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. 

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. 

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.