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.