got back to the Hotel, didn't I? Yes there is some question as to whether I'm drinking enough water and the clear answer is "No.")
I moved Hotels. I'm staying in Jessie's room at the Lotus, waiting for a room to come available. I'm 2 seconds away from Swamiji's now instead of on the other side of the long crazed market road. The first night I stayed there there was a storm. Thunder and lightning! Storm in the desert! I was so out of it I started counting from the thunder roll till I saw the lightning. Then I adjusted the count and it was 13 elephants away, where ever the lightning struck. At one point I was thinking "Wow! I'm counting elephants in India! I love this!" and I had completely forgotten about the toilet affair. Forgotten and forgiven, it's the only way to squat.
I was a bit loopy, and very sleep deprived as the other Hotel I had checked into for one night had neglected to mention that when the Puja starts at the temple across the street at 4 a.m., it means you will be woken up as if the brass instruments section of an entire highschool marching band had moved into your bed and decided to serenade you awake.
Phooey on them, they totally annoyed me because they were doing the "Sure we'll give it to you for this cheaper price since you're staying so long." And then I showed up and they said "Oh, sorry that room's taken, you have to take this room, it's a little more." I said "Give me a break, I don't need this. I can go anyplace else." And the fellow who promised to fix the problem before nightfall va-moosed. Or va-cowed. When I walked out of the room with my backpack and gear packed up after staying one night, I get this "What's your problem?" So I said "Sorry, it's too loud," when I wanted to say "You're a lying sack of rotted lentils."
For all those who expressed concern about my taking up Poi, the art of fire-juggling ("Uhm, no one expressed concern Eufemia, no one" "Oh, okay...gosh...gee willikers. That hurts.") kerosene is expensive, so don't worry. Worry about yourselves for goodness sakes, I mean, why worry about me, here, sometimes alone and entertaining thoughts of juggling with fire?
Do you see what my poor father has to contend with?
Swamiji has taken to calling me Mirabai, after my interest in the Rajputani Saint and my trip to the Krishna temple built in her home town. My full Hindi name translates to something like "Mira Crazy for Krishna alone" which he also shortens to 'Mira Pagal' (Crazy Mira).
It's a bittersweet name. Just after we arrived at Yoga class, Swamiji found out he lost a dear student from Italy who came here 14 years ago, the one who brought him to Italy, one he named Mira. She passed away this past fall, and she was young, only 42. Even though she passed away in September, Swamiji didn't find out until February. Sarah and I helped write the condolence email in English to her father. (After he realised I was Italian as well I had to explain "I can't read and write in that language, I can only speak with my parents and hope to avoid offending the rest of the populace.") She was an only child, an Italian only child. You can think this sounds completely flaky, I understand, but I felt the loss of this soul sister I never met.
Back when I was upset and ran over to Swamiji's, he asked me why I was 'always depressed' and said "Please, no, this not good. No depress. Why depress?" I said something about feeling alone, being alone, and I tried to explain: My mother is like an anvil on my head. And on my back. And on my shoulders. And you want me to do headstands. And I don't know what to do but I would like someone to tell me, and I would like them to tell me how to fix this problem. While standing right-side up, please. Please!
Swamiji said "Brother and sister not have?"
"No-" I said, and that started up a fresh round of tears and crazed thoughts; OH MY GOD! I am so alone!
"Like Mira," he said. "She say she alone too feel. No brother, no sister. And problems with coming with father."
Yesterday Swamiji said, "Next time coming Mira, I am teaching speaking and writing Hindi so good."
"I don't know, Swamiji. Next time? My father's very upset with this time. He's worried. Very scared for me."
"Ho? Father scared or you scared?"
"Ah, yes, good point. Both of us." Some I inherited, some I generated.
"This is attachment. Sure, if my daughter go far, I thinking thinking. And many people come in India not for Yoga. But you practice. No be crazy."
"Main koshesh karti hun, Swamiji"
Translation: I am trying, Swamiji.
But know you're thinking - "That mouse was days ago Eufemia, days. Thanks for the cliff-hanger, typing everything in capital letters and then not even taking the time to let me know you were okay. Making me think you were bitten or had malaria or God only knows what. Do you know how long I carried you for and the morning sickness and what you put me through as a teenager? Nevermind teenager, what you put me through now?" Oh, sorry, wrong guilt trip. But still, maybe you were thinking such thoughts and you should know, that is mental clutter and ego-talking. Uhm, yeah, I meant you, not me. Me? Ego? Please, I think I poured it down the squat toilet, the one I nearly fell in. The one I nearly dropped my right pant leg in. You know, the squat toliet that in the wee (ha ha!) hours of the morning is a deadly weapon akin to a Burmese tiger pit.
IKEA Tiger Pit Instructions: First, throw away the Allan key. Dig a hole about 5 feet deep and sharpen about 20 three feet tall poles about an inch around. Stick the poles into the ground, pointing straight up (sharp side up). Cover the pit with small sticks and leaves.
I can only say that the Revenge of the Bolognese is not swift and quick. No, they will make you beg for mercy before they're done with you. It seems the Bolognese demand a pound of flesh, closest to your digestive tract. (Yes, in case it's been too long, it was the pasta dish that did me in. Or rather the minced soya product part of the dish. There's nothing like having Swamiji ask you day-in, day-out "And Mia, how now?" while pointing to his stomach in front of the yoga class. Gosh. Koi baht naheen, no problems Swamiji. Why don't we tell all of Pushkar I had a bowel boo-boo by mega-phone? Or can I just leave it at my tummy hurts? As does my esophagus and my colon?)
So to continue with my Hodge podge...
From Honey & Spice restaurant: At Honey and Spice, we sincerely try to pack our dishes with fibre and nutrients because we realise the importance of the healthy body, it is a temple where the "lifeforce" resides for now. Blogger's comment: God bless you people. You're good people, y'know?
Actually, I copied down a few things from the menu like "thoughts for food" and "Morning break the fast Menu" and the owner came by and said "Are you copying our menu?" I replied "No, uhm, just, writing down uhm for things. I'm coming back with my friend who's really into healthy things, she'll be interested in this menu." And fortunately, Jessie was interested and the food was good so we went back again, but I think the owner is suspicious. This is a big deal in a town where 3 restaurants will all have the same name, or very very similar names (for example: Om Buffet, Om Shiva Buffet, Om Shiva Garden Buffet. Or Sai Baba Restaurant, The Real Sai Baba Restaurant, The Original Sai Baba Restaurant and Sai Baba Garden Restaurant) and they all advertise that they are absolutely and positively the one listed/reviewed in the Lonely Planet Guide. Okay then. (Hey, did I mentioned I gave away my Lonely Planet Guide? Bu-bye Book! Don't let the curtain swish you on the way out. Door? What door? Here? Did I mention open urinals? Did I mention the bathroom I chose not to use yesterday, next to Old Rangji Temple? The bathroom that was just a little cement room with a door, sure, but no drain, no nothing, just a cement block room to pee in? Well, I just waited till I got back to the Hotel, didn't I? Yes there is some question as to whether I'm drinking enough water and the clear answer is "No.")
I moved Hotels. I'm staying in Jessie's room at the Lotus, waiting for a room to come available. I'm 2 seconds away from Swamiji's now instead of on the other side of the long crazed market road. The first night I stayed there there was a storm. Thunder and lightning! Storm in the desert! I was so out of it I started counting from the thunder roll till I saw the lightning. Then I adjusted the count and it was 13 elephants away, where ever the lightning struck. At one point I was thinking "Wow! I'm counting elephants in India! I love this!" and I had completely forgotten about the toilet affair. Forgotten and forgiven, it's the only way to squat.
I was a bit loopy, and very sleep deprived as the other Hotel I had checked into for one night had neglected to mention that when the Puja starts at the temple across the street at 4 a.m., it means you will be woken up as if the brass instruments section of an entire highschool marching band had moved into your bed and decided to serenade you awake.
Phooey on them, they totally annoyed me because they were doing the "Sure we'll give it to you for this cheaper price since you're staying so long." And then I showed up and they said "Oh, sorry that room's taken, you have to take this room, it's a little more." I said "Give me a break, I don't need this. I can go anyplace else." And the fellow who promised to fix the problem before nightfall va-moosed. Or va-cowed. When I walked out of the room with my backpack and gear packed up after staying one night, I get this "What's your problem?" So I said "Sorry, it's too loud," when I wanted to say "You're a lying sack of rotted lentils."
For all those who expressed concern about my taking up Poi, the art of fire-juggling ("Uhm, no one expressed concern Eufemia, no one" "Oh, okay...gosh...gee willikers. That hurts.") kerosene is expensive, so don't worry. Worry about yourselves for goodness sakes, I mean, why worry about me, here, sometimes alone and entertaining thoughts of juggling with fire?
Do you see what my poor father has to contend with?
Swamiji has taken to calling me Mirabai, after my interest in the Rajputani Saint and my trip to the Krishna temple built in her home town. My full Hindi name translates to something like "Mira Crazy for Krishna alone" which he also shortens to 'Mira Pagal' (Crazy Mira).
It's a bittersweet name. Just after we arrived at Yoga class, Swamiji found out he lost a dear student from Italy who came here 14 years ago, the one who brought him to Italy, one he named Mira. She passed away this past fall, and she was young, only 42. Even though she passed away in September, Swamiji didn't find out until February. Sarah and I helped write the condolence email in English to her father. (After he realised I was Italian as well I had to explain "I can't read and write in that language, I can only speak with my parents and hope to avoid offending the rest of the populace.") She was an only child, an Italian only child. You can think this sounds completely flaky, I understand, but I felt the loss of this soul sister I never met.
Back when I was upset and ran over to Swamiji's, he asked me why I was 'always depressed' and said "Please, no, this not good. No depress. Why depress?" I said something about feeling alone, being alone, and I tried to explain: My mother is like an anvil on my head. And on my back. And on my shoulders. And you want me to do headstands. And I don't know what to do but I would like someone to tell me, and I would like them to tell me how to fix this problem. While standing right-side up, please. Please!
Swamiji said "Brother and sister not have?"
"No-" I said, and that started up a fresh round of tears and crazed thoughts; OH MY GOD! I am so alone!
"Like Mira," he said. "She say she alone too feel. No brother, no sister. And problems with coming with father."
Yesterday Swamiji said, "Next time coming Mira, I am teaching speaking and writing Hindi so good."
"I don't know, Swamiji. Next time? My father's very upset with this time. He's worried. Very scared for me."
"Ho? Father scared or you scared?"
"Ah, yes, good point. Both of us." Some I inherited, some I generated.
"This is attachment. Sure, if my daughter go far, I thinking thinking. And many people come in India not for Yoga. But you practice. No be crazy."
"Main koshesh karti hun, Swamiji"
Translation: I am trying, Swamiji.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
How Do You Say Hodgepodge in Hindi?
Tony left last week, and now I see why I am a terrible traveller. I don't like people leaving. Tony hasn't even been blog-mentioned yet, but let's just say he's a funny fellow, a 60 year old smoking organic farmer from Northern Italy who I got to practice my Italian with, and he was very kind not to make me feel like a granda stupida with my poor pronunciation.
My favourite Tony quotes: "I told my wife I was coming to Italy this time without her, it was a hard winter. My mother was very sick and my wife was looking after her, she was supposed to come with me, but it looked like we wouldn't be able to go at all. Then I realised I could go. Well, it was like I started the Third World War, the yelling, the shouting. But I told them both - 'You have broken my balls!' and came here. It's my tenth time in India."
And, after I told him about the teenager who told me his name was Giorgio Armani, Tony said I should of replied "Yeah, and I'm Napoleon Bonaparte"
From the back of the matchbox at Swamiji's: If at first you do succeed, try not to look astonished.
My favourite Tony quotes: "I told my wife I was coming to Italy this time without her, it was a hard winter. My mother was very sick and my wife was looking after her, she was supposed to come with me, but it looked like we wouldn't be able to go at all. Then I realised I could go. Well, it was like I started the Third World War, the yelling, the shouting. But I told them both - 'You have broken my balls!' and came here. It's my tenth time in India."
And, after I told him about the teenager who told me his name was Giorgio Armani, Tony said I should of replied "Yeah, and I'm Napoleon Bonaparte"
From the back of the matchbox at Swamiji's: If at first you do succeed, try not to look astonished.
!!!!A GIANT MOUSE OR RAT JUST JUMPED OUT FROM BEHIND MY COMPUTER. IT CAME FROM SOMEWHERE BEHIND THE COMPUTER MONITOR AND JUMPED TO SOMEWHERE ELSE BEHIND IT. THERE IS NO ONE ELSE HERE BECAUSE SMART TOURISTS HAVE LEFT. AND THE FELLOW RUNNING THE SHOP IS NOT HERE. YES, IN CASE YOU'RE WONDERING, I AM FREAKING OUT BUT I HAVE 20 MINUTES LEFT ON THIS HERE COMPUTER!!!!
Okay. I think I'm calm now. No, maybe not, stomach feels a little queasy. I didn't bother to mention the little tiny mouse that ran all over my hotel room the other night. He didn't disturb me until I thought to look for him, lifted up my backpack and there he was. He made like Speedy Gonzalez for the door. Pardon me, I mean he made for the hole under the door, the one he crawled in and out from. I jumped up and down, which is a really useless thing to do if you're in situation that requires you to remain tranquil and be clear-headed.
Okay, you know what? Now I'm just being stubborn AND stupid. Usually, one will suffice. I'm going. I'll add some more another time. Rats! And did I mention there's bats in the tree next to the hotel I'm trying to move to? Bats! Rats, bats, cobras, camels, cows, tigers, elephants. As far as I can see, the only animal that doesn't live in India is the Beluga whale.
And now back to The Times of India
From the first page of the Saturday March 8th edition:
The new Standard English, which will be understood globally, would be neccessary if the growing ranks of English-speakers around the world are to understand each other, said Professor David Crystal, one of the world's foremost experts and author of the Cambridge Encyclopedia of the English Language.
The new Standard English's likely Indian characteristics would signify the end of the primacy of American English. Future users of global Standard English might routinely say "I am thinking it's going to rain" rather than the British "I think it's going to rain," said Crystal.
"In language, numbers count. There are more people speaking English in India than in the rest of the native English-speaking world. Even now, if you ring a call centre, often it's an Indian voice you hear at the end of the phone. As the Indian economy grows, so might the influence of Indian English," he explained.
"Because Indians tend to use the present continous where we would use the present simple (with an Indian saying) 'I am thinking, I am feeling, I am seeing' rather than 'I think, I feel, I see...' this way of speaking could easily become sexy and part of global Standard English," said the professor, who has written more than 100 books.
Crystal, who was attempting to forecast the rise and rise of English as it fiercely beats off linguistic challenges and spreads, predicted that English would eventually become a family of languages, just as Latin did a thousand years ago. Latin, of course, spawned French, Spanish, Italian and other languages.
Blogger's commentary: Uhm. Okay. You read it here first. I had a few parts where I thought they were exagerrating a tad. More people speaking English in India, is he kidding? Just because, on my way to see if the girls were up and about at the Lotus today, I encountered another friendly fellow, this time an older, mature, adult type who said "Hello! Good morning! hello friend, chai? Helping something?"
I thought of this article as I kept walking past the fellow (He continued "friend, hello! HELLO! friend?") and thought about the number of people who know how to ask me for stuff in English: "Please something helping. Chapati. Biscuit. Baksheesh. MONEY, hello! MONEY!" or how everyone can make conversation to a certain point, the point where my usefulness appears to be determined "Hello. Which country? How long in Pushkar? Business? Come to my shop, I have many nice things. Just looking is okay, no charge for looking. Why not, I no say need to buy."
I feel most of the conversations I'm having with Pushkarters are of a superficial nature (I know, I'm contributing, it's not a one-sided issue, when is it ever? Never, that's when.) And when I tried having a discussion with Krishna the shopkeeper/tailor (not to be confused with Nepalese Krishna of the German Bakery fame) well, I pretty much wrecked it early on:
Krishna: (reacting to my reaction to a cow passing within a foot of my face) What?
Eufemia: It's great to see these cows just walk past your shop. But I still find it funny.
Krishna: Which country you again?
Eufemia: Canada
Krishna: Cows not like this in your country?
Eufemia: Ah, no.
Krishna: Where you have cows?
Eufemia: Uhm. Well, on farms. In my country, some people eat them.
Oh yeah, don't worry, I realised immediately I had stepped in it big time and should have just lied. He looked horrified. The conversation recovered slightly, he talked about his family, asked if I was married. I said no, and funnily enough, he didn't ask me if I had some strange disease. But then, seriously, out of nowhere he asked, "What your father do?" and without batting a kohled eyelash I said "He's retired but he was a butcher."
There was a pause and Krishna said "What that?" I said "Someone who works with meat." He looked like he was going to vomit. I jaldi (quickly) hoovered the savories and chai he had purchased for me and him to share and left. "Come to my shop and practice your Hindi" had turned into him practising his English, which gave me a furrowed-brow-headache.
But who am I to say anything? My grasp of grammar is laughable. I am the wrong person to explain anything about English to anyone, as many here have heard. ("I'm an idiot savant about this stuff. Sometimes just an idiot. That's why I do what's called 'creative writing'.") See my punctuation problems for further proof. As if you needed any.
I always thought I wanted to be a writer because I wanted to communicate....so much important stuff I have to communicate, y'know? (Oh here we go, what malarkey. First and foremost, I wanted to be famous, and now we know those piano lessons were a waste of time and moola. I never even got as far as Chopsticks and I still shudder when I hear Frère Jacques) But if I really want to communicate, I should also learn how to listen. Listen with patience. Listen carefully, not just thinking of the next thing I could say to ensure it sounds like I'm smart enough to handle the discourse. I'm sure I tune out a lot because I haven't focused my mind, it wanders about aimlessly in search of chocolate and carbohydrates, thinking it's best to communicate on a full stomach.
I remember once as a teenager, I chided my father on his English pronounciation. His reply? "My English may be no so good - but your Italian is terrible."
And my father's reaction to my "I have things I want to communicate, big things!" dilemma was so perfectly Papaji:
"So? Who's stopping you?"
INDIAN ENGLISH WILL CONQUER GLOBE: EXPERT
Rashmee Roshan Lall
LONDON: English will fragment into "global dialects," Forcing speakers routinely to learn two varieties of the language - one spoken in their home country and a new kind of standard English with pronounced Indian characteristics, a leading expert has said.The new Standard English, which will be understood globally, would be neccessary if the growing ranks of English-speakers around the world are to understand each other, said Professor David Crystal, one of the world's foremost experts and author of the Cambridge Encyclopedia of the English Language.
The new Standard English's likely Indian characteristics would signify the end of the primacy of American English. Future users of global Standard English might routinely say "I am thinking it's going to rain" rather than the British "I think it's going to rain," said Crystal.
"In language, numbers count. There are more people speaking English in India than in the rest of the native English-speaking world. Even now, if you ring a call centre, often it's an Indian voice you hear at the end of the phone. As the Indian economy grows, so might the influence of Indian English," he explained.
"Because Indians tend to use the present continous where we would use the present simple (with an Indian saying) 'I am thinking, I am feeling, I am seeing' rather than 'I think, I feel, I see...' this way of speaking could easily become sexy and part of global Standard English," said the professor, who has written more than 100 books.
Crystal, who was attempting to forecast the rise and rise of English as it fiercely beats off linguistic challenges and spreads, predicted that English would eventually become a family of languages, just as Latin did a thousand years ago. Latin, of course, spawned French, Spanish, Italian and other languages.
Blogger's commentary: Uhm. Okay. You read it here first. I had a few parts where I thought they were exagerrating a tad. More people speaking English in India, is he kidding? Just because, on my way to see if the girls were up and about at the Lotus today, I encountered another friendly fellow, this time an older, mature, adult type who said "Hello! Good morning! hello friend, chai? Helping something?"
I thought of this article as I kept walking past the fellow (He continued "friend, hello! HELLO! friend?") and thought about the number of people who know how to ask me for stuff in English: "Please something helping. Chapati. Biscuit. Baksheesh. MONEY, hello! MONEY!" or how everyone can make conversation to a certain point, the point where my usefulness appears to be determined "Hello. Which country? How long in Pushkar? Business? Come to my shop, I have many nice things. Just looking is okay, no charge for looking. Why not, I no say need to buy."
I feel most of the conversations I'm having with Pushkarters are of a superficial nature (I know, I'm contributing, it's not a one-sided issue, when is it ever? Never, that's when.) And when I tried having a discussion with Krishna the shopkeeper/tailor (not to be confused with Nepalese Krishna of the German Bakery fame) well, I pretty much wrecked it early on:
Krishna: (reacting to my reaction to a cow passing within a foot of my face) What?
Eufemia: It's great to see these cows just walk past your shop. But I still find it funny.
Krishna: Which country you again?
Eufemia: Canada
Krishna: Cows not like this in your country?
Eufemia: Ah, no.
Krishna: Where you have cows?
Eufemia: Uhm. Well, on farms. In my country, some people eat them.
Oh yeah, don't worry, I realised immediately I had stepped in it big time and should have just lied. He looked horrified. The conversation recovered slightly, he talked about his family, asked if I was married. I said no, and funnily enough, he didn't ask me if I had some strange disease. But then, seriously, out of nowhere he asked, "What your father do?" and without batting a kohled eyelash I said "He's retired but he was a butcher."
There was a pause and Krishna said "What that?" I said "Someone who works with meat." He looked like he was going to vomit. I jaldi (quickly) hoovered the savories and chai he had purchased for me and him to share and left. "Come to my shop and practice your Hindi" had turned into him practising his English, which gave me a furrowed-brow-headache.
But who am I to say anything? My grasp of grammar is laughable. I am the wrong person to explain anything about English to anyone, as many here have heard. ("I'm an idiot savant about this stuff. Sometimes just an idiot. That's why I do what's called 'creative writing'.") See my punctuation problems for further proof. As if you needed any.
I always thought I wanted to be a writer because I wanted to communicate....so much important stuff I have to communicate, y'know? (Oh here we go, what malarkey. First and foremost, I wanted to be famous, and now we know those piano lessons were a waste of time and moola. I never even got as far as Chopsticks and I still shudder when I hear Frère Jacques) But if I really want to communicate, I should also learn how to listen. Listen with patience. Listen carefully, not just thinking of the next thing I could say to ensure it sounds like I'm smart enough to handle the discourse. I'm sure I tune out a lot because I haven't focused my mind, it wanders about aimlessly in search of chocolate and carbohydrates, thinking it's best to communicate on a full stomach.
I remember once as a teenager, I chided my father on his English pronounciation. His reply? "My English may be no so good - but your Italian is terrible."
And my father's reaction to my "I have things I want to communicate, big things!" dilemma was so perfectly Papaji:
"So? Who's stopping you?"
Friday, March 7, 2008
Accept, Adjust, Accomodate
Serve, Love, Give, Purify, Meditate, Realise, Be Good, Do Good, Be Kind, Be Compassionate,
Inquire 'Who am I?', Know the Self, and Be Free
SWAMI SIVANANDA (1887-1963)
SWAMI SIVANANDA (1887-1963)
No doubt you're all wondering how I spent Shivaratri two days ago. It was on March 6th this year, the day I had my mental crisis on the yoga mat (oh, yea, that one. Sorry which one? you've had a few from what I can see) This was also the day I would have been back in Vancouver if I had stuck with my original plan. You know what they say, the best laid schemes o' mice and Mia go oft awry.
Shivaratri: I could also refer to this as The Festival of Bang Lassi-a-go-go. Swamiji explained it to us this way "oh yes, they will be for the smoke chillum and drink bang lassi."
Listening to him recount the experience he had with imbibing a special lassi years ago was something else. I would tell you, but here's the higlights of what I understood: "One time this bang lassi try. Yoga that time was already start, yes, and so then, what? Coming here and there say and when this friend, he on duty was yes? So then she say 'hey what is this?' Understand? so okay, this and that, this and that, and then (Swamiji leaned back and indicated a spinning head as he looked at his ceiling) like this yes? And then myself think 'hey what is this?' yea. Understand?"
Lots of stories go like this. Sometimes, it gets to me, and I think, does he understand a word I've said or do I sound to him like he sounds to me? I mean we've had moments where we think he's talking about something that happened in Pushkar or Ajmer and he's actually referring to the Mahābhārata (in Devanāgarī: महाभारत) the great epic poem of India, written circa sometime, oh, let's say, I don't know, by my sundial, a long time B.C., Before Christ. Understand now? How could I confuse an event that happened in Pushkar 10 years ago with one that happened 4,000 years ago? Simple, really. Too simple. So simple it's scary.
For Shivaratri they had a parade here, representing the marriage of Shiva and Parvati. Parvati was the one who learned Yoga from Shiva. He didn't want to teach her but she insisted.
Swamiji: And so we say thanks to Parvati. In that time say, wedding for everyone in bharat was there.
Oh, hey, can someone tell me why we call this country India when it's called Bharat to them? Did someone called India Hadley-Beauregard draw the first map back in 1512 or something? And while I'm thinking about it, Marco Polo, what was your deal? They make really good pasta here but does anyone in Southern Italy know anything about curry? And Columbus, you rube. Do you know how long I hoped to find out I was related to you because my mother's maiden name is Columbus? A full week. Do you know what that is in child time? Years, Mr. Potato-Head, years. And so we're straight, I just wanted to be famous. I don't think I really care for you and your big Niña, Pinto and the Santa Maria Macho pride trip.
Perhaps I shouldn't be revealing my mother's maiden name as you'll all be able to access my Swiss bank account now.
They threw flowers everywhere, and drummed in the temples non-stop from 6pm the evening on March 5th to after midnight March 6th. Over 30 hours they were drumming and chanting kirtan. I wanted to go, but I was feeling so unwell, I couldn't. And when I couldn't sleep, I thanked my lucky stars and green clovers that I wasn't that close to a temple with drummers. Other people didn't sleep at all. During the day of the 6th, the whole town seemed to be going for bang lassi's the way a family piles into a car to go to Dairy Queen back home. (By the way: you don't want to know how many toddlers I've seen on motorcycles here. Just casually hanging on as they straddle the gas tank) Jessie went to get us juice and had to wait for several of these special lassi's to get made first.
So I was still feeling a bit raw on Shivaratri, and chose not to climb up to the temple. I decided to go to Baba's Rooftop Restaurant and fill a craving for the best Spaghetti Bolognese I've ever had. Vegetarian, I didn't even notice since it tasted soooo good. I think it was Jessie asking "Spaghetti Bolognese?" that even reminded me it was supposed to be a meat dish. (Every day I lose points on my Italian-ness) Hey, I ordered a masala chai too, and felt very international. But then when I couldn't sleep, I felt that chai was laughing at me.
I couldn't sleep, I couldn't read. Too much time to think, in the dark. Finally, somehow I fell asleep. When I woke up, I was sick with what many other traveller's have also suffered, though I like to think of mine personally as "Revenge of the Bolognese" because, that's what it was. It should have passed in a day but it didn't, and I was getting in a panic, wondering if I had enough energy to crawl over the bridge to find Sarah and Jessie at the Lotus without collapsing in pain, until I woke up this morning and realised my body has decided to align it's inner-lunar cycle to the New Moon cycle.
It started with the crying for 3 days in a row. That could have been an indication. Or those 3 snickers bars I ate when think I've had 2 in my entire life before. I should have recognised that warning signal, my body's distress call. It was sending out an S.O.S., and I couldn't see it at all. In my defense, my internal sundial has probably been knocked about too much while trying to dodge motorcyclists. And then I got head-butted by a cow. Imagine going to pick up a pen at the same time as someone else and clunking your heads together. Now magnify that ouchie a thousand times and you'll know what it feels like to be head butted by a cow. Two days later, this is me; "What on earth? What muscle is there to pull in the middle of my left butt cheek? This is so painf- oh. I'm am such a maroon."
I still say the cow was going for Jessie, who has been butted several times, while I survived totally un-"punchrickshaw no return!" She jumped outta the way and the cow clocked me butt good (ha ha). Swamiji commented "Yes be careful, this red cow not like" Yeah, turns out my fabulous new 300 rupee red dress, a beautiful peasant style full length dress, is another example of what I can only refer to as "me molto stupida."
So what can, what can? Or what do, what do?
Find a spot in the shade. Accept that life can be mushkil (difficult). Adjust your position. Accomodate, make room.
You never know what's going to happen next.
Oh My God of Gods
The Twameva is my favourite morning chant. This is reason I have no trouble getting up and getting to prayers 1/2 an hour before yoga - the Twameva and The 32 names of Durga.
Did I mention the time has changed? We now start Yoga at 7:30 a.m as it's too hot to finish by 10 a.m (I can hear you already: "Oh, poor bwah-bwah, is too hotsy-hot-warm for woo?")
I get up before 6 a.m. to get to prayers by 7 a.m. And yes, thank you for all the accolades and applause. I'll just add the trophy you're getting made for me to my somewhat sparse collection back home. (It can take a place of honour next to the biggest trophy, my Grade 8 School Board Award of Excellence in Social Sciences award - which was a very nice pen holder, thank you very much Etobicoke Board of Education, you guys rock!)
I digress. Your attention please, ladies and gents, the Twameva.
Sing-a-long in Sanskrit:
Twameva Mataa Cha Pitaa Twameva
Twameva Bandus Cha Sakaa Twameva
Twameva Vidya Dravinam Twameva
Twameva Sarvam Mama Deva Deva
The translation:
You alone are mother and father
You alone are friend and relative
You alone are knowledge and wealth
Oh my God of Gods, You alone are Everything.
I just learned the translation 2 weeks ago. Like the 32 names of Durga, I have loved this prayer from the first time I heard it, and once I read the meaning of the sanskrit, I felt a ripple effect go through me, like a stone had been dropped through the surface of my self, my turbulent self. The melody is beautiful, and it always calms me, even though I find it also haunts me, has haunted me since I first heard it.
Oh my God of Gods, indeed.
Did I mention the time has changed? We now start Yoga at 7:30 a.m as it's too hot to finish by 10 a.m (I can hear you already: "Oh, poor bwah-bwah, is too hotsy-hot-warm for woo?")
I get up before 6 a.m. to get to prayers by 7 a.m. And yes, thank you for all the accolades and applause. I'll just add the trophy you're getting made for me to my somewhat sparse collection back home. (It can take a place of honour next to the biggest trophy, my Grade 8 School Board Award of Excellence in Social Sciences award - which was a very nice pen holder, thank you very much Etobicoke Board of Education, you guys rock!)
I digress. Your attention please, ladies and gents, the Twameva.
Sing-a-long in Sanskrit:
Twameva Mataa Cha Pitaa Twameva
Twameva Bandus Cha Sakaa Twameva
Twameva Vidya Dravinam Twameva
Twameva Sarvam Mama Deva Deva
The translation:
You alone are mother and father
You alone are friend and relative
You alone are knowledge and wealth
Oh my God of Gods, You alone are Everything.
I just learned the translation 2 weeks ago. Like the 32 names of Durga, I have loved this prayer from the first time I heard it, and once I read the meaning of the sanskrit, I felt a ripple effect go through me, like a stone had been dropped through the surface of my self, my turbulent self. The melody is beautiful, and it always calms me, even though I find it also haunts me, has haunted me since I first heard it.
Oh my God of Gods, indeed.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Dost, I think Your Sundial is Broken
It would appear that time in India is measured the same way Figaro's temperature has to be taken by the vet - by sticking a thermometer in his poor feline bottom. Because I'll tell you if there's one thing I'm hyper-wacked about, it's time. (one thing, oh that's good hey? I'll attach a list some other time)
It runs in my genetic makeup. My father has paid Pearson International Airport goodness knows how much in parking fees because he likes to be early. One time, my red-eye flight was delayed, and I called home to tell my parents the news just before boarding the plane. It was 4:30 a.m Toronto time, my flight was scheduled to arrive at 6:45 a.m. My father answered the phone saying "You just caught us, we get ready to go out." My parents lived 15 minutes from the airport. "Just now I was thinking we go. So maybe another hour we wait then."
"My flight is 4 and a half hours, Dad. I'm still on the ground in Vancouver, understand?"
"Yes, yes, understand, what I no understand? You know I prefer go early." Plus, he adds, what's there to do around the house? Uhm, 3 hours of parking time Papaji equals major Ka-ching.
So I have an ability to overstress about time, to get stressed out when I'm late. I've also noticed I have an ability to judge people harshly (I know, you're all soooooo surprised) when they're consistently late.
In fact, my blow up with Mincho was completely unrelated to what was happening in real time. Mincho runs on Spanish time, which is pretty much measured by the same method as they measure time in India, and we were 'joking' (he was, I wasn't, I was already in cloud cuckoo land - thank you Mordecai Richler for that one) about wanting the same spot on the mat when I suddenly shouted out in Italian "Time! Time! Time! When you show up for class on time, you can have the better spot!" His reaction: "That's a different issue entirely."
What could I say? "Yes, well, so there. Na na na na nah. What's another issue? What were we talking about?"
So I have an issue with time. I like people who show up on time and treat my time with respect. I mean don't people know time is rupees? In the past, I noticed that the more of my time someone wasted by letting me wait, the less time I would give them. Go ahead, you can call me a Time Facist. I've been called worse things in English, Italian and Hindi. My hyperness has dimished some what, thank God. (You can email your votes in if you think I'm deluding myself)
Several times Swamiji has reminded people to show up for class "Western time please, not Indian time." And when students showed up late, he would say "Please 5 minutes before coming. The train at station this time say or you run for the train, maybe miss train."
Personally, I think using 'catching a train' as an example of Time Management in India is an extremely poor choice.
Yesterday was my original departure date. Now I feel like I don't know why I've decided to take this extra time. Yesterday was my biggest meltdown, bigger than thinking about my aunt, because I was too exhausted to not cry, too exhausted to fight for balance and be present, to be here now.
When we're all sitting around a campfire back home toasting marshmellows, I'd like to put in a special request to whoever is strumming on the guitar. Hmmm, no, I like this ending better:
This is Manou coming to you all the way from 98.7 QRAJ - The Q!- Rajasthani radio, Lotus Lake, Pushkaaaar, with a reminder to stay cool- and for those foreigners far from home, get a higher SPF sunblock. This little number goes rolling out by special request to Fifiji. Feef, where ever you are, keep on keeping on. He cues the music and we hear:
Time is on my side, yes it is
Time is on my side, yes it is
Hah, Mujhe atcha legah. (Yes, I like it.)
Yes time, time, time is on my side, yes it is
It runs in my genetic makeup. My father has paid Pearson International Airport goodness knows how much in parking fees because he likes to be early. One time, my red-eye flight was delayed, and I called home to tell my parents the news just before boarding the plane. It was 4:30 a.m Toronto time, my flight was scheduled to arrive at 6:45 a.m. My father answered the phone saying "You just caught us, we get ready to go out." My parents lived 15 minutes from the airport. "Just now I was thinking we go. So maybe another hour we wait then."
"My flight is 4 and a half hours, Dad. I'm still on the ground in Vancouver, understand?"
"Yes, yes, understand, what I no understand? You know I prefer go early." Plus, he adds, what's there to do around the house? Uhm, 3 hours of parking time Papaji equals major Ka-ching.
So I have an ability to overstress about time, to get stressed out when I'm late. I've also noticed I have an ability to judge people harshly (I know, you're all soooooo surprised) when they're consistently late.
In fact, my blow up with Mincho was completely unrelated to what was happening in real time. Mincho runs on Spanish time, which is pretty much measured by the same method as they measure time in India, and we were 'joking' (he was, I wasn't, I was already in cloud cuckoo land - thank you Mordecai Richler for that one) about wanting the same spot on the mat when I suddenly shouted out in Italian "Time! Time! Time! When you show up for class on time, you can have the better spot!" His reaction: "That's a different issue entirely."
What could I say? "Yes, well, so there. Na na na na nah. What's another issue? What were we talking about?"
So I have an issue with time. I like people who show up on time and treat my time with respect. I mean don't people know time is rupees? In the past, I noticed that the more of my time someone wasted by letting me wait, the less time I would give them. Go ahead, you can call me a Time Facist. I've been called worse things in English, Italian and Hindi. My hyperness has dimished some what, thank God. (You can email your votes in if you think I'm deluding myself)
Several times Swamiji has reminded people to show up for class "Western time please, not Indian time." And when students showed up late, he would say "Please 5 minutes before coming. The train at station this time say or you run for the train, maybe miss train."
Personally, I think using 'catching a train' as an example of Time Management in India is an extremely poor choice.
Yesterday was my original departure date. Now I feel like I don't know why I've decided to take this extra time. Yesterday was my biggest meltdown, bigger than thinking about my aunt, because I was too exhausted to not cry, too exhausted to fight for balance and be present, to be here now.
When we're all sitting around a campfire back home toasting marshmellows, I'd like to put in a special request to whoever is strumming on the guitar. Hmmm, no, I like this ending better:
This is Manou coming to you all the way from 98.7 QRAJ - The Q!- Rajasthani radio, Lotus Lake, Pushkaaaar, with a reminder to stay cool- and for those foreigners far from home, get a higher SPF sunblock. This little number goes rolling out by special request to Fifiji. Feef, where ever you are, keep on keeping on. He cues the music and we hear:
Time is on my side, yes it is
Time is on my side, yes it is
Hah, Mujhe atcha legah. (Yes, I like it.)
Yes time, time, time is on my side, yes it is
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