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.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
And the band played on
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!"
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.
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, heyEve 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.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
You Said It, Mirabai
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:
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
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Ball of Confusion, That's What Eufemia is today, hey, hey
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.
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
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Heidi of the Himalayas
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.
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.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
The 32 Names of Durga
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
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
Friday, February 22, 2008
So Said the Saddhu
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.")
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.
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.
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