Word Meanings

A few days ago I was wandering around taking photographs at a huge Eucharist being held in the Don Bosco square up the street from the college. It seemed like every Catholic in northeast India had turned out to take communion. The streets were packed. 

 

When I got back to my cottage and downloaded my photos, I noticed that with all the thousands of people in the streets, I had continually focused on solitary souls--or were they lonely? 

 

Because I couldn’t figure it out on my own, I turned to the dictionary to tell me. “You can be in the midst of a crowd of people and still experience loneliness, but not solitude, since you are not physically alone. Similarly, if you enjoy being alone, you can have solitude without loneliness.” 

 

So, since we’re in Shillong surrounded by people, I must assume that it’s lonely people. But what if they don’t mind being alone? Can they be solitary in a city?

 

“Loneliness, which refers to a lack of companionship and is often associated with unhappiness, should not be confused with solitude, which is the sate of being alone or cut off from all human contact.”

 

Neither seemed to quite fit. So, I tried synonyms and found: alienation, “a word that suggests a feeling of unrelatedness, especially a feeling of distance from your social or intellectual environment.”

 

And it hit me. Was I taking photos of my own feelings of alienation? It’s easy to find metaphors when you have a lot of time on your hands.

 

Shortly after moving back to Susanville a couple years ago, I spoke with one of the Mt. Shasta monks about the overwhelming feelings of loneliness I was experiencing and she answered, “How wonderful! Embrace it. Welcome it. It’s trying to teach you something. Learn from it.”

Blood and Sacrifice

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Maybe it was the full moon that prompted me to stay for the goat sacrifice after the Nongrem Dance. Or maybe I felt I needed to open myself up to all sides of Khasi culture.  Or maybe there’s something in the nature of sacrifice that I’m trying to understand. Or what’s behind killing an animal. I’ve admired the Khasi’s reverence for nature, their care taking of the forest. Blood sacrifice is part of it. So I stayed in Smit Village well after dark, because an animal sacrifice must certainly take place after the moon has risen.

The Nongrem Dance, an annual dance of harvest and thanksgiving, continued all day with colorful, hypnotic, fugue-like choreography. After sunset, the entire village took on a slightly surreal ambience and reminded me of a night I spent in Michoacán, Mexico that I only remember as “the witches’ village.” Fires burning in dark streets. Scent of cedar. Someone told me that sometimes people go there and are never seen again. Only in Michoacán it was women I remember who filled up the street. In Smit, there were lots of men, many of them singing loudly or passed out on the grass after a long day of imbibing in the local rice beer. 

Then the music started. I’ve been reading a book, The Evolution of Khasi Music, by Layynashai Syiem, so I think it began with the ka shawiang, a mournful flute used during death and religious ceremonies. A single drumbeat joined in and the village headmen in white turbans filed out into their seats, a golden goblet on the ground before each of them. Someone started a fire in the center of the field and the incessant doleful music kept on.

The goats were hauled in one by one with ropes, bleating and struggling. They knew what was in store. Fortunately, they did them in quickly, one quick beheading with the ax followed by a round of gunshot to signal their end. And the people surged forward, holding the smallest children on their shoulders for a better view.

As soon as they started dragging the first goat in, I knew I had to get out of there. It had been a bad idea to stay, but the place was packed; I couldn’t move. And with the first bloodshed, the crowd surged forward, yelling and cheering.

I don’t get violence, although I’ve been around my share of violent people, mostly, but not always, men. I get that blood unleashes some primal call of human nature, but that gene seems to have missed me. Before long there was a bloody circle around the headmen who sat impassively and watched. And still they dragged in more and more goats. I hear the final count was over 60. I was gone before they started on the chickens.

I rarely eat meat any more, but haven’t crossed over 100% to a vegetarian diet so it would be hypocritical to say I oppose slaughter of any kind. I’ve always felt hunting or raising your meat was a more honest way of going about it than buying a plastic-wrapped package from the grocery store. I once popped off a dozen quail, plucked and dressed them and simmered them in plum brandy sauce so I could experience the entire range of preparing a meal from live bird to French cooking. And I know those goats will feed villages all over Meghalaya and a lot of people will be grateful for the meat.

But for me, the ka shawiang and drumbeat will haunt my nights for a long time to come, and I don’t think I’ll ever eat mutton again. 

Communication Misses

She’s called Mother India, but sometimes living here feels like being in a relationship with a difficult man. Something I have a lot of experience with. 

 

It comes down to a matter of communication, and how many of us are lucky enough in love to find someone who speaks the same language? It might seem that way at first, but then, at least when it comes to men and women, one day you realize that you’ve been having conversations with an alien. And so has he. She wants to talk about a problem she’s having at work. He thinks he needs to solve it and then doesn’t understand why she doesn’t follow his advice. All she wanted was someone to listen. And he doesn’t have it easy either. He pays her a compliment. She hears an insult. “I like your hat,” he says. And she answers, “What do you mean I look fat? Do you think I look fat?” 

 

Communication misses.

 

India is a bit like that. And I love language and generally pick them up pretty quickly. In China I was arguing with cab drivers in record time. But here I’m lost. I picked up a Hindi book before I left, only to find out that in the northeast not many people speak Hindi. I’ve learned a few words of Khasi, but there are so many different dialects and languages in this part of the country, that most of the time I don’t know what in the hell I’m hearing.

 

Of course, it’s still easy to get around as English is the link language and everyone speaks a little, and quite a few people speak a lot. But then the nuances, the subtleties come into play, the things like “Oh, crap, did I just hand that school kid a banana with my left hand?” I never know if I’ve just made a major cultural faux pas or just a minor fool out of myself.  

 

But then, there are moments of grace and perfect synchronicity. A blending of heart and consciousness so that you realize no matter how difficult the relationship is, it’s worth struggling through whatever series of miscommunications are necessary to bring you this sublime place. 

 

India is like that too. 

Service without Attachment

Photos from Wahkhen Village, Meghalaya, a Khasi village

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along the India/Bangladesh Border

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“There are different kinds of attachment,” the man from the Ramakrishna Mission told me. “Not only are there attachments to people and things, but we also get attached to ideas and expectations. When you give something, do it with an open heart for the sake of giving, with no expectations of what you will get back, whether you are giving to strangers or to your own children.”

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Every week the Ramakrishna Mission gives. Medicine. Food. Education. It’s given without asking anyone to join their organization, given without expectation. The idea of service is central to most Hindus. Self realization and service. The two go hand-in-hand.

Coffee, the Cow Saint and Reincarnated Cats

 

I suppose that lots of random occurrences that are actually interrelated happen all the time, but being out of my element makes me more aware of them. Today I’m looking at connections that happened because of a cup of coffee.

 

There are few creature comforts from home that I miss, but coffee is one of them. 

 

Fortunately, I have a friend who understands the value of coffee, so with many “namastes” in the direction of Santa Cruz, I got a care package a while back with some lovely, dark espresso. The taste of that first cup of dark roast after six weeks of instant was a truly intoxicating moment. And the smell. I spent a good amount of time with my nose in the bag before I could even bring myself to brew a cup. 

 

The perfect cup of coffee deserves perfect fixings. I decided to go all out and bought a pan of fresh milk from the man who goes door to door through the neighborhood selling it from tin cans that he carries on a pole over his shoulder. Besides, I read somewhere that milk from Indian cows has nearly magical properties. Apparently, so does cow urine, but we won’t go there. 

 

I figured that pan would last me all week, but the next morning there was a knock at my door and there he was with his pails of milk. I see this man all over town, and he charges mere pennies for a pan of milk. Plus, he has sweet, soulful eyes and the most angelic smile I’ve ever seen. I just couldn’t tell him no, so I filled up another pan and put it in my fridge. 

 

Fortunately, there are lots of stray animals around. 

 

Now this is an indulgence, but I like to think that my cat, Emily, who was killed a couple years ago shows up from time to time in different reincarnations. And here she is in India mewling at my front door. 

 

Then I went to the Himalayas for almost three weeks. Surely, this would break the pattern of the cow saint and cats. But no sooner did I get back than I found the cow saint’s two sons going door to door. I knew it was them; they both look just like their father, tall and thin with the same soft eyes and sweet smiles. It’s hard to not fall in love with this family of reed-like men with their kind faces. 

 

And the cat, too, came back too, complaining loudly at the door once or twice a day and looking skinnier than when I left so I made some rice to mix in with the milk and she lapped it up. 

 

Maybe this is what I love about it here--the strange interconnectedness of things, these different threads of different lives that make their way to my door on a daily basis. It’s not just the cow saint and cats, but the retired priest who gives me a different saint’s card whenever I pass him on our evening walks. It’s the paper boy who pushes open my door and walks in to say hello in the morning. Or the disoriented elderly woman with no teeth and red gums who wanders in smiling and looking lost. It’s community and something I didn’t know I was missing until I found it. 

 

Getting Realer

 

A few years ago I made a commitment to be more honest with the world, but more importantly, with myself. I’ve been more or less successful, but living in a small town where I see half a dozen familiar faces every time I go to the grocery store makes it easy. I don’t want to get caught in a lie. Traveling through small Himalayan villages tests it.

 

For a long time, maybe most of my life, I was uncomfortable in my own skin and my semi-nomadic lifestyle allowed me to avoid dealing with it. 

 

Moving was an opportunity to recreate myself, and traveling, especially, gave me the chance to literally be someone else. I changed my name, background, profession and identity. Casual encounters in coffee shops or on trains didn’t meet me. They met a physicist from New Zealand; being poor in math, I liked to choose careers that I couldn’t possibly pull off in real life. Sometimes I mixed Spanish in with my English and claimed to be from Bolivia or Argentina. I was the estranged wife of a Hungarian diplomat or a daughter-on-the-run of a Mafia hit man. Who I am could never possibly be enough. 

 

Here in the Himalayas, I’ve had to bite my tongue more than once. After all, what harm do these lies do? Who would ever know? It’s just role play, a way of expressing my creative side. 

 

But I would know and lying has lost its appeal. So, maybe for the first time on the road, maybe for the first time ever, I’m practicing just being me. And, for now, it’s enough. 

 

Leaving What We Love

In his introduction to The Snow Leopard, Pico Iyer writes, “Sometimes we have to move away from that which we love the most” in justification of author Peter Matthiessen’s decision, just a few months after his wife died, to leave their young son for a trek through the Himalayas. This seeming abandonment has been one of the main criticisms of Matthiessen over the years. How could he do such a calloused, self-serving act? 

 

Six years ago, when my youngest son, Zeke, was fourteen I left him and my husband to go to China for a year. The previous year we had pulled him out of junior high to try to save him through homeschooling from failing seventh grade. Fourteen is a vulnerable age for any child, a time when they need a grounded life, balance, security. 

 

To this day I don’t know if I made the right choice or not. I like to tell myself that going to China set me on the path to becoming a stronger, more complete woman who is now able to be more present not only for my children, but for everyone in my life. But I can’t deny that I was mainly thinking of myself. 

 

Tomorrow my oldest son turns thirty and in ways I abandoned him as well while he was growing up. As a young single mother, I was full of ego, making my way through the university and from one relationship after another believing that if I could only find true love, I would be happy. I spent more time on my own romances than wondering how this ever-changing procession of boyfriends would affect my son.

 

Eventually, I did find love, but one that allowed me to indulge rather than transcend my flaws. Psychology claims that we recreate early patterns, especially from childhood, not because they work for us, but because they are familiar. We’ll even endure pain because it’s familiar. 

 

So now I’ve come to India, but for the first time on a journey that doesn’t feeling like I’m running away from anything. Nor am I running toward anything. 

 

As I move deeper into Buddhist thought, I’m learning to simply observe my feelings, but not place too much importance on them or on any epiphanies I might have. For someone who has long been ruled by emotion, this has been huge. We tend to believe so strongly in our thoughts and feelings; we accept them as the ultimate truth. If we think it, then that must be how it is. One night on a mountaintop we believe we see things clearly and so commit it to paper. Those words become our evidence. We can’t see that it’s only our idea of truth and nothing more, an idea that is fluid as water, as changeable as the wind. So often it’s our own rigidity or inability to see things from any point of view but our own that is damaging to those around us. Sometimes we have to let go of what we think is real in order to be free. Sometimes we have to leave what we love. 

Leaving What We Love

In his introduction to The Snow Leopard, Pico Iyer writes, “Sometimes we have to move away from that which we love the most” in justification of author Peter Matthiessen’s decision, just a few months after his wife died, to leave their young son for a trek through the Himalayas. This seeming abandonment has been one of the main criticisms of Matthiessen over the years. How could he do such a calloused, self-serving act? 

 

Six years ago, when my youngest son, Zeke, was fourteen I left him and my husband to go to China for a year. The previous year we had pulled him out of junior high to try to save him through homeschooling from failing seventh grade. Fourteen is a vulnerable age for any child, a time when they need a grounded life, balance, security. 

 

To this day I don’t know if I made the right choice or not. I like to tell myself that going to China set me on the path to becoming a stronger, more complete woman who is now able to be more present not only for my children, but for everyone in my life. But I can’t deny that I was mainly thinking of myself. 

 

Tomorrow my oldest son turns thirty and in ways I abandoned him as well while he was growing up. As a young single mother, I was full of ego, making my way through the university and from one relationship after another believing that if I could only find true love, I would be happy. I spent more time on my own romances than wondering how this ever-changing procession of boyfriends would affect my son.

 

Eventually, I did find love, but one that allowed me to indulge rather than transcend my flaws. Psychology claims that we recreate early patterns, especially from childhood, not because they work for us, but because they are familiar. We’ll even endure pain because it’s familiar. 

 

So now I’ve come to India, but for the first time on a journey that doesn’t feeling like I’m running away from anything. Nor am I running toward anything. 

 

As I move deeper into Buddhist thought, I’m learning to simply observe my feelings, but not place too much importance on them or on any epiphanies I might have. For someone who has long been ruled by emotion, this has been huge. We tend to believe so strongly in our thoughts and feelings; we accept them as the ultimate truth. If we think it, then that must be how it is. One night on a mountaintop we believe we see things clearly and so commit it to paper. Those words become our evidence. We can’t see that it’s only our idea of truth and nothing more, an idea that is fluid as water, as changeable as the wind. So often it’s our own rigidity or inability to see things from any point of view but our own that is damaging to those around us. Sometimes we have to let go of what we think is real in order to be free. Sometimes we have to leave what we love. 

Himalayan Spirit

It’s almost as if I can feel the mountains breathe, these Himalayas. Geologically speaking, they’re new. The most recent mountain range on the planet. They’re still rising, and maybe it’s this newness that makes them feel so alive. They are green and vast and they soar and dip in a never-ending cascade of valleys and peaks as far as the eye can see. I am in love with these mountains, with the raw, primal joy of simply being in their presence.

I came to Tashiding on a narrow road that brought me even deeper into this enchanted land. When I arrived, I was met by Phurba Tshering who will be my interpreter for the next ten days as we travel to the Lepcha and Bhutia villages of Sikkim. After dropping off my bags at the guest house, he whisked me to the mountain top to Tashiding Monastery to chant the vajra guru mantra with the villagers who had come for the puja. The monastery has been badly damaged in the recent earthquake so the puja is not taking place in the main temple, but in one of the smaller buildings. Several ancient stupas also lay crumbled on the ground.

On the way back down the mountain Phurba, who spent several years as a monk at Tashiding Monastery, and I talked about God, mountain spirits and what Buddhism means to us. “We’re Bhutia people and are Buddhists because our fathers and grandfathers and theirs were before them. We’ve been Buddhists since Padmasambhava brought it here in the 8th century. Buddhism is in our blood; it’s just who we are. But in the West you choose Buddhism because something in the four noble truths and the eight-fold path speaks to you. You may not know its history like we do, but you intuit its truth.”

And I have found something in Buddhism. Maybe it’s simply a more soulful, joyful way of living, of connecting with the world in a way I’ve never been able to before. I’ve come to love the sheer ordinariness of daily life. I relish simplicity whereas in the past, I over complicated so many things.

Back at the guest house, the lights went out, so I walked out on the balcony to better savor this Himalayan night. Fires and here and there a flashlight dotted the darkness. I knew somewhere a gibbous moon hovered only because I had seen it earlier. The Durga puja continues with chanting and drums, the occasional firecracker exploding in the darkness.

I feel both happy and sad. At peace with myself and the world, yet deep down a sorrow because no matter how long I live, it will never be long enough to experience all that I want to on this amazing planet.

The Daily Lives of Monks

Walking down the dirt road in Namchi, I hear a car barreling up behind me at breakneck speed. Hopping out of the way, it passes in a cloud of dust. It’s filled with young monks. American rock 'n roll blares on the radio. One of them has rolled the sleeves of his robe up to show off well-sculpted shoulders and arms. As they pass, he leans out the window with a beatific smile and gives me a thumbs up just as the car turns up the road to the monastery.

 

In a land where the hills are steeped with Buddhism, I’ve had to let go of this idea that monks are somehow more serene or spiritual than the rest of us. Last week in Gangtok, I saw two of them haggling over the price of a television. Another morning I passed one pissing on a bush. Even when I visited the sacred Enchay Monastery, the spot blessed by the notorious flying monk, Lama Drupthob Karpo, from the living quarters I heard men cheering a cricket match on TV. 

 

A few years ago in Thailand I remember watching a brawl between two young monks on the temples steps. One sect was heading up, the other going down, when one monk flipped the other off. It ended in a fist fight with the older monks pulling the two hot-headed youths apart. 

 

Watching the daily lives of monks has been both entertaining and illuminating.  My image of monks as sequestered, spending their days in prayer and meditation doesn’t fit. And sometimes it’s the ordinary people who seem to be taking the path more seriously. Shopkeepers count rosary beads. People on the street chant mantras under their breath. I like the sheer humanity of people going about their daily lives with a dash of spirituality thrown in. It’s a good reminder for me, Buddhist slacker that I am, that we’re all only human with our many flaws and our moments of grace, doing the best we can. 

Back to the Source

This is the third time I’ve ventured into the Himalayas and the magic gets stronger with each encounter. The last two times were both on the China/Tibet side of the slopes. This is the first time I’ve come at them from the India side and the vibe is decidedly softer.

It’s only two weeks after a 6.8 earthquake rocked the area and the road from Siliguri to Gangtok, which even in the best of times is not a great road, are now in parts nearly impassable. Army crews are out clearing landslides and in places huge chunks of the road have dropped into canyons that seem to disappear into the center of the earth. Not that it stopped the sumo taxi driver from passing along the narrow ledges.

The further we drove into the mountains, the more it began to feel like leaving time and the world behind.

Along the roadside, hundreds of monkeys perched on boulders or clung onto the cliffs. Mother monkeys nursing their babies and young ones rolling around together. Large males strutted along the shoulder and juveniles tossed pebbles at the vehicles. Whenever I see monkeys in action, I’m more convinced than ever that Darwin was right.

Something about these mountains moves me and I feel so at home here. Maybe it’s just that they are so stunningly beautiful; it’s like walking into a myth. Waterfalls around every bend, some like silvery spiders’ webs threading through the rocks while others thunder down the mountainside for hundreds of feet.

And now from my third floor window in the Fujiya Guest House, Mt. Kanchenjunga, the third highest peak in the world, shimmers in frosted white. Tibetan prayer flags flutter on rooftops and this morning I woke up at dawn to a procession of monks chanting in the street below. It’s easy here to believe that monks can fly, flowers fall from the sky and yetis roam in the wilderness. It reminds me that the world is still full of mystery.

When It Rains

There’s something about nature at her theatrical best that makes me want to give her a standing ovation. And the storm tonight is truly mythological. I don't think it's a monsoon, because I thought monsoons were just rain and this storm has thunder--real thunder, the kind that cracks the sky and sounds like the roar alone could tear up mountains. My little cottage is shimmying like a belly dancer as flashes of lightening surge through the rooms. 

 

Yet, here in a city that needs no excuse for power outages, the power is still on. I have lights, a computer and am washing my clothes. We’ll see how long this lasts.

 

I love dramatic weather. One of the things I always missed about Ohio were the summer thunderstorms. When I would visit my parents, I used to feel cheated if there wasn’t at least one good storm while I was there. 

 

This storm reminds me of my father who has been gone 10 years now. A storm would be a good metaphor for him. Unpredictable. Angry. That was my dad. He was also generous with a very big heart, but I didn’t appreciate that till long after I had left home. 

 

My memories of childhood are of fear. My father wasn’t physically violent, but there’s a violence of the soul that can also leave wounds and I remember breaking glass. Plates shattered against the wall. Loud, mocking words. A temper that could explode at the least provocation, or sometimes none at all. Every day he came home from work and kicked my dog across the room, sending her yelping under the couch. I never understood why each day she ran with wagging tail to greet him. Then he would mix a drink and disappear into himself.

 

I’m sure he loved me, but I always felt he was slightly disappointed that I wasn’t a boy. Although, I preferred the outdoors to inside, it was to climb trees and create my own private fantasy world, not to hunt or fish. Worms on hooks made me squirm. When he tried to teach me to shoot, the kick knocked me on my ass. My one redeeming quality seemed to be that I was good with boats and much of my childhood memories are of navigating the green channels of Lake Cable. 

 

And then he got old and he got sick. The man who had so terrified me shrank and diminished and eventually died. I began to see the man with lost dreams, who didn’t care that I was girl. Who loved my sons, who loved my brother and sister, but could never really express it. And so I forgave and learned to live my life without the ghost of an angry father haunting my footsteps. 

 

Celebrating Banned Books

September 24-October 1 is banned books week, encouraging everyone to take a stand for the right choose what to read, even bad books, and maybe especially even badder books. According to the ALA (American Library Association) the three main reasons books are challenged are:

 

• Too sexually explicit
• Offensive language
• Unsuited to any age group

 

So who decides the criteria for this? Naturally, the group doing the challenging. All kinds of groups have tried to ban books over the years. Nazis. Fundamentalists of all types--think Salman Rushdie with a price on his head. PTAs. Any organization who feels they have the moral authority to decide for the rest of us what we should or shouldn’t be allowed to read. 

 

I decided to do a quick Google search of books that have been challenged or banned over the years. So a quick run-down of some of my favorite banned books. Not all of these are currently under fire, although they’ve all made some list at some time: 

 

Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger. No surprises here. This is probably the most oft banned American book of them all. Clearly, horny adolescent boys have no place in literature. 

 

To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee. Makes sense. Someone might get the idea that the justice system isn’t always just.

 

The Color Purple, Alice Walker. Incest. Lesbians. A little reefer. Need I say more? 

 

Anything by Toni Morrison. Her books seem to consistently show up on banned book lists (way to go, Toni!). The reasons? Probably, she’s just too damn good. Anyone who writes like she does must be possessed.

 

The entire Harry Potter Series. Wizards and witchcraft. Elves in bondage (hints of S&M perhaps). So what if they’ve turned an entire generation onto reading again? If they’re going to be devil worshippers, better to keep them ignorant. 

 

Even Christian writer J.R.R. Tolkien doesn’t escape the censor’s net. Lord of the Rings has also made some lists. It’s filled with satanic hobbits.  

 

Call of the Wild, Jack London. WTF! Admittedly, it’s been a long time since I read this, but seriously? Call of the Wild? Can someone please tell me what a sled dog could possibly do to upset the censors? 

 

Bridge to Terabithia, Katherine Paterson. Okay, I’ve never read this book, but I’m pleased to see that something Walt Disney turned into a movie is on the hit list. Apparently, it was banned in some places because of the disrespect children show adults as well as combing fantasy with reality. Obviously, whoever decided this never had children or if they did, they must have kept them bound and gagged until they turned 21. 

 

So, if anyone is reading this, what’s your favorite banned book and why? And thanks to the ALA who has long been at the forefront of keeping reading material available for all. 

Why Does the Sikh Wear Underwear?

 

My epiphany for the week is that I’m something of a spiritual whore. Always have been from the time I got down on my knees and became born again at age 14. Even back in those days I surreptitiously used to read forbidden, non-Biblical literature as well and tried to decipher the metaphysical poems of William Blake. As a result I’ve spent a good deal of my life building altars, gazing at crystal balls, dancing in circles under the stars and most recently, sitting and staring at a wall. I sample religions like some women eat chocolate. 

 

So India has been great for me--a virtual smorgasbord of faiths to try, and all within walking distance. Most recently I’ve been sitting in the Sikh temple which is conveniently located just a few steps from where I live at the Catholic college. Most evenings there are musicians playing and I love the music. But another true confession: I think Sikh men are sexy. Maybe it’s that scene from An English Patient where Naveen Andrews oils his long, black hair with olive oil, or maybe it’s because I like men who think and there’s something about those turbans that gets my curiosity going--what’s underneath them? 

 

But now it has changed. On the front of the temple are posted the four rules for Sikhism and one of them is to wear underwear. Now I have nothing against underwear, but does it really need to be a rule for spiritual discipline? I’ve heard Mormons wear long, wooly things, and well, it just seems a little extreme. 

 

So last night while I sat there listening to the men play the dilruba and jori drums, instead of wondering what was under their turbans, I found myself trying to imagine their underwear. Boxers or briefs? Do any of them have hearts or teddy bears on them? Are they bright colors like red or orange or do they go for the more modest white? Do their wives or mothers make them or do they buy them in packages of three or six? 

 

And does it really help them live more chaste lives which is the reason given for the rule? Somehow I think it takes more than briefs to curb desire. 

 

I think I’m learning something about my own spiritual tastes these days, and while I plan to keep sitting, I probably lean more towards the rowdy pagan than the celibate nun. 

 

Well, the rain has woken me up in the middle of the night, but  thoughts of sikhs and underwear are keeping me awake. 

Virgin Mary and Buffalo Poop

I sit in the principal’s office of the Don Bosco Catholic School in Cherapunjee and wait for him to introduce me to the class I’m going to talk to today. The school and church are in the heart of a Khasi village and the priest is Khasi, so I look around the office searching for some glimmer of the old faith among the iconography, but see nothing. There are plenty of crosses; I’m glad only one is a crucifix as I’ve always found them a bit morbid. A serene Madonna and child sits in an altar, a beautiful and comforting symbol of what is good about the church. I focus on that. There are also several vases of plastic flowers, a bronze plate with three engraved pinecones, a small flag of India and a small TV. 

 

Outside, next to the school, the brand new Don Bosco Shrine has recently been erected.  With chandeliers, stained glass windows, and a ceramic mosaic of Jesus, it probably cost more than the annual income of several village families put together. Surrounding the church’s compound are homes without water or electricity, entire families crowded into a single room. There is no hospital, although the Ramakrishna Mission does provide a free clinic for the people. The Don Bosco Shrine is kept padlocked except for mass. 

 

In the classroom of around 60 students, I ask how many are Christian and all but a handful raise their hands. Then I ask how many have parents or grandparents who follow the old faith. Maybe 10 students raise their hands. We talk about the sacred groves of their villages, and I ask them to write something about them and this is where the stories pour out. In the myths and legends, the family traditions, some of the old ways live on. But they are like shadow figures flickering in and out of imaginations that would rather be listening to rap music than telling me about the forest god or river goddess. 

 

When I leave the classroom, I wander outside. One of the sacred groves borders the church property. Even though Cherapunjee is advertised as the rainiest place on earth, massive cumulus clouds billow in a sky blue as a robin’s egg and the sun seems to follow me wherever I go burning my neck and shoulders. A graveyard decorated with crosses sweeps down to the very edge of the sacred forest and I wonder how many trees were cleared to make room for the graves. I wander around and notice that some of the grave sites also have bowls and plates that I imagine were once filled with food offerings to keep the soul from getting hungry on that long passage to the other world. Ah. So when it comes down to matters of life and death they still make sure to cover all bases. 

 

These virgin groves are the most alive places I’ve ever been. The whirring, buzzing and vibrating of a million insects reverberates through the air. It’s the only sound, but it’s loud as a chainsaw. 

 

The afternoon is getting hotter so I seek the shade of an old church at the edge of the property erected in 1906 by the Salvatorians--Order of the Sacred Heart. One of the priests told me earlier that it’s now only used to house the dead before burial. But the stone entryway is cool and it feels good to sit on the cement steps. Two of India’s feral dogs, known as Pariah dogs, race by, nipping at each other. The incessant buzzing continues to make the world vibrate. I feel perversely pleased to see a pile of steaming buffalo shit in front of the door. 

 

 

Hare Krishna

I never intended to make this thing about God in either the singular or plural tenses, but India is so imbued with spirit, and being inclined that way anyway, that just seems to be what’s happening. 

 

One of my traveling rules is to always say “yes” to invitations, and so far it hasn’t let me down. In the past yes has taken me on an elephant ride, to a torch festival and feasting on bugs and mare’s milk. Last night I ended up at a Hare Krishna kirtan. So how to describe? They sort of struck me as the holy rollers of Hinduism, but a lot more fun as there were all the good parts--dancing, clapping, drumming and chanting without the scary preachers damning you to a fiery hell if you aren’t saved. 

 

I started to wonder why Buddhism and Hinduism are both so appealing to me when I have such a hard time with so many other organized religions. Am I a case of reverse snobbism? 

 

Then their guru started talking and I realized that there really is something different here. There’s no push to convert. No condemnation of other faiths. In fact, it’s the opposite. To summarize--and simplify the teaching last night: the point of this life and the way to happiness is to be true to our own inner nature and to connect with God. It doesn’t matter how we get there. It can be through Jesus or Mohammad, the earth mother, or nature spirits. The important thing is to find a path and follow it. And, of course, the vibrational power of chanting can open the way. Probably so. An amazing energy does happen with sound. It reminded me of the day I walked through the Mawphlang sacred forest and the entire earth seemed to buzz with the vibration of insects and birds. Last night felt the same, some sort of energy happened in that room with the drums and music, the chanting hare krishna. Must all be the voice of God. 

When gods sleep

The rain sounds like it’s about to tear the roof off. I can’t hear individual drops, just an incessant deluge hammering the tile. The lights flicker and go out, and Saihun lights a candle so I can continue talking to her grandmother, Cong Rilda, one of the oldest residents of Mawmluh Village, just outside Cherapunjee, the “wettest place on earth.”  

 

Just a bit over 4 ft. tall, thin and frail, Cong Rilda nearly disappears in the plaid shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Golden hoop earrings scintillate against her aged skin, but her eyes are bright and intelligent.  She becomes emotional as she talks with yearning about the old Khasi gods of the village. “I know those days can’t come back; it’s the nature of things to change,” she says. “But the gods have always been part of our daily life. There is one God for all of us, but there are also many gods for each village. They are all different because we are different. When we go to the river to wash clothes, we call on the water goddess. When we walk, we ask permission of the gods first and promise not to harm anything. The sacred hill, the forest, all have their gods. Some are male. Some are female. We did nothing without prayer. The most important one we prayed to is the god who protects our inheritance. And we had rituals. In Mawmluh, we have four sacred places. The sacred forest. The river. The hill. And the clearing just on the edge of the village. I don’t know what will happen to them.”

 

“This is true,” says Bansam who is translating. “Even though I am from a Christian family, from the time we are little, all of us, even those who have been converted, are told to not harm these areas. We are to walk softly. We cannot harm even the branches of the trees, or take plants from this area. If we do, something bad will happen. Maybe not right away. Maybe not even in our lifetime, but in our children’s lifetime or our grandchildren’s.”

 

Cong Rilder agrees. “There are always consequences for our behavior. We must do good in the world. Not lie or steal. Nature is what sustains us, that’s why for us, all our gods are of the earth.”

 

Bansam says, “I believe the old priests--what do you call them? Shaman? They knew these times were coming, things like the greenhouse effect, all this pollution. They could see the future and that’s why they stressed us to care for these places.”

 

But Cong Rilder is not convinced that the changes are for the good. “The new ways don’t respect the forest, they say it’s superstition. Foolishness.” 

 

Although, she doesn’t mention the church, Bansam tells me, “She doesn’t want to offend anyone, especially if you are Christian.”

 

I assure her I’m not and that I, also, would like to see the sacred places, all the earth, in fact, cared for better than it has been. She smiles, but sadly, and says, “I just don’t know where our gods will go when there is no longer a place for them.”

 

When I return to my guesthouse that night, I find the thought also haunts me. Where do the nature gods and goddesses go when the missionaries with their white Christ move in and the sacred hills become decorated with crosses? Do they simply fade into the shadows of the groves, go to sleep in the streams and ancient monoliths waiting for the day when they are called out again? Even now, a few of the younger Khasi are returning to the old faith. But not many. They have a lot of opposition. The Evangelicals call them devil worshippers. Other denominations more subtly try to erase the memory of those who protect the natural places. And so the gods grow silent, their incantations becoming whispers, no longer song. 

 

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Culture Torpor

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Culture shock isn’t an accurate description for what hits you after the initial high of being in a new country wears off. It’s more of a languor, a malaise that creeps up on you until one day you find yourself in a torpor and walking out the door becomes an effort. 

 

Mine hit a couple days ago. Fortunately, I’ve lived in enough other countries that this time I didn’t do something stupid like go out on the streets where I was sure to have a melt down or snap at some undeserving stranger. I drew the curtains, locked the door and painted my toenails. Then I read, made endless batches of tea, turned on the TV for the first time since I’ve been to India, and watched marathon movies on the MGM station.

 

The thing about culture torpor is you don’t really know why it hits when it hits. Things have been clipping along just fine. I love my place with its uneven floor and slight whiff of mildew. I really do. For the first time in forever I have uninterrupted hours and have put myself on a writing schedule. I’m finding time to work on a novel almost every day and have been working on a paper for a conference in January. In between I’m reading books about northeast India and making notes for future topics to write about. And, of course, there’s the field work. But for some reason I woke up in a funk. I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t know what I wanted. But after my second cup of Nescafe (I really have developed a taste for the stuff), I recognized the signs and just gave into it. It’s amazing how things work out when you quit fighting reality. 

 

The next morning I woke up and took my camera to the Aurobindo Institute and walked around the grounds. For hours I sat and watched dragonflies as they hovered over the pond, then zipped like arrows from rock to reed. I laid on the ground and stared up at the bamboo grove. When the wind hissed through the branches they rattled and shook, leaves pirouetting  like ballerinas to the ground. 

 

And that’s how I deal with culture torpor. 

 

Meghalaya's Sacred Groves

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For centuries Khasi tribal people have been protecting certain groves and forests as dwelling places for the gods. Among the taboos are hunting, gathering, or using the wood for commercial purposes, and only on rare occasions can it be used for private consumption. As a result, the sacred groves have been virtually untouched and are a rich depository of endangered plants--orchids, medicinal and rare plants--many of which can now be found only in these isolated pockets. Scientists place the origins of these forests to the pre-agrarian age. Many animals and birds also live here.

Two things stand out for me with these sacred places. One is the importance of myth and how seamlessly myth dovetails with ecology. Many of the sacred forests fall on important watershed areas, so their preservation has also been instrumental in protecting water sources in India. The villagers are well aware of this as well as the unique biodiversity of the forests and the role they play in soil erosion. Perhaps the ancient shaman knew more than we realize?

The other is the similarity in beliefs between Khasi, and no doubt other Northeastern tribal people, and Native American spirituality. If the Native American population in America had not been so decimated, perhaps the U.S. would also have an abundance of protected, sacred spots where the people could commune with the gods on a regular basis. In northeast India, the majority of these places are still under tribal protection.

Meghalaya has also been steeped in Christianity and western civilization is once again a culprit in destroying the land. Christianity has taught that the old religions are primitive superstition, and introduced the idea that we know so well in the west--the land and its resources are for our consumption. Many of these areas have now been subject to deforestation, yet surprisingly over 50% are still relatively intact--a high number considering the times we live in. Maybe the world is finally ready to listen to ancient wisdom in regards to the planet?

There are over 100 of these sacred groves in Meghalaya alone and literally thousands of sacred sites--forests, rivers, mountains--scattered throughout India.

 

The Scent of Old Books

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There’s nothing in the world like the smell of a library filled with old books. It’s a scent our children may never know. When Rakhal first took me to the library at St. Anthony’s College, I almost cried, it brought back so many memories. Row after row of books. Musty. Dusty. Slightly mildewed. A whiff of decay. 

 

Modern libraries have almost no smell at all, or if they do it’s sterile, metallic. And all the old books? They’re being taken away by the truckload and burned or dumped.

 

Old books have soul. They carry memories, the imprints of all the hands that have thumbed through them. A kind of communion occurs between the reader and author. Old books are the closest we’ll ever get to talking with the dead. You can have a relationship with a book, a real book, that you can never have with a Kindle--and I love my Kindle, but it’s only a tool for reading; it doesn’t involve the whole sensory, tactile experience of holding a book. 

 

So many good memories are tied up with libraries. As a teenager, I sometimes cut school and hitch-hiked to the downtown library in Canton, Ohio. It was great library, several floors packed with books. I remember sitting on the floor between the rows reading Thomas Hardy, C.S. Lewis, Virginia Wolff--influences from my mother, probably, who loved British writers. 

 

In my twenties I also haunted libraries.The man I traveled with back then, zigzagging  in a crazy pattern across the U.S. and Canada, had a tendency to go berserk every now and then, but my instincts are good. I knew how to run and often I ran to a library--the last place in the world he would have ever thought to look for me. And, there I escaped, at least for a while, the insanity. Books have probably saved my life.

 

The library at St. Anthony’s is in the basement of the Media building. The light is muted, the way a good library should be, and the shelves are filled with books. Books in Hindi, English, Urdu, Bengali, and Khasi. One corner is piled with ancient journals. I love to leaf through them, the writing like the thumbprints of fairies. Sometimes I choose a book because of the way it looks. I like ones with faded cardboard covers, the dust jackets long gone, the pages yellowing. Today I picked one up that’s  only been checked out five times since 1981, and for several hours I lost myself in the Amazon, far from India, far from the U.S., in a small plane gliding over the jungle. 

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Etiquette in a New Land

 

There’s so much to learn about social etiquette. These subtleties of culture, the body language, the unspoken cues that tell you how to act, are hard to grasp. Most of them are learned through screwing up. 

 

A few lessons.

 

Tea

 

Tea, or here in the northeast, Nescafe, is served everywhere. At the police station while I’m filing my permits, at workshops, in stores, in homes. Usually with lots of milk and sugar. The first couple times I was invited for a cup of chai, I responded with something along the lines of “Sure. Thanks, I’d love some.” Wrong response. I could tell by the expression, although my host always very politely went about serving it. After watching the tea ritual for a while now, I think the correct response is, “No. No. It’s too much trouble.”

 

Then the host can respond with, “Please, it’s no trouble at all.”

 

You answer, “No, really. I don’t want to put you to that much work.”  Continue to protest vehemently. 

 

The host, “I insist. Please. Have some tea.” Both parties should engage in the appropriate hand signals--hand waving or strong-arming, depending on your role. 

 

At this point, it seems you can either reluctantly accept or keep the dance going a while longer until your host urges--adamantly urges--that you sit down and have a cup of tea. Then you can throw up your hands and say, “Okay, if you insist.”

 

This needs to be remembered in reverse as well. Whenever someone comes over I offer tea. They always refuse. The first few times I shrugged and said, “Ok.” Very rude. Now I insist. I insist until they reluctantly accept. 

 

Directions

 

Throughout Asia, people hate to tell you they don’t know where something is. They will lose face. So rather than say “I don’t know” you will get sent just about everywhere except where you’re going.

 

Yesterday I got lost. Shillong is not a big city and so far I’ve been able to navigate my way without a lot of mishaps. Yesterday, however, I just couldn’t seem to find my way to a familiar-looking landmark. Along comes a soldier. “Don Bosco square?” I asked. With great surety, he pointed up the hill. Shillong is a hill station and these are serious hills. I’d already been up and down so many I’d lost count, but I trudged up another one. Soon the houses began thinning out and I seemed to be heading into the forest. I stopped and asked a woman coming down the road. She pointed down the hill. 

 

When I got to the place I had started from I asked again. Eventually, I did make it to Don Bosco Square and the college after a 2 1/2 hour hike up and down hills, through neighborhoods and criss-crossing roads while dodging traffic.

 

Lesson learned: Buy a map.

 

Clothing

 

India, especially, away from the cities, is a conservative country and I’ve tried to dress accordingly: long skirts or pants, no sleeveless or low-cut shirts. Basically, I try to keep as much skin covered as possible. In Shillong, women wear Western clothes as much as saris or punjabi pajamas, but these are usually basic pants and blouses. 

 

I still felt like I was standing out until I bought a shawl. Women wear shawls in India. They can be draped around the shoulders or used to cover the head, but a shawl is a must. Now I don’t leave the house without draping a long shawl or scarf around my shoulders. It’s fun to buy them as well. The bazaar is filled with row after row of beautiful  silk, pashmina, wool shawls--colorful, embroidered, gauzy, some with sequins that come loose and stick to your body so you look like a Christmas tree by the time evening comes. Of course, the women here are graceful as gazelles with theirs, while I’m a natural-born klutz and will probably end up strangling myself before my stay is over. So while I still don’t quite fit in, I do feel less conspicuous with a shawl. 

 

A good website for women travelers: Wanderlust and Lipstick. Lots of good tips for traveling solo, dressing, etc. They, too, recommend a shawl.