Eufemia's Travels & Tribulations

Cry Baby

2008-12-05T15:10:00.001-08:00

Last Friday, during all the dreadful events in Mumbai, I was woken up by my dad at 6:30 PST.

Eufemia: ....huh-low?

Papa: You see what's happen in da news?

Even though it's 6:30 a.m. and I'm barely aware that I'm a concious living thing, I know he's referring to the upsetting situation in Mumbai, and not the possible crisis in Canadian Parliament.

Papa: I say to myself thank God Eufemia no still there. They say this India's 9/11.

One guy said it. Quite the sound-bite. Then it becomes the headline, and now I've seen pictures of fellas with the giant numbers 26/11 written on the backs of their vests.

Eufemia: Papa, come on, I didn't even go to Mumbai.

Papa: Doesn't matter. India is India.

Can't argue with that logic.

Today, my dad calls at 7:30 a.m. and says "You see what's happen? What Governor General do? Because Stephen Harper go crying to her."

There are days when I love the guy so much it hurts.

OMG, WTF, & Any Other Useless Short Forms

2008-12-04T15:58:00.000-08:00

I really should try to write more, and I keep meaning to, but somehow I get caught in in my daily grind that involves work, avoiding more work (of a personal nature - not the paying kind, the writing, the projects on backburners, the LAUNDRY. Dear God, the laundry) But I just have to spell it out loud -

OH MY GOD!

Stephen Harper (or as my friend Cathy refers to him Mr. Crazydevileyes) - what are you saying? What kind of Bull is this? Referring to what's happening now in Parliament (which is all your fault, in case you were wondering) as "undemocratic"? Man, you are a piece of work. A disturbing, lying, arrogant, wanker-speaking piece, to be sure. And if that wasn't enough, you've delayed my "Harper Goes Down & I'm Happy Dance." (It looks a lot like Snoopy's Happy Dance)

How dare you call the process undemocratic? It's our Canadian process, even if it's unprecendented. And it kicked in to kick you in the nuts because you deserved it.

As my hero Bugs would say "Da noive of some peeple!"

Elections Day

2008-10-14T10:15:00.000-07:00

The last several conversations I’ve had with my mom have been peaceful, calm and tranquil: we were both cracking jokes and talking about more than just the weather. This is so unusual for us. It’s eerie. I almost considered giving her my phone number, but then I thought about the times she was in psychosis and calling non-stop. Then again, maybe I won’t.

When I spoke to her this thanksgiving Sunday, she told me a guy called Patrick “Doyle” stepped out in front of her and shook her hand as she was heading up into Sunday Mass, and then another guy tried to shake her hand but she got scared and hurried into the church.

I said “Patrick who? Gosh Ma, I hope you didn’t shake a Conservative guy’s hand,” but she couldn’t tell. Then my mother says to me, in the same concerned voice she used when she beat the pants off me in a game of Monopoly 4 years ago “They’re all the same, and they try, but sometimes they have to clean up the mess the man before them make, and then they can’t change nothing for better because they too busy clean up the problems from before.”

All I could say was “Uhm….yeah.”

I’ve spent years thinking of my mother as shrewd but simple, not concerned with the bigger picture at all, a person who would have preferred to have stayed in the village, life in a new country, a big city was too overwhelming for her. Everything unfamiliar was intensely feared. So it took me by surprise to hear her commentary.

Sadly, I looked up the riding I grew up in and of course, stupid Patrick Whathisface is a Tory. Like they give a damn about people with mental illnesses, people like my mother. I wonder who the other guy was….and MAN do I ever wish I’d been there. Though I doubt I woulda said anything, let alone even smack his hand away, but I’d like to think I’d try….that I might say “Hey Pat, when will we get a National Mental Health program working? Shouldn’t we be ashamed of ourselves as a highly developed nation? I know I’m ashamed of your Party’s platforms, so don’t shake her hand. I’d rather you just spit in her face, and we-the-people kick you in the shins on Election day.”

Then, after I already made my prejudiced decision, I decided to look at Patrick’s website and it seems like the guy has done some good work, but then it is his PR page I’m reading. Doesn’t he know he works for the devil? The one that goes by the name of Stephen Harper?

Whenever my father used to say “better the devil you know than the devil you don’t” I’d think, can’t I see the new devil first and decide?

Because the devil we know will destroy us.

Some Half-Baked Alaskan

2008-09-22T09:38:00.000-07:00

Forwarded by a friend, and just what I've been thinking about these days...
Eve Ensler, the American playwright, performer, feminist and activist best known for "The Vagina Monologues", wrote the following about Sarah Palin.

Drill, Drill, Drill.

I am having Sarah Palin nightmares. I dreamt last night that she was a member of a club where they rode snowmobiles and wore the claws of drowned and starved polar bears around their necks. I have a particular thing for Polar Bears. Maybe it's their snowy whiteness or their bigness or the fact that they live in the arctic or that I have never seen one in person or touched one. Maybe it is the fact that they live so comfortably on ice. Whatever it is, I need the polar bears.

I don't like raging at women. I am a Feminist and have spent my life trying to build community, help empower women and stop violence against them. It is hard to write about Sarah Palin. This is why the Sarah Palin choice was all the more insidious and cynical. The people who made this choice count on the goodness and solidarity of Feminists.

But everything Sarah Palin believes in and practices is antithetical to Feminism which for me is part of one story -- connected to saving the earth, ending racism, empowering women, giving young girls options, opening our minds, deepening tolerance, and ending violence and war.

I believe that the McCain/Palin ticket is one of the most dangerous choices of my lifetime, and should this country choose those candidates the fall-out may be so great, the destruction so vast in so many areas that America may never recover. But what is equally disturbing is the impact that duo would have on the rest of the world. Unfortunately, this is not a joke. In my lifetime I have seen the clownish, the inept, the bizarre be elected to the presidency with regularity.

Sarah Palin does not believe in evolution. I take this as a metaphor. In her world and the world of Fundamentalists nothing changes or gets better or evolves. She does not believe in global warming. The melting of the arctic, the storms that are destroying our cities, the pollution and rise of cancers, are all part of God's plan. She is fighting to take the polar bears off the endangered species list. The earth, in Palin's view, is here to be taken and plundered. The wolves and the bears are here to be shot and plundered. The oil is here to be taken and plundered. Iraq is here to be taken and plundered. As she said herself of the Iraqi war, "It was a task from God."

Sarah Palin does not believe in abortion. She does not believe women who are raped and incested and ripped open against their will should have a right to determine whether they have their rapist's baby or not.

She obviously does not believe in sex education or birth control. I imagine her daughter was practicing abstinence and we know how many babies that makes.

Sarah Palin does not much believe in thinking. From what I gather she has tried to ban books from the library, has a tendency to dispense with people who think independently. She cannot tolerate an environment of ambiguity and difference. This is a woman who could and might very well be the next president of the United States . She would govern one of the most diverse populations on the earth.

Sarah believes in guns. She has her own custom Austrian hunting rifle. She has been known to kill 40 caribou at a clip. She has shot hundreds of wolves from the air.
Sarah believes in God. That is of course her right, her private right. But when God and Guns come together in the public sector, when war is declared in God's name, when the rights of women are denied in his name, that is the end of separation of church and state and the undoing of everything America has ever tried to be.

I write to my sisters. I write because I believe we hold this election in our hands. This vote is a vote that will determine the future not just of the U.S. , but of the planet. It will determine whether we create policies to save the earth or make it forever uninhabitable for humans. It will determine whether we move towards dialogue and diplomacy in the world or whether we escalate violence through invasion, undermining and attack. It will determine whether we go for oil, strip mining, coal burning or invest our money in alternatives that will free us from dependency and destruction. It will determine if money gets spent on education and healthcare or whether we build more and more methods of killing. It will determine whether America is a free open tolerant society or a closed place of fear, fundamentalism and aggression.

If the Polar Bears don't move you to go and do everything in your power to get Obama elected then consider the chant that filled the hall after Palin spoke at the RNC, "Drill Drill Drill." I think of teeth when I think of drills. I think of rape. I think of destruction. I think of domination. I think of military exercises that force mindless repetition, emptying the brain of analysis, doubt, ambiguity or dissent. I think of pain.

Do we want a future of drilling? More holes in the ozone, in the floor of the sea, more holes in our thinking, in the trust between nations and peoples, more holes in the fabric of this precious thing we call life?

September 5, 2008

Cruel and Unusual Punishment

2008-09-19T14:11:00.000-07:00

It's day 5 with no coffee. NO COFFEE. I 've had forms of caffeine in various power bars, green teas, matcha tea, and even a green-kombucha tea combo. But I miss my coffee. I have to say, this was a new and unwelcome addiction entirely. Years of being offered espresso under conditions that can only be referred to as terrorist hospitality gave me a throat-jerk dislike for the bitter sharp taste of coffee. Add some hot milk and sugar and now you're talking... As one dearly beloved said, this is "desert in a mug" and I agree. Pure Liquid Gold, as the Spanish conquistadors said to the Mayans.

The Mayans predicted something big goes down, or the world would end, in 2012. I know, I'm mixing it up...but if coffee were to run out in 2012, I could totally see that day of destruction: So long Starbucks. I hardly knew ya.

For a very new habit, why am I so attached? It all started last year, hangin' out with those wild non-fiction writers in coffeeshops around town. Coffehouses. Coffeebars. First it was a cappuccino. Then a small latte. When I wanted to have an I.V. hook-up to double-shot Grande Latte, well it's GAME OVER.

So day cinq sans coffee. I'm building up to removing caffeine entirely. [COUNTDOWN: 2 weeks]Today was harder to take..it's overcast and I had a deaf man yelling at me through his Telus-relay operator. Truly an experience that would drive one to drink Draino, let alone strong, cheap coffee. I replied to all his frustrated and angry questions and waited during the time-delay for his reply and the relay operator raised her voice to repeat his typed out message to her, so I heard "I SAID I SPEAK TO SOMEONE RIGHT NOW..." then she lowered her voice and said in a conspiratorial whisper "It's not like this is your fault, he just isn't getting it..." I said "Thank you for saying so. Could you tell him I've now been on the phone with him for12 minutes , I've run out of options to reroute his call and I need to terminate the call. He can call back later."

I really, really, really wanted to yell back. I wanted to swear, actually, he'd been so rude for the duration of the call. Rude and a tad incomprehensible. I think there was an ESL problem, compounded with a touch of psychosis. So it couldn't have been fun for him, and I imagine he's under a tremendous amount of stress.

Still, it's really hard to hear a relay operator say "I SAID I SPEAK TO SOMEONE NOW...why you follow my kids and harrass family...I...call media in half an hour ...you don't get me ...phone.... my fax sent and last year WHY YOU STILL HARRASS ME AND MY KIDS?!" and not respond with

"What the FUCK are you saying?"

Sadly, my schedule this Fall doesn't allow time for a non-violent communications course, but I'm already looking into the Spring schedule. I wonder if I really need it, cause I didn't say it. I just wanted to. Big difference, right?

It's just, there's this part of me that wants to say to people, in the nicest, most non-violent way possible: Nothing gives you the right to be an asshole. Nothing.

Maybe he was giving up coffee too. Poor jerk.

Caw-fee, Sugah, Foamed Milk & Other Reasons to Live

2008-09-15T16:15:00.000-07:00

I went to a TCM place last week, that’s Traditional Chinese Medicine. Where, for a paltry sum, I got herbs that look AND taste like un-used cat-litter, and accupuncture. All to help with this little problem I have of feeling exhausted all the time. You say gluten, I say anaemia. Let’s call the whole-wheat thing off.

They measured my pulse, and described it as “slippery” and “witty”. I’m not making that up. I was reading it upside down though, so there is some margin for error and interpretation. As I lay there with needles poking into me from my forehead to the arch of my foot, I tried to think of what other word it could possible be. Watty? Wotty? Wetty?

No. Clearly, I have a brilliant pulse. Slippery when wet, and genius.

Sure.

My pulse could win the Throbbing Pulse of a Brainiac’s Wet T-shirt Competition. If such a thing existed.

I didn’t bother to ask if I should eliminate any items from my diet, I just sat there and listened to terms like “chi stagnation” and “tonify the liver”. I was told “there’s a lot of pain” and I said, “Well yes, I’m exercising a lot and feeling it too.”

[Blogger’s insert: bootcamp….some Brainiac that makes me…more like a glutton for punishment. Is there a Glutton for Punishment Wet Something Contest? Or does that just about cover all those disturbing reality shows I haven’t seen? Okay, I’ve seen some excerpts, but I had to turn away. Shield my eyes. Pray for the fate of humanity.]

The woman said “No, emotional pain. You hold it here and here.” She pointed to her lungs and her stomach. “This is the weakness you feel, the tired all the time.”

I didn’t say “Emotional pain? Well, I’m human.” I wanted to, but I didn't. I mean really, did everyone else get through puberty unscathed? Survive middle school without severe trauma?

Well bully for you.

You won’t need acupuncture.

I guess that makes you special.

Big deal.

As if I believe you.

As if.

Youtube? Metube too!

2008-09-11T09:00:00.000-07:00

I posted on youtube! This is quite the feat for a luddite such as myself:

http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=eufemia+stand+up&search_type=&aq=f

Now I'm a recipient of the Time Person of the Year Award 2006, right? Like I can add that to my resume? No, seriously, tell me....'cause I'm calling my dad and telling him. Okay, it's no Nobel Prize for Peace, but then again, I'm no Kissinger.

Painkillers vs. Killjoys

2008-09-10T11:15:00.000-07:00

There I was, standing in my local all-night super market at 5:30 am. I was enroute to my 6 a.m. bootcamp class, and I was on a mission: get painkillers. At first, the young man trying to help me points me down aisle 4. I hardly ever shop at this place, but even I know that they would never stock painkillers on aisle 4. Or any aisle, for that matter. The boxes are small and a bit too easy to steal in a neighbourhood that gets pilfered a lot. This guy must be new.

After he points me in the direction of a locked glass cabinet – I stand there trying to decide which painkiller would best suit a roommate with a fever. There’s Cold & Flu, there’s Sore Muscle & Back Pain Relief, there’s even Extra-Strength Existential or Mid-life Crisis Relief! Okay, no, I wish. I could not find the one for Fever, and all around pain that would wake said roomie at 5 am.

I mean, I had to get up. I paid good money to get up that early and run around outside, doing push-ups while someone in charge of my workout routine mocked my general lack of athletic ability. For anyone who knows me, I’m a morning person, but this would mean I was a ‘pre-dawn person’. Can’t say that’s my happy hour at all. I pick out what I think would work best, walk back over to the cash.

The young fellow rings it up at says “Drugs are bad. In the long run, it’s not good for you. But they do offer relief I guess.”

I’m in a bit of a stupor, standing there at 5:30 am, with a look on my face that I think says “Are you talkin’ to me?” It’s just past 5 am, fer crying out loud, do I know where I am? Not really, but hey, I’ve got an idea, why not engage me in conversation when you erroneously sent me down aisle 4 when I knew you were wrong but I humoured you anyway.

I wait until he hands me my change, at which point there’s another man next to me in line (doesn’t anyone sleep in this ‘hood?) and I say “You’d probably need painkillers at least once a month if you were female. I think that’s more the issue.” And I stalk away. Actually, more like I stumble away, as I tripped on my shoelace, but I repeat: it was really, really early. In the morning. All I could think was: does this guy actually know the meaning of pain? True physical pain? Of course he does, he’s human, but still what does he do? Bite down on a wooden spoon?

I know, not all women need painkillers. I know some females who can control the pain factor with reduced caffeine, sugar and gluten (Amazons, I tell ya, these women are modern-day Amazons) but like I’m going to be rude enough to go into all that while standing in line at the supermarket? Before day-break, when I can barely put a coherent thought together?

I thought about it.

Some days, that’s enough.

Mr. Harper, what were you thinking?

2008-09-02T16:23:00.000-07:00

Dear Mr. Stephen Harper,

The first year I was old enough to vote, Brian Mulroney won the election with a majority vote for a second term. I myself would have to sustain a massive head injury with a blunt object before I would ever vote for you, or any member or the Conservative Party. I thought I should be upfront. Not that you care what I think, but I still wanted to mention, in my opinion, you suck.

I was really hoping to make an argument that was much more articulate, but I am beyond the ability to think clearly and rationally. I am surprised to have to tell the leader of a great nation the varied and multiple benefits of building and maintaining a strong artistic community.

Often, the arts work as our ambassadors to other countries, other cultures. I admire artists for so many reasons I don’t even know where to begin, but here’s one I thought even you would understand: Artists are the ones that entertain the troops. I should explain I’m expanding the definition of troops not only as the folks overseas, but as the people here at home, working day by day, building their families and their communities into a country we could all be proud of, a country many could admire.

Simply put, I think art saves lives. It changes people, it heals the masses. The only way I could ever applaud you, sir, is in the level of this stupidity:

Only last week, the government had announced it would slash the following programs because they were deemed out of date:
Trade Routes ($9 million).
the A-V Preservation Trust ($300,000).
the Canadian Independent Film and Video Fund ($1.5 million).
the National Training Schools Program ($2.5 million).
PromArt ($4.7 million).
All programs will disappear by the end of March 2009.

Shame on you, and shame on your political party. Make that a pox on your political party. When they go down in those figurative flames, I’ll be dancing in the streets to music by some Canadian artist, I’m sure.

Ghumshuda

2008-08-13T15:20:00.000-07:00

When I get songs stuck in my head, it’s a very sad state of affairs. There’s a limited selection I can draw on, due to my musical ineptitude and downright ignorance. Hence I’ll find myself humming The Little Drummer Boy while strolling down the city streets in the merry, merry month of August. Sometimes it’s an 80’s song. Then I really worry, imagining myself rockin’ out to Spandau Ballet at the future senior’s facility I will inhabit.

Right now, I can’t get this song from a Bollywood movie - Bagwan help me!- out of my head. It’s from the movie Chalte Chalte (According to Wikipedia, the title translation is While Walking) and the song is called Ghumshuda – which is the chorus I keep repeating ad naseum – “Ghumshudaa! Ghumshudaaaaaaaaa! It means “Lost! Looooooost!” I’m addicted to the song and the dance number, which you can view too, thank you youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mhHRnH3InGI

I just looked it up and felt that weird shudder you feel when someone walks over the fireplace mantle where your loved ones will keep the urn with your ashes in it. It’s very appropriate for how I’m feeling these days. I back in my home town; everything is as familiar as can possibly be. I’m gainfully contributing to society and proudly paystub-deduction-paying my taxes again. Feeling lost seems an odd way to describe the circumstances I find myself in, but “if the shoe fits princess, buy it.”

It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

2008-07-02T09:48:00.000-07:00

Yes, She thought, thinking back, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

It was not a dark and stormy night when She made the decision to return to the land of Her birth (okay, suburb of Her birth if you wanna get all technical about it, but it sounds stoopid) to visit her father for his 70th birthday. That decision was a God one. Yes, exactly right, God one.

What She was not sure about was, would She, should She tell her mother?...and so very quickly now because Papaji has finished his espresso and is tapping his feet waiting for her to finish with denternet. As in: How long you need denternet? I can just wait, why for I go some place else, I just drink my espresso and wait here.

It is called an espresso because you can drink it super fast and then tap, tap, tap: You finish?

She would like to tell you as well - "ees some bigga problema with this espresso-sports bar internet because no makea de punchooation, and also, She only gal here looky very loosy-goosy gal, no good for repewtation. Sorry for the no good punchooation everyabody."

Today, five minutes after She said "MAYBE WE SHOULD TELL YOUR BANK MANAGER NOT TO MENTION SEEING ME BECAUSE MOM DOES NOT KNOW I AM HERE" - they fatefully run into said Mom, with her faithful sidekick, Guiseppina, who She has come to refer to as that bullshitting-backstabbing-false-goody-goody, because Guiseppina tried to explain to Her last year how "Her mother truly loved Her and Her mother got sick with a psychotic illness because she (Mamma-She, not me-She) was soooo worried about this daughter after She left home."

This was when She (the daughter) replied: "Did she (the busybody) think she (the mother) was worried because she (again, the mother) thought someone else would kill me, did she (Ms. Idjit Busybody) think? Especially when she (the mother, in the library with the candlestick. Aha, that's the most important clue to solving this mind-puzzle) kept threatening to do that throughout my entire childhood and adolescence.

I am not proud of yelling at children in India, nor am I proud that I yelled at a septuagenarian and told her she was a no-good-busy-body-idiot, implying by my tone she could go F herself while jumping off a cliff, she understood absolutely nothing about me, my life, my mom the psychotic illness that had robbed me from having a mother.

That was last years visit. This is now. This time, I ignored them both and walked on, saying to my dad "KEEP WALKING, DAD, KEEP WALKING" - because I had not actually seen my mother. Only the busy-body, who clearly ignored my advice. When I realised my mom was in her car, in the passenger seat, I nearly threw up.

I gotta go, my dad has practically started the engine on the car, and I have tied up the phone line here. Old school, totally old school.

There's No Such Thing as a Free Lunch

2008-05-26T23:02:00.000-07:00

Oh my God!

Yes, that's right, in a world gone mad with text-messaging, I can't help but spell it out for you:

http://www.freerice.com

Please visit this site, test your vocabulary, get smarter and save the world, one word at a time.

Time Heals All Mother's Day Memories

2008-05-24T11:15:00.000-07:00

It's been two weeks since I yelled at my mother on Mother's Day.

But you know what they say, "time heals all wounds."

And "This too shall pass."

And my personal favourite "Everyone you've ever cared about and you yourself are going to die"

Okay, I made that last one up, but I still think it could enter the fray of comments we use to calm distressed folks down. I don't think it would talk them off the ledge, so some personal powers of discernment would be required.

Sometimes I think of a friend who used to say "I'm over it," almost immediately after something had upset them and I would think "You sound like you've convinced yourself, well done." Because that's what this world really needs, more deluded people.

Four years ago, my father left in an ambulance and never went back. That year, I yelled at my mother on Mother's Day and her birthday, which happens to fall in mid-December. Then I found myself bawling at my counselor's office about what a terrible person I was, yelling at a woman who's been struggling with a mental illness since before I was born, and if that wasn't enough, I was yelling at her on Mother's Day! On her Birthday!

Things like "This is all your fault!" and "You're so crazy you drive everyone else around you crazy!" and "I left home to get as far away from you as possible, understand? You're toxic and dangerous and that's why dad left too!"

Have you seen these things written on any Hallmark cards? I thought not. I know I would be better suited to coming up with names for nail polish than working in the greeting card industry. I think it even said that on my grade 8 Future Careers Evaluation.

This is what my counselor said "You still have Christmas. You could make it a 3 out of 3."

I thought that was pretty good, as a reply. It made me laugh.

I can't remember now what I said to her that Christmas, but I'm quite sure I didn't yell at her. She didn't tell me she was living off her preserved peaches for a week because she had spent all the money the bank had given her. (She insisted they never gave her the money)

All I know is, four years later, it's still a struggle to not lose my patience. Last week I realised I need to get off the phone much sooner. Still, that's hard to do when someone is telling you, volume on high, every single thing they've told you a million times and they are still wanting you to do something about:

"Give me your phone number. Where is your father? Why do I have to stay here and you there and him where he is? This is wrong. All our problems started when you left home. Who told you to go? Who? Won't you give me your phone number so I can call you? I'm so alone all the time. I'm alone and I'm scared and I'm too much by myself."

So I say "I'm only going to say this another 50 million times: no, no and no AND I'm sorry I can't do anything about that, ma. You exhaust me."

Truth is I exhaust me, and it's been a long time that I can't see another way of coping but just listening and fulfilling my duty as a daughter, as one very wise doctor advised me to do, long-distance. It's true what they say - listening is a skill. It's an art. It's one I'm trying to master. And she's the hardest person in my world to listen to, so I'll keep practicing.

Every Sunday is another opportunity.

After all, Mother's Day comes but once a year.

Thank the Good Ganesh for that.
Om Gam Ganapataye Namaha

I Made to the Hot of the World, Ma!

2008-05-16T11:48:00.000-07:00

In the spirit of the just past Mental Health Awareness Week and Mother's Day - an opportunity for a double-whammy few words from our sponsor - since I thought perhaps you were all wondering how my mom handled my global travel. I started this in India, so I'll finish it now. That would be my anxiety-ridden, self-medicating with alcohol to numb the effects of auditory hallucinations mother, in case you were confused about who I meant. I was. Confused, I mean. And I've known her my whole life.

Mamma: I know you in Toronto now. They see you at Sherway Garden Mall.

Eufemia: Who saw?

Mamma: They!

Eufemia: I hate they. You mean the voices. Do we have to go over this again, because I'd rather hang up. It's really hot here.

Mamma: Your voice is so clear, I can hear you like you're next door.

Eufemia: Well, I'm not. I'm 10 hours ahead of you, like I've been telling you since December.

Mamma: Where?

Eufemia: IN INDIA.

Mamma: Oh, ya, India. What's the weather like?

Eufemia: IT'S REALLY HOT.

Mamma: What's the time now?

Eufemia: Ten hours ahead. It's 5:30 p.m. [PLEASE NOTE: For 19 years my mother has been asking me, with a degree of regularity that makes me homicidal, what time it is in Vancouver. As if the Teutonic plates shifted again and Vancouver was suddenly in the same time zone as Japan]

Mamma: Did you eat dinner already? What you eat there?

Eufemia: Pasta.

Mamma: No, come on you.

Eufemia: Rice.

Mamma: Ya, I think they eat rice. Did you get my letters? I sent you some money for Christmas and your birthday.

Eufemia: I DON'T KNOW BECAUSE I'M IN INDIA AND YOU SENT THEM TO VANCOUVER.

Mamma: You sure the girl* no steal what I mail you? I send you money. I send presents for Christmas and the birthday.

*By the girl, my mother means my God-sent roommate, who even called my mother to reassure her I was fine while I was away at the ashram without regular access to a phone. My mother's concerned Caroline would steal the 100% polyester blouse that looks like a sequin factory exploded and all these shiny, ugly bits and bobbles got stuck on this red fabric and some dear slave-wage seamstress decided to make the best of it.

Eufemia: She wouldn't steal anything. I'll be able to tell to you when I get home, stop asking me to tell you now.

Mamma: Are you coming home to Toronto?

[ANOTHER NOTE PLEASE: Toronto has not been home for 19 years. There was a house there, for a long time. It's been sold. But it was a house, not a home.]

Eufemia: No

Mamma: Why no?

Eufemia: Because you live there.

Stay tuned! Next up: How Eufemia Talks to her Mother on the Hallmark Holiday Engineered to Make herself Feel like a Donkey's Arse.

A Day in the Life of Love

2008-05-16T09:20:00.000-07:00

Love likes to get up early in the morning to greet the dawn
some days, Love likes to sleep in.

Love washes its face and brushes its teeth
sees signs of itself growing older –
through laugh lines gathering at its mouth
and in the maps of many smiles past,
showing up in the creases by its eyes

This makes Love very happy

Love likes to see itself as both the roots of an old growth Oak tree,
burrowing down towards the earth’s core,
as well as the branches swaying in the breeze, reaching skyward
leaves dancing in the air

Love likes to dance

Love snaps its fingers to jazz &
hums out of tune with the car radio
Love, as it turns out, likes to rock out,
Love likes to play the Harmonium
and belts out Kirtan at the top of its lungs.
Love likes to chant mantras & recite prayers,
sometimes Love sings in the shower

Love likes to play Scrabble & knows a few card tricks

Love likes to go for walks on bridges over rushing water
Love likes to trapeze without a net
Love likes to place its head in the jaws of a lion
some might think this means Love is a daredevil
and this makes Love laugh
because Love knows
it can never die

Love gets in a full day, tilling the fields, gathering the crops
& also finding time to take a nap
Love as mother watches over you when you sleep
Love as father carries you on his shoulders
Love is both the family you’re born into and the family you find

Love taps you on the shoulder
steps on your toes
bumps into you on the sidewalk
bumps into you in India

Love moves continents because Love is a verb

at the end of the day,
Love reflects on its journey and realises
it is itself the destination
with this new found awareness
Love joins hands with Gratitude & Devotion

Love has expanded –
which is all it ever came here to do

Mai Canada Ka Houn

2008-05-15T23:42:00.000-07:00

Alright, so it's been a bit of a bumpy week - well, Tuesday, that was a bit rough. Wednesday and Thursday weren't exactly picnics either though the Sun came out on Thursday (today) - I could see it from the windows of the day-long Celebrating Recovery Together Conference I attended. Though it being slightly warm (wait for it, I'll tell you when it's hot enough for ya) made me yearn for the hottest state - no, not Texas Mr. Ethan Hawke, Rajasthan. Maybe you should check your Geography and stats before you going naming your novels all willy-nilly and wrong like that.

Now begins the Tribulations part of this blog.

Why not, writing it kept me together in India and I think that's what I was missing here, what's keeping me together here? Figaro? Nay. Figaro Amadeus Furud* Fantetti, my feline soul mate, had this to say about my return:

"Where were you, you over-sized piece of mouse-dung? Enjoyed yourself? Thanks for missing Christmas, New Years, my birthday and our anniversary."

He did not apologise for the 5 pairs of shoes he wrecked (of mine, not counting the roomies!) including leather Puma runners. ("Puma this, sistah" I believe were his exact words.)

*The recent Indian addition/expansion to his name, Furud, means unique, matchless. He's okay with the name, he just wants me to grovel a little more.

What I wanted to tell you but forgot was - on the return flight, during the stretch between Singapore and Korea, I practiced my Hindi on Singapore Airline's Wiseman System, (it has the Berlitz Language program) and it asked the question:

Aap kahan ke rahne wale hai? Where are you from?

Never mind that all I could recognise in that sentence was You and From because it's worded completely different than any other way I've heard it before - (did I mention they have at least 5 names for the Moon in Hindi and everyone I asked could only tell me 2? Swamiji's comment: "There's more than 5, there's many" Me: "That doesn't help me at all, Swamiji.")

The answer popped up Mai Canada ka houn. Doesn't that rock? Or pardon me, bangra? Even the Airline's Berlitz Language Learning Tutor System says it's from Canada.

Though I admit, after a full day of rain and struggling with getting out of apartment, and getting winded when going up a hill/incline of a 15 degree angle, I didn't see the greatness of it so much anymore. Though I understand these things take time. Really? Things like gratitude and counting your blessings?

Nay.

This is what I've been using as a mantra, now that I don't have my daily dose of chanting to Durga, Ganesha, Gayatri and Shiva to start the day off right: Suck it up, cupcake. Some people have real problems.

I am my own worst enemy, it's true.

What happens in India

2008-05-14T14:14:00.000-07:00

Unless you are rich, and can convalesce in a sanatorium estate (where visitors come down a tiered, oceanside lawn to find you at your easel), you have to keep going when you're depressed.

- Virginia Heffernan
A Delicious Placebo

In other news, there's a rumor that it's going to be 28 degrees in Vancouver tomorrow. I'll believe it when I feel it in my rheumatic bones.

In other other news, when the cable guy came by yesterday to see why my internet/phone signal was so weak, he confirmed that in the movie Iron Man they speak a version of Hindi-Urdu-Farsi-Mishmash. After I told him I'd spent most of my time in Rajasthan, he asked if I'd been to Jaipur, as 7 car bombs had just gone off there, killing several people near a Hindu temple and in the tourist district.

Later that day, my dad called, right on schedule to see if my phone was finally working. Dad called my roommate's phone my first day back and said "Thank God you're home. Tonight I finally gonna sleep good."

Out of my good Catholic girl guilt I apologised for causing him so many sleepless nights, "but you know there was nothing to worry about."

No, I'm not going to mention Jaipur, bombs going off in popular tourist zones, etc, and neither are you.

"Of course," my dad insisted, there was plenty to worry about. "Everything happens close to India. See what's happen in Burma? And in China now? Those places close to India, everything happen close to India."

Perhaps because the bombings in Rajasthan were a blip on the world news radar, he didn't catch it. But also, he didn't really know where I was in India, he never asked, I never clarified. I didn't even bother to say North. God forbid the man should pull out his atlas and take a look at the part where Rajasthan borders Pakistan, because then, somebody gonna get sleepless nights like you no believe and somebody else gonna get a talking to like she no need.

Like they say, what happens in India stays in India.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety Jig

2008-05-06T23:28:00.000-07:00

Apparently, according to Mother Goose it's "Home Again, home again, not dancing a jig" - all these years and no one corrected me - how embarrassing to misquote Mother Goose, I mean, who's going to trust my Shakespeare or Biblical quotes if I can't nail down nursery rhymes?

So here's what happened: I went to see Iron Man with my friend Jenn (That's God Bless Jenn) and there were scenes where the bad guys were speaking Hindi! Possibly it was supposed to be Urdu but not being a linguist or even remotely close to fluent in Hindi, I can't tell these two languages apart. I heard difficult, what are you doing, very and nothing: mushkil, kya kara, bahut, kuch nay. It was great to hear Hindi outside of my Bollywood fare. And I liked the movie too.

Then walking home, I jaywalked across Georgia and Granville - when there was noooooo traffic for like miles and miles, but since the light was red - everyone was standing back, waiting and being extremely polite. I looked at them and thought "Aren't they cold? Don't they want to get home as fast as I do?" As far as I can see, we live somewhere where the traffic slows down because of insurance, and premiums, and stuff like that.

Just in front of HBC, a little mouse ran out, crossed my path and ran into the concrete planter. It might have been a baby rat, once again, this, like languages, is not my area of expertise as it were. It was the size of a Purdy's chocolate hedgehog, and no joke, it was soooo cute!

Well, my last rodent activity was standing on the train platform in Delhi and praying that the rats that were as big as the small cat that was at The Lotus Hotel in Pushkar would leave me alone by running the other way. I was praying very hard, because I didn't want Delhi-folk to remember me as that shrieking woman on the platform.

Here's the thing: I followed this mouse, it stopped and looked at me, and I actually said "Oh my gosh - Hello!" I wanted to cup my hands and see if I could pick it up - AND then this thought occurred to me: "What the HELL going on?" The mouse, being the smart one, ran away, and I stood there wondering how such a tiny guy survives - I'm sure it's not easy to hide without a lot of trash around for cover, to dart around under. I felt strange and weird, in a way that I couldn't put my finger on it and then I realized; oh my good Lord, I'm worried about this baby mouse-rat surviving in downtown Vancouver.

I walked on towards Granville skytrain slowly, making sure I had my ticket in my hand as twice now I've accidentally been on a moving train before realizing I had not validated my ticket ("Ahhh, I'm sorry officer, I'm a little out of it, I just got back into town and while I'm late paying my taxes this year can I just say that if any of my taxpayer monies go towards paying for you to patrol skytrain for people who don't pay for their fare I think that's fishing ridiculous.")

And all I kept thinking was abi kya? Kya the hell waa?

Now what? What the hell happened?

Not Yet Famous Last Words

2008-05-03T06:03:00.000-07:00

For those of you who know my fabulous roommate, this exchange may not surprise you, but for those who don't, Caroline is a creative soul with much insight, and bahut genius.

To set the scene, first full day back, first FULL POWER day back and everything was normal (whatever that means) and fine. At around 4 in the afternoon I was calculating it was really 5 a.m. for my body and that I should go to bed, that it might help me stop walking into the walls. I decided to get into the bath instead. I flipped through a magazine and at some point burst into tears. Then I crawled over to bed, and then, Thank God Caroline (her full Christian name. I know! I thought it was weird that her parents gave her a Christian name too, especially when she's Jewish) came home.

So I got up and followed her into the living room because now I don't have to sit by myself with these thoughts any more. I mean mostly. I mean, now, or then, yesterday, she was there and I was extremely grateful.

This is my favourite excerpt our conversation (where I don't think I made much sense but just kept going on about feeling at a loss and clueless and confused and no idea what happens next and how I felt so alone in India and well, you've read it all before) :

Caroline: We're all creatures that are going to die-

Eufemia: That doesn't make me feel any better-

Caroline: But I think that that's a good thing

Om Shanti Om

2008-05-02T13:18:00.000-07:00

After 53+ hours of traveling: train, plane and stop-overs, I'm home.

During those 53 hours I couldn't sleep, but thrice I shut my eyes and then my mouth fell open and I started drooling while sitting straight up in my seat. I believe I nabbed good 4 hours of rest that way. I wanted to stretch out at several stop-over points but was too worried about falling completely into the oblivion of dream-land and missing the connecting flights. ("I'm sorry, why is this called a connecting flight if I have to wait many hours for it? Where's the connection, exactly?")

It was a very sunny day, with some clouds. The Captain said it was 9 degrees outside. I looked down at my purple flip-flops. Then I looked around and saw everyone was better prepared for the weather than I was.

No matter, my friend God bless Jenn (That's her full Christian name, 'God bless Jenn') was there with Thrasso (surprise! - and fyi his full name is Om Namo Thrasso) and they hussled me home quick and fast. Jenn asked if I wanted to have a shower, and I was awake enough to realize it wasn't just a question but a matter of dire importance when I'd been wearing the same clothes for the last 3 days, and on the first day it had been 42 degrees - in the shade. On the second, 37.

And how do I repay such dear friends? I made them watch the 'Pain of Disco' sequence from Om Shanti Om. I can now sing this part in Hindi: My heart is full with the pain of disco, pain of disco, pain of disco. At least I think I can, and who is going to correct me?

Exactly.

Sigh.

Who?

Then I got dressed as best I could in a combination of clothes left behind and shoes from Caroline and went for some tea with said friends. Thrasso commented: You look like you fell down in Value Village. Even though it was 3 p.m Thursday, it was really 4 a.m. Friday India time, and I thought I was doing quite well, even if I couldn't finish a sentence without trailing off and wondering what words meant what, in English.

Then I saw Cathy, and I had the same speech impediment, and then, I slept, after 64 hours of travel and reading and movies and trying to catch a rest and some sleep, I fell asleep for 14 hours. I got up a few times but kept wandering in a daze back to sleep.

Now I'm up but I'm not really awake.

And my heart is full with the pain of disco.

Om Shanti All, Om Shanti Om.

Singapore Same Same, Not on your Life

2008-04-30T16:22:00.000-07:00

What is this weird Disney landscape where you can't chew gum, or you can - but you'll be fined if you're caught trafficking it? I'm sorry, wha? Are we still talking about gum? The thing with names like Hubba Bubba and Chicklets is illegal?

How 'bout this package I'm carrying for a guy I just met back to Canada as a personal favour because he seemed so nice and trustworthy - is that legal?

AND DAMN I LOST THE SWISS ARMY KNIFE AT CHECK IN IN KOLKATTA because I was that tired I left it in my carry-on! FIONA I'LL REPLACE IT! AAARgh! I was doing so well. That knife won me the Miss Congeniality award back at the ashram. (Holly won Party girl)

There's nothing like eating and watching an insignificant movie at 1 in the morning is there?

My ears were killing me during landing. Damn, damn, damn. This has happened once before and it was because I was getting sick, and even though my friend John who worked for Air Canada told me how to handle this, I felt like a dweeb so I didn't ask the stewardess for: Two paper cups, put a wet paper towel in each cup, cover your ears during take off and landing. See my problem? I'm not afraid of looking stupid, heavens, no. I'm afraid of sounding stupid.

This free internet's about to time out.

Sayonara Subcontinent

2008-04-30T03:37:00.000-07:00

Here's the thing about the time stamp on these posts I've been making - they appear to be set to Vancouver time. Currently it's really Wednesday, April 30th, 4:07 p.m. in the afternoon of Eufemia's last day on the subcontinent.

Soon I will travel across the International Date Line into the future! I love that Date line! I lost a day coming here, so it's only fitting that I will repeat May 1st. My first May 1st will be a hazy skyhigh movie-fest, and the second remains to be seen. I will get to see and be seen by some dearly missed loved ones, Jai! (Praise be!)

Last night I took the Radjani Express from Delhi to Kolkatta, an amazing 17 hours because we were practically flying at 140 km/hour. Normally, that train ride would be 20+ hours so it pays to take the Express. Everyone kept speaking to me in Hindi, and here's what I could understand: "You" and "You?" and "You!"

Kolkatta train station was much less intimidating the second time around. I decided instead of hanging around Kolkatta with my backpack, big and little and yoga mat in tow, I would simply come to the airport where I could pass the 12 hours till my flight by just hanging out reading my book. When I came into the airport a curt armed guard asked to see my ticket so I showed it to him and he said "Singapore Airlines? This is night flight - you early."

"Yes, very early," I replied. There you go, Papa! I win! My father will never read this online because he hasn't even gotten as tech-advanced as owning an answering machine, so I'll just have to tell him by phone that I now hold the Fantetti record for showing up early. No doubt he'll trump it with some story about getting to the dock early to catch the ship he sailed from Naples to Canada on in 1965 but still, for a day here (make that 2 days, technically) I'll get to think of myself as the champ.

I'm quite sure I really overpaid for my taxi ride but I did talk them down, and when the guy said to me "Not possible, 200 rupees not possible madam." I said "Of course it is. Subh kuch milega - everything is possible, sir." And he laughed and repeated "Subh kuch milega."

Then, here's the best part, Holly are you ready? (Oh, Holly, how wish you were here for this!) This guy's horn seemed to be broken, so when we nearly got crushed by an overloaded bus, (less than a foot to spare and my driver slams on the brakes) he yelled "Way-hey-hey!" And when he nearly ran over an older woman, he yelled out "Whoa-ho!" And the whole ride to the airport, which was alot of dodging, ducking, and several near misses - he just kept yelling over and over, and that's when I realised his horn was broken because everyone else was just honking, business as usual. Once again, I thought I could be in Italy, it's so bizarrely similar.

It felt so similar I wanted to start yelling too: "Way-hey! Does your father own this road?!" (According to one of the writer's I met Sunday night, an ex-pat American living with his family in India, that's one of the main things people yell out here when someone is driving poorly "Does your father own this road?" Also, I noted he was right, as a pedestrian you just put your hand up in a sort of "stop, in the name of love, before you break my neck-" gesture and the traffic slows down IN Kolkatta and you cross the street. It works in Delhi and Mumbai too.)

Please note: I didn't even flinch when he drove on the other side of the yellow line, pulled up against a bus and started yelling "Way! Way!" at the car in front of him, another yellow-line crosser, in the full attempt to speed up the crossing of the intersection quickly and get back on the right side of the road (meaning, the left side, the correct side I should say) before the oncoming 6 lanes of traffic on a four lane mini-highway made us another everyday casualty of big-city life.

Okay, so uhm. I guess I better go because I'm running low on rupees and this airport internet is highly overpriced...It's only another 6 and 1/2 hours till my flight. I wish I had something profound to say. I can't even explain all the emotions I'm feeling in my journal. This morning I wrote: Well here I am on the train and soon I'll be on a plane. That's Nobel Prize for literature material write there. Right there.

I'm thinking of all the different ways I know to say goodbye, (and how much I dislike that word) and all the different times and ways one has to say good-bye in their lifetimes, some are so painfull and just filled with an overwhelming sense of loss, and some are short-term, simple, soon, see you later alligator type of thing. Instead of goodbye then, I'll just leave it with phir milenge which maybe you remember means:

We'll meet again.

In a while, my crocodiles.

This is Goodbye, Delhi

2008-04-29T02:28:00.000-07:00

This is it.

I love this city, the whole 7% of it I've seen. I've probably seen 2% of India, so take my opinion with lots of salt. Just drink lots of water too and you'll be fine.

This is the tour I did today, http://www.salaambaalaktrust.com/ because I can't begin to put in to words what it was like. Nor can I describe what happens when you see a kid who was caught in a child labour situation re-united with his mother. (Meaning his family knew he was working, he was working to help them out, he got caught, and his mother was sent for and now the family has to promise that he won't be allowed to work, that he can go to school like other 10 year olds) If you saw the movie Salaam Bombay, the Trust was set up by the director Mira Nair to help streetkids, and is now managed by her mother.

This is it.

I should head back to the Hotel, pick up my abnormally heavy backpack and walk or rickshaw over to the New Delhi train station where my tour started this morning.

The direct Delhi-Kolkatta-Singapore-Korea-Terminal City express is calling. I should be home by Friday morning, 2 a.m. Delhi time.

I think it's gonna be a long night.

Would Somebody Shut Her Up?

2008-04-28T06:49:00.000-07:00

Why do I bother? I appear to be addicted to the internet and this blog.

But I had to tell you my most exciting news! There is an article in the Times of India about the treatment of the mentally ill here! Like they said in during the Klondike Pyrite Rush: That's gold baby! This is now my most prized souvenir, I am so excited!

I was just going to take the article but then there was a man, the Restaurant Manager, sitting only 2 feet away from me. When I asked if I could come back the next day and pick up the article in the morning, Mr Restaurant Manager was so nice and said "Just take it now, because I leave here at 8 p.m. and tomorrow it might not be here," (Yes, I have ripped recipes and articles out of magazines in waiting rooms but I've got enough on my karmic head, don'tcha think?)

Sidebar: One day in Rishikesh as Vanessa and I were walking along, a passenger fellow on the back of his friend's motorbike calls out to us "helloooo, how are yoooou?" and I said "bahut atcha." Mr passenger asks, "You speak Hindi?" and I said "Packah," (definitely). Vanessa commented "I love how you did that without saying a word in English."

I was reminded of that moment tonight while I sat waiting for my food, reading the paper and the Manager asked me "Anything good in the news?" and I answered "kabinay" (never). "Kabinay!" He repeated after me, and then he added "You have a good accent."

I felt like I was walking on water.

Kabinay, if I haven't mentioned it before but I think I must have as I'm having a deja-lu feeling, is my absolute favourite word in Hindi, bearing in mind that I have the vocabulary level of a domesticated monkey. Actaully, by my calculations the monkey knows about 108 more words. It's my favourite because of the day I was using it and recognised it breaks down into the words kab which means when, abi which is now and nay which is no. So the word is full on, full power if you will: when-now-no.

How sweet it is, how sweet!

The Time Has Come...to Talk of Many Things

2008-04-27T22:48:00.000-07:00

The blog stops here, I think.

You know me to be sentintimental. I'm a sucker for Bell telephone commercials, so it should come as no surprise I feel like crying. (It's just so inauspicious here, I'm sucking it up.) Over my blog! Well, it's been more than that.

If I can find places to post from, like during that 12 hour stop-over between arriving in Kolkatta by train at 10 a.m. and leaving Kolkata at midnight by plane, that 3 hour stop-over in Singapore and that 1 hour stop in Korea (Excuse me Captain but why are we bothering? Everyone just wants to go home now! Oh, refuel? Well, by all means! Can I just sit here and keep watching this movie because the airport lounge is nothing new, seen one seen 'em all) - I'll catch you up.

Otherwise, I'm going to try to stay hydrated and out of the heat - but I signed up for a tour tomorrow, and no doubt there will be things to say about that. The first thing I think I want to say is, how is it that after 5 months, many offers of boats on the Ganges, guided tours of forts and Camel safaris, I sign up for a tour the day I am leaving?

Welcome to the wonderful world of Eufemia.

These things happen.

By now we all realise my Bollywood dreams are dashed. No ability to speak Hindi plus two left feet and an inability to sing in high octave range spells doom for an actress. Sigh. Oh, the sad attempts at ha-ha's when one has a heavy heart.

One of the writers asked me last night: Has my country been good to you?

Yes, yes it has!

Now what would be good is if I learned how to be good to me.

That said, might I just add here that even though there were days of such breath-taking loneliness (I wouldn't have thought it possible - to feel so lonely in a country of one billion) - I knew I was never alone. Because you were all here with me. I don't think I would have made it this far without you.

How can I ever repay you all for keeping me in such good company? In such good spirits?

I'll buy some laddus.

I'll make some chai.

We can talk about it and you can tell me how.

And tell me everything I've missed, dearly missed, over tea.

Suffering is Optional

2008-04-27T04:56:00.000-07:00

I moved.

I was going to die, when I got back to my room and saw that cockroaches may sleep a little but a few scurry in the daytime too. A few too many, really. Apparently their lives fall under the dictum "No rest for the wicked."

I said to the guy downstairs at reception, who was very understanding, especially because I was just going to his sister-hotel, the fancier Hotel Pearl Palace, "How do you say cockroach in Hindi?"

Deskclerk: "Cockroach"

Helpful staff: "Hira, you say hira."

Though when I said hira at the other hotel, as in "Possible room with NO HIRA?" and Mr Prakesh looked at me as if I was stoned, so I said "No cockroaches? Please! It wasn't the heat so much but them. They make me scream."

Mr. Prakesh was very nice NOT to say I told you so you foolish, foolish girl, when yesterday you here coming and asking for room, I told you the heat would be too much for you.

Because yesterday I was all bravado: "Hey, no, my family's Italian, I can take the heat, I can handle it, maahn."

He answered "You can tolerate it? Go see the no AC room hotel down the road."

Much like Aesop's Fable, the one about the Ants and the Grasshopper, the moral of this post is: it's a good idea to admit you're wrong when you've been incredibly stupid, but lie about it if it makes you feel better and blame it on the bugs - because there are no fables about cockroaches.

If You Looked in the Dictionary Under the Word Stubborn

2008-04-26T20:40:00.000-07:00

You would find my highschool yearbook photo there.

Yessiree.

I'm sorry to report, here's the new score:
Eufemia 9
Cockroaches 1
Yes, it's a new game in Delhi and oh how the mighty are humbled. At midnight, when you've killed your 6th cockroach, you begin to wonder what you had against mosquitoes in the first place. Especially if they didn't carry Malaria, what's the big problem? The buzzing? Okay, that's supremely annoying but they can't help it. That's how they were made, it's in their nature.

On the plus side (is there one? Of course there is, there always is. Uhm, just let me think for a minute) I got better, faster and faster. Nailed them faster and harder, so that what happened with the first 3 cockroaches, where I killed them and then realised I clearly hadn't succeeded because the played dead for a few minutes and then got up and walked, or actually sauntered away, well that stopped happening. (Let me help you do the math: so this means I really smacked 12 cockroaches, but only nailed 9) I hit, they fell, and the when others came to attend the funerals of their friends, I showed no mercy, especially the closer they got to my backpack. I had a bad, heat-stroke type moment where I thought "You gotta show them who's boss." You know as well as I do, since they've stopped preparing to survive the certain Nuclear Holocaust of the 1980's, what with building their bunkers and scurrying away tins of spam, cockroaches don't work for a living so, they don't have to, so showing them who's boss was a waste of my time. They thought it was hilarious. I could hear them chuckling.

Eufemia to cockroach #5, because she's not getting on a first name basis with anything that has to die by her hand: I don't think this is funny, why don't you guys just BUGGER OFF! Fish fish fish!

Actually, there were several bad moments: I had to sleep with the light on because I could not imagine turning it off and letting them all run wild - as it was the light didn't really intimidate them much. Not as much as my shoe, which I believe they are currently meeting about in the bathroom and strategising how to handle the flipflop menace now known as "the purple bomber" in the insect world.

Then I couldn't turn off the fans, I couldn't imagine how to sleep with them on, but I could not turn them off or I would have melted. These fans were sold to this hotel by the American military back in 1945, when the soldiers returned and there was this boom and the old, indestructible stuff was shipped off to other countries - this was before disposable was a big part of our culture. In fact, I'm postive one of the fans is made with the old propellers from the Memphis Belle.

Somehow I woke up at 8:15, so I must have slept somehow though I have no recollection of it - and when I looked in the mirror this morning, it looked like I had a whole 15 minutes of well-rested sleep.

Maybe you don't want to hear this, particularly after a long, hard winter but - you know it's hot when you pick up your water bottle and, at room temperature it's like touching a cup of very warm tea. When you touch your bedsheet and it's hot like those eye-cover pillows people microwave and then cover their face with. When you wait 5 minutes for cold water to come out of the cold water tap.

In a way I guess this is very funny: I long for a cold shower. I never thought I'd see the day, definitely not when I started off freezing and trying to wash my hair and self with a bucket of cold water in December, because there was no option for hot.

Are you wondering about that "Cockroach 1"? At 2 a.m I thought I had a fruitfly on me, but it was a baby cockroach. And knowing what a cockroach egg looks like, well, it has it's pluses and minuses doesn't it? Shaking the egg out of the bedsheet but not having the presence of mind to flush it down the toilet, I realise that's another 36 friends and family joining the party in Room 104 any minute now. And when I went to the loo, seven of the smaller cockroaches had drowned in the toilet bowl over night. Perhaps they felt it was a choice between my flipflop frenzy or just taking the matter into their own feelers.

The thing about changing rooms is, first I'd have to go to a different hotel, mine doesn't have any AC. And after enduring the man yelling at me yesterday and trying to make me pay for a room I wasn't keeping, I have no desire for another scene. What is it with hot climates and hot tempers anyways, and did I tell you my theory that I should be able to prove with a history book, that thousands of years ago people migrated from the Indus Valley to Italy and this is why I'm feeling related to everyone on the subcontinent. I noticed it again yesterday, feeling like I was in Italy, while moving around in traffic, when all the street signs and lines on the road are treated like suggestions, not the law, but some suggestions say, on staying alive.

Also I can't really stand air-conditioning, I find I get sicker going from cold to hot than just bearing the heat. Another instance where I can thank my parents for the parts of my childhood that toughened me up. Built my character. This is like a Toronto summer, to the power of 10.

Four more sleeps and I'm home. Two sleeps inferno, one sleep on the train (AC!) one on the plane. There's that 12 hour stopover in Kolkatta airport, which looks as much like an airport as my laundry room but I guess I'll cross that Howrah Bridge* when I get to it.

Howrah Bridge: The bridge is a famous symbol of Kolkatta and West Bengal. Apart from bearing the stormy weather of the Bay of Bengal region, it successfully bears the weight of a daily traffic of approximately 150,000 vehicles and 4,000,000 pedestrians. It is one of the longest bridges of its type in the world.

If You Can't Stand the Heat, Get Outta the Ganj

2008-04-26T08:04:00.000-07:00

Well, so. Gosh. I mean, really.

After all my talking to myself that I would spare no expense and blah blah blah, I cheaped out and asked for a non-AC room. NON-AIR-CONDITIONED ROOM because the cost difference was half. As in $10 for Hotter than Hades, and $20 for You will not expire of Heat Stroke before Dawn. Because some part of my brain went "You want 700 rupees for a night when 700 rupees was an entire week's Hotel stay in Pushkar two months ago?"

The full power picture, did I mention how often "full power" gets used here? FULL POWER! and it means something between "I'm excessively virile with the life force" and "Yes, we have electricity" or I dunno, I haven't quite figured it all out yet.

AS I WAS SAYING BEFORE THE HEAT GOT TO ME: it's 37 degrees Celsius here today. Now. AT 9 p.m. AT NIGHT. That's fishing Full Power, if you want my opinion, which you clearly do or you wouldn't be reading. TOMORROW? TOMORROW? OH I'M SO GLAD YOU ASKED - Sunday afternoon is predicted to climb to 41 degrees Celsius. Perhaps I'll have to go eat crow and ask for the AC room. I understand it tastes like chicken.

And in some funny twist of bizarro world, when I finally settled on the Bless Inn at Pahar Ganj, just down the road from the Imperial theatre, I turned on the TV, ordered Chai (I told you, Main pagal hun. I am crazy - though word for word the translation would be: I crazy is) and toast and watched Mansfield Park. They're having an Austen fest on the History Channel here and Monday night it's Northhanger Abbey! It's hard to watch Austen - all these characters with fireplaces in their rooms - when your ceiling fan is going so fast it feels like it might fly off the ceiling. And it's circulating air that makes you feel as though you're sitting in an oven. Make that a microwave, on high.

Tomorrow night I'm meeting some writers. I am so excited! I must tell you, I nearly did my usual Eufemia thing and let my sometime overwhelming shyness overtake me so that I would just come home and tell you all - "Well, it was fun, you should all go, don't be too friendly with shop clerks and Arjun's your uncle. You'll have a blast." The thing I missed the most in traveling sometimes was the sense of community with other writers, particularly wanting to know where they hung out, what they did here. Writers! Creative Comrades! Children of the Revolution!

Gene Fowler is quoted to have said "Writing is easy. All you do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead." You tell 'em Mister Fowler!

Darn, I think I may have to leave the internet's cool atmosphere and head once more into the heat dear friends, once more.

And here I was going to tell you I would be blogging less in Delhi but it may be a matter of life-support.

Delhi the City, not Deli the Place I can Eat

2008-04-26T04:47:00.000-07:00

Well I'm here, and I went on a bit of a spare no expense bender with taking a taxi to Hardwar from Rishikesh, and feeling mighty 'member of the mafia' in the backseat of that taxi when every other vehicle on the road had at least 9 people piled in it. But for $12 I got driven for 45 minutes straight to the train station. Where I got a porter for $3 (why haggle now? Besides you know I suck at it)

Here's something that weirds me out: I have had two Indians now refer to porters as coolies. I'm sorry, I thought that word was abolished when the British left and took their scones with them.

Okay, so now I'm in a ridiculously overcharged room, the reception guy, who bears a rather unfortunate resemblance to a marsupial, asked for a deposit upfront which I refused to give and it's getting late in the day but I've decided to hunt for another hotel.

Why the fish not?

So here I go, racing the Delhi sun and heat. Wish me luck.

!!!!!!!

As I was signing out a mousy thing ran past my foot! I am calm, I am calm. Wow, I forgot to tell you all that I was AAAAAAAAAArh okay - uhm, he's back- with 3 of his FRIENDS!. WHY God WHY do I wear flipflops here? Okay so I forgot to tell you that I was feeling pretty tough, since a lots happened that would normally make me jump outta my skin but I haven't heard myself scream for months, except for that incident last week where a monkey jumped towards me and Sarah on her building's balcony. When I say towards, I mean, right at us. We jumped out of our seats as he lunged to one side of us. And yes, he was baring his teeth. It took awhile for my heartbeat to return to normal - part of the biggest shock was hearing my voice scream like that, after not hearing it in many other instances where I could have easily hollered. (No, not the Drawstring-Cobra affair but thanks, I really needed humbing because like I have such a big eg-O! puh-leeze.) Anyways I just treated everyone in this internet to what it sounds like when I freak out and scream "WHAT THE FISH!" with my mouth shut. (Like this: MMMWHAAIZAT!)

Damn, it took me 20 minutes to find this place, now I have to scout out another place!

Not FYI but TOI

2008-04-24T02:03:00.000-07:00

Back to the Times of India, since you may be missing these entries when I'm back. Okay, I know that's highly unlikely, I know, it's my own little strange obsession, this newspaper. Between this and the Bollywood movies, I hardly know where to go for help when I get home and start experiencing withdrawl. The food won't be such an issue as I'm still rice and banana lassying it- if you can believe it. I went salad-mad yesterday, fruit, Nicoise, Israeli, and my body said "No salad for you!"

May I just say here, it's a weird and at times morbid obsession - it ain't pretty. I found one article on a support group for women suffering from depression, and that's been worth the search. But in terms of the Good, the Bad and the Ugly, sometimes I feel like it's all just ugly, and this is why I dislike newspapers in general. Particularly fear-mongering, conservative newpapers. I know, picky, picky. And I go on some tangents, I know, you're shocked. These are some other items I found, just excerpts:

From an article about an accident where a young man on a motorbike was killed
"From the oral and documentary evidence on record, it can be reasonably deduced on the probabilities of the case that the accident occurred because of the negligence on the part of the driver of the bus, who admits that he used to drive the bus involved in the accident."

From an obit for a 25 year old man: Always smiling innocent and lovely child was snatched away by the cruel hands of Destiny on 16.4.2005 vacuum cremated is filled with our Tears.

This falls under the category, some one needed to research this? Because why?
Experts: Violence at home affects health
New Delhi: Being beaten up at home could be making Indian women and children frail and undernourished. In an interesting research, a team of social scientists from Harvard School of Public Health has for the fist time found a strong association between domestion violence and chronic malnutrition among Indian women and children.

The most disturbing thing for me is there's no place where it says "If you know someone who is being abused, this is where they can go for help" or even "Call this helpline number." I feel very touchy on this subject- as in stay away from it, don't touch it. I feel as though I'm walking on molten lava. Do I call up Harvard and say "What do you geniuses do for an encore? Tell me, is there a correlation between drought and famine?"

Now this is something else we're talking about: violence, extreme violence, accepted as a part of every day life. When you see this news in the West, here's the part that's same same no different: Violence against women as if it's an understandable given. As if a crime of murdering or raping your girlfriend/wife/woman you couldn't possess is a result of an 'understandable' act of passion rather than a loathsome crime by a cave-dwelling neandrathal who should be blinded and kept on the rack for 15 years, at least. Do not even think of talking to me about compassion until in the common language we recognise this is unacceptable violence (and let's be clear, I was raised in a home where somehow, even with a progressive father, the belief was women were asking for trouble, so I'm just as much talking about undoing my brainwashing) Just like I will not tolerate the Catholic Church telling me I'm a sinner when they have a history of protecting pedophile priests. [NOTE: I know the Pope will be really upset with me for saying this, especially when he's the number one visitor to my blogsite - but you know what Benedict? The truth hurts. Get with this millennia, wouldja?]

Enough.

My Last TOI post:
Gere's Kiss: Insane Courage
Actor Richard Gere, who until recently faced obsecnity charges for publicly kissing Shilpa Shetty, has called his troubles "a badge of courage". Gere made headlines when he kissed Shilpa, winner of the British reality TV show Celebrity Big Brother, several times on the cheek at an anti-AIDS ahow in Delhi last year. "It's a badge of somewhat insane courage," he told reporters during a visit to San Francisco recently, saying others had also been charged with similar offences in the past. "It is a very complex society," Gere said about India. It may be recalled that last month, the Supreme Court suspended the legal proceedings and granted Gere permission to again travel to and from India. Gere was visting San Francisco to attend a pro-Tibet rally.

And we're done. Full stop.

When Will I Learn?

2008-04-24T00:16:00.000-07:00

Since I'm running out of time I'm posting the items I meant to edit and fancy up a bit more, so pardon my stream of bloggishness. I begin with an an excerpt of a conversation from my first days in Rishikesh:

Mia: Ap kaise hai? (How are you)

Sunil: You speak Hindi?

Mia: Nay..torah, torah (very little)

Sunil: Where from? Which Country?

Mia: Canada

Sunil: Are you married?

Mia: No

Sunil: Do you have a boyfriend?

Mia: Why?

Sunil: Why?

Mia: Why do you ask such a personal question?

Sunil: Can I have a kiss?

Mia: WHAT did you say? KYA, TUM PAGAL HO? (WHAT ARE YOU CRAZY?)

This could explain why I haven't really taken to Rishikesh, or technically Laxman Jhulla, at all.

Eight nights ago I had to crawl under the garage gate of my Hotel, Shiva Cottage, because Mahinder, who was already in his jimjammies of an undershirt and boxer style tight-fitting underwear, wasn't going to exert himself and raise the gate. I had 3 and 1/2 feet to manoeuvre.
He had the nerve to chastise me and point to the clock, and the sign saying the gate closes at 11 p.m. The hotel clock said 11:30p.m. Mine said 10:50 p.m.

Here's where you keep your eyes on the coconut with the rupee note under it because now comes the shuffling trick. This is another favourite of mine, how the hotel staff sets the time anywhere from 15 minutes to half an hour ahead so they can close the gate not at the time it says on the wall, but whenever they pretty much feel like calling it a day.

Four nights ago, I ran over to tell him "Don't lock me out" since I was watching Om Shanti Om (I love this movie, love it, love it, luuuuv it and can't wait to share it with yaz.) and at 2 hours and 46 minutes, and we didn't start until 9 p.m, well, I didn't want to be locked out, and as I pointed out to Mahinder "sleeping curled up next to that cow in the ditch."

So here's what happens, Mahinder, who by the way called me a liar in Hindi the day before yesterday (for no reason I can ascertain) to my face and got the shock of his day when I said "What? Me Liar, YOU LIAR!" in Hindi and then I added "you jerk" in English because I have avoided learning the really bad terms in Hindi for just such reasons. As you can see, my temperament has not exactly relaxed by 2 months of yoga and now being next to the spiritual flow of the Ganga.

As I was saying, Mahinder walks me back to the restaurant, which was totally unnecessary but clearly the young man has a chivalrous-let's-hope-everyone-thinks-I'm-sexing-this-lady-devil-may-care-attitude-about-it all. He sees I'm watching the movie with some friends. He says "okay you midnight after come, okay?" and then when I return I see he's left the gate 2 feet open, so I have to push my backpack through and then crawl under, head first. The next day I say "thank you so much for leaving the gate open for me."

What a peach.

There are days here when I wish I was talking martial arts classes, in a kind of "Yoga? fuggedaboutit-" way. Many days, in fact. It's on my mind especially now that I need to arrange getting to Delhi and being there for a few days on my own. Om Shanti indeed.

My new favourite saying, taken from Om Shanti Om of course: What the fish? This is said in English. Several times. You know what they mean, and so do I.

What the fish?!

By the Banks of the River Ganga I Sat Down and Wept

2008-04-23T23:21:00.000-07:00

Eufemia, to the ceiling: Papa, I'm awake, wide awake again. It's the middle of the night, actually morning, and Rishikesh is closed, I mean I feel like all of India is closed. It's unbelievably quiet, for India.

Papa from inside my neural pathways: E perche piangi, chittalone, tesoro perche stai piangiare? (Why do you cry, little one? Dearest why are you crying?)

Eufemia: It's 3 a.m. and all I want to do is pick up the phone and call you when it's like this, so quiet. And when I'm like this, so restless. And because I can't call, all I can think about is the day I won't be able to call you at all.

Papa: That's life chittalone. Ma nin pensare questi cose mo. Ti da dormire. (But don't think of these things now. You need to sleep)

Eufemia: I'm trying.

Papa: I see. Tonight you drink two milk espresso after 8 o'clock, I don't think like this you try very good.

Eufemia: I had a craving. For the familiar, for your company.

Papa: And now again you no can sleep.

Eufemia: No. And I was, I am feeling a little scared. Delhi! By myself!

Papa: It's better you no tell me these things.

Eufemia: Don't worry, I won't.*

Blogger's note: Real Papa thinks I've been travelling with the same friend for these past 5 months, though he asks questions all the time, the same questions I would ask if I suspected my daughter was fudging the truth to keep me sane and happy. The same questions I would ask if I heard the same exhaustion, loneliness and fear in her voice he sometimes hears in mine. I do my best but some things slip through. Neural Pathways Papa, being a holographic, holo-deck kinda Dad, can do no other than represent the real McCoy.

Eufemia: Yesterday, I washed my face in the Ganga.

Papa: Is this why you no can sleep? No, I think it's the espressos.

Eufemia: Yes, you're right. It's the coffee.

Papa: I can hear all these thinking inside your head with me. You thinking too much. What quiet India? You hear? You here is make lots of noise for you.

Eufemia: Yes, I know.

And for the third time since midnight I get up and turn on the lights. The clock says it's now 3:15 in the morning. Six more hours before my favourite cafe opens. Six more hours before I can order a banana lassi. I do what I always do when I get stuck like this without a book because I have clearly taken leave of my senses: write it down, write it down, write it all down.

By the River Ganga I Sat Down and Wept
For all the things I did and did not do
for what I accomplished and what I did not
for the beggars I helped and those I ignored
for the friends I made and the ones I didn't
for the books I read and the ones I skipped
for the sun, the moon and the stars
for the sleepless nights and nights of supreme slumber
for the dreams I remembered and the ones that disappered
for the food I ate and the meals I missed
to say nothing of the ideas I barely digested
for the past that wasn't and the future that isn't
for struggling so hard to be here now
again and again
for the feelings of familiarity and the sense of contempt it breeds
for the feelings of alienation and the sense of longing it brings
for belonging nowhere and everywhere
at the same time
for being born in the First World
to parents from the Third World
and never fully realising before
these blessings were second to none

Papa: Okay, Dante, now go sleep.

Close But No Banana Lassi

2008-04-23T23:15:00.000-07:00

Just kidding. Here's a recipe for you, complete with some Indian words:

Banana Lassi
1 cup Curd (Dahi, plain non-fat Yogurt)
1 peeled and sliced ripe Banana (Kela)
2 tblsp Sugar (Cheeni) or to taste
1/4th tsp Cardamom Powder (Elaichi Powder) optional
Few Ice-cubes

How to make the Banana lassi:
Combine all ingredients and blend until smooth in a blender. Add the ice cubes last, adjust to your preference of liquidity. Pour in glasses with straws and serve chilled.

Greetings and Salutations

2008-04-18T03:20:00.000-07:00

Tena yistilign. This is how you would greet someone in Ethiopia. It means May God give you health.

The reply is Egziebher yimesgen, thanks be to God. Apparently there are several options in Ethiopia, even one that sounds phonetically like Shalom, and it means God give you peace.

And so I have decided that Hello and Goodbye truly, there is no doubt in my mind, absolutely suck.

There was that woman in Texas years ago who tried to petition her town (and later the world) to start saying Heaven-O because Hell-O was such a negative greeting - what with bringing to mind Lucifer and the hounds of hell. I thought she was a crackerjack whackjob then but who's to really say? Certainly not me. I've just found proof, again and again, that hello and goodbye are not enough and they annoy me. Perhaps I should check the etymology and then I'll calm down and be happy-hunky-dory again.

The reason I'm going on about this? I've been thinking about all my conversations with God, where I sometimes just launch right in "God? I was just-" "God, please help me understand -" or "God!" In the last one I sound so demanding, like "hey listen up! I'm talkING to Yooooou!" But you see the pattern, I never even bother to say "hi". Like, by now, if I was God I would be thinking that carbon-based brat is so rude, she deserves to get kicked in the shin. Clearly, this would be the all-punishing God response. The only real God response has always been "My child, talk to me. Tell me anything."

Beautiful as they are, I can't use the Ethiopian greeting either: "May God grant you health, God."

Did you think I was going to skip over the detail about my conversations with God? Nuh-uh. Some might call it praying and some might calling it madly petitioning for help to stop the unstoppable, the inevitable. WHATEVER. I've asked for lots of help, in the form of a good night's sleep, a reprieve or the total cessation of renal function failure, for a lightning bolt to strike the room next door and carve out "Shut the hell up!" in Sanskrit right above their door. There's also been requests for some kind of sign, some kind of guarantee. That the hardest conversation for sure:

Me: I'd just like to be sure I'm doing the right thing

Reply: What's the wrong thing?

Me: I don't know, that's why I'm asking you.

Reply: You need to realise, there is no wrong thing

Me: Reeeeah-lee? How about murder then, is that not a wrong thing?

Reply: We could do without your sarcasm.

Me: Sorry, so the right thing -

Reply: It's 3 a.m. You should really get some sleep.

Me: If you would just answer my question, I could probably fall asleep koi baht nahin. (No worries)

Reply: Blame and pointing fingers will never solve any problems.

Me: Can I tell you something God? You make me mental. Or let me rephrase that: you made me mental. Ha ha.

And then there's silence - because we get to a point where God will no longer dignify my comments with a response.

Then I just have to sit there in the dark, thinking positive thoughts like: "That rustling sound is not the cockroach that fell out of my facecloth when I went to wash my face" or "Tomorrow, I'll get more writing done," or "If that weasel Mahinder comes up to my room one more time I'm pushing him off the balcony"

Who knew that spiritual practice could be so all-encompassing?

My Bollywood Job Offer

2008-04-17T06:08:00.000-07:00

Just kidding.

Back when I was trying to figure out a way to stay here forever because I love it so, which was also during my fantasy time as a Nobel-Peace-Prize-Winning-Fire-Juggler, I couldn't think of anything I could do.

The problem, as I see everywhere here, and the reason why sometimes you'll have a lot of fellas standing around watching an egg fry, is because there simply are not enough jobs for the population of one billion.

Today, I realised what job I should be offered - only it would necessitate moving to Mumbai and I'm not ready for that, but still, I should wait until the offer is made and see, I guess. I shudder to think the word is for agent in Hindi. Anyways, I'm not thinking actress, no, no, no, though a few of you probably knew that I harboured a secret dream of becoming a big Bollywood star and that why the Hindi lessons being a bust crushed me - but I should become a Bollywood movie copywriter. Seriously, they need me. (Arrogance is apparently a very helpful quality in copywriters, you need a big ego to survive in that ewww-dogs-eat-dog-doodoo world) Now that I'm on a bolly dvd collecting roll, and check this out:

AAJA NACHLE
Dia (Madhuri Dixit) She was the life of Shamli. And then she made one mistake - she fell in love. The town never forgave her and she never forgave the town. She made a new life, far away from her past. But now the man, who taught her how to dance and how to live, is no more. And he has left behind a job for her. She has to go back to the town...and teach it how to dance again. Radha (Dalai) Her mother may be born in Shamli, but Radha is so born in New York. She knows less Hindi than an Indian parrot and has more ideas on managing her mom's life than a shrink. The only problem is that Shamli is not in New York. And everybody except for Radha knows this. Doctor (Raghubir Yadav) Nobody knows what his real name is, but Ajanta's old caretaker wears a cap on his head and many hearts on his sleeve, all bleeding for the cause of theatre. He is Dia's

OH MY GOD! Do you love it? Do you really or are you just saying that? I have painstakingly written this out, word for word, and checked it twice to make sure it's exactly the way it's on the box. So, no period at the end of the last sentence He is Dia's, and it really says Radha is so born in New York. Caroline, I cannot wait to watch this with you. (Am I being pushy?) Okay, okay, one more, one more!

JAB WE MET
Industrialist Aditya (Shahid Kapur) Feels Defeated As The Girl He Loves Is Getting Married. He Drifts Out Of The Gathering, And Finds HImself On a Train, Speeding Away Into The Night. A Young Girl Geeta (Kareena Kampour), Who Is Leaving Mumbai To Elope With Her Boyfriend, Meets Aditya. She Irritates Him To The Point Of Leaving The Train. They Are Stranded On a Desolate Station, Without Luggage or Money. They Reach Ambala, Her House, Through Highs And Lows, Only To Be Mistaken As Lovers By The Family. Geet Then Plans To Run Away To Manali To Meet The Man Of Her Dreams. By Manali, He Has Begun To See Her In A Different Way. To Realize Later That Her Boyfriend Had Not Accepted Her. And She Was Missin. Her Family Traces Him To Get Her Back. It Is Up To Her To Tell Her Family The Truth. Only That She Realizes That The Misconception Was The Truth.. And

That one was way harder to type, cleeeear-ly. I KNOW - Ouch, it hurts to read and to type. Cath, we'll continue our chick-flick-in-times-of-distress-or-whenever-I-damn-well-feel-like-it tradition with this one, 'kay?

This is the last one and it's just an excerpt because it's so poorly done I can barely read it:

JODHAA AKBAR
Let's get one thing straight: You haven't watched anything so opulent, so magnificent like this in a long, long time on the Hindi screen. It's not just body beautiful, but there's soul as well.

This one everyone wants to see because it was banned in Rajasthan. It came out 3 months ago, so I think the DVD will be of a guy sitting in a crowded Mumbai theatre filming the movie, but at the cost equivalent of $4 for three movies - (My inner thoughts: I'm sorry, what did you say? Four dollars for 3 movies? My gosh, I should be giving this guy a set of Ginsu Steak Knives just to make this fair, but he doesn't eat steak.) - how could I pass this shop-opportunity up?

I'm trying to organise a Bollywood watching night like we had the other night, I wish you could all be here. I miss you and will be seeing y'all soon, which trust me, I'm so looking forward to, but I hope you'll forgive my staring-out-the-window-missing-India-sadness. Vaness, I know you'll be here in spirit and part of Bollywood Comes to Vancouver Night, possibly also known Blast Your Chakras Open With Om Shanti Om Night...

Yes, you're welcome to come over and watch these movies anytime it doesn't interfere with my roommate Caroline's schedule/my schedule AND you have 4 hours to spare, which should also answer part two of the question: No, you can't borrow them. I know, you would think living out of a backpack would make me less materialistic, but after purchasing the Eddie Izzard Dressed To Kill Comedy DVD 4 times now, and not being sure where the heck copy number 4 is, I think I can say I've learned my possessive lesson.

You can still ask, but like Christopher Durang pointed out in Sister Mary Ignatius Explains It All For You, where he noted that people think God doesn't answer every prayer, that is simply not true. God does answer every prayer, it's just that sometimes the answer is No.

MaKe mE MenTal

2008-04-17T00:51:00.000-07:00

A snippet of conversation from Ganga View Cafe, one that would make me mental anywhere:

Guy: Sanskrit is about the sound of the Universe, it's about the vibration, it's all about tapping into that sound.
Girl: That is so cool. That is SO cool.

Vanessa! How could you leave me and take your delightful Canadian sarcasm with you?

Okay, and just so youse all get the full picture, let me just say I'm sure I heard someone mentally retching while I was asking Alec about the Mercury aspect in my Astrological chart, and the effects of having Pluto, Jupiter and Uranus (uhm, you know how I get about this type of thing if I can't conjugate a verb without laughing) in my Sixth House, the house of health, as it were. Yes, I can dish it out but I can't stand the heat in kitchen. Kitchen? Frig! Parlour, whatever!

And here's my other favourite snippet from this morning, with the two Italians sitting next to me. They freaked out when they saw how Ganga View makes the milk espresso Italian style, with an Italian stovetop coffee-maker.
"Ma guarde un po!" Meaning Would you get a load of this!
"Next time we come we'll bring our own coffee. We can buy this element thing!"
"Of course! We just rent a bigger room, and set it up- "
"And pop, pah, pow, we make -"
" -our own spaghetti!"
" - exactly!"

I kept laughing through their conversation so they started looking over, and I thought I best just keep to myself because eavesdropping is rude, especially when you're caught. I had a moment where I thought I could say "How are you feeling about Berlusconi winning?" but that's not a conversation starter.

The absolute best was listening to them complain about how long it took to get a coffee: "These guys don't like to do anything fast!" You get my 'Ha ha moment'? An Italian is complaining he thinks an Indian doesn't like to do anything fast. Uhm, I know it's been a lifetime since I was in Italy and I was only a child, but as far as I could see, the only thing Italians liked to do fast was talk and drive.

I've become addicted to ending on a happy note, as much as possible for someone with a family history of depression and suicide. Tangent alert! Can you believe I once had a writing teacher tell me that choosing the happy ending for my play because 'I liked it' meant I was an irresponsible writer, since that's not real life? I'm sure you can.

My reply: "Well, I don't think so. I prefer it." And why not, if I'm in charge of that particular Universe, and I AM! I know, I know, what yoga-quasi-spiritual-pursuit is this? I haven't seen my preferences, my likes and dislikes diminish at all - I've just seen them on the big Bollywood screen. Oh, there's a heck of a lotta of dancing around. Maybe I just need to brush up on the moves and the whole sequence won't look, won't feel so - So what? Wrong? There it is again, inner struggled splattered all over the blog when I had to think about it all.

In the words of smarter people, I take my leave of you.

Take it away Ms. Hay:

"Often what we think of as the things "wrong" with us are only our expressions of our own individuality. We are meant to be different. When we can accept this, then there is no competition and no comparison - to try to be like another is to shrivel our soul. We have come to this planet to express who we are."

Abi Hindi Katam

2008-04-16T07:55:00.000-07:00

Now Hindi Finish.

Here's the thing, I could have put this toddler-type sentence together last week, before I spent the rupees to be taught bad Hindi-Urdu-Nepalese-MishMash. Vanessa and I met early this morning to try and figure out from her notes what the formulas were for all the tenses we whipped through - Present Indefinite all the way to Future Indefinite.

It nearly gave her a brain annuerysm as she tried to figure it out and teach me. I spaced out during the last class yesterday morning and was like, if this guy gives me another exercise to do I will freak out. I missed one class from being sick with a stomach that reached all the way back to Pushkar, and when i would flip through my notes, Mister would say "Huh, you don't know 'she'. You forgot He? Huh."

He had this very odd habit of saying "huh" - it was partially nasal and partially aspirated and 100% annoying. I think it meant "okay" or "yes something", but not really - I could think it was funny at first, but after you've decided you want to murder someone, nothing they do is charming or funny anymore. Weird, huh?

Before Vanessa arrived, Ilu at Little Buddha tried practising Hindi with me this morning - asking me the real brain teaser - where are you from? I did not understand. Hello! He says - "I see you in class there every day - what you learn?" What could I say? All in all I'm just another brick in the wall? Oh there's some proverbs translated into Hindi like: a poor carpenter blames his tools, but much like the translation of Rome wasn't built in a day, where Vanessa and I could find no evidence of the word Rome or day, some things don't translate. Or in the case of what I understood from this man: kuch nahee. Nothing.

There were two other girls learning in the time slot after us, and they were ESL, or possibly E4thL, and the teacher was bahut ESL, and they thought he was great, until one of them showed her Indian friend her notes and her friend told her, "this isn't Hindi, this is some Hindi, some Urdu, and possibly some Nepalese."

Vanessa reported this to me and decided that after we made our notes cohesive, we would do examples for each tense and quiz ourselves. After 2 hours of notes and talking about the meaning of life according to us (no disrespect your Holiness!) and everything in-between, I'm about to go to the bathroom when Vanessa checks her new Colloquial Hindi book and says "We're screwed." She explains how the tense we were working on is not translated correctly. And the waiters look at our text and can't understand what it means, and they have been telling us different words than the ones we have written down, day after excruciating day.

Vanessa: Oh my god! The difference between what this sentence is saying it is and what it really is is the difference between "I'm going to eat" and "I blew up a house last year."

Okay, so here's the scene now, I'm sitting at the internet, sad and a little lonely, having just said good-bye to Vanessa, on her way back to Bangalore. I can hardly believe we met less than a week ago, and we will meet again when she comes to Vancouver, so her goodbye was bahut bidiyay (perfect) "I'll see you soon."

I'm also laughing to myself, alot, going through my notes from our Hindi class. I should clarify, I'm mostly alone, the way one can be so alone in an internet place with 4 guys, all Indian sitting around and playing on all the other computers (Yes, they work here.) All of you who have travelled to bharat will understand, or as Vanessa said one day, "You know - how one guy will fry an egg and four guys will watch him do it." And I keep laughing, and for the 14th time, I kid you not, they have played James Blunt's You're Beautiful.

And I'm a little sad, but I am laughing a lot. An hour ago, I stood on a swinging steel bridge over the Ganges in the moonlight, while the wind whipped up so much that there were waves on the river. I know, me very lucky, some might say bahut lucky.

On the other side of Laxman Jhulla, the steel and concrete bridge that swings in the wind, Vanessa handed me a cd with all the hits from all the Shah Rukh Khan movies (one of India's Tom Cruises, they appear to have 2) including: Om Shanti Om! Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, plus the fabulous Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge, which you'll all remember as The Braveheart blah blah blah.

I mean, maybe we should have clued in when we would ask:

"How do you say 'bus'?"
"Bus."
"How do you say 'school'?"
"School."
"How do you say 'kitchen'?"
"Kitchen."

The last one we made a fuss about and got "Rasor Gar" - but like, for all we know, this could be the way they say kitchen in a remote village in Pakistan, where it could also mean "hole with chappati cooking fire in it". Or maybe it's the way they said it in Persia in the 14th century. At least I know I'll be useless in 3 countries with my Hindurdulese. I'm signing up for Esperanto when I get back.

Well, truly we knew he was a terrible teacher, so it seems like just one of those things, we were just destined to meet this way, in a Hindi class under a tarp at Freedom Cafe, me and the Italian-mother-Gujarati-father bahut sundar gal, aur hosey-something, the word for smart, she'll know the one I'm talking about (bilkul mira dost?)

So, off I go, to wake up with no class or Hindi practice to look forward to tomorrow. Good news is the stomach's better, I only look 3 months pregnant now as opposed to six. Yoga, what yoga? You try lying on a pumpkin and moving into upward dog.

And, it's only phir milenge, which we found out is "meet" - as in "we'll meet again", though it's translated for Westerners as "see you later."

I'll leave you all on this note because I have laughed bahut over this and the "I blew up a house last year" exchange.

Vanessa: At least he didn't perv out on us.
Eufemia: Uhm, he put his arms around us in the photo*. And he tried to hug you.
(*This is simply not done here, at all. One has to try and act "casual" and "groovy" - which is not easy for an uptight fella from a no-contact-till-you're-married-culture to do. They don't shake hands with women. They don't hug. In some places, they are not allowed to speak during the "Will this be the one?" marriage interview conducted by family members on behalf of the couple. And plus, his hands were too low for the teacher - student sitch, as Vanessa would say. Would say, did we cover that tense?) I digress! Back to:
Vanessa: At least he didn't perv out on us.
Eufemia: Uhm, he put...And he tried to hug you
Vanessa: I know. Fuck.

The True Meaning of Life by His Holiness

2008-04-15T09:14:00.001-07:00

We are visitors on this planet
we are here for ninety
or one hundred years
at the very most.
During that period
we must try to do something
good, something useful
with our lives.
If you contribute to other
people's happiness, you will find the true goal,
the true meaning of life.

- His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama

Bonus additional quote, but first an anecdote: At the internet this afternoon I started copying down a quote that was attributed to Mother Theresa. The fellow running the shop said "What are you doing? You think Mother Theresa said that?"

Eufemia: She didn't?

Fellow: No. I think if they not spell her name right on the poster, this could all be wrong.

Eufemia: Her name is spelled wrong?

Her name was spelled Mother Theresa, and a quick internet check shows me that's not wrong, though according to the fellow, it should be "Theressa, double 's', because she was Italian."

Well, not unless Albania is a province in Italy now, but then, my geography is sketchy.

I didn't disagree, or argue, because, well, see previous notes to self on disgreeing with/correcting men. It's not so much that one shouldn't disagree, really, but perhaps I should learn how to do it without sounding so exasperated and like "Stop talking to me - please, talk to the hand until you know what you're talking about, because the hand doesn't have a mind of it's own, so it won't just reach across this desk and slap you in your smug face for being so annoying."

I feel really childish and want to say "He started it!" Because you should hear the tone he used - it was like "Hey MORON, you think Mother Theresa actually said that?"

Hmmm....Golly.

Shanti, shanti.

I may need these quotes tattooed across my forehead. So, Ladies & Gents, from that famous now deceased Italian resident of Kolkatta, I give you:

Three things in human life are important:
The first is to be kind
The second is to be kind
And the third is to be kind.

You said it, Mother.

Say it Ain't So

2008-04-14T06:25:00.000-07:00

More excerpts - I swear one can't help but eavesdrop here, you simply can't help it.

Tourist Question: Where can I wash my hands?

Restaurant Employee Answer: On the toilet.

This one kills me because I knew he meant in the toilet, because the sink outside the bathroom at Freedom nahee working, but the sink inside the loo runs all the time, sometimes non-stop. Still, I was most amused this morning, listening and thinking "She doesn't understand - he means 'in the toilet'.... Wait, that doesn't sound right either.."

Today's Hindi class, the second last one, is really where Vanessa kicked our teacher's arse, which she's been doing for days, coming up with formula's to help make sense of the language, otherwise we would be completely lost. (She's a math tutor and we've discovered we both love formula's, Lemonanas and Bollywood movies.)

Lemonana, by the way (called a Nimboonana in Hindi!*) please make it a.s.a.p - it's crushed ice, lemon juice and fresh blended mint aur torah chini, kripya. And little sugar. (That's pretty much my one week of Hindi in action and put to good use. I can order a drink with some sugar added, please.) *I stand corrected, please see Ayelet's note!

Here's your Hindi Sentence Structure Full Power Formula:

Subject + Indirect Object + Postposition + Direct Object + Action + Doing + Auxilary Verb

Simple, nay?

This would be why I am drinking coffee translates into Main coffee pee rahi hun.

The verb to drink is peena, and this would be why I love this sentence.

For anyone wondering how I graduated from middle school, I'm wondering the same thing. And the crisis I had when I turned 30, where I thought "My God, I am the same foolish person I was at 19! How could this be, How could God let this happen?!" Well, imagine the trauma that would have ensued had I realised my true level of maturity.

I haven't even told you about the night in Pushkar when Mahesh was trying to explain masculine and feminine to me and Sarah and how I could not stop laughing at this exchange:

Mahesh: Water is male, like Shiva. Fire is female, like Durga....

Sarah: What about everyday things like fruit?

Mahesh: ...Banana is male.

Sarah: Go figure.

more discourse and then...

Mahesh: Fountain is male -

Sarah: Really? But the water, oh of course, like the banana.

Five minutes later, Sarah looks over at me and says to Mahesh, who's looking at me like I'm on drugs because I can't stop laughing "She's still laughing about the banana." And I swear, that made it even harder to stop, then knowing he would think I was rude or "a bad girl" for laughing about the ridiculously obvious genderisation of a banana. I know, genderisation is not a word - but as I just noted, I still don't know how I passed Grade 8.

The Hindi classes would be a total bust without Vanessa, who is one smart cookie asking all the right questions but unfortunately this also really points out our teacher's ineptitude. For example - he wants us to translate sentences like "I had slept when he come."

Teacher: You have already slept, then He, the direct object, he cames to you.

Eufemia: The thing is, no one would ever say that in English.

The best part was Vanessa getting translations for "like" - as in 'Make me a coffee like hers' and the really important questions, "How do you say crushed ice?" at the end of class. I was still feeling bahut under the weather so I said "Oh my god, I'm going kill you." Because I woulda thought she coulda got that translation in Goa, when she was there...When she was there... When she is going....She will be going....Present Indefinite tense...Future tense...

Vanessa leaves in 2 days. Sigh. Big big sigh.

Yesterday, my favouriteVanessa quote was: I just don't have time to stop and make small talk with anyone.

And wouldn't you know, she was going to help me put my pictures on this blog and no joke, no site in Rishikesh will let us do it. (Not just us, Pedro can't upload his business information with the images he needs to post)

Here's 2 things I wanted to tell you: The movie's correct title The Braveheart will take the Bride had subtitles in English, Tamil, Telugu, Kannada, Malayam, Gujarati and Bengali. Like, I've heard of one of those, Bengali, beforehand. Kannada, (pronounced like Canada, my home and native land!) is spoken in Bangalore.

And perhaps this dialogue exchange, taken direct from the English subtitle translation, will point out what I find heart-breaking about India, or moreover, some of the situations I've heard of in India (Though let's remember my tendency to melancholy. Though let's also remember this country is making me wonder bahut about my father and mother's childhoods in postwar Southern Italy):

Daughter, upon realising she has to get married soon to someone she has never met: I had forgotten I have no right to dream.

Mother: Of course you can dream. Just don't expect it to come true.

The thing is, would this have been the longest running movie in India's history if love didn't triumph in the end? After several nail-biting plot twists (I kid, I kid) fab dance sequences and a crazy martial arts duel almost to the death plus lots of pontificating about Hindustani honour, love wins over arranged marriage. The movie was made in 1995, and according to our restaurant employee source, it ran until 2002, non-stop in one cinema in Mumbai.... I'm thinking of how long movies like Titanic ran back home, or in Japan with a large teeny-boppy Leonardo following.

Seven years? That means there had to have been an audience for it. Interesting.

Amoebas are People too

2008-04-13T00:47:00.000-07:00

My other potential title for this blog was: Alive & Kicking, Just Barely.

I managed to sleep in a position mostly sitting up, though truth be told there was very little sleeping. At one point I thought I should have moved into the bathroom just to save getting up and down, and the feeling of nausea, and the waves of thinking I wasn't going to make it and really should have put my affairs in order before I left home (I'm not so sure you can use internet writing as a legal document. Would you all be forced to gather around the solicitor's office while he read my Last Will by Blog?)

This settled the question as to whether I could go to PhoolChatti Ashram today. I emailed them yesterday and the were very nice, saying "Hope you get over your tummy bug soon." I nearly started crying at the words tummy bug.

The thing about getting sick is how much it makes you want your Mom come along, say words like tummy bug, and help prop you up on the couch in front of the TV. Then you are healed.

My morning looked not too dissimilar, so don't feel bad, I know I can whinge. After lying down around 6 a.m, I woke up at 7. By 8 a.m I had walked with Sarah over to Pedro's roof where they yoga'd, and I went in search of a doctor or pharmacy.

I'm fascinated by the Pharmacy culture here. No one goes to the doctor. For example: Vanessa got valium over the counter just by asking for it. There was a moment of "You need a prescription," from the Pharmacologist and then "Okay, here". Forty rupees later 40 valium are hers. That's $1.05 in Canuck bucks. Prescriptions, by the way, in case you forgot my adventures with Rich, are written on a ripped piece of paper or cardboard, no letterhead or official stationary. What are you, fussy?

Pedro had some medication that sounded incredibly hardcore, after first being offered penicillin by the doctor he went to in Gujarat. He called his doctor back in Europe who advised that the other medication he'd been given definitely what he suspected: Intense. It was a medication you can't get outside of a hospital anywhere else in the world, and it's used to treat tuberculosis. His doctor in Portugal said, "So no problem, take it only if you get really sick and then not for more than 15 days in a row." Because Pedro had been really sick on his trip here last year and he still has some scars see and...

Right around this point, I'm watching Pedro and Vanessa eat they're amazing breakfasts of Fruit salad, muesli, curd, milk espressos, orange juice. You know what comes in a fruit salad here at the ol' Freedom Cafe? Everything: papaya, pomegranate, banana, grapes, mango. I kept looking at their food and feeling like I can't believe this - breakfast of Champions for $3 and I can't eat any of it. I've got to find a place called Moonlight Cafe that will make me Kichari, or just have plain rice. Perhaps a banana. Whoo hoo. A banana? Say it ain't so, doc.

But he did. I found this wonderful Ayurvedic Doctor, after I went back to bed, thrilled about being able to lie down and woke up late for Hindi, walked slowly down to Freedom to apologise to our teacher and Vanessa (who is kicking my arse in Hindi and I'd like to tell you it's because she's part Indian but no, her Papaji's from Gujarat and speaks Gujarati so she the gift) and walked back to this doctor's office. The young women who just came out of his medical room was almost in the same boat as me but had also just found out she was pregnant. (So I guess it was more like I was like in the rowboat peddling away from her Rainbow Warrior.)

Eufemia: Wow - really?

Traveler: Yes, so I don't have any medicine from back home. I am completely unprepared.

I wanted to say "I'll say," but I let it go and just sat there. Because I'm telling you, last night I thought an Alien would burst out of my stomach, or a fully grown adult like in the original series-turned-movie The Kingdom.

The doctor held my wrist and said "Stomach upset. Even before this not digesting properly. And insomnia. Nausea." After giving me multiple pills and instructions and re-hydration salts, ($9 later) he sends me on my way advising maybe it's best if I stay outta the sun and heat.

I've heard about winter back home, in Vancouver and Toronto, so I know, no one's crying me a Ganga back home but truly, staying out of the sun in India? This is nahee milega. Not possible.

I meant to tell you all about the other night when Vanessa & I got to watch a movie at the Himalya Cafe, a movie I bought in Pushkar called Paheli (Translation: Riddle, India's official entry into the Oscars in 2006) It was quite the feat, considering it stopped alot and skipped parts, and the guy at the cafe wanted us to watch the other movie I had Dilwale Dulhania le Jayenge, which translates into The Braveheart Captures the Bride. It soon became obvious why, after we picked Paheli, (the movie that was 2 hours and 10 minutes over the 3 hour plus movie.)

"This is called a chick flick in our country," I told him. And he sweetly let us watch it till the end and then said "Can take TV back now? Elections going on in Nepal now."

Well by all means! There we were watching a chick flick when the first democratic election in 250 years is happening in Nepal. I felt a tad superficial.

So tonight we're heading back to watch the other DVD, and inviting a small crowd. The Braveheart Captures the Bride is the longest running movie in Bollywood's history - running non-stop for 7 years (or 5, depending on who's telling the story) in a Mumbai Cinema. I'm fascinated by that and it's also the story of Indians living abroad, in England. The love story, of course.

I'm going to prop myself up and tell everyone to keep asking me about my tummy bug. That and a few banana's, I should be better in no time.

New Song Title: You say Amoeba, I say Aaargh

2008-04-12T09:05:00.000-07:00

Oh my god, who knew?

Who knew that anything could feel so awful?

I appear to have swallowed a pumpkin.

God bless Vanessa and her cardamon flavoured syrup, I may be able to walk tomorrow. I have no memory of ever feeling so grosteque in my entire life. A cautionary tale this is - though apparently it's very common to walk around India like there's a gourd trapped in your intestines.

And I was stressed about the mosquito bites.

As we left the cafe where I felt very touch and go-go-go to the toilet, I raised my head skyward and said, "Kill me now," and then I quickly added "I'm just kidding."

Because I was. Just kidding.

Now, I'm not so sure.

Hindi 101

2008-04-09T23:30:00.000-07:00

I was looking up the word "later" in the phrasebook Jessie gave me so that I could say "Maybe later," a concept that could be difficult to grasp in India, as I've noticed time and tense seems to get a little confusing for me. Not to mention the folks I try to converse with.

For example, I was speaking with Rakesh and he said "Yes, now can-" so I got up to get my camera for him and he said "Where are you going? No, not now-"

Eufemia: When you say now, you mean -

Rakesh: Not now. No, not now.

Eufemia: Okay, because now means-

Rakesh: Yes, I know, now means now but not now, okay? Later.

Later...

Rakesh: Okay, yes, give me now, I take it.

Eufemia: Like, really now, or fake now?

Rakesh: Now, now!

Eufemia: Okay! Now, now! You say it like I'm confusing you but trust me, it's the other way around.

There I go again. I was looking up the word later, taking my sweet time and dawdling through the vocabulary when I came across movie = film, (that's a toughie, I'm gotta write that down somewhere) and menstruation = mahavari. Why I wanted you all to know that I don't know. Perhaps everyone needs to know one word in every language (Italian, Spanish, Farsi, keep going) and I think why not one of these two? Take your pick and head for the Berlitz Language Books in Chapters and you'll be on your way. For more than half of the world's population, this is very important information. You can all thank me later. I still haven't found that word.

Perhaps I'll ask my Nepalese Hindi teacher tomorrow. Yes, once again, I found a Hindi teacher who is not Indian. How did that happen? This time it was really simple, he had a sign up at the Freedom Cafe advertising that he's teaching Hindi . And what do you know, I'm studying with a fellow Canadian (Go team You-know-who!!) In fact, our teacher's study sheets, the ones filled with common expressions for us to practice has the phrase "Where are you from?" answered by "I am from Canada." Yesterday I asked "You teach lots of Canadians?" and he said "Yes."

With a glowing heart I see thee rise, the True North strong and free!
God keep the land glorious and free!

You'll pardon my adjustments, I hope.

So, yes, today, Day 2 of Hindi lessons I made a sentence: I run. Main daudhti hun. You think it looks so easy but I had to match my gender, for crikey's sake! I tell myself you have to walk before you can run, especially in India.

My internal monologue: Why am I learning the verb "to run"? Nobody runs here. Swamiji's daughter-in-law just had a physical exam for a job application, where she had to run for the first time in her life and she's 38. Nobody runs in India.

Still, this class will hopefully be easier than learning from a book. Especially since the phrasebook has a section called Dowry Problem. Example sentence: Pascam mem ham sunte haim ki bharat mem dahej ke lie nav vadhu ko jala diya jata hai. Translation: In the West we hear that in India, for dowry, brides are burnt to death. Uhm, say what? I'm thinking of that golden rule of conversation where one doesn't discuss sex, religion or politics over dinner. How would it really go over if I was introduced to someone and said that? Not. Also, this seems a bit ambitious as a sentence for me. What could I say to the bantering reply? I eat. I sleep. I am from Canada.

Not to mention the part, when flipping through the phrasebook, and I found the verb to kill = marna, but I misread the word as mama.

Whoa, huh?

Prem my peeps, Prem

2008-04-09T06:56:00.000-07:00

More restaurant wisdom and quirks I didn't want to forget to tell you:

From Prem Namaste Cafe in Rishikesh: We cook with love, Serve from the Heat

Ganga View Restaurant: Home cooked food with Love. Includes dishes like Spagetiy and the best milk espresso in town.

From Pushkar's Honey & Spice, from the Thoughts for Food section of the Menu:

Nurture your mind with great thoughts for you will never go higher than you think.
Always remember that the worship of God involves keeping a bouquet of beautiful thoughts constantly blooming and acting accordingly.

And also this: Fiber acts as a broom inside the body by moving the food at such a rate that the potential for problems is minimised. At Honey & Spice we sincerely try to pack our dishes with fibre and nutrients because we realise the importance of a healthy body; it is a temple where the "life force" resides for now.

Honey and Spice made coffee with cinammon and cardamon, as well as coffee with aniseed. In Rishikesh, I'm having a few too many milk espressos (this is what we call 'la broom broom' in Italy). I spent so much time copying quotes from the menu at Honey & Spice (Nourishment for the temple called.....Body) the owner became suspicious.

More bits and soundbites:

Swamiji on the cow munching his lawn every morning: "This our grasscutter. Very cheap."

Swamiji on witnessing Pedro's bike, which had a transistor radio in the shape of a soccer ball attached to the handlebars with a lot of string: "Yes, look. This is technology."

Swamiji on smoking: "If that smoke, nervous system totally bogus."

*

A conversation in Pushkar:

Me: What am I eating?

Sarah: I don't know.

Me: That's like the last thing you want to hear in India, hey? Where did you get it?

Sarah: I don't remember.

Me: Do I eat the seed?

Sarah: No! Throw that away.

FIY: Bat pooh moves stagnation. Did you know that? I didn't know that. Thank you, Jessieji! Apparently you take some of this dried Flying Squirrel feces (Chinese medicine name Wu Ling Zi), boil it and drink the liquid. I can't see from my notes what kind of pollen you mix it with, but I know it's shaken, not stirred.

A hot bath! A hot bath! My kingdom for a hot bath: These days my kingdom is a dwindling ING Savings Account but still, you should see my bank balance in rupees. It's impressive. The ATM in Pushkar got shut down when a friend of ours took out many rupees. About the equivalent of $600 - yes, this is a lot for anywhere in India but this woman is running a Fair Trade business in Rajasthan. It closed down so she offered the woman behind her in line some rupees to tide her over until someone came to fill up the machine again, which could be anytime really. Did I tell you, there's a big hoopla about counterfeit rupees in India? I now have 3 different ways of confirming whether it's the real deal or not - my favourite is checking to see if Holographic Ghandi is wearing his glasses. If he's not, you've been targeted my friend.

Phir milenge, peeps. Time to go study some Hindi - next lesson, we start grammar. Main khushi hun. I happy am.

The Oral Rehydration Therapy Caution

2008-04-09T01:03:00.000-07:00

In case you were wondering what the blogging hold up was, I have been unwell, for awhile now.

In my last Sunday conversation with Papaji, he could tell I sounded spent, so I told him I had caught a cold. Because if I said "I don't know what's going on, hard to say really," then the Papaji blood pressure problem would careen outta control. Not to mention his blood sugar levels. That diabetes is a nuisance, y'know?

Note to Jessieji: I swear I was trying to drink those rehydration salts. Then I read the instructions. Did you see the caution?

CAUTION: Use with Caution in impaired renal function or intestinal obstruction.

That's one way of putting it. A very nice way. For example:

"Namaste, que passa?"

"Namaste, okay! Minor renal function failure. How are you?"

I like it.

99 Teacups of Chai on the Wall

2008-04-09T00:45:00.000-07:00

Here's all I want to tell you about the 16 hour busride from Pushkar to Hardwar:

I felt I was in a very delicate condition, and I survived. It's like this, if you have stomach problems, don't eat before a bus ride in India. I didn't, all day. Problemo solved-oh.

Sarah was sick as well, and we shared a double berth and had a blast. She had a cold, I had an intestinal issue. The bus bounced around alot. The ride was quoted as 14 hours, and so coming in at 16 was making good time.

The windows closed, Hallelujah! This would turn out to be incredibly important when the woman traveling in the berth ahead of us got sick, repeatedly leaning out her window.

Sarah awake at 6 a.m, noticing streaks on our window: I think someone just peed out their window.

Eufemia's reply: Eww.

Sarah more awake: Oh, no, they're sick. They're vomitting! Ohhh, 'why like this?'

Why like this? said with an accent is a new favourite phrase for me and Sarahji.

Eufemia: Ewwwwwwwwwwwww.

***denotes passage of time***

Eufemia waking up again at 9 a.m: Is it raining outside?

Sarah rightly looked at me as if I was an idjit. Raining? Not unless it was raining vomit, which sadly, for our lil' window view of India's countryside, it was.

Apparently, Indians don't travel well. Can you imagine how we felt? This poor woman, thank god she was wearing a bright yellow sari, it was like an Amber alert every time her head popped out her window. And I laughed myself silly watching Sarah try to time spitting her bahut phlegm out the window, trying to ensure she wasn't in the line of fire.

Good times, good times.

Pushkar Postmaster

2008-04-08T23:50:00.000-07:00

On my last day in Pushkar, I ran to the post office to send home everything I couldn't carry on my back - a ridiculous amount of new journals, some clothes, everything I could declare as an unsolicited gift.

There was an enormous sewing machine in the side office where I sat in filling out my paperwork. Initially I thought, "Wow, even the post office doubles as a tailoring shop. Everyone multi-tasks here!" Then, of course, I saw them wrap my package in fabric, and sew parts of it by machine and stitch the rest by hand.

The young American woman sitting nearby said "I hope you have an hour to spare." Well, I didn't, because I had left it till my last day so I just took a breath and started filling out the paperwork - which was pretty clear and straightforward. Official documents in India sometimes contain space for things like "Father's name" and "Marriage status" - and it seems to take up unnecessary room to me, space that could be used for "Date of Birth" and "Shoe size".

In the room next to the room I was in filling out my paperwork, lay a man, sleeping. Sprawled out on the 'official' Post Office bed, having a nap. I thought perhaps he was sick like me, but no, he was sleeping. I'm not sure if he was a supervisor but I don't think you get to nap in the middle of the day if you're just a cog in the postal wheel, y'know?

At some point, I started to cry. The fellow helping me, sewing up my package and calculating the various costs (Air, Sea and Sal Mail, the last being a combination of Sea and Air Mail) on his cell phone calculator asked me "Why you like this?"

I said "I'm leaving Pushkar. I'm leaving my teacher." We had already made enough chit chat that he knew I had been there for 2 months, studying yoga.

The Postmaster walks by and this fellow says to him "Blah blah yoga blah Swamiji blah bye," and points to teary-eyed me. The postmaster pulls up a chair and orders another chai for me. I had arrived just before 2 p.m. so I had already been given one cup of chai. Everyone in the post office gets one at that time, workers and folks doing their business. Everyone everywhere in India, I think.

"So? You will come back," says the postmaster.

"I don't know," I tell him "My father...." And you all know the rest. Perhaps you've noticed this horrifying quality I have of deflecting responsibility? Hmmmm. Perhaps what I mean is this quality of not owning my choices and my decisions. I'm aware, step one. I accept, step two. Adjust, well I'll get back to you on how I do, s'okay? My poor da, like he didn't have enough on his shoulders without me weeping around the subcontinent and saying "My dad, my father..." Like I said before, this country bharat really makes me think alot about my family. Like all day and all night.

"Yes," Postmaster says, "Mother and father always thinking this way. Later, okay."

They ask where I'm from. I always feel like shouting "Canada!" with glee, to be honest. Sure, Harper's in charge for now, and I'm not forgetting there were those awful infested blankets from the Hudson's Bay Company, attempted genocide and much bloodshed but still, I always want to sing it out loud: "Canada, Canada!" Canada means settlement in the language of the Huron. We are all products of our conditioning, hey? And mine includes years of listening to my father saying "Canada best country, no country like Canada." And he's a smart guy.

So the postmaster shows me a postcard from Vancouver. Then a letter from Italy. Then more letters from around the world. People thanking him for making them dinner - at the Post Office? "Yes. You should have come early," he reprimanded me. "This is not just a Post Office." To be sure, the letter from the Italians insists the best meal they had in India was at this particular Postal Office.

The address is simply his name and Pushkar Post Office. That's it. "There is only one Pushkar in India," he explains when I ask. It's an address that is even less complicated than Santa Claus, North Pole, CANADA, H0H 0H0. (I'd just like to say here, to set the record straight, that's right, he lives in Canada, not Finland, CANADA)

I go into the back room and sit for a chai, and pick out a skirt. Yeah, you heard me. Of course I remember this happened to Sarah weeks earlier: a 'short trip' to the post office is, 2 hours later, a bit of chai, a bit of chat, and the Postmaster telling you to choose a skirt from his pile of women's clothes on the floor of the backroom from the business he no longer runs because he's too busy with being the Postmaster.

There we chat, and they offer to ship me home, Sea and Air mail, except the first friendly fellow says to me "How many KG?" I tell him I have no idea, that I measure by pounds in Canada and I can't figure anything out in grams or Kilograms. "But I have a feeling it would be bahut KG," I tell him, alot of KG's.

"Yes," he agrees, looking me over. "Maybe sixty KG - at least."

"Really?" I ask, "because I've been doing Yoga a lot. Bahut Yoga!"

The question no one wants to ask hangs in the air: Well if she hasn't been eating at the Post Office, where has she been eating?

Damn those chocolate croissants.
Double damn Hello to the Queen.
Every item of clothing I've purchased here has ties or elastic waste bands.
So, when you see me, and you will - please be kind.

A Fish Out of the Desert

2008-04-04T22:45:00.000-07:00

It's raining in Rishikesh. I think I can put away my sunglasses, it's pouring here. Sarah and I arrived yesterday, had some stress to find a room as the town is packed with everyone escaping the heat. The rain just makes me miss all the comforts of home. I think it's good that it's so different from Rajasthan or else I'd just be wondering why I wasn't in Pushkar, practicing yoga before sunrise.

I'm undecided about the phoolchatti ashram, the course starts next week. It was nice to sleep in today, feeling as I do. I'm not sure if I've picked up an unwanted souvenir in my intestinal tract.

I really took to that desert clime in a way that I'm still pondering if this ache in my ribcage is from this lifetime alone. I know, I think people are flaky when they talk that way but what else can I say? It felt like my home in a way I can't even begin to describe.

This is Goodbye

2008-04-03T03:51:00.000-07:00

Mirabai: Swamiji, I keep thinking how can I express my thanks to you, but I have no words.

Swamiji: No, no. No words can say this - (He places his hand over his heart.)

I have my hand over my heart in an effort to stop it from feeling so heavy. It's not working.

Mirabai: There aren't enough words in English. I don't know enough words in Hindi. Maybe if I knew Sanskrit?

I was crying, but I thought I could try making a joke.

Swamiji: No words, how can say? No words for this.

I don't know how you thank someone who has taught you Yoga from his heart and fed you dinner every night like you were one of his own. I've heard that Shakespeare had a vocabulary of 30,000 words and the average person today has a vocabulary of 10,000 words. This is just as useless to me now as it is during a game of Trivial Pursuit, since I always land on Sports and Leisure.

One might just say thank you, but even the Postmaster said, "No, no, don't say thank you. This word we not like. Too formal for us."

Okay. Then I need to say "I love you. You have helped me be a better person by shining a light on my path."

I didn't say it. I said "Thank you!" and "Bye!"

But I think he already knows it.

Postcards for the Edge of Pushkar

2008-04-02T22:15:00.000-07:00

I Confess: I have been in Pushkar two and a half months and have not posted the cards I wrote out on January 21st. I might do that today, I hope, since I'm leaving Pushkar today, for Rishikesh. Hmmm....A busride when you've been in my physical state for the last 3 days, oh, the fun travel stories I'll have to share.

I Confess: I ran out onto the ghats in the middle of the sand storm that blew up two days ago. It's called Ahndi, fast wind, and within minutes the sky goes brown, like the colour of the ground beneath your feet. The mountain ridge behind Pushkar disappeared, I couldn't see either temple, and parts of the town skyline started to disappear. I ran out and stood there, totally enthralled. The gentleman seated near where I stood, the one-legged gentleman who sits on the ghats all day and always walks past Swamiji's calling out his "Ram Ram!" greeting, told me the name of the storm, that first the sky fills with sand, and then hail.

I was so excited, but truly, it was nothing (and not dangerous, not to worrying be, not dangerous unless you were on a bus or motorbike, travelling the pass between Pushkar and Ajmer or Pushkar and anywhere, you have to go up that mountain pass which I've been on by bus and motorbike and lemme tell you, even without the helmet I preferred the motorbike. The bus makes some closecall turns.) IT WAS NOTHING compared to last night's storm- I used both my flashlights to walk along the ghats (for me and Sarah to get home from Swamiji's, where we had our goodby dinner) and the sand made the sky grey. It looked like a mist had descended over Pushkar, just before the night would go pitch black. The power went out, everywhere, and sheet lightning flashed across the sandfilled sky. The kind of storm where I kept expecting Viktor Frankenstein to show up and yell "He lives!"

I Confess: I haven't finished my souvenir shopping.

I Confess: I thought I had more time.

I Confess: I am desparately homesick and equally saddened by leaving Pushkar.

I confess: I love making puja's.

I would tell you that what I feel is similar to confusion, but I know it's not. It's heartache. Confusion seems easier to stomach, though right now my stomach is very unhappy with me. Swamiji says "Don't argue with your mind" all the time, but I'm telling you, when your intestinal tract starts shouting at you, the dustup makes your mind-problem look like child's play. I only wish my mind could take a backseat.

And finally, I confess I love this particular prayer:

I confess to almighty God, and to you my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned through my own fault, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and what I have failed to do. I ask blessed Mary ever Virgin, all the angels and saints, and you my brothers and sisters, to pray for me to the Lord our God.
Om.

It's what I have failed to do that gets me, everytime.

Shalom, Tourist

2008-03-31T23:45:00.000-07:00

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.

Wild Kingdom Continued

2008-03-31T23:30:00.000-07:00

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.

Because I Needed to Read it Again

2008-03-30T05:11:00.000-07:00

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.

The Night of the Cobra

2008-03-28T22:38:00.000-07:00

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.

Living the Dream

2008-03-28T10:00:00.000-07:00

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.

Things I May Have Forgotten to Tell You

2008-03-28T09:28:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-03-28T00:10:00.000-07:00

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!

The Grass is Always Greener on the Other Side of the Desert

2008-03-27T00:48:00.000-07:00

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'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."

Do You Believe Laughter Can Save Us?

2008-03-25T23:08:00.001-07:00

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.

Resistance is Futile

2008-03-25T02:44:00.000-07:00

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.

My So-Called Reincarnation

2008-03-24T22:38:00.000-07:00

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.

How Much Change Would a Woodchuck Change if a Woodchuk Could Change Traveller's Cheques?

2008-03-23T08:06:00.000-07:00

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?

Batten Down the Hatches, The Name of the Game is Survival

2008-03-23T03:52:00.000-07:00

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.

Holi is coming, It's time to Hide

2008-03-20T03:38:00.000-07:00

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

Beware the Ides of March

2008-03-15T07:45:00.000-07:00

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."

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.

Hindi Hodgepodge Part Deux

2008-03-09T07:17:00.000-07:00

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.

How Do You Say Hodgepodge in Hindi?

2008-03-08T03:46:00.000-08:00

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.

!!!!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

2008-03-08T01:00:00.000-08:00

From the first page of the Saturday March 8th edition:

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?"

Accept, Adjust, Accomodate

2008-03-07T07:00:00.000-08:00

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)

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

2008-03-07T06:17:00.000-08:00

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.

Dost, I think Your Sundial is Broken

2008-03-06T05:19:00.001-08:00

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

Your Pain is My Pain

2008-03-05T00:43:00.000-08:00

Babaji is a fellow who practices yoga with us. I'm not completely certain, even though we've asked several times, how he came to be at Swamiji's - but they have the same Guru, so they refer to themselves as brothers.

Babaji showed up and started practicing yoga last winter, and according to Swamiji, Baba was always angry, always yelling that he'd had enough and he was going to go. Swamiji would stay calm and say "Don't go, stay" Babaji was supposed to take 15 pills a day when he showed up. He started practising Yoga and decided to fuggedaboutit with the medication.

Babaji lost his wife during the birth of their second child. The child was also lost. And I don't know how long after that, he lost their first child as well. So Babaji was a Naga Baba for a while - a sanyasin who wanders around owning nothing, not a stitch of clothing, no garments. (Sometimes called naked Baba's) We saw pictures of him at a Kumbh Mela. All he wore was a loin cloth, I think mainly because there were many folks around.

A simple description, cobbled from online info and what I've heard: Kumbh Mela "the great festival of the pot of nectar of immortality" occurs every 4 times every 12 years and is attended by millions of people, making it the largest gathering in the world. (I found one reference to the 2001 gathering that said 70 million people attended. The population of Canada is hovering at 35 million, I believe.) The story of Kumbh Mela originates thousands of years ago when gods and demons together decided to churn the milky ocean to obtain the amrit (nectar of immortality). As the Kumbh or the jar containing the immortal nectar finally appeared, there arose a fierce tussle among both gods and the demons. For twelve days and twelve nights (equivalent to twelve human years) the gods and demons fought for the possession of the pot of amrit. It is said that during the battle, few drops of nectar fell at four places : Prayag, Haridwar, Ujjain and Nasik transforming them into famous religious pilgrimage centres for Kumbh Mela.

Babaji, it seems to me, has been through a lot. I thought Babaji was almost 50 when I met him. I couldn't place his age at all. Everyone looks older here, under the hot sun. Babaji looked just as shocked as I did when we realised he's younger than me. "You thirty-nine? Me thirty-eight!" "Thirty-eight? Like 3 and 8? Thirty eight?" "Yes, yes, thirty-eight."

When Babaji was gone for 2 weeks off to a wedding, and he was supposed to be gone only for four days, we all missed him. (The measurement of time in India is a delicate science. If someone says "Yes, come back in 1/2 an hour," they really mean "Come back anytime later but not now, I can't help you now." Possibly, they can't help you today or tomorrow at all, but they don't want to say no. In fact, when Baba returned I said "Babaji, what happen? You 4 days say? 4? Now 2 weeks plus." I was speaking Hinglish - thus the disjointed sentence structure. Babaji stared at me until he understood what the heck I was saying and then replied "You my husband?" Maybe you had to be there, but it was very funny to me.)

On another occasion, I made him laugh by calling him "Mataji" (great mother) while he served us kicharee. His response "Mataji Nay! Babaji! Babaji" I get a kick out of making jokes in broken Hindi or English and making people laugh. I like crossing this great divide I feel. I have to with humour, I feel there's no other choice really. And I can feel my heart, my soul dances when I make a joke and it's understood, by Babji or Swamiji, the guys at the Hotel or the shopkeepers - and they laugh. Sure, okay, it helps me feel heaps better about myself. Oh yes, Eufemia, you can run but you can't hide from your ego.

Insert inner monologue here:Yes, yes, I alone will build a bridge between our cultures and bring about World Peace! Oh, If only I had I made it to the Miss Etobicoke pagent, and on to Miss Universe, I coulda been a contender. I coulda had a platform from which to do my good deeds, instead of toiling away here online. But no, no, I was disqualified because my teeth were too pointy, a little sharp. Sure, they said it was the photos they found but they could never prove it was me. Never. But did those judges care? No. That's the trouble with people, not enough faith...

Faith. Have faith, I tell myself. All will be revealed to you, Eufemia, one day, probably after you leave, you'll understand why you're here. Make peace, stay calm, ignore it, walk away, do not engage. Or, use the old standby: Don't shoot 'til you see the whites of their eyes. Happiness is a warm gun. Whoa, whoa, back up. I've gotten a little off track. Martin Luther King said "We must learn to live together as brothers or perish together as fools." I love him. Do you think he had a great sense of humour? I wonder. He had a great sense of humanity, and that's more than enough for me.

For the last week, possibly longer, I'm not so feeling funny. My sense of humour has disappeared with the rising heat (Low of 10 degrees Celsius at night, daytime into the 20's. It goes up to the high 40's here.) Babaji saying "Mia, mia, mia - like a cat," has elicited no response from me. He likes to say my name and tell me that's how they say "Meow" here. So, no, not a seriously respected name. I shoulda said Fifiji the minute I stepped off the auto rickshaw.

Then I cried at yoga. A few times. During the afternoon class. And yesterday, I really couldn't seem to hold back the flood gates. I cried at Yoga, I cried at the Hotel, I cried at the internet. When you cry in India, men get annoyed, and angry. They don't like it at all. These people remind me so much of my southern Italian family, it just made me cry harder. Swamiji talked for quite some time, and I felt so responsible, taking up valuable class practice time. There's Swamiji lecturing me not to be sad, why myself is practicing yoga, why attaching to this pain, if for why practice yoga, what you practice, this not yoga.

Because, in case you were wondering, yoga brings balance, peace of mind, not this, you understand. Yes, well eventually, I'm sure you have the achieve some peace of mind, don't you?Or maybe it's just the appearance of peace of mind? Heck, I'll take the appearance, sure, kyon nahee? (why not) Bring it on, bring on the appearances, I can fool myself can't I? Or, as the leader of the Free World (ha ha) likes to say, "I can fool some of the people, some of the time but most of the people, shame on you, you ain't gonna fool me again!" (I know, I'm paraphrasing George Dubya Bush. It's come to this. Please send help in the form of rehydration salts. Thank you in advance) As I was saying, appearances, I'll take it. But just so you know, I can't afford Lulu Lemon.

Right then, at class, Swamiji's talk was just making me cry harder.

Swamiji: "And okay, make Headstand. Do."

I thought I should leave. I had already messed up the vibe, already brought my special dark cloud of disturbance into the area, but I thought I could save it by leaving. And headstand, I was learning against the wall and now Swamiji says no wall. Sure, well, I fell over the day before attempting this asana and I screamed in terror as I was falling over. I have made some progress, when I first got to Pushkar, I couldn't do it, wouldn't do it, nor could I imagine myself doing it at all.

But I hate being a quitter, I've walked away from so many things and been disgusted with myself for giving up. In the past, I lived by this motto: When the going gets tough, I go. So I put my arms down. I measure the space between my elbows. I put my hands down and try going up. I get up halfway, feel my balance is completely off, and start to fall over backwards again. I scream again, still afraid, still terrified. Now the crying really kicks into high gear: fear and grief and rage. I hit my lower back and sacrum as I land, but at least I didn't snap my neck. I crawl back to my mat, and think again "I should go, I gotta go. I should leave this place, go home, back to Canada, and leave these people to practice in peace."

Pushkar is so different from Toronto, hey? So different from Vancouver. But me, this problem I have of feeling like I carry a particular brand of poison inside and it would be better if everyone kept away from me, better if I didn't infect anyone else, this problem is my same, same no different problem.

Swamiji: "Okay, now comes crisis. Now do. Again. Second round"

I think Swamiji's nuts. Or completely stupid. A total moron, and I've been listening to him for 5 weeks now. Why? In this moment, I want to tell Swamiji to go jump in Pushkar lake, "and while you're at it, why don't you make a Puja as well!"

Babaji started meowing. I forgot to mention that if a wimper escapes me on an exhale, Baba imitates my wimpering for the rest of the class. And sometimes, he just wimpers and points at me. Usually I just give him heck and say, "Babaji crazy, Babaji crazy." But I'm bawling too hard to say anything to anyone, because if I open my mouth I might just say "I want to go home. Can I go home now?" And I realised too, that I wanted my mother, the one the aliens snatched at my birth and replaced with the poor woman I've known as my mother my whole life - the kind, gentle, loving-at-all-times mother. And I realised that while I was in pain and sore all over, the biggest ache was coming from my heart. I want to be seen! I want to be understood! Who thought that? Me? Am I sure? This neediness, this grasping, clawing desire makes me feel like throwing up.

Swamiji said, "Babaji, buncha stuff in Hindi!"

Swamiji gets up and walks over to me. I measure out the distance again, still crying. In measuring the distance, you clasp your hands and make a triangle, but to my Catholic upbringing, it looks like I'm in a modified prayer pose. That sets me off again, because I'm on my knees, my hands stretched out in front of me in prayer. I start begging; "Please God, please god, please. Make this stop. Make me less crazy, please. Or at least, don't let me die here, now, attempting a headstand."

Sidebar: Apparently 500 people a year die from coconuts falling on their heads in India. I have no way of confirming this, but 2 different people told me this as fact and I thought geez, wow, really? I would not want to write that obituary.

I go up, halfway, while I can hardly see because I'm bawling. Then I straighten my legs out. Swamiji is standing nearby, to catch me. I stay up for maybe 10 seconds, unassisted by Swamiji or a wall. "No use support otherwise then always need." I come back down. Mincho cheered "Way! Good crying!"

The rest of the class, I try to stop crying. The thoughts about being unbalanced, being the worst ____________________ (fill in the blank) kept coming, fast and furious. At the end of class, I ran around with Swamiji's granddaughter. He sent her over to me, and pointed out to us that she was upset because her father had yelled at her. "Look what happen to human. We have the tension and then, we give to someone else." Running around in circles and holding hands makes kids very happy, very quickly, and it definitely made me feel better too. My boo-boo felt less painful.

I folded up my mat thinking "I'm not going to make it through meditation, I don't think."

Then Babaji came over to me to say "Om Namah Shivayah. Inside room go. Now Japa yoga." Japa is the repetition of a mantra. This from another online source: Japa is the repetition of any Mantra or Name of the Lord with devotion and feeling. It removes the impurities of the mind, destroys sins and brings the devotee face to face with the Lord. Every Name is filled with countless powers; just as fire has the natural property of burning things, so also the Name of God has the power of burning the sins and desires. Sweeter than all sweet things, more auspicious than all good things, purer than all pure things, is the Name of the Lord. The Name of the Lord is a boat to cross this Samsara. It is a weapon to destroy the mind. It is a spiritual food for the hungry soul.

But I didn't know that yesterday, hey? When Babaji came up to me, all I could think was "Japa Yoga, what's that? Kriya Yoga, Japa Yoga, Hatha Yoga, Satyananda Yoga. Yoga this, Yoga that! And Jesus Christ was a yogi. And Now what, now what?" I looked at him, confused, as I clutched my mat to my chest.

Then Babji said, "Your pain is my pain," and I started crying again.

And the band played on

2008-03-05T00:00:00.000-08:00

Two nights ago I'm walking back to the Hotel and sitting at the entrance, as they always are, are Babu and Mr. Diamond. I say "Namaste" and "Subh Sandyay" (Good Evening) and keep walking. I've been avoiding Babu since my Sunday outing because he's a little too concerned with my welfare. Or he was.

A few things about Babu I didn't mention. Firstly, I've been saying his name wrong for ages - it's Bablu. Okay then. So now we both know. In my first week alone here in Pushkar, this was something bablu said to me 3 times, count 'em, 3: "Many Indian people not understanding Western man and woman can sit together and be talking about the sex and they is nothing happening. They not having go bed together."

My thought bubble: Uhm, I don't think so. I don't know any men and women who sitting around and talk about the sex.

Only sometimes it was Western. Sometimes it was European men & women. Either way, I never let that conversation go further, yet he still tried to make small talk that way. (I felt like it was this type of thing: Namaste! Speaking of rocket launchers and why neither India or Pakistan should buy nuclear weapons, did I tell you what I think about the sexy? My interpretation entirely.) It's not like anyone's talking to me about politics here. In fact, the difficulty in connecting on a human level has been recently made clear by something someone told Sarah. Someone who has lived here a while and now understands Hindi and wishes he didn't. He says the Indians think we're all nuts, and anything and everything we do is proof of our insanity. They don't know why we would be at all interested in their culture, and they reject the interest. Of course, this is a sweeping generalisation but it can certainly be felt in the general atmosphere. It's not like that song "Love is in the Air" here. No, no, it's more like "Disgust is in the Air", along with the burning plastic, of course.

Bablu always commented on women found in strange circumstances. I need go no further with this other than to say he made a way too unmistakable reference to bestality, and I was not impressed. Again, I chose not to follow the "threat of his conversation" (oh, isn't that good? It's not mine though, it's from a writer I love, Amy Hempel)

So two nights ago, I was coming in and this weird thing happens:

Eufemia: Hello, good evening.

Bablu: Do you want to pay 1000 rupees?

Eufemia: For what?

Bablu: Ten days now.

I've been paying my hotel bill every week to 10 days to avoid a massive bill at the end and confusion. They don't give receipts in India. Prices change depending on who you're talking to, so to avoid a problem, I pay in installments. I was suspicious, with him bringing it up.

I'll give you the short version. It doesn't add up. I'm thinking "Lemme do the math, no I insist!" And when do I ever think like that? And just so you know, it's a difference of $3 we're talking about. An extra night's accomodation. So what happens carries over for 2 days, even after Mincho advises me, quite wisely, not to waste valuable life force this way. Do I want to waste my energy on $3? For 2 days I enter the Hotel quickly and don't stop to chat. I look at them like dishonest bastards, they look at me like a cheap bitch. No more small talk.

On day 2, when I tried to clear up the misunderstanding, I made it worse. And Day 2, I carried my stress to yoga. (See post: Your Pain is my Pain) I'm stressed and I decide to call my father again, to make sure he's okay. In the Hotel internet/phone area, Rakesh tells me too "cool down-", which made me laugh. He'd already explained why not to get so stressed, and I know a little of his circumstances working for this Hotel Owner and family. (did I mention Sarah nicknamed the owner Jabba the Hut before she wisely moved to the Lotus Hotel? The name is so appropriate) Next thing I know I'm crying - which just annoys Rakesh so he has to leave. But not before I say "In your country, I'm only seen as a walking bank machine or a whore, and it's not right, it's not right!"

On Day 2 I tried to pay and Bablu said, "No, pay tomorrow." I told Rakesh, "I don't understand this madness," knowing full well they probably all see me as mental, and less than worthy of the respect you would pay a fellow human being.

On day 3, today, I pay Bablu and I say "I'm sorry, let's fix this. You know what your job is, you would know better than me the amount. I'll pay up to this date and then it restarts, okay? And I'm sorry I got upset. You can ask my friends, I've been upset these last couple of days."

From what I can see, the crazy accounting they do, he's marked me down one night less. Or so it looks like. I don't know, I don't understand. But make no mistake, I did think they were lying to me because they changed the numbers in the ledger and then said "Yes, our mistake, fully our mistake," but made it sound like I was giving them a hard time about being fair and paying what was due. "Why are you getting upset over 100 rupees?" "I'm not upset about the rupees, it's not about the money, it's what this represents." I stopped just short of saying "I think you're lying to me. Me! and you said I'm like family." A few people have mentioned being charged an extra night at their various hotels here, including Sarah at said Hotel.

Eufemia: "I know you think we're all crazy. But I don't want you to think I'll argue about what's owed, proper, okay?"

Can you get over yourself, Eufemia? Okay, go ahead, think of me as mental, I'll just cry, but I won't argue. I just don't want you to think I'm cheap.

Just a ball of confusion, that's what the world is today, hey, hey
Eve of destruction, tax deduction, city inspectors, bill collectors, Mod clothes in demand, population out of hand, suicide, too many bills, Hippies moving to the hills.
People all over the world are shouting, 'End the war.'

And the band played on.

You Said It, Mirabai

2008-03-02T00:50:00.000-08:00

To continue where we last left off, our hapless Heroine is exhausted and wondering, in the words of her beloved Swamiji "What do, what do?"

I wanted to let you know how easily my dark, dark places can emerge in broad desert day light.

The fire that Swamiji was talking about when I had my meltdown was also him telling me "bring this all to the light." He's said it before. The light is God. "God is love, love is God." We are all souls. We are not this history of bad feelings and memories, we are not this past pain and not this future fear, not these samskaras. We are not this body.

Thank God, because this body is having a lot of difficulty doing what Swamiji calls the "basic postures of yoga. Look, what happens to human being? You young and body so old, so weak! This is your temple. This is your mosque. This is your church. Understand? Not be abusing this!"

No one has to be around for the drama to unfold. And at times I'm alone and thrilled, but more times I'm alone and lonely. I'm alone and worried. I'm alone feeling unworthy, unconnected, completely incapable of contributing to society on any level because I just feel raw. Raw grief, raw anger. And I'm not alone that often. But there's these times in the day, when maybe I'm not busy, maybe there's too much time on my hands, even though I've done my best to keep busy. Then, because I have no distractions, I start to think. I think about everything and everyone I have ever loved and disappointed. I think about everything and everyone I have ever loved and then said "I hate you!" to, and meant it.

I think about everyone and everything and wonder how to function in the world. How to cause less suffering, how to be strong and soft, how to be able to hold the pain and grief and simply witness it. How to hold the rage? How? When does this fire burn out? What then? Because I don't think it's the life-force fire, I think it's toxic contaminated Chernobyl fire.

Somedays, I just feel the raw, raw, grasping neediness that I used to fill with a Soy Matcha Latte. With books. With food. With new clothes. With stuff.

Yesterday, when I thought about my Aunt, and the many millions of thoughts I had about her, the grossest, most despicable thought that kept running through my mind was "Please God, save me from the same fate."

So now you know. It is a far, far uglier thing I think than I ever hoped to admit, it is a far, far darker place I dwell in for days at a time.

At yoga I can only think about trying to balance, and a lot of the thoughts that come up are all about what I cannot do. The balancing poses. The standing postures, the sitting postures, the lying down postures. Crikey, the lying down postures! How hard is it to lie down?

There's more to it than that. I am completely immersed in the collective culture community here, they're not so big on the individual. There is no individual life or pursuits for women. This atmosphere is reminding me, big time, of how I felt when I was little, how often I felt like I would never fit in in the Italian-Canadian community back home. How I didn't fit in with Italians. How I didn't fit in with Canadians. How this meant, this means, I always feel slightly anchor-less, unmoored, able to drift out with the tide and overwhelmed by my fear of drowning.

I should say here too, that when I say I feel alone, and all is darkness, I know it's a lie. Just some days, it's a very convincing lie. And I practiced yoga yesterday not only feeling supported by the core group in Pushkar, but by many hearts I have known and been blessed and touched by back home. I could feel the strength coming from Canada, (and various other global spots but truly Go Team Canada!) and I'm sure that strength, that support, those moments of shared tears and mirth from our past phone calls and times together, that's what helped me balance for 2 seconds in crow pose. So maybe let's pick a time where we can all focus/harness that energy and I'll try staying up for 5 seconds, is it a deal?

So thank you all, each and every. I have my many moments of doubt that I deserve the friendship, kindness & love that has been extended to me, but like the song goes: Somewhere in my wicked, miserable past life, I must have done something good. There must have been a moment of truth. That's karma, right?

I did manage to get out of town on Sunday. I wanted to go see where Mirabai, a medieval Rajputani princess who abandoned court life to seek the company of saints, was from and because I was helping Rakesh with some stuff on his computer, he agreed to take me. He had to lie, and pretend he was going back to his other job in Ajmer, and I had to walk to some place on the edge of town to get picked up by him. I was totally stressed by the fact that I wasn't sure I understood the meeting point. Then of course, we went by motorcycle. No camels, it would take too long. But just getting out of Pushkar felt like a blessing. This state is beautiful. I even got to eat at a roadside "diner" where I was the live reality TV show.

Rakesh tried to get me to try the water, after he'd already spit it out. ("too salty" "then thanks but no thanks.") I had fun, which was surprising considering I was still feeling blue. You know, Caroline, good thing you warned me. People don't cry in India, no they don't like that at all. There's really a sense of "What do you have to be upset about? That's life, life is life." In fact, I think Rakesh said "That's life-" a few times until I said "I'm not always upset, I've just been upset this last week. And, hello, I'm getting upset again now." Rakesh is the younger, stricter Hindu brother I never had and possibly always wanted. (There's some question about what I wanted in a brother but I did want one, when I was a kid. Always thought it would make me feel less alone.)

I was only at the temple for 5 minutes tops, and I think I was the first foreigner in town for quite a while as I got stared at by all the men, women, children and monkeys. I have to tell you too, there was no helmet provided for me. Helmet? Please, they laugh about that kind of thing. Sure, Rakesh had one, but he only wore it as a disguise. No joke. So that when we were on the periphery of Pushkar, no one would recognise him and he wouldn't have any problems back at the Hotel.

My reputation, however, forget it. It's in the squat toliet. And I was doing so well here! For my two witnesses I put forth Natasha, who said Aryan at Funky Monkey referred to me as "the writer from Canada who speaks Hindi." Another time, Jessie was at the same internet place as me but in a different room and the guy tells her "Your friend who speaks very good Hindi is here." Jessie said I was 'getting a reputation' and I thought, 'Well Thank Shiva I've left the one in Bihar behind me.'

Because let me tell you, if you're on the back of a motorbike and you're not Indian, it's over. Everything nasty and unpleasant is assumed about you. The stares I got were mostly downright digust, with some curiousity mixed in. At one point Rakesh even said to me "Don't speak Hindi now." Oh, right, because that would tarnish my reputation further. I bit my tongue several times, 13 if you want to know the exact count. Because I have learned the Hindi for "What are you looking at?" and my attitude and vocal inflection implies the "jerk" at the end of the sentence, but decided I best be on my best behaviour.

Then he took me into the town of Ajmer, where there was this park on a lake complete with kids playing area! (Eufemia: You have a park here? There are parks in India? This is the first park I've seen! Canada has lots of parks, lots! Big ones too!) Then requests for photos started up again. I ignored almost everyone, then some kids said "helloooooo" and I said "hellooooo" back, and then the kids followed me and start asking for baksheesh. THE KIDS ARE ASKING ME TO PAY THEM AND FOR WHAT? They're not that cute.

Then a little crowd of 14 year old boys has to follow me. And so Rakesh says "Don't speak to everyone," as in don't engage with everyone who speaks to you. (Hello? Was he paying attention to the times I said nada? Clearly not. 13, I tell you, 13!) To which I nearly said, "the problem does not lie within my reply, dost, it lies somewhere in between them saying something, and me thinking I'm tired of "ignoring" all the attention." Yes, where I come from, I like to think of myself as a "I give as good as I get" type, so really these kids, these people should get out of my way. Samastay? (Understand)

I'm sure Rakesh figured it out when he just plain had to swear at someone in Hindi to get the man to leave me alone and walk away from me. I was not amused. And then I had to sit and wait by myself for a while, while Rakesh ran a business errand, so that once again, his reputation would not be questioned by the people who know him. Good times, good times.

Yep, relaxing. Sure took my mind of my worries.

It did make me think twice about whether I'd follow up with Krishna, the best German Baker and Ayurvedic Trained Masseuse in town, about teaching me Hindi. Most everything I know I was getting from a book and asking questions. But what's the point? I nearly said "Thank you" to someone giving us directions and that's when Rakesh said "Don't speak Hindi now." Okay, then, Esperanto it is. See how you like them guavas.

Sigh. Let's end on a positive this time, shall we? What follows is a song written by Mirabai, translated by Paramahansa Yogananda:

If by bathing daily God could be realised

sooner would I be a whale in the deep;

If by eating roots and fruits He could be known

gladly I would choose the form of a goat;

If the counting of rosaries uncovered Him

I would say my prayers on mammoth beads;

If bowing before stone images unveiled Him

A flinty mountain I would humbly worship;

If by drinking milk the Lord could be imbibed

many calves and children would know Him;

If abandoning one's wife could summon God

would not thousands be eunuchs?

Mirabai knows that to find the Divine One

the only indispensable is Love

Ball of Confusion, That's What Eufemia is today, hey, hey

2008-03-01T05:23:00.000-08:00

Bad nerves day, bad nerves week. Who's counting? Well, me, I am actually. And possibly the population of Pushkar, the folks on the main road, the ones who would prefer everyone stayed calm in the midst of such classic India chaos.

For example, the same man has now tried to give me a flower to take to the lake, several times since I've been here. In fact, the second last time he did it, I said "Nahee mil-" and he completed my sentence "Nahee milega dost" (Dost means friend, but like we both know I don't mean it. Have never meant it, everytime I've said it. Friend. Ha. He's more like a tapeworm. Ooooo. Too harsh? SO SUE ME.) Then he did it again. I said "Nahee milega dost, please, for God's sake!" And I shoo-ed him away like he was a insect of the winged variety. Five feet later I thought, I just shoo-ed a grown man away. Ewww, I disgust me.

On the main road, the same guys always ask if I want to 'change money?' or 'go Camel Safari?'. I ignore them, and while I'm walking away it's always "Yes? Madam!? Maybe later? Tomorrow? Good price? Hello? Excuse me! Camel safari." I feel like stopping and saying "Would you drop this pointless charade? You know I don't want a camel safari, and I know you don't want to provide one either. You're just here to drive me out of my mind and YOU'RE DOING A DAMN FINE JOB OF IT!"

That Ayurvedic doctor I went to for my cough mentioned my blood was too hot. Naturally I wanted to tell him, you eat garlic, pepper, onions and Italian food your whole life and let's see how cool your blood can be.

So, yesterday, like many other days here, I felt myself caving in to depression, so many sad thoughts, worries, fears, anxieties. Sure, I can distract myself a little because I am some place else, some place so different, but truly, I was past that distraction weeks ago. The shopping therapy, not so happening.

Three days ago I went to Yoga and spend the entire class in corpse pose. I told Swamiji I was going to do it. I thought I could lie there like an injured athlete and visualise myself doing the sequence. I didn't do that at all. I just lay there thinking, I wish I was back in bed. I hurts, everywhere. Gosh it's getting hot. I want chocolate. I want a Rose Lassi. I want Gulab jaman. What should I have for breakfast? He let me sit out the class, lay out if you will, much to my surprise.

You know what's a really bad idea? I'll tell you what - calling your father when you're depressed. But I wasn't going to tell him I was down, no, no. I had forced peppy-ness and cheer and felt totally prepared for this call. And here's what happened:

Eufemia: Tutto bene? (All good?)

Papaji: No, mal notizia (No, bad news - sad news)

That's all I have to hear to think, "Oh no, something's happened to one of my aunt's!" My dad's sisters are very close. The three siblings have been through everything together, and if not for his sisters looking after him for years, my dad would not have survived the years of relentless stress.

Papaji: Your cousin Julia's mother passed away.

It takes me a moment to register who he's talking about because he chose not to say her name.

Eufemia: Zi Donna? Zia Donna's died?

Papaji: Yes.

Eufemia: Was she sick?

I knew my aunt was not in good health, years ago when we were in Italy, she was obese. If you saw pictures of her way back when, she was tiny, petite, very pretty. Then she married into my mother's family and that was the end of that. (It's not like you don't know how I feel about those folks. I believe at times I have even used the words "savages", "beasts" and "pack of cannibalistic wolves" to describe them. Oh, I can hear somebody in Italy putting in a call to their lawyer now, "Pronto!". But hey, I just wanna say "We're blood, man. right? And I heard that blood is thicker than Ragu Spaghetti Sauce." )

Papaji: No, no. I don't know.

My father hasn't kept in touch with anyone in my mom's family, though he used to speak to my aunt and they would comfort each other long distance about the difficulties they were enduring, dealing with the lot they were dealing with.

Papaji: They say she killed herself.

Eufemia: No! no, no, no...

We get off the phone in no time, but not before I advise my dad I'm thinking I'll be here till the end of April (oh, that's another story, for another blog. We'll call that one Pack Your Bags, We're Going On a Guilt Trip, with bahut dhaynavad to Cathy & Jason for passing that gem on.)

So I practically run to the Lotus Restaurant/Hotel/best hang out spot, searching for Sarah, and forget all my yoga clothes and all I can think is I need to go see Swamiji and tell him "I can't do this anymore."

All the way there, I'm thinking of my aunt, thinking of 2 stories my father passed on about her - one that always made me feel a kinship for her in that she was one of my mother's first victims. My aunt told my father that my mother would tell her brother lies about his new young wife that would make him beat her. This would be when my mother was 16, and my aunt was 17. Yes, that's right, 17 and married. The second story involved my aunt running all the way back to her parent's home after she was married, with my uncle hot on her heels. She made it home and her father came out with a rifle, and set his son-in-law straight. There would be no more of that for as long as he lived, he would not tolerate seeing his daughter treated like that.

Of course, both stories always made me cry, but the second one, the father-daughter one, would send me reeling into a sad, sad place.

I find Sarah and tell her I'm going to see Swamiji, and possibly will be missing Yoga. I ask to make sure it doesn't sound like I'm using this tragedy as an excuse, because I'll do almost anything to get out of Yoga. There's 2 things you should know about me: 1. I am sick enough to use a tragic situation to my benefit. 2. I say what I say about yoga and then recognise I've reorganised my life to stay here longer and I AM SUCH A LIAR, I do not avoid Yoga. Enough of the self-hatred, it's time time time I move on.

By the time I reach Swamiji's, I am a ball of self-loathing, pulsating pain. Nothing else. I'll give you the short version:

Eufemia: Swamiji, can I talk to you for a minute?

Swamiji: Yes, come.

Eufemia: Swamiji, I don't know if I should practice today. You saw how I yelled at Mincho yesterday, and nothing to do with him, this madness is me. I told you, I always cry, I'm always depressed, I do my best to hide it and then, when I think about it, this is how it is, but now I am always angry, so angry. I yelled at all these men yesterday. Lots. I still feel like yelling.

I felt like I could climb up to the top of the temple hill and yell "I HAVE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS! ENOUGH! DO YOU HEAR ME?!" Some other part of me, the part I can refer to as "how loopy can I go?" part, also wondered as I ran to Swamiji's and ignored many camel safari offers on the way, some part was wondering, when did this happen to my aunt? When did she die? And when I was angry, was I just channeling years and years of rage, for her, for me, for everyone in this family that's been beaten, and there's been many.

Swamiji: Mia, okay, many years I am teaching, look, crisis is coming. This is petrol, inside. Yoga is the fire. I promise to you, keep this practice. We born alone, we die alone. Yoga will help you. Many people come, many crisis have come here.

Eufemia: I heard practising Yoga can help your family seven generations back, but Swamiji, I think I am lazy and crazy. This is hard, very hard. I can't do any of the balancing postures - I am completely unbalanced. I am upsetting my father very much, just by coming here, and I owe him alot, alot Swamiji. I've caused him a lot of suffering, even though he won't say so. I'm not traditional, understand. No family, no kids, not like this Indian life. I am so alone, always feel so alone, and I don't fit in anywhere.

The short version I said, and now the internet place is shutting down because it's late. It's late and I'm exhausted, spent, mood a bit brighter, heart still feels heavy, as does my stomach, shared a Hello to the Queen tonight. I was definitely into my story with Swamiji, recounting to him "my special pain, my particular pain, isn't it worse than anyone else's Swamiji? Do I get a trophy for trying harder? Am I not so amazing and so messed up at the same time? how great, how awful am I? You can tell me Swamiji, I can take it on the chin. Not really, but I want you to think I'm brave." What a trip I was on, who needs drugs when you think like this?

So what happened was, I stayed and practiced to the best of my frayed nerves ability. I felt much love and support from the core team. And even though I really wanted to sleep in today, because it was Sunday morning, our first full day off in 11 days, I got up and went to chanting, and said the Maha Mrityunjaya Mantra for my Aunt. God rest her soul.

FYI found online: This mantra is referred to as the Great Death-Conquering mantra. The seeker is more concerned with avoiding spiritual "death" rather than physical "death".

OM Tryambakam yajamahe

Sugandhim pushti-vardhanam

Urvarukamiva bandhanan

Mrityor mukshiya mamritat

Heidi of the Himalayas

2008-02-26T01:29:00.000-08:00

This is what I was wearing to Yoga in the morning 3 weeks ago: 2 layers of shirts, thick tights, track pants, a long sweater dress that reaches to my mid-thigh, leg warmers, socks, and 2 shawls. I was quite bundled up.

Walking out the door of my room, I felt like the Michelin Man, or the last of the Yeti (aka the Abominable Snowman). I started thinking of myself as Heidi of the Himalayas, even though I'm still in Rajasthan, no Himalayan Range in view.

I can't make it the 20 feet from my bed to our practice area back in Vancouver, but I can bundle up and walk around the lake to get to Swamiji's class.

So of course I'm thinking, Swamiji is such a powerful teacher, I feel so blessed, wow, look how the yoga is working it's way with me, I feel so grounded and centred here. When I don't feel absolutely nuts and out of my mind, that is. And okay, the latter, that's 90% of the time, but look, I'm up to 10% with the shanti, shanti, centred-ness. Or so I thought.

Yesterday, I went all 'Kali' (you remember, the Dark Mother?) on some folks nearby (okay men, like I said before, it's only ever men) and wasn't exactly looking like an enlightened Buddha, smiling serenely from my position on a lotus floating in the centre of a pond of still waters. No. Nahee.

First I lost it on Mincho, towards the end of Yoga class. Mincho speaks Spanish so I just went for it and yelled at him in Italian. (Yes, before refering to it as 'going Kali', I would refer to these episodes as 'going Italian') Then, after a calming piece of Lemon cake, and Honey Nut cake, and bit sized tastes of Chocolate Ball (let's remember I'm talking about after yoga here, what happened to me after class, what I ate after class) we three yoginis were walking down the road trying to get away from the 2 crazy wedding processions, and a fellow decided to come too close to us, lean in and say something in Hindi.

I think he was offering to show us a good time, and you know, that's so bizarre. Usually guys want you to come home, meet their mother, and discuss your potential dowry worth. ha ha. As you can see, I'm tired of stupid men offering a good time. Next phrase to learn in Hindi: Don't promise what you can't provide, jackass. Hmmmm. Looks like I'm still annoyed. Yep, I can feel it. Still sore.

We ignored him. Then he decides to follow us. Bad move, Badri. Or whatever the hell your name might be, because Eufemia's blood hasn't completely cooled down. Oh, sure, that Lemon cake hit the spot and her dear female companions do wonders for her temperment, just their company alone brings down her blood pressure but now, you, no, no, no. You silly, foolish man. Your poor mother raised an idiot, would you like me to tell her that? Or why don't I just yell it out on the middle of Sadaar Bazaar Road?

Okay so I didn't yell that, I yelled "Get lost!" Several times in Hindi and in English. When he repeated my words in Hindi "Get lost?" with a tone like "Hey, you don't own this road woman, I can walk here if I like." I held up my water bottle (Nice weapon there Xena. Learned that in Martial Arts training, didja? A water bottle. Hey, it's a hard plastic one by Windriver Outfitters and I'm sure it would have hurt. A little. It even had some water in it.) and yelled "I MEAN IT!" in English.

Further down the road, we're trying to pass a wedding procession when a motorcyclist comes round the corner, complete with passenger. There is not even a foot of space for them to travel in, between me, the crowd watching the parade and the wedding procession, especially at this particular part of the wedding procession, where everyone's carrying lights that look like giant, tacky coffee table lamps run with cheap electrical cord back to the generator at the end of the line. The marching band at the front of the matrimonal march has stopped right here just to allow all the young men to spray foam in the air or on each other and dance their wild Bollywood on Steroids Dance - they do this every 20 feet, it seems. And there's another motorcycle, with another passenger right behind him. I'm trying to make sure the first motorist doesn't drive over my foot. I yell at him in Italian "What the hell do you think you're doing?" A gentleman standing off to the side, and trying to indicate an area where the motorists can pass through, puts up his hand and says "Calm down, madam, calm down."

I felt like shouting YOU CALM DOWN. But, fortunately, I didn't.

The day before this, on the way to Yoga, I had a 13 year old kid start following me, a freaking kid! He sees me, changes his course, and starts walking to intercept my path, but more like he would be right beside me or right behind me. I stopped and glared at him, the kid stopped for a moment, not knowing what to do. A gentleman coming from the other direction said something to the kid in Hindi, and the kid went back to his side of the road. The man smiled at me and said to me, as he was walking past "Sometimes, in India too many problems."

I thanked him profusely in Hindi and said in English, "You're right about that."

So now you know why I need the Yoga. I don't like my temper. I spent years pretending I didn't have one, and making lame excuses like "Oh, I'm Italian, it's in my blood. I'm just emotional." You say tomato, I say toe-mah-toe. I said emotional, when I really meant homicidal.

I was just having a bad nerves day.

The 32 Names of Durga

2008-02-24T07:33:00.001-08:00

Fan Who Shall Remain Nameless: So it's come to this has it? Thanks Eufemia, thanks a lot. There I was reading your blog with a degree of regularity, and totally devoted to you, ready to start your fan club and what happens? You bloody well stopped writing, hey? You couldn't haul your sorry butt out of bed to blog. Thanks for nothing.

Eufemia: Uhm, no wait, you don't understand...The cow ate my blog.

Fan: Excuse me? What kind of lame excuse is that? Cows eat plastic bags, not computer parts.

Eufemia: Oh, well, yes, you've got me there, but that's only because there are no computer parts in the street. Hey, by the way, I saw a herd of cows (Okay, make that 4 cows. What makes a herd? How would a person raised in the 'burbs know that?) running downhill, down the main road past my Hotel this morning, with several cars and motorcyclists right behind them. I thought it was the funniest thing I've seen in a while. Turns out cows can burn rubber, who knew?

Fan: I don't care. Don't try to Ghee me up with paltry little anecdotes now.

Eufemia: You're right, you're so right. The thing is, what happened was, well, gosh, I had my birthday and I'm still trying to figure out how to post the pictures to show you all (it would help if I could remember step 1: bring camera to internet shop) but seriously that one posted photo was a fluke, we're not sure how I got it to work.

And then, Kelly blew into town with Vinay - yes, Kelly from Rikhia Peeth, Ashram Kelly, as the locals started calling her. Kelly and Vinay came in with the northwind from Rishikesh. So we hung out, drinking chai, eating veggie naans and drinking lassi's. Then Kelly asked Swamiji if we could chant at his place. Swamiji totally went for it and the next thing I know, I'm getting up at 6 a.m. instead of 6:30 so I can make it to chanting before Yoga. Then, after a too few, too short days, like possibly a week, where they managed to squeeze in visits to a nearby gypsy village and a camel safari, Kelly and Vinay were gone like the wind. And what does Swamiji decide? We will continue chanting. "Yes, please. Chanting good for power, good for energy. Good for mental."

Isn't that funny, that's exactly how I would describe I'm feeling, totally mental.

But here's something funny - I'm not sure if I mentioned how it came to pass that Jessie, Sarah, Mincho & I are going to extra yoga practice with Swamiji? We were all sitting at the German Bakery one morning after practice, the bakery with the best chocolate croissants and also the bakery where I just got a massage last week (yep, you heard that right) and I said "Do you guys want to practice in the afternoons as well?" and we started discussing where we could practice. The next morning, Swamiji tells us four to come for an afternoon practice with him. It's happened a few times that he seems to pull it out of the ether, something we discuss becomes the topic during the next day's yoga class. Sometimes I feel like he pulls it out of my head. I know, I know, it sounds wacky even to me but I have no other explanation.

So the next thing I know, I'm chanting the 32 names of Durga in India. This is a chant I have loved from the first time I heard it.

I know, that's not a good excuse for not blogging, but heck, I've had it with excuses. And you know what else? I don't need an excuse. And another thing, I'm just explaining the situation here, o-kay? Sheesh. Some people. Just in case you thought I was going to bed late, sleeping in and partying my bindi'd face off, it's not like that at all.

We've all commented on how nice it would be to have a night of going out to listen to music and maybe even sleep in the next day, but so far, no can do...I believe Jessie even referred our current situation as "feeling like such a Granny." And when we walked back from Yoga yesterday and she said "I need to get some prunes," (when what she really meant was dates) I thought 'Well that's it. We've crossed over. '

I say again, I know. This post does not inspire even the world's smallest violin to play out a sad, grief-soaked warble of a melody. Don't cry for me, Canada. I was only looking to set the record straight. Better you should hear it straight from the cow's mouth, yes? Yes, I be thinking so to myself.

My new favourite greeting: "Hello madam...Cobra?" (response: "Nay, NAY!") NO, I don't feel like seeing a charmed cobra, even though I've heard they're so polite. I walked past one sticking it's head out of a basket last week and thought 'Nice cobra, good cobra. Be a good cobra, go back in your basket.' (Jessie told me the snakes are de-fanged and the reason they move so languidly to the music the men play is because they spend all their time trapped in the basket, then when they come out all groggy, it looks like the snake is being charmed.)

And I leave you all with the English translation of the Rosary of the 32 Names of Durga - may all her blessings rain down upon you. Until I post again, adieu. Parting is such sweet sorrow.

1. The Reliever of Difficulties 2. Who puts Difficulties at Peace 3. Dispeller of Difficult Adversities 4. Who cuts down Difficulties 5. The Performer of Discipline to Expel Difficulties 6. The Destroyer of Difficultes 7. Who holds the whip to Difficulties 8. Who sends Difficulties to Rain 9. Who measures Difficulties 10. Who makes Difficulties Unconcious 11. Who Destroys the World of Difficult Thoughts 12. The Mother of Difficulties 13. The Perception of Difficulties 14. The Intrinsic Nature of the Soul of Difficulties 15. Who Searches through Difficulties 16. The Knowledge of Difficulties 17. The Extrication from Difficulties 18. The continued existance of Difficulties 19. Whose Meditation Remains Brilliant When in Difficulties 20. Who Deludes Difficulties. 21. Who resolves Difficulties 22. Who is the Intrinsic Nature of the Object of Difficulties 23. The Annihiliator of the Egotism of Difficulties 24. Bearer of the Weapon Against Difficulties 25. The Refinery of Difficulties 26. Who is Beyond Difficulties 27. This Present Difficulty 28. The Empress of Difficulties 29. Who is Terrible to Difficulties 30. The Lady of Difficulties 31. The Illuminator of Difficulties 32. Who Cuts off Difficulties

So Said the Saddhu

2008-02-22T22:32:00.000-08:00

The Free Dictionary Definition of a Saddhu:
Noun 1. Saddhu - (Hinduism) an ascetic holy man
Hinduism - a body of religious and philosophical beliefs and cultural practices native to India and based on a caste system; it is characterized by a belief in reincarnation, by a belief in a supreme being of many forms and natures, by the view that opposing theories are aspects of one eternal truth, and by a desire for liberation from earthly evils.

The Eufemia Definition:
Noun 1. Those skinny guys in orange that shake their tins and ask for Bahksheesh. And what's bahksheesh, you wonder? I tried to get an explanation from Swamiji, who thinks that one of the biggest problems with India today is that the country is turning to the Wayward West for goals and standards, "and so, going into the toilet. But look, people in the West now chanting sanskrit and doing Yoga. Look, Indian people now lazy crazy." Swamiji doesn't like this baksheesh business.

Swamiji: Money....payment....extra money....pay and no problems.

Eufemia: Like a bribe?

Swamiji: No not bribe, bahksheesh.

Eufemia: Where I come from, we call that a bribe.

I tend to ignore all of these gentlemen, especially when they're calling out "Hello! HELL-O! Madam! MADAM! Money!" I make my peace with walking past and donating nothing because of the agressive nature of the request. At times I wanted to say "Mister, I gave at the office" or "You know what they say, charity begins at home" and see what would happen, but you know what they say, the best defense is to not to engage in offense.

According to the Lonely Planet, sometimes escaped convicts dress up in orange and wander around India dressed as these holy men. Wild huh? You couldn't really pull that rabbit out the Pope's enormous hat in the West, now couldja? Pass yourself off as a priest and Sandeep's your uncle. It's more of a concern in Rishikesh, I understand, but still, better safe than sari. (Ugh. oh no! I'm slipping, I know, but it's been a while of just dragging myself to yoga and dragging myself back, no energy for much thinking, for putting together sentences. No, complex thoughts be not formulating in my mind. It's beginning to get hot here, really hot during the day, though sometimes still cool at night. The Indians are dressed in bomber jackets and long pants as if it's freezing. It's at least 23 degrees Celsius by day, by my completely uneducated & totally clueless about 'The Nature of Things' opinion. Anyho, there I go again but just to verify what I was saying about being fried, today in Yoga Swamiji says "Mia, what happen? No power today.")

Oh, but speaking of being fried, I can't help this tangent: we wandered over to the Lotus today, me, Sarah & Jessie, just to see if we felt like having breakfast someplace other than Shiva Fast Foods (I really got cut back on those veggie naans. And the rose lassi's. And don't even think about asking me about the chocolate croissants. Just don't go there, okay?)

Jessie went in to the kitchen to ask if they had eggs. There are rumours of places that supply them. The kitchen staff didn't understand her. I pointed to the menu and said "Hey, look, it's right here on the menu." To which Jessie replied "That's Egg Plant." An easy mistake if you saw the way it was written out, on two lines. Certainly, a little confusing, I must say. But this is the town with "snakes" on the menu and tons of restaurants highly recommend their lentil deficacies.

A Western woman got up and asked what we were looking for, as if she was going to help us. Jessie tells her she's in search of an egg, and the woman says "No, they don't have eggs here." She makes a face like she just stepped in a fresh cow doody. I mean, she acted like we said we dance by the light of the Full Moon and worship the Devil.

Jessie said "Some places have them."

The woman looks even more horrified, like we've now said we're searching for stray puppies and kittens for our next sacrifice to the Dark Master. Seriously, I couldn't believe her reaction: "Well they're not supposed too, this is Pushkar. There are no eggs here."

Sure, sure, sistah - why don't you pull this finger - it's more flexible now that I'm going to Yoga. I felt like saying "and some restaurants supply water that tastes like beer and just exactly where is everyone getting their bang lassi from? Is it imported from Nepal?" And while I'm on this little rant, why is it okay to chase folks asking them for money, lie to them about it being festival time, ask them if they'd like to make an offering for their family and tell them to go down to the Lake for the Puja and them give them heck and tell them they have "very bad karma" because they're not making a big enough offering. Rupees don't grow on trees, you know, or the monkeys would be running the world. Hang on a second, I see a flaw in my logic....

The woman walks away, or I should say, sashays away, really, with an attitude like 'I straightened them out.' We all look at each other and Jessie says "Well, sometimes I don't take my shoes off when I'm crossing the bridge either." What a rebel, hey? I love this girl.

But back to my orginal story: a few days ago, I was walking past the gate into the main part of town (when I say gate, you should be picturing four ugly orange metal bars sticking up out of the ground with one large crossbar on top, it seems to work as a speed bump, not a real gate, nothing ornate or beautiful like you might see in a Merchant Ivory Film, no, no.) and there was a saddhu sitting on the shrine (when I say shrine, you should picture a concrete block painted white, and tiled with images of Ganesha and Hanuman but mostly Shiva. Under a small silver roof shaped like the domes on Taj Mahal, there is a Shivalinga in the centre, "a symbolic representation of the way Shiva is worshipped. A yin-yan symbol portraying the eternal embrace of cosmic masculine and feminine higher forces & creative power" - quote from Yoga School Dropout) Often there are several such saddhus hanging out around the Shivalinga, smoking chillum, getting into the zone, I guess you could say. Using the straight dope method of realising God conciousness.

I was walking past with Jessie, and there was only one lone saddhu sitting there. I was in mid-sentence, saying something to her when I used the word "Nothing" and the saddhu calls out "What?"

I turned my head towards him and repeated "Nothing," not wanting to get into a conversation.

"Nothing, " he said "This world is nothing."

Just thought you might all like to know.

Notice To Tourist

2008-02-21T06:59:00.000-08:00

Here you go, straight from the sign leading to Sadaar Bazaar Road, the market-hang-out-tourist area of town. The sign is red, with white writing.

Office of the Municipal Board, Pushkar
Notice to Tourist Do's & Don'ts
Nagar Palika, Pushkar, extends gratitude and heartflet welcome to all pilgrims and foreign tourists, to sacred and spiritual city of Pushkar.

No photography of bathing women folk at Ghats (sacred steps) at Sarovar

Respect religious & spiritual sanctity

No vulgarity, no smooching and no hugging at Ghats

Consumption of alcohol, drugs and non-vegetarian food is strictly prohibited

Dress up decently in public places and do not embrace

Keep your shoes off Sarovar water

Help us in maintaining cleanliness of city and lake

No cereals, flour pills etc to fishes

Say no to polythene bags

Do not let your cattle to come into streets

No encroachment on Paika Land.

Defaulter will be penalised.

I was so panicked about my cattle escaping the Hotel, making for town and starting off some kind of bovine duel, locking horns and the turf war would just be unreal. I don't need those kinds of problems here. I mean, who does?

So You Know The Full Story

2008-02-15T00:47:00.000-08:00

I thought I should give you some updates on characters you've met on the blog. May I just say here, reader's discretion is advised. I'm not sure what you'll think of me afterwards, but let's just say, I've handled many moments in India with much less grace and patience than I ever imagined possible. I mean, these are strangers, not family fer gosh sakes, where you have a built-up history of emotional bloodletting.

Annu of the excruciating massage, and her husband, were fired. I asked about them after not seeing them around for several days. Rakesh told me, "She not good, she corrupted." Then, after blissfully not seeing them for a week, Mr. Armpit returned. He really, really bugs me. Just seeing his face annoys me, I can't tell you how much, because then I would just seem petty. And he constantly says "Namaste Ji" and "Ap Kaise Hai?" to me. Ji is only used as a term of respect. And who does he think he's kidding? He's not exactly pulling the turban over my eyes. I always worry that with him I'll use the bad language I learned. In case of an emergency, just break class. Go vulgar.

The little kid I wanted to kill, the one who 'went vulgar' in English and who I still think about, I've seen him again and again. When I think about him, I think about how someone had to teach him that phrase in our language, understand? Run in # 2 was him cutting me off as I was walking to Yoga class, pointing to biscuits at the store on the corner and starting up his whole spiel again. I decided not to let it affect me, so I said "Oh, it's you. Imagine running into you here, what a surprise." I got as far as saying "What a sur-" when the shopkeeper came out of nowhere, I mean he was faster than the Flash, and wacked the kid several times across his head with his shoe. The look on my face, and the kid's face, not that different, even though it was fear on the kid and horror on mine. The kid ran off. I kept walking and five feet from where it happened, I burst out laughing. I felt as though I had a case of mild hysteria. Look, you and I both know it wasn't funny, it was shock.

The next day I was walking with Jessie when the kid approached us. I pointed him out, and she recognised him from her encounters with him. He started in towards me and Jessie said "No" to him, so he demonstrated for her the Yoga Mudra known as "flipping the bird".

Two days after that, I was at the sweetstall when he approached me. He tugged on my sleeve and kept saying "Me hungry, no money, just giving food, good for you feed me. Me hungry." I said "No, jallo" (Go away)

"Why jallo? Me hungry"

"Because of what you said to me"

"I no remember you"

"Don't worry, I remember you."

"Where?"

"Near Vishnu Temple"

"I no remember. I hungry"

"I'm not buying you anything."

I almost said 'Ask me if I care'. I have these moments where I'm not sure who I am here, at all.

I'm bent on avoiding eye contact, not just with the beggars, or the gypsies who try and grab your hands, or with the shop clerks with their annoying "Excuse me! Excuse me, please!" and the priests/saddhus in orange, shaking their tin cans at me as I walk past, saying "Hell-oh! Hell-oh! Money! Money!" very agressively. The times that I did give something, or buy food, it wasn't enough. I still find it embarrassing, to be one of these people sitting at a sidewalk cafe (okay, sitting on the road, every cafe, juice bar, Naan stand, it's all on the road) who ignores the beggar children. Or the gyspy women asking you to buy them chapatis. I think embarrassing is the word I was searching for, I'm not sure.

It's extremely exhausting, and that's with me not even telling you about the run ins with shopkeepers and tailors and the way that while Pushkar is a shopper's paradise, it's not really set up for you to try clothes on, no, just pull a flimsy curtain across and yet, you're not really protected from someone's prying eyes.

Here's something else I think about: last week, Jessie and I went to the one ATM machine here, which sometimes works, sometimes doesn't. (50% of the time seems to be the average) On our way there, I saw this small monkey lying on the ground in front of a temple, and I said:

"Oh, look at that monkey sleeping," I thought it was so cute, it wasn't a baby, but it wasn't a full grown monkey.

"Where?" says Jessie.

As I point out the monkey to her, a woman sitting nearby in a group of women says, "Dead."

"Dead?" I asked, but I had already realised it myself. It wasn't moving, and while I know nothing about monkeys, they wouldn't be lying on the ground like that. And, as Jessie noted, there were quite a few flies on it.

"Electricity" continued the woman, and she pointed to the wires above us. Everywhere I've been in India, I think the wires hang dangerously low, and then monkeys use them, run along them and jump off them, flying through the air with the greatest of ease, those daring young monkeys don't need no trapeze.

Then the woman pointed up to the rooftop corner of the temple, where the monkey's mother was sitting, looking around as if she was lost and didn't know what to do.

Two weeks before this as I sat at Baba's Restaurant, I watched for an hour as mother monkeys grabbed their baby monkeys, clutched them to their chest and jumped across the road. I was totally thrilled, and it's easy to admire primates from afar. Okay they weren't that far away, and let's remember rabies shots have to be adminstered in your belly button, Argh! Argh! but still, I felt safe. Apparently, you should never smile at a monkey because you think it's cute. Showing teeth to a monkey is like saying "Your sister's an ape" and the monkey will react by baring it's teeth and saying "Bring it on, homo sapien"

I never know when it's enough, and I should really quit while I'm behind. It's just that I felt so saddened by the scene of the mother monkey keeping watch from afar over the still, lifeless body of her offspring, and I couldn't shake the feeling for the rest of the day.

I'm surrounded by grand scale human suffering but I couldn't stop thinking about the monkey. What does that tell me about me?

So now you know the full story. Sort of.

The Merchant of O

2008-02-14T00:47:00.000-08:00

Perhaps you've heard of the book The Story of O, another example of how the French sometimes freak me out. Sometimes, they intimidate the heck out of me, with their innate fashion sense and good taste, a je ne sais quoi sensibility is all I can call it, while I struggle to look like I have aquired a sense of self. (By the way, I had no idea before coming here, but it turns out Northern India is mostly populated by the French and Israelis. And of course, some Indians.)

Admittedly, I often rely on my choice of hair products to get this message of Buddha-like bravado across, and if you ask me, it doesn't always transmit. There's only so much an Anti-Frizz Serum can do for a gal, and in a climate like the Wet Coast's, well that's an uphill battle. New title of my auto-biography: Me and Sisyphus, We're Like This. (The image on the book cover would be the middle finger wrapped around the index finger.)

There I go, off on a tangent again. I just wanted to share this Ad, 1/4 of a page size, from the back of the Times of India, a paper that appears to be a cross between a gossip magazine and crossword puzzle. Seriously, it's the weirdest newspaper I've ever read. I think it makes the National Enquirer look like The Herald Tribune. Enough said. The advertisement:

Merchants of Orgasm

India's Most Wanted Gigolos - Life of Lust and Luxury
The New G-Spots: Gigolos are the Playmates of Rich Urban Women.

in THIS WEEK: Journalism with a Human Touch*

*as opposed to what exactly? The touch of a monkey? They haven't exactly proven that a room full of monkeys can produce The Merchant of Venice, y'know? I imagine this magazine would be like the unwanted spawn of People Magazine marrying Time Magazine. It appears to take after it's mother.

I went to great lengths to copy down this ad copy while attempting to appear non-chalant. Because it really stood out as an ad, red background with white writing. I nearly said "What is with this wacked out stuff?" to the fellas at Funky Monkey but I thought it best I just keep a low profile about how this is freaky in a place where there's all this bizarre repression/expression of desire. I have no other way to describe it. This is India, land of arranged marriages, dowry murders, bramacharya, and the kama sutra. I don't know if it's something in the water, but then again, I'm still in the desert. I'm totally fascinated and completely confused.

Natasha (Poi Goddess Extraordinaire) said she's trying to normalise behaviour with men here, like hugging them in greeting, and helping to ensure they don't drool or overdo it when foreign woman walk by, she's attempting to show them how their abnormal behaviour freaks us out. I wish her luck on that mission.

I've heard stories, mind you, where a conversation appears to look like an engagement to the gentleman in question. Oh, right, I think I heard that story from Natasha too, about the young woman at her hotel who had to advise the staff not to let a certain man past reception, and how the man flipped out and struck a hotel staff member because he was keeping him from his 'girlfriend'. They had maybe two conversations, which I could have been as deep as "Which country are you from?" and "What is your name?" possibly while he followed her up the street. Hard to say. I know, now I'm just planting ideas of this story in your head, but if you were here, you wouldn't think it was that far-fetched at all. Kooky, yes, far-fetched, no.

Jessie's Mandarin phrasebook- hey, did I mention she's trained as a Traditional Chinese Medicine practitioner & that I got an accupunture treatment with her? She was brilliant, and it was awesome. Sure, there was that moment when I opened my eyes and saw little needles sticking out of me. I closed them again jaldi, jaldi (quickly, quickly). There I go again...

Anyho- (Gosh, you know, you shouldn't let me go on like this, it's so rude of me, and a good friend would let me know I have a problem) Jessie's Madarin phrasebook had a section titled Romance, with translations for: Mmmmm... feels good and Will you go to bed with me?

Where's the romance you ask? Good question. I don't know why they didn't just call it the Sex Section. Or the Please Ladies, Be Act Like They Do in Hollywood Movies and Be Having Sex Here Please Okay?

I mean, real-lee. Gimme a break. See what happens when you arrange marriages? Ludicrous things happen. And I say that as the product of an arranged marriage, so, that should carry more weight shouldn't it? I'm not shoulding you, but I think you might want to answer the question. No pressure.

I'm (insert here)____________ than anyone else aren't I?

Insert Selection List:
1. more aware
2. more in tune with the Universe
3. more advanced in the spiritual evolution chain
4. a bigger smarty pants
5. more obsessed with hair products

So, yeah, I think that proves I know nothing what of I speak.

Oh, yes, Happy Valentine's Day. Romantic post huh?

I Kid You Nahee

2008-02-13T00:26:00.001-08:00

From the Business Section of The Times of India (the section is called Times Ascent: Potential Beyond Boundaries) Wednesday February 13th edition, comes the following:

Hide & Seek

In recent years, employees doing the 'disappearing act' have become a nuisance in several organisations. It gets even worse when these absconding employees come back much later to claim unfair dismissal. Yasmin Taj tries to delve deeper into this menace of vanishing employees.

What do you do when an employee simply fails to return to work and remains absent for some time? What is the exact law for termination of absconding cases? According to Dr. Tushar Guha, Corporate Trainer and Management Director, Nrityanjali Management Services, "When an employees remains absent for sometime with any intimation, the employer has to act in the following manner. Firstly, on the second day of absence, the employer should contact the employee telephonically. If telephonic contact is not possible, then send an official letter within 2-3 days. Even further no response is received; send an official letter which should be registered. The letter must enquire the reasons of absence and also mention the consequences. After a week of sending the first letter, the second letter should follow stating the necessity to appoint a new candidate to the post. Finally, seek legal advice and accordingly act to terminate the services."

Gosh. I don't know what to tell you all, except that I became fascinated by this article, and even so, I could not finish reading it, because, well, you've seen an excerpt, it's not an easy read. One has to wade through the murkiness of the stilted English. (To say nothing of the "that's just plain wrong". Yes, plain wrong, that's proper English, pass the Devonshire cream proper, you follow? Got it? And yes, the door is ajar.)

I don't know how many times I've read the word pundit in the Times, countless, it seems, and I still haven't looked up the definition of the word. It's hard not to see a word like pundit and read "putz", because I never use the former but the latter I have many a time, e.g: What a putz, I'm such a putz, what's new putzy cat, woa woa woa-ooh.

I'm absolutely fascinated by this newspaper, but it gives me a headache trying to read a full article. Sometimes, I read the personals, ads for products and the advice section since they're short little blurbs and I'm totally entertained.

Your Honours, I offer the following evidence*:

Say Yes Because: You can make shopping a full-time hobby

Who doesn't love shopping? Don't you wish that is all you could do all day long? It's simple to turn then to turn this once-in-a-while joy into a full-time hobby without worrying about the money or the time. Leave it to your hubby to do the earning as you splurge away. And isn't this the best way to pass the time as your husband is sitting in office and you are alone at home with not much to do! What's more, you can take him along once in a while and get him to present you the stuff you like. Turning into a shopaholic was never this easy!

If you have any fun reasons to say yes, send your entries to (Email address withheld) The Times of India with "Say Yes Because" in the subject line.

I'm not passing that address on, no way. Here's what I'm thinking: I know some pranksters. And in the event that any one of them got a bright idea, and decided to contact the advice column editor, and next thing I know, this editor suddenly gets flooded like season of the monsoon with suggestions, I don't want that on my pundit head.

*Please note, the evidence was copied word for word, any errors in grammar and cohesion are soley the responsibility of the aforementioned newspaper, not the author of this blog.

A Man for All Problems, Act 1, Scene 1

2008-02-11T23:01:00.000-08:00

a very very short short new filmscript by Eufemia Fantetti

Inspired by a true story

Cast of Characters:

Fifiji: A self-named Canadian spiritual aspirant. While her name does not carry the gravity or beauty of names like Muktidharma (path of liberation) or Bhakti (devotion), it suits her perfectly. (Fifiji= At one with the chocolate croissant) She is a chocoholic, which sometimes makes her feel depressed but then she pretends it's no big deal, and thanks the Heavens above that she's not an alcoholic or workaholic, because that would be detrimental to her health. Fifiji is has many concerns around being healthy.

Mr. Multitasking Bonesetter-Astrologer: (aka Bonehead) Owner of the Hotel where Fifiji currently resides. A portly fellow, often looks like he could use a shave and angioplasty. Often has a cranky expression on his face, and his regular speaking volume could be referred to as 'bellowing.' Mr. Bonehead's business card lists his impressive skillset: Cheopractor [sic], Faith Healer, Tradition Bonesetter, Astrologer.

Setting:

The entranceway of the Hotel, next to the Hanuman Shrine. Midday. Note: The scene could easily take place in the Hotel's All You Can Eat Buffet-Courtyard area, which is described as 'The Universal Gathering in a Venue which is close to nature and close to the truth'. This would be up to the Director to decide. (P.S: Mr. Spielberg, please put all future calls through to my agent, you're wasting my time and yours with all these casual chats about the weather. It's the desert, what did you think it would be like? Crikey!) Fifiji has decided this description of a "garden where no garden exists" is a lark, a sign of group delusion. The only closeness to nature is the new turtle that the Hotel owner purchased as a mascot/pet. The turtle and the German Shepard hound should not be shown as friendly or frolicking, because they don't at all. This would be a gross misrepresentation of the truth, and this story is after all, inspired by truthiness.

Fifiji enters from the Hotel courtyard, sees Bonehead and nods in recognition, out of politeness.

Fifiji: Namaskarji, Ap kaise hai? (Greetings Highly-Respectable Sir, How are you?)

Bonehead: Ah, blah blah blah blah blah blah ki blah blah blahji blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. Blah blah?

Fifiji: (madly flipping through her Hindi phrasebook) Uhm, sorry. Kya? (What?)

Bonehead: Bah blah blah understand?

Fifiji: No. Nahee. Not one word except the one you used in English.

Bonehead: (indicating he needs to see Fifiji's palm) Energy! there is blah blah block blah blah blah tikka power blah blah blah shakti blah.

Fifiji: Kya? Say again?

Bonehead: Do you know what means energy?

Fifiji: Yes, I know what energy is, it's the power that shuts off every day from 11 a.m. to almost 5 p.m., and the reason everything runs by insanely loud generators, and the reason why I've lost emails when the batteries die at the internet.

Fifiji is particularly touchy about this last point, especially when the internet providers all say "Maybe you touched something? A wire?" "Nahee milega, not possible. I'm only touching the keyboard" is her usual reply. She would like to say, "If you don't think I know you're all bold-face lying to me, you are all touched in the head." But in the interest of keeping everybody happy, a struggle Fifiji has been through more lifetimes than she can count, she stays silent.

Bonehead: Nay, blah blah blah electric energy, blah blah blah, blah blahti ki blah.

Bonehead is adamantly trying to indicate Fifiji's palm, her core energy, possibly her joie de vie, her energetic body, which is subtler than the physical body, sometimes referred to as the gross body, how apropos. Fifiji has felt the gross body crumble under the weight of regular Yoga classes.

Fifiji is confused, but understands that while she has decided to stay at this hotel, meaning this hotel owner would be getting her repeat customer business for the next 5 weeks, he was still trying to give her the business.

Fifiji: I'm sorry, I don't understand you. I practice Yoga, that helps my energy.

Bonehead: Yoga? Where?

Fifiji: The other side of Pushkar Lake. With Swamiji.

Bonehead: Which Swami?

Fifiji gives Bonehead a look that says 'the one in orange, moron.'

Fifiji: Swami Shayam Lal

Bonehead: (shaking his head) Yoga is one thing, energy is another.

Fifiji: Yoga is very good for the health.

Bonehead: Energy also important.

Fifiji begins to feel an energetic chain reaction moving through her chakras, one similar to the one in which Bruce Banner must experience when he morphs into the Incredible Hulk , but Fifiji was never in a labratory during an experiment gone horribly wrong. No, never. Okay, yes, she nearly fainted from the smell of formaldehyde in Grade 12 Biology, and accepted a failing mark for the section rather than dissecting a rat, but that's as bad as Fifiji's lab life ever got.

Cue to swell the dramatic music here, author's suggestion: Wagner's The Ride of the Valkyries. Hey, it's just a suggestion.

Close up on Fifiji's face as we see the struggle for her to remain calm. Her nostrils flare a little. Her brow creases. Her internal thoughts might be: No! NO! Stay calm Fifiji! Be like Buddha, aware, calm, calm, tranquil. Be like a lotus in a pond. Fifiji is trying to avoid narrowing her eyes, so that her glare doesn't turn deadly like her mother's, the former Cyclops of Toronto.

Bonehead: Energy is important.

Bonehead sees this conversation is having no impact on Fifiji. Except, if he could truly read energy levels, he would back away slowly, with no sudden movements, as her heart rate has accelerated to a level one might describe as 'murderous' or 'muderess'. Wait for it. It's only a matter of time. He tries another tactic.

Bonehead: (accusingly) You learning Hindi. Why?

Fifiji: So I can understand what men are saying when I walk by. And so I can answer any questions they might be asking me about the weather, my homeland, and my sexual preferences.*

* I said inspired by the truth, didn't I? Not based on.

I mean, I wish I had said the second sentence, really, really wish I'd thought of it before I'd walked away. Dontcha hate those moments where later you've got the perfect reply? Perfect is pushing it, I know, but it made me laugh to think what his face might have registered, but it's best I didn't think of it, as he would have misunderstood me. That's an every day occurence here, even when I keep my head down, avoid eye contact, and say absolutely nothing. Sigh. As my hero Bugs Bunny used to say: Don't take life too seriously. You'll never get out alive.

So, what do you think? Let's keep in mind, it's only a first draft, needs a bit of spit and polish.

Luckily for me, I'm in the horking and spitting capital of the world.

Camels and Cobras and Cows, Oh my!

2008-02-09T01:00:00.000-08:00

Dorothy: Lions?

Scarecrow: And tigers?

Tin Woodsman: And bears.

Dorothy: Oh My!

What the heck were they worried about? Have you seen Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back? Everytime a camel passes me on the road, I'm thinking of those Tauntauns, the giant snow lizards used by the Rebel Alliance to patrol planet Hoth. And I'm not the only one, Natasha, the Poi-teaching Goddess, mentioned it to me as well. I have a feeling these enormous mammals are going to band together and revolt. Mark my words, one day it will be "Camel Safari my two humps! We're taking back this desert state," while they join together and put on the first ever Camel-rebellion-stampede. It could get ugly. Some folks might live to tell the tale, the cautionary tale, of what happens when mammals at the top of the food chain enslave other mammals, critters who were minding their own business before they started working for the man.

Some more quotes I wanted to pass on:

Aryan from the Funky Monkey on Mutual of Omaha's Wild India: "India is a place where you can see every animal in the street. Cows, cats, dogs, camels, monkeys, snakes, everything is here." Back up, I think I missed something in my Lonely Bozos Guide for Highly Anxious & Excitable Types. Did you say snakes? And presumably Aryan didn't mean the SNAKES that I've seen on the menu, after the section "Hot Drinks" (Reading menus is my newest hobby, after Cow Gazing - ha ha, are you reading to smack me yet?)

Swamiji on Italy: I go, I was one time Italy, student there. She to me say come and I go, passport make with wife and okay teach yoga. Everywhere I go, they making pasta. I no want pasta, I want chapati. They no can make. okay, class tomorrow same time. Ciao.

Swamiji on Yoga:This science you can make, no matter Hindu or Muslim, everybody can do. See Shiva Temple, see Brahma Temple and what this temple you no see, so what (He points to himself) Your mind are go away from the body, and then sickness, disease, yoga bring you back to you pavillion.

Swamiji to Eufemia: Yes, please, Canada? Something in this position feel? Yes, actually, I feel I need a team of guys with a bamboo stretcher to carry me back to the Hotel.

Eufemia to Swamiji after seeing his black and white photo from 40 years ago: Wow, you could have been a Bollywood star!

Swamiji's reply: Yes, many people saying so and in fact stage actor in Mumbai was.

Eufemia to the 15 year kid being sassy to her in Hindi: Kya bayai? (What brother?) Is there a problem?" Just a sidebar here: "What, brother?" is what Babu taught me to say instead of "Would you say that to your sister, jerk?" Turns out my instincts were bang on, the worst thing you can call a man in India is a horrible name that implies he's had improper relations with his sister.

I didn't ask for that term, and no one's going to teach it to me anyway, because that would be brutal and I'm not interested in being harsh. I just wanted to show I have a backbone and I'm not an idiot and sure, I don't mind throwing them off a little, unsettling them the same way they love to unsettle foreign women by walking right behind them, especially at night, the raht-bastards. (Raht means night. I'm good huh? No? Too much? I'm going overboard aren't I? Oh, when will this never ending need for approval cease?)

All the guys at the Hotel let me practice my Hindi with them, it makes them laugh their heads off. And a few have said, "Please, don't get into a fight if someone upsets you." Of course, I said, there's no problem really, unless someone pisses me off. Babu shook his head like "this one's nuts." I did manage to unsettle the kid, and his friend pulled him away saying "No problem, no problem." I wanted to say, "I should hope not, for both our sakes, I don't want your lifeless body on my karma," but I left it alone and asked the shopkeeper "How much for the Snickers bar?"

Babu on Eufemia speaking Hindi: "I think better if you not speaking Hindi in the market."
This is not, as some might think, because my Italian pronunciation problem has followed me to Hindi. No, I flat out asked them not to teach me words that could be misunderstood, but good luck, nahee milheghe (not possible). For example, one slight error in pronouncing the word 'brother' results in me calling someone an illiterate peasant. Not good, not good. Babu's advice is based on the fact that some people (men, it's only ever men) "will maybe come stand too close to you." And according to Babu, they might be thinking you here looking for boyfriend, or want to know how you know Hindi, think something is wrong how you learning. Nice, huh? He also told me,"Change your personality. Maybe not be so friendly while you here."

Recently overheard in Yoga class: "Dard, Swamiji, Dard!" (Pain, Swamiji, Pain!) Technically, I didn't overhear this, no, no. I wasn't eavesdropping or anything like that. No, I believe that was my voice, yep that was me, shouting it out. Oh what a melodrama queen I am. 'Shouting' is an exageration. I was just expressing my concern, loudly, as Swamiji tried to assist me in a position that required the back of my head to arch back and touch my big toe. My head was thinking "NO, DEAR GOD NO!" I shudder to think what my big toe was thinking, we're not on speaking terms right now. I did overhear Sarah, in the same position, under similar duress, say "Baba...I...can't....breathe." Swamiji's reply to both of us was the same, "Yesss."

Sarah coins a new expression while walking down Sadaar Bazaar Road: "Why am I always caught between a motorcycle and a bull's ass?" You better believe I'm going to start using this phrase more than 'between a rock and a hard place', because I have experienced it myself, many times, with a knot in my stomach. In fact, I was caught in the same "traffic jam", if you will, right behind her. If I had to think about it, though, it's still preferable to being caught between a cart and a camel.

Mukesh on the double wedding parade passing by his shop: "Two men. Going to be hung." "Isn't this a wedding procession?" I ask. "Yes," he laughs, "Their lives are over. Actually in India we say this, marriage is like laddus, you know, sweets?" (Yup, I know sweets, we're on a first name basis, me and the sweets. In fact I can hear them calling me now.) "Marriage is like laddus, very sweet life, good life if you can have it. But, also good if you don't have it." "Right, like no wife, no life, no husband, no headache," I say. Mukesh smiles and shakes my hand, "Yes, just like. See, they go be hanged, because when you not married, you head is high, head will be down after married, you look all time at the ground" He acts this out by looking up and beaming, and then gazing at the ground, totally devoid of any happiness. I mention it to the fellas at the Hotel, and Mahesh makes a gesture where his index finger slices across his throat, like "those poor fellas aren't going to be hung, they're going to be beheaded." So I say "Yeah, well, no husband, no headache." Like that old Sanskrit saying goes: What's good for the Cow is good also for her to admit when she's hearing a lot of Bull. I know, it loses something in the translation.

Seen at the Ayurvedic clinic: Chyavam Yog, for Vim, Vigour and Vitality. As my fellow non-fictionites will now realise, I am in aliteration Heaven here!

Suresh to Eufemia: Tumsay muhophat. Translation, learned from Rakeesh "I love you". Suresh had also said this to me in English moments before, and I replied "Who's teaching you English?" Because so far, all my conversations with this 18 year old kid (who looks like he's possibly 12 years old at max) have been "You fine?" "Fine" "you?" "Fine!". Suresh works in the Hotel kitchen, and I wanted to adopt him, and now, well, I'm not so sure. I'm not into Greek tragedies. There's a lot of red-tape around that kind of thing anyways. So I asked Rakeesh, "Does Suresh know what he's saying?" as it seemed very unlikely. "Yes," he says "Why not?" Because where I come from, you don't say that to a guest at the Hotel, it's considered a bit, uhm, I don't know, peculiar.

Aryan from Funky Monkey, teaching Jessie and Eufemia things to say when men pester them: Tum kya daiko? Translation: What are you looking at? The other stuff he taught us I can't repeat, and I thought it was unneccessary until Jessie said "Have you been groped yet?" "Ah, no." "You'll need Kali then." Okay then. What's the Hindi for "Do you plan on having children?" or "Do you want your blood on my hands?"

We Now Return You to Your Regularly Scheduled Blog

2008-02-09T00:00:00.000-08:00

Didja miss me?

I missed you too.

Well, my cough came back, the very next day, I thought it was a goner but the cough came back, it just wouldn't stay away.

So Jessie and I went to the pharmacy next to the Free Ayurvedic Clinic, got a free consultation, and I walked away with 17 days of herbal medication, pills, cold balm and cough syrup for 500 rupees. ($15) The herbal concoction, which I watched him mix up with a mortar and pestle, contained gold. I double checked "Gold, like the jewellery?" and he said "Yes." It was all powder and items that looked like pepper seeds being cracked.

From my pulse he diagnosed that my digestion is problematic, there's too much heat in my blood, and that I'm anaemic. I just went in asking for a tea for the cough, and he said "Only gives relief, not cure." So, I'll let you know what happens...

It's still a bit chilly in the desert. Today, after 11 consecutive days of Yoga at least once a day and 6 of twice a day, we were given the day off.

I know, 11 days! Where's the real Eufemia and what have you done with her? To be honest, by the end I was bawling my eyes out and only with Sarah's support did I make it to one afternoon class, which was thankfully cancelled due to the Northwind coming in from Dehli.

I went because the binge that would have happened had I not gone would have been ugly, so Sarah suggested I would just go and watch, and soak up the Swamiji atmosphere.

Swamiji said to me: "Can see in your face, sad. Not attaching to this pain. Just notice, see, not attach."

I was too exhausted to say "I'm not attaching to the pain, it's attaching itself to every cell and muscle in my being." But really, I was also crying because I was thinking "Here I am again, coming up against the same thing. Feel physical pain and I'm off, I want to bow out of everything. I want food. I WANT FOOD! Oh noooooo, I am crazy lazy." My thoughts have never been my friends. And yet I keep hanging out with them. Sigh.

Also, it's hard to listen to Swamiji tell you you're weak, even when it's true, even when he means physically, even when he's saying it with total kindness and love. But then, I'm plucky. Or driven. Or something, I think. I'm something. I'll let you know what when I figure it out.

Ah well, about the blogging, the frequency dropped as the Yoga picked up, and then there's the fabulous Poi instruction from Natasha. Honestly, I'm feeling extrememly blessed, so no worries, those outbursts of tears are just old behaviour patterns rearing their ugly appetite. (Also see posts: Chocolate Croissants, milk sweets, Eufemia's eating habits)

Sarah thinks my spiritual name will now be Yogini Poi Yogini. Suits me nicely, I think.

Please see: http://poipixies.com/poipixietribe.html for Natasha and Matthew's fabulous video of their time in Pushkar, and you'll see why I love this place.
Please see: http://www.unionphotographers.com/india2007/ for Holly Truchan's fantastic photos from her time in India (I miss you, Holly!) This photo series includes the shot "Eufemia is traumatised by Traffic in Kolkata"

We Interrupt Your Regularly Scheduled Blog

2008-02-08T08:03:00.000-08:00

Oh my dears, I apologise for the slow down in posting entries. As Swamiji would say, "Not to worrying be" I haven't been run over by a motorist or camel.

I'm trying to recuperate from this on and off cough/cold, mostly off, but I catch a chill whenever there's a 'problem with the hot water now'. I usually find out about the problem after I'm already in the shower, freezing, even though I always ask "Abi gaaram paani?" or "Gaaram paani milega?" (Now hot water? or Hot water is possible?) Of course, the reply is that hot water is always possible. Here's another funny saying I've learned, relating specifically to accomodations across the subcontinent:

Full Power
24 hour
No toilet
No shower

So I'm bundling off to bed, and not to worrying be, peeps. Everything's atcha. (good)