The Naked Truth

We were well aware that certain Jainist monks are what they call “sky clad monks,” meaning that in the name of renunciation they walk around completely naked. Being aware of it, however, does not mean you’re prepared for it. All of us on this trip have relatively liberal sensibilities, but that didn’t stop us from doing an internal double take when we were ushered into a room containing one naked septuagenarian and a younger man wearing a saffron loin cloth.

We hovered at the threshold, waiting for someone to make it clear that we were supposed to sit down and accept the situation, as our liberal arts education disposes us to do, or flee the room as that Midwestern part of our souls was screaming at us to do. I very tactfully made for the back row and positioned myself so that throughout the whole of the talk Megan’s head was strategically placed between my eyes and the monk. That done, I was ready to concentrate.

From behind the buffer of Megan’s hair I learned that Jainist monks only keep a jug of water to wash themselves and a peacock feather brush to gently move any insects that might be where they are about to sit. Further, they only eat certain fruits and vegetables because some are considered to be too alive to harm. Vegan’s vegans, these people. Of course, I knew most of this already. I knew that central to the Jainist faith is the belief that every single life is sacred, be it cow, bug or human. I even knew that we would be meeting naked monks. So this isn’t really the story of what I learned about Jainism. It’s more the story about what you can learn about yourself from that one little second where you waver in the door frame. Some part of your mind flashes back through your up brining and says, “Now hold on, I always got yelled at for running around naked. Where’s the fairness in this?” However, another part of you, the part of you which has been to college for three or four years or has just been conditioned to criticize social convention jumps in and demands to know why that other part of you is being so critical. You aren’t in Minniesota anymore, and even if you were, what’s fundamentally wrong with hanging around in the buff, so long as it’s not winter?

Of course, you can’t put all of this together while standing in the door frame. At that moment it feels less like an internal dialogue and more like your brain was a car and the transmission just fell out on the highway. What I’m beginning to see is important is that we recognize these moments, the moments where something, even if we were prepared for it, strikes us stupid for just a second. We need to remember that it has happened, and not trivialize it or deny it happened because it doesn’t fit with our picture of the moderate liberal sensibilities we believe we have. It’s tempting to do so, because we like to think of ourselves as unflappable and adventurous. We like to believe that we’re ready to accept anything, while it is other people who are shocked and surprised. Never us though. This is the worst mistake you can make. You must recognize these instants, even if you don’t like to admit they occurred. There is an infinite amount of wisdom to be gained by going back and looking at these staggering moments in our lives.

The Things I’ll Carry

As a final journal entry, we were asked to make a list of ten questions we’d be bringing home with us. This is my list:

1. How do I tell people about India without exoticizing or romanticizing it?
2. Where is my best support network to continue my reflection and questioning?
3. How much can and should I resist returning to The American Way?
4. Is trying to lead by example ever going to be enough?
5. How do I put lessons learned in India to use in my local communities.
6. How do I avoid being written-off by peers and authority figures as just a Hippie College Student.
7. How do I stay in touch with the Bandhavi girls who are graduating?
8. How much can I handle?
9. Am I compelled to do anything?
10. What is my role in my family now?

These questions are by no means the only ones I have, but they are some of the most persistent and troubling. Any answers I have are in progress, and I anticipate a long process of trial-and-error to come to any concrete conclusions.

The Third Jesus

After returning to Visthar from our month of travels, Jonathan handed me a book called “The Third Jesus” by Deepak Chopra.  Captivated simply by the recommendation and the title, I quickly began reading along with Alex (literally reading it at the same time…an excellent method to keep you on task).  Within the first ten pages, I knew that this book was going to provide some powerful insights into the life of Jesus based on a more Eastern understanding of philosophy and religion.

Deepak Chopra puts down such an interesting argument for the power of Jesus’ message in a totally different way than is presented basically anywhere else, yet it makes a lot of sense to me.  The aspect of his message that really struck me was his teaching of the world and universe as being a mirror into our own existence and lives.  While I have heard similar examples in the past, the clarity and context really stood out to me.

What does it mean to see the world as a mirror into our lives?  What do our lives reflect in the world?  In others?  Chopra proposes that when we see negative characteristics in the world and in others, we are seeing reflections of our own negative characteristics, unaddressed ghosts, and personal fears and perceptions of inadequacy.  When we see happiness and positivity in the world, those are reflections of our like characteristics.

So, being the reflective type, I tried to identify some of the negative characteristics that I project on others that may really be reflections of my life.  Impatience, over-analysis, indecision, anger, busyness, stress, and so much more.  By seeing the world as the mirror into our experiences, Chopra proposes that we can come to recognize the things that sometimes go unnoticed within and we can begin to grow in our own congruency.  In a similar way, Chopra talks about the violence in the world as a reflection of the violence we face within ourselves and the violence we project on others.  With this in mind, he asks the reader what the cause of the violence is…ego? unfulfilled dreams? disappointments? painful memories? self-worth? self-image?  And offers that Jesus’ message was one of working through these aspects of life on a path towards God-consciousness, a state he modeled perfectly.

The radical God-conscious Jesus is quite the teacher and I think I need to re-evaluate and be re-disturbed by the questions of that life.  Focusing on Jesus as example and model more so than God and savior is a powerful and provocative outlook that I think deserves a lot of good exploration.

Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow…

In preparing to come to India, I encountered many sources that warned of the balmy temperatures that India experiences.  With this in mind, I packed all of my light-weight performance apparel, bemoaned the fact that wearing shorts was not an acceptable activity, and even considered getting a hat (something I never wear) to protect my head from the unbearable equatorial sun (or at least closer to the equator).  With all of this in mind, you will not imagine my surprise when I learned about this little place called Snow World in Hyderabad.  As soon as I heard the name Snow World, I immediately signed up…knowing that the opportunities to see snow in India would be few and far between outside of the Himalayan Mountain peaks.  And let’s just say, I wasn’t disappointed…

SNOW WORLD!  It is really difficult to even express the experience of Snow World.  Seeing Indian men, women, and children playing in the snow for the first time was beyond priceless…it was absolutely hilarious.  Amidst the sea of red and blue parkas, I witnessed people going on their first toboggan rides, enjoying hot chocolate in ice mugs, climbing the rock wall, exploring the igloos, having snowball fights, taking in the winter murals, and dancing to club music at the giant ice dance party (a new winter favorite that I had to come all the way to India to discover!).  I also enjoyed the blatent disregard (or arguably ignorance) or basic snow courtesy, and perhaps the degree to which snow etiquette is socialized into the tundra dwellers of Minnesota and the like.  While casually standing and taking in the scenes, a mother and her son ran up to me and threw snow directly into my face and danced around me with extreme joy.  I could not help but wonder if they knew they had just committed a serious white wash offense, but decided to let it slide since clearly they were just having too much fun!  🙂

But most of all, I think that going to Snow World really gave me a glimpse into how easy it is to forget the wonder in our everyday lives.  For people in Minnesota, snow is a burden.  We get so much of it that it ceases to be fun, playful, and wonderful.  Seeing people’s faces light up with their first sight of snow made me realize that I have lost a bit of my wonder in my growing up.  Why is this?  Is it because I know more? Is it because I feel entitled to more?  Is it because I grow angry at anything that inconveniences me?  What a shame…

Being at Snow World reminded me to revel in the wonder…even if Minnesota just received enough snow to collapse the Metrodome ceiling…

Sunrise at the Ganges

It was 5:30 am on November 30th when we got on the bus to drive to the banks of the Ganges River to watch the sunrise. We were in Varanasi, one of the oldest cities in the world if not the oldest, about to see the holiest of rivers. This city is one of rich religious history and is considered a holy city because it is where the Ganges flows backwards from its normal current. Because of this, it is a pilgrimage spot for Hindus who go and bathe themselves in this water to cleanse their souls.

Though it is a holy river, it is also considered by many one of the dirtiest. While life is given and cleansed by the river’s water, it also takes the ashes of cremated bodies when life is done. This was the place we got to see at the crack of dawn.

Our group walked down to the small motorized boats that carried visitors down the Ganges. I took my seat and noticed the scenery around me. The sky was still a blend of purple and periwinkle. The water reflected subtle shades of pink. On the shore, we were surrounded by temples, ghats they’re called, and run-down riverside hotels. The steps of the temples already had people bathing and washing their clothes. One man swam out past our boat. So this was it. We were on the river where so many spend a lifetime trying to reach.

As we sailed down the river we passed a few burning smoke stacks. Wood was piled high and I could just barely see the bodies as they met their end. However, it wasn’t a horrifying image as one would imagine. Nor was the air filled with a stench one associates with death. Actually, it was a peaceful kind of experience. It was like watching a capstone being put on another’s life, completing his/her journey and sending him/her off, be it to the after life, the next life, or simply back into the earth. Though I am not a particularly spiritual at this point in my life, it was definitely a spiritual time on that river. It was a time to reflect on what religion means to me, what spirituality means, and what I can learn from those whose faith had brought them to this river.

The Middle Path or Detachment: A Predicament with Facial Hair

For the 3 months we’ve been in India, no razor had touched my face. Nature ran it’s course: a squalid, reddish-blond mane grew longer than I had ever seen it, reaching into the corners of my mouth and hiding fallen food crumbs with ease. As I anticipated, this was grounds for plenty of funny looks and joke making, both among strangers and within our circle of SJPD-ers. But none of the joke making—getting called a “creeper” or “old-man-Underwood”—bothered me. As it was, my beard served its purpose. Intentionally disregarding the social mores of our time, my impetus to grow facial hair was in jest. Even I had to laugh at myself for looking more like a Civil War soldier than a college student.

But as the months went by, and adventures came and went, my beard slowly passed into the realm of something more sentimental. The hair lost its novelty as comic relief, and, being tinged by the sun of Bangalore and thickened in the cold air of Darjeeling, grew into some sort of metaphor. What it represented exactly, I am not sure, but my beard and I had been through a lot together. That it is was undeniably linked to my travels, experiences, and personal growth, didn’t sound in the least bit ridiculous. Overcome by this idea, I was compelled to think that 3 months of India had grown on my face.

In short: I became more emotionally attached to my beard than I had expected. By the time we came to the Religion module, I had grown fully accustomed to my beard’s new significance. Popular, religious iconography proved only to bolster my tendency for metaphorical associations; Jesus and Prophet Muhammad, after all, both had beards. What better way to leverage my knack for spiritual, facial hair growth? But then we came to the teachings of the Buddha. The Buddha, who is sometimes fat and sometimes not, but never rendered with a beard; the Buddha who insisted on a philosophy of detachment.

Our guru, Father Emmanuel, taught us well on this philosophy. As he explained it, one of the main teachings in Buddhism is seeing your whole life as suffering. Recognizing that the root of this suffering comes from our desires, those things we become attached to, is paramount. Thus, we should renounce those desires. I balked, thinking about how depressing it sounded: suffering coming from desires? More specifically, though, I thought about the growing attachment I had to my beard and to India; the country that I have to leave so, so soon. Would I suffer for holding on to an increasingly sentimental view on facial hair?

I ruminated over the thought for the rest of the Religion module. I gave due reconsideration to my sentimental tendencies and found the Buddha’s philosophy of detachment to resonate more and more as I realized how fast my days in India were dwindling. Should I rid myself of the facial hair, which had the potential to grow into something too emotionally unwieldy? I think I knew what the Buddha would do, but I couldn’t quite be sure. For all that we had learned on detachment, we had also learned a great deal about the Buddha’s Middle Way: that happy medium between two extremes. Again, I can’t be sure if, according to Buddha, both the Middle Way and detachment concepts can be applied to each other, but that’s what I attempted to do. I decided to detach the experiences garnered over the last 3 months, from my beard and then detach the hair from my face. In other words, my middle way meant having a nice shave.

Yesterday at a near-by Barbershop I looked in the mirror and stroked those associations out of my beard as Kyle got his haircut. When my time came I was ready. My beard was cleansed. The razor clicked on and all I could do was watch as those 3 months of beard fall around me in droves; a semester’s worth of facial hair gone within a matter of minutes. When it was over I didn’t care to say any parting words or collect the tangles of hair on the floor. The experiences of India, however, I planned to keep.

I have a confession

Something changed. At some point, I looked into their eyes. And what I saw there? Myself.

When I came to India it was so easy for me to shrug off the beggars. There were so many of them. So many of those people. What good could I possibly do for them? I could not help that much. I knew that the one rupee coin in my pocket would not do anything for them. Even if I helped one, there would be another one ten feet down the road. They were everywhere. An inescapable annoyance.

So I shrugged them off. Pretended not to see, not to notice.

Yes, little girl. You are probably hungry. Rub your stomach, hold out your hand.

I cannot help, no.
Wave my hand, shake my head.

Yes, young woman. Your child probably does need food. Hold up your hand, point to your child.

No, I cannot help.
Keep walking, keep my head down.

Then one day something stopped me.

That woman. On the same street, on the same mat, in the same clothes. The woman who held out her hand, fingers missing. This time was different. After months of saying no, I stopped.

Then I looked and I knew her story. I knew that she came seeking a better life. I knew that she fled her home. I knew that she had lost her fingers and toes when she crossed the Himalayas. I knew that she had lost everything. I knew that she had suffered.

And looking at me, she knew. She knew that I had said no before. She knew that I intended to say no again. She knew that I had money in my pocket. She knew that I had time to listen. She knew that I could lessen her suffering. She knew.

Holding out her hands, she begged me and I was captivated by her. I stared into her eyes. And what I saw there? Myself.

I saw everything in me, in her. She is no less human than I. She has no less dignity than I. She is in no way less than I. We are fellow humans. We are equals. She knew. And finally, I understood.

Now I cannot shrug off the beggars. They are suffering. I understand that I can help, and that I need to help. I understand that an outstretched hand does not always seek money. Sometimes what they need more than anything is their humanity confirmed. They are living each moment for their next breath. I understand that if I don’t give now, they might not be here tomorrow. I finally understand.

The Kindness of Strangers

After an unfortunate incident of my power adapter to my computer blowing up, I decided to make a trip into Bangalore. This was a big step for me because I have gone into Bangalore plenty of times but this was the first time that I had gone by myself. Feeling a little nervous about this, I was instantly comforted by the fact that I have a cell phone and if anything happens, I could just call for some help. It was no problem getting to Staples, but once I was there I hit my first obstacle. They didn’t have my part, but they could get it in 4 hours: but I was supposed to be back before dark and that was cutting it way too close. The solution, I decided to go to the other store that did have my part that was connected to the warehouse. The next problem, I have no idea where the mall is. The solution, hire a rickshaw driver. The next problem, it will take them an hour to get it from the warehouse even though I was told it would be prepared before I got there. The solution, I was getting hungry and it was about time for dinner. The other problem, I was supposed to be back before dark and it was definitely getting dark, but after a quick call to Jonathan, everything was sorted out and I would wait for my charger. After going through this fiasco to get my charger, it was all worth it when I plugged in my computer at staples and saw the green light, a sigh of relief swept over me, my adventure was over… so I thought. Leaving Staples I was instantly hit with a wave of rickshaw drivers offering me a ride, perfect… or not. The moment I said Kothenor I would get a puzzled face, then I was asked to spell it, then they would drive away. After this happening about 20 times a stranger came over and started to help me. He asked the same questions as the rickshaw drivers, where was I going, spell it, then puzzled. He finally said, “that place doesn’t exist.” My response, of course it does I have been living there the past couple of months. We then came up with the plan to just take a rickshaw to shivajinagar, the bus station I know well. Then without any hint, he jumped on in with me. We talked until we made it to the bus station where he walked me to my area. I kept suggesting that I should get a rickshaw but he said it was too much money and I should just wait here. I was very skeptical. First of all, I had no idea what time the bus would come and second of all, I was well past my make it home before dark curfew. I just wanted to get back as soon as possible. When another lady overheard us. She said that she would get me home. So he decided to leave and it was only her and I. She suggested that we take another bus, one that I had never heard of. I was again skeptical. This was a complete stranger, should I go on a bus with a complete stranger? Should I go on a bus that I have no idea where it goes with a complete stranger? Then she said something that really hit me she said, “trust me.” And immediately I did trust her. If this was the U.S. this would never fly. I would never even think about it, but hey when in India. It was an adventure. The worst case scenario, I would end up somewhere completely random and I would call for help. So why not trust this stranger? So against all of my instincts I went with her on her bus. We began talking and her name is Shiva, and she was very nice. When we got to the bus stop we got out and she said that she would wait with me until my bus came. I said that she didn’t have to but she just shushed me. We talked and laughed but my bus still wasn’t coming after about half an hour. Her friend who was waiting for her was getting anxious but she kept telling him that she couldn’t leave her friend stranded and that he could wait for her like she waited for him all of the time. I felt like such an inconvenience but she just laughed it off. When my bus finally came, she charged right on in to make sure it was my bus and that I had a seat. Once I sat down she said, make no plans for Sunday because I am picking you up and we will hang out and be friends. I laughed but she was completely serious. Once she left, I was completely stunned. I couldn’t believe that these complete strangers had been so kind. I could believe that they had both gone out of their ways to help me. I also couldn’t believe that I trusted them and followed them where they told me to go. This could have been a very dangerous situation but the kindness of these strangers amazes me. I did eventually make it back to Visthar but I was close to 3 hours late. And when I checked my phone I had a text, it was Shiva making sure that I made it back okay. Never before have I met someone so kind without any reason to be.

Pride: Careful, It’s Contagious

Sunday November 28th could have been just a free day. But over breakfast at the New Delhi YWCA, Jonathan turned to me and pointed at the newspaper, I leaned over and my face lit up. New Delhi Pride. Today. I now had something to do that day, and because of Jonathan’s simple act, Sunday November 28th became the best day in recent memory.

By 2:30, set-up was under way. We showed up, Julio, Jericho, Megan, Jericho, JP, and I, with our new French friends, Bee and Morgan, and no idea what we were getting ourselves into. A small group of people milled around as we approached  an enormous pile of rainbow: flags, masks, bigger flags, signs, the works. A nice lady got us outfitted in all the finery we could handle. Then we sat back, made small talk with the inspiring activists on all sides, and watched the momentum build. Fast.

The initial crowd numbered about 40. In an hour we had 2,000 easy. And that didn’t include the press. Never, anywhere, have I seen so many press-members, swarming over the amassed marchers like the most welcome of hornets. Cameras were in our faces every second, but the faces on the other side were smiling. Gone was the atmosphere of years past, when belonging to any sexual minority was unconstitutional in India. With the repeal last year, people were celebrating. Certainly we were there to make a statement, but damnit we were going to have fun doing it. I don’t think I managed to wipe the idiotic grin off my face for the rest of the day.

We marched at 4. As the drum groups rolled out a beat, the energy flared into a joyous inferno. Whoops, hollers, singing, dancing, and beaming faces abounded as we began to move. Any unfinished interviews went on the road, words of hope being archived against the best of all backgrounds.

The next hour is a blur. The heartbeat drumming flexed through the swell of the crowd. We made our way eventually to the very front of the column, picking up a contact-pride along the way. In slow-motion I grabbed a loose corner at the front of our 100 foot-long flag, and in that moment my life was complete. Being there, then, spreading the love, and seeing it infect the faces frozen along the sidewalk, looking out from behind windshields or over their parent’s shoulder. The connections that I made in those moments of locked eyes validated everything, and I was proud. Proud to be showing my support, proud to be taking it to the streets, proud to be at the front of that glorious river of flag and hope, proud to be.

I got on the train to Varanasi later that night. I tossed my bags into my birth, took my seat, and smiled.