So tomorrow I go into exile. Apparently. Exile of not speaking for ten days and for spending some quality time with myself. Vipassana. Steam.
This past weekend I found myself taking a scheduled trip (thanks, EAP) to Jaipur and Agra. I saw some amazing things –
One of which,
The Taj Mahal; ahem, THE Taj Mahal –
Materialization of a cotton wisp perched on a passing cloud… white marble bathing in the sun’s reflection and rolling over and over itself by my vision in an aesthetically elating view of construction.
Isn’t is amazing that we can put together something so delicate, yet gargantuan? Something so round, with carved floral patterns that breath from sandstone setting. The red mosques that contrast substantially with the white perfection of marble stone framing the palace, standing so beautifully and yet so powerfully overtaken by the beauty of the Taj itself.
And I’ll have you know, that the Taj was built for love; which makes it all the more amazing. Commemorating the love of Shahjahan and his wife who died prematurely in life during a tragic child birthing experience - - - - - - - - -
How romantic, non?
This weekend also made me realize the satisfaction of traveling on your own. We were shipped around via charter bus every place we visited. The sites themselves were breathtaking, but the means of getting there in languid processions was uncomfortable yet compensated by the bulging meals that our hotels offered us. It made me realize the value of finding your own way – of toiling over the journey itself to get somewhere. That’s all part of it. Getting there. When you cut that out, you cut out half the story.
Nevertheless, this weekend was a beauty. Full of forts – tall and bulbous and sprawling red sandstone and drawbridges and elephant rides and walls that outlined mountain ridges…
Vast beauty.
And now I am in Delhi. And tomorrow I go to Vipassana land! I guess you could call this apprehension – but laced with excitement! I know that some things you can only experience when you put yourself through the entirety of the experience (some things? Perhaps most things); there’s only one way to see what happens after you spend ten days sitting with your thoughts and your self and the world in a large simultaneous binge of silence and solitude. And that is to close your eyes and think really hard.
Or, to provide a probably more accurate depiction, just do it.
Ten days in the grand scheme of things really isn’t that long. I’m sure it will slip by in an eye blink – or at least it will feel that way when I look back on it for years to come. I’m well aware that the moment itself will probably exercise its ability to stretch itself into oblivion.
Oh god.
Tonight we also ventured to Kareme’s – an excellent restaurant attached to a hotel in Chandni Chowk – the metro stop that we embark upon for our spices and dried fruit and nuts and tea and tasty things like that. This restaurant is in close proximity to the biggest mosque in India and is only open after sunset during Ramadan. Doesn’t that mean it must be really, ridiculously good?
Yes.
I still am overwhelmed by the massive amount of people that were flooding the streets at this time… after the shade of the hidden sun descended upon the city, this area LIT UP with floods of people and lights. Street vendors selling everything from fabric to chai to fried chicken to tandoori chicken to sweets to shirts to bangles and bangles and bangles just lined the streets and the people walked and bumped and meandered through the maze of buildings… and I found myself bumping into every person; impossible to stop unless you sit with a six rupee chai on a tin box while straddling buckets of soaking soapy dishes. Smells and sensations always here.
Always here. Always here.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
and today I was groped by a four-year-old
Am I kidding?
You aren’t sure.
Am I kidding?
I wish I were. It does make a good story though –
It all begins with a long Delhi day. One of those days that takes you through the dust and the traffic and begins with a sensory overload and ends with a sensory overload. One of those days where you find yourself climbing over piles of red powdery bricks stacked in disheveled pyramids. One of those days where the mosquitoes rip you apart, limb by limb. One of those days where you ask for directions once, twice, three times, and always Delhi is such a maze, you realize you were only five minutes away in the first place. One of those days where you come across a large procession of disgruntled men yelling as they trudge through the streets for some unknown reason, specifically directing their attention towards your curious faces as they forcibly hurl plastic bottles in your direction. You cross a scattered mess of honking traffic in order to find a sweet shop with the “best samosas around” –
And damn,
were they good.
The kind of good that is full of cumin and potato and curried peas and raisins and cashews. And you dip the crunchy fried triangular dough into a vegetable sauce that somewhat resembles ketchup but is actually infinitely more flavourful.
One of those days where you take a bike rickshaw to Majnu Ka Tilla, the Tibetan commune off of the metro station two stops down the line. You watch the biker heave his body to the left and right pressing weight onto each pedal in rhythm with the steepness of the street a slight hill makes all the difference. The veins in his arms protruding underneath deep warm skin. His whole body an instrument of movement to propel you forward. Suddenly you find yourself on a downward slope and he stops pedaling and while coasting he navigates around the holes and the gravel in an attempt to ameliorate the bumps of the oscillating roadway.
One of those days where dinner explodes in your taste buds. It all starts out with a cup of milky masala chai and traces of the spices and strong black tea are swirling around dappling its surface and you can tell it’s going to be a really,
really good cup of chai.
Then when dinner comes you almost don’t want to eat it because you’d rather just look at it first; imagining all those tastes that are soon to be swirling around your tongue. The soup – the one with the vegetable dumplings cradled among vegetable chunks in a smooth salty broth. Those vegetable dumplings I hope you remember had the smoothest most delicate skin on them, which covered a flavorful conglomeration of spicy mush. Then the tingmo that you dipped in the broth,
the doughy, thickly rolled dough that looks so fresh was it even baked? But of course it was baked it’s just so soft and plush. Plush! Perfect word to describe this Tibetan bread. Rolled and wrapped and curled and tucked into itself like an infinite cinnamon roll, but a thousand times more and all plush. Perfect for sponging up the remains of the rest of your meal…
One of those days where you get off the metro station near your house. There is abundance of people and a lack of rickshaws that will schlep you down the road. Walk? It’s really only 15 minutes or so…
One of those days where halfway down the street a group of four-year-old boys come running up to you from across the road. You pull your backpack close to your chest and glance behind a couple times as they skip up to you and hold out their little hands their little arms. You turn back around and keep walking forward, and to your genuine surprise you feel one of those little hands grab your ass, more forcibly and less innocently than you could imagine. Whipping your head around, you point at the first boy you make eye contact with, the one with the most mischievous look in his eyes, and you point hard –
“NO. That is NOT okay.” (In all caps, you say these things.)
You turn forward again. Keep walking. The little dude again runs up to you and starts jabbing his little fingers on your thigh and your ass, again. Grab his arm and throw it off! What are you doing little boy! He doesn’t stop. Grab his arms and throw them away! Am I being too forceful with this child? Did I grab him too hard? He doesn’t stop.
A bicycle rickshaw pulls over to the side of the road and hops off his bike. He has passengers on the bench behind him. One of those days where you are saved by a man on a chariot and he chases the kids away. He yells and the kids and chases them away.
You walk faster and look back and see the rickshaw driver continue to yell at the kids and chase them away. He yells and chases them away.
It was one of those days. Where something bad happens but then humanity steps in and you remember that all the people surrounding you are going to be good and bad and up and down and heaven and hell and you run into both and you make your own. And that rickshaw driver just makes you appreciate everything good that happens in life ---
And those little boys with the little hands…
AWESOME.
I’m not sure if I should be disturbed or surprised; but really, I am neither. Life is just ‘how it is’ here, for lack of a better description that is totally encompassing. There isn’t anything really that can impose itself over social rule. And sometimes things are more slackened because of it, and sometimes things are more restrictive because of it. Sometimes personal responsibility is prominent, and sometimes crazy things let loose.
Crazy things happen everywhere though – back home I can sue McDonalds for giving me a hot beverage that I so gracefully spill on myself. I can feign a finger in my chili and then ask you for a large monetary compensation. Sometimes I wait a whole 25 minutes for the next BART train.
Here, little boys grab my ass sometimes, I guess.
You aren’t sure.
Am I kidding?
I wish I were. It does make a good story though –
It all begins with a long Delhi day. One of those days that takes you through the dust and the traffic and begins with a sensory overload and ends with a sensory overload. One of those days where you find yourself climbing over piles of red powdery bricks stacked in disheveled pyramids. One of those days where the mosquitoes rip you apart, limb by limb. One of those days where you ask for directions once, twice, three times, and always Delhi is such a maze, you realize you were only five minutes away in the first place. One of those days where you come across a large procession of disgruntled men yelling as they trudge through the streets for some unknown reason, specifically directing their attention towards your curious faces as they forcibly hurl plastic bottles in your direction. You cross a scattered mess of honking traffic in order to find a sweet shop with the “best samosas around” –
And damn,
were they good.
The kind of good that is full of cumin and potato and curried peas and raisins and cashews. And you dip the crunchy fried triangular dough into a vegetable sauce that somewhat resembles ketchup but is actually infinitely more flavourful.
One of those days where you take a bike rickshaw to Majnu Ka Tilla, the Tibetan commune off of the metro station two stops down the line. You watch the biker heave his body to the left and right pressing weight onto each pedal in rhythm with the steepness of the street a slight hill makes all the difference. The veins in his arms protruding underneath deep warm skin. His whole body an instrument of movement to propel you forward. Suddenly you find yourself on a downward slope and he stops pedaling and while coasting he navigates around the holes and the gravel in an attempt to ameliorate the bumps of the oscillating roadway.
One of those days where dinner explodes in your taste buds. It all starts out with a cup of milky masala chai and traces of the spices and strong black tea are swirling around dappling its surface and you can tell it’s going to be a really,
really good cup of chai.
Then when dinner comes you almost don’t want to eat it because you’d rather just look at it first; imagining all those tastes that are soon to be swirling around your tongue. The soup – the one with the vegetable dumplings cradled among vegetable chunks in a smooth salty broth. Those vegetable dumplings I hope you remember had the smoothest most delicate skin on them, which covered a flavorful conglomeration of spicy mush. Then the tingmo that you dipped in the broth,
the doughy, thickly rolled dough that looks so fresh was it even baked? But of course it was baked it’s just so soft and plush. Plush! Perfect word to describe this Tibetan bread. Rolled and wrapped and curled and tucked into itself like an infinite cinnamon roll, but a thousand times more and all plush. Perfect for sponging up the remains of the rest of your meal…
One of those days where you get off the metro station near your house. There is abundance of people and a lack of rickshaws that will schlep you down the road. Walk? It’s really only 15 minutes or so…
One of those days where halfway down the street a group of four-year-old boys come running up to you from across the road. You pull your backpack close to your chest and glance behind a couple times as they skip up to you and hold out their little hands their little arms. You turn back around and keep walking forward, and to your genuine surprise you feel one of those little hands grab your ass, more forcibly and less innocently than you could imagine. Whipping your head around, you point at the first boy you make eye contact with, the one with the most mischievous look in his eyes, and you point hard –
“NO. That is NOT okay.” (In all caps, you say these things.)
You turn forward again. Keep walking. The little dude again runs up to you and starts jabbing his little fingers on your thigh and your ass, again. Grab his arm and throw it off! What are you doing little boy! He doesn’t stop. Grab his arms and throw them away! Am I being too forceful with this child? Did I grab him too hard? He doesn’t stop.
A bicycle rickshaw pulls over to the side of the road and hops off his bike. He has passengers on the bench behind him. One of those days where you are saved by a man on a chariot and he chases the kids away. He yells and the kids and chases them away.
You walk faster and look back and see the rickshaw driver continue to yell at the kids and chase them away. He yells and chases them away.
It was one of those days. Where something bad happens but then humanity steps in and you remember that all the people surrounding you are going to be good and bad and up and down and heaven and hell and you run into both and you make your own. And that rickshaw driver just makes you appreciate everything good that happens in life ---
And those little boys with the little hands…
AWESOME.
I’m not sure if I should be disturbed or surprised; but really, I am neither. Life is just ‘how it is’ here, for lack of a better description that is totally encompassing. There isn’t anything really that can impose itself over social rule. And sometimes things are more slackened because of it, and sometimes things are more restrictive because of it. Sometimes personal responsibility is prominent, and sometimes crazy things let loose.
Crazy things happen everywhere though – back home I can sue McDonalds for giving me a hot beverage that I so gracefully spill on myself. I can feign a finger in my chili and then ask you for a large monetary compensation. Sometimes I wait a whole 25 minutes for the next BART train.
Here, little boys grab my ass sometimes, I guess.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
I found the Light of the Appetite: Dharamsala comma YEAH
What on earth is better than the feeling you get when you lose something and then find it again. Something like, your favorite pair of socks, or the ability to eat –
Somewhere during the bus ride back from Dharamsala, the winding, lurching, jolting journey inside a large metal box careening turn after turn, my stomach decided to REVOLT against me. I thought I would spew out the window for the majority of the 13 hours spent on that bus; somehow I didn’t – I think that my lack of vomiting since fifth grade has given me an intense fear of it ever happening… thus I think that I withstand nauseated discomfort better than most in the sense that I resist the urge to ‘toss my cookies’ and perhaps prolong my inward suffering…
Nevertheless, the bus ride was long. My stomach upset continued through yesterday and part of the day today. The mere thought of food was enough to throw me into an irritated state of discomfort. Sweeping nausea. Fun!
Anyway, I have since regained some of my appetite. Bananas are starting to sound real, real good. As is the mango juice that I am sipping on. (No skins!) I feel like I am tasting for the first time. The sweetness of the juice is embellished on my taste buds. Gah, how beautiful, right? Rediscovering what an appetite is. I swear there is nothing quite as beautiful as exercising your sense of taste after not having done so, not having even desired to do so, for even two days.
Besides this little rough patch in my return to Delhi, my weekend in Dharamsala was nothing short of a beautiful emerald experience. Having the experience of a 13 hour public bus ride in Delhi will only make me a more tolerable person. Tolerable of sitting hour after hour listening to the blossoming rumble of the engine, confined to a seat with no concept of personal space, overlapping shoulders or spooning on a hunt for the most comfortable sleeping position, listening to the coughing man across from you spew his germs from the bottom of his right lung…
It was nothing short of an alternative universe, really. Lights off, people constantly getting boarding and departing at seemingly random locations along the way, making a few short pit stops for chai and snacks along the way – really, it puts you in a different place to be awoken from your something-like-sleep state, totally unaware of your surroundings, and shuffle over to a man selling chai at three in the morning on a dusty roadway. Is this all just part of the dream?
We left Delhi at 7:fourty (my four key is acting up again…) and got into Dharmsala around 9 the next morning. For the last hour of the ride we watched rain pour onto a lush green landscape dappled with thick wandering fog – was that Legolas over there? Over bridges of flushing brown water sky congested with gray… Is the flannel I brought enough to protect me from this abrupt climate change?
Dharamsala, unlike Delhi, is full of traveling foreigners that are explorative and innocently awed by India’s beauty. While there, we were able to talk to people from many different places, people who had been hopping city to city place to place, with a friend, solo mission, easily talking to other journeying souls. In Delhi we really don’t run into people who are just here to see the sites. Delhi is a little too chaotic and messy for someone who just wanted to take a week-long bite out of a place, I realize, as most people were surprised we had actually CHOSEN to live here for six months.
Dharamsala is small; easily traversable by foot, even to neighboring areas such as Baghsu and Dharamkot. Tons of yoga, tons of cooking, tons of Tibetans (oh, and the Dalai Lama?), a good amount of monstrous thunder sifting heavy rain, rolling green hills, black pools of malty water on rooftops, good chai, skin-colored mud pasty paths…
One of my favorite moments there was during a trek back from Dharamkot one evening, when the sun was setting fast. The sky was foggy but not thickly overcast, and somehow the light became an extreme rosy violet hue that colored our entire perceptual field of vision. We became enshrouded in a warmth of dimming light…
Other points of this 2.5 day journey that migrate to the forefront of my immediate memory is the Ashtanga yoga class we took, as well as the Tibetan cooking class where we learned how to make Momo’s.
The yoga class left my joints feeling sore and strong and stretched. Our teacher’s voice was more beautiful than a singing bowl and he wore small blue shorts that easily flashed us his modestly bulging thighs. I wouldn’t be surprised if he slept in a handstand. My mat smelled like mold and each person in the class smelled like some kind of ugly (myself included – the use of a shower didn’t come into play during this adventure. Time we just didn’t have…) but my body appreciated every motion of that two hours.
We ate some of the best Indian food I’ve had here (and just before leaving the restaurant caught a fast glimpse of a scurrying rat), some delicious Japanese food, talked to friendly open travelers, got attacked by a drunken Indian man, got moistened in the mist of a waterfall… this weekend was full of sensory experiences only crammed into 2.5 days how do you see something that fast?
Meeting other travelers was great – to see what other people are doing with their lives. One girl, only twenty-four, already married, decided to take a year off with her spouse to see the world. Another guy from Germany just wandering around him and his thoughts until he studies abroad in Paris. A couple of Jewish friends that just want to meditate for a bit in India. Traveling is serious business, yeah? To not be tied down, to not have to worry about who you are and exactly where you are going, to be concerned only with what to experience next. To see see see. Impermanence. We all have homes; we all have friends that know us well; we all have family; but it feels good to slacken your rope and move elsewhere. Fostering and cultivating. In the back of your mind you always have your rock of your origin.
The day we left the rain was literally streaming down the sides of the mountain in river-like veins. Thunder and lighting sprung above our heads without a second’s gap in between them. Being high up on a mountain, though, all the water just streams down to somewhere else – and the monsoons pass if you give them enough time. Rains are no reason to restrict yourself. Especially when a poncho is involved.
A quote from the Lama, Dalai:
“This is my simple religion. There is no need for temples; no need for complicated philosophy. Our own brain, our own heart is our temple; the philosophy is kindness.”
What he said.
Somewhere during the bus ride back from Dharamsala, the winding, lurching, jolting journey inside a large metal box careening turn after turn, my stomach decided to REVOLT against me. I thought I would spew out the window for the majority of the 13 hours spent on that bus; somehow I didn’t – I think that my lack of vomiting since fifth grade has given me an intense fear of it ever happening… thus I think that I withstand nauseated discomfort better than most in the sense that I resist the urge to ‘toss my cookies’ and perhaps prolong my inward suffering…
Nevertheless, the bus ride was long. My stomach upset continued through yesterday and part of the day today. The mere thought of food was enough to throw me into an irritated state of discomfort. Sweeping nausea. Fun!
Anyway, I have since regained some of my appetite. Bananas are starting to sound real, real good. As is the mango juice that I am sipping on. (No skins!) I feel like I am tasting for the first time. The sweetness of the juice is embellished on my taste buds. Gah, how beautiful, right? Rediscovering what an appetite is. I swear there is nothing quite as beautiful as exercising your sense of taste after not having done so, not having even desired to do so, for even two days.
Besides this little rough patch in my return to Delhi, my weekend in Dharamsala was nothing short of a beautiful emerald experience. Having the experience of a 13 hour public bus ride in Delhi will only make me a more tolerable person. Tolerable of sitting hour after hour listening to the blossoming rumble of the engine, confined to a seat with no concept of personal space, overlapping shoulders or spooning on a hunt for the most comfortable sleeping position, listening to the coughing man across from you spew his germs from the bottom of his right lung…
It was nothing short of an alternative universe, really. Lights off, people constantly getting boarding and departing at seemingly random locations along the way, making a few short pit stops for chai and snacks along the way – really, it puts you in a different place to be awoken from your something-like-sleep state, totally unaware of your surroundings, and shuffle over to a man selling chai at three in the morning on a dusty roadway. Is this all just part of the dream?
We left Delhi at 7:fourty (my four key is acting up again…) and got into Dharmsala around 9 the next morning. For the last hour of the ride we watched rain pour onto a lush green landscape dappled with thick wandering fog – was that Legolas over there? Over bridges of flushing brown water sky congested with gray… Is the flannel I brought enough to protect me from this abrupt climate change?
Dharamsala, unlike Delhi, is full of traveling foreigners that are explorative and innocently awed by India’s beauty. While there, we were able to talk to people from many different places, people who had been hopping city to city place to place, with a friend, solo mission, easily talking to other journeying souls. In Delhi we really don’t run into people who are just here to see the sites. Delhi is a little too chaotic and messy for someone who just wanted to take a week-long bite out of a place, I realize, as most people were surprised we had actually CHOSEN to live here for six months.
Dharamsala is small; easily traversable by foot, even to neighboring areas such as Baghsu and Dharamkot. Tons of yoga, tons of cooking, tons of Tibetans (oh, and the Dalai Lama?), a good amount of monstrous thunder sifting heavy rain, rolling green hills, black pools of malty water on rooftops, good chai, skin-colored mud pasty paths…
One of my favorite moments there was during a trek back from Dharamkot one evening, when the sun was setting fast. The sky was foggy but not thickly overcast, and somehow the light became an extreme rosy violet hue that colored our entire perceptual field of vision. We became enshrouded in a warmth of dimming light…
Other points of this 2.5 day journey that migrate to the forefront of my immediate memory is the Ashtanga yoga class we took, as well as the Tibetan cooking class where we learned how to make Momo’s.
The yoga class left my joints feeling sore and strong and stretched. Our teacher’s voice was more beautiful than a singing bowl and he wore small blue shorts that easily flashed us his modestly bulging thighs. I wouldn’t be surprised if he slept in a handstand. My mat smelled like mold and each person in the class smelled like some kind of ugly (myself included – the use of a shower didn’t come into play during this adventure. Time we just didn’t have…) but my body appreciated every motion of that two hours.
We ate some of the best Indian food I’ve had here (and just before leaving the restaurant caught a fast glimpse of a scurrying rat), some delicious Japanese food, talked to friendly open travelers, got attacked by a drunken Indian man, got moistened in the mist of a waterfall… this weekend was full of sensory experiences only crammed into 2.5 days how do you see something that fast?
Meeting other travelers was great – to see what other people are doing with their lives. One girl, only twenty-four, already married, decided to take a year off with her spouse to see the world. Another guy from Germany just wandering around him and his thoughts until he studies abroad in Paris. A couple of Jewish friends that just want to meditate for a bit in India. Traveling is serious business, yeah? To not be tied down, to not have to worry about who you are and exactly where you are going, to be concerned only with what to experience next. To see see see. Impermanence. We all have homes; we all have friends that know us well; we all have family; but it feels good to slacken your rope and move elsewhere. Fostering and cultivating. In the back of your mind you always have your rock of your origin.
The day we left the rain was literally streaming down the sides of the mountain in river-like veins. Thunder and lighting sprung above our heads without a second’s gap in between them. Being high up on a mountain, though, all the water just streams down to somewhere else – and the monsoons pass if you give them enough time. Rains are no reason to restrict yourself. Especially when a poncho is involved.
A quote from the Lama, Dalai:
“This is my simple religion. There is no need for temples; no need for complicated philosophy. Our own brain, our own heart is our temple; the philosophy is kindness.”
What he said.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
school's flooded
Some days…
Like a rip in your pants.
This morning proved to be highly unproductive. I made it to the University with the expectation of speaking with one of my professors, only to be shafted by his absence. The rain that I commuted through made this journey all the more discouraging. It’s not a quick task to get to school for me; I’m no longer spoiled by proximal convenience.
After I leave my apartment, I wind through the neighborhood streets to the main road. If it isn’t too early in the morning, I’ll walk up the street to a corner sweet shop and order two samosas (6 rupees a piece), stuffing the paper-bagged treats into my satchel. At this point I jump into a rickshaw that’s on the move – motorized rickshaws can hold up to five people, three in the back, and two in the front on either side of the driver, pressed underneath his flared elbows. Normally rickshaw drivers hunt for enough passengers to complete a full five person load each trip they make. So all I have to do is catch the eye of a driver who has one or two open seats and hop in –
I am taking only one class in the psychology department here (along with Hindi and another in the philosophy department), but it is taught by three different professors. School here is surmised a whole lot differently than back home… I like the way it works, but it’s incredibly inconvenient for a foreigner who is only taking one class.
The idea of school here, in general, works really well. We are taking classes at the Master’s level, and the master’s program is a two-year, four-semester long ordeal. So right now we are taking classes in either the first or the third semester of the program. Within each semester, there are only a certain number of classes available to take. Some are mandatory, and some are elective; and I would say for the most part that everyone is taking the same courses. (For the Indian students.) Students are at school almost everyday, bouncing around from class to class in the small maze of hallways for that department. All the professor’s offices are lined up against one wall, the office and department library are close by as well, and the rest are classrooms that are always filled with the same students, rotating from class to class. The classes are always full, and there is always plenty of interaction with the professors. There really isn’t a strict work load, in the sense that assignments are not given and then collected. There are just lectures and an abundant list of suggested readings. From all this information and discussion it is up to us to pick a paper topic that we’d like to focus on, so that we can compose a lengthy paper towards the end of November.
For a student actually enrolled in the University, this sounds great, non? A perfect opportunity to explore the material on your own with the guidance of professors who all specialize in a different area and thus can give you a different perspective on the material. As I said earlier, I have three professors for one class – so each week I am being lectured on the same subject from three fresh angles. How eye-opening! What an inspiration.
However, for a UC student here for one semester and only taking one or two classes in the department, it’s a little frustrating, to put it euphemistically. Since I’m only attending classes there three days a week, I’m missing out on announcements that happen during other parts of the day, as well as more time to interact with a professor I only see once a week. A lot of things happen there by word of mouth – changes in class times, changes in classrooms, new readings, new resources… there isn’t some online archive of everything that’s happening.
To continue my school commute that I began so long ago – after the rickshaw ride to the metro, I ride the line one stop down to the University station. Coming out of the station I am met by hoards of bicycle rickshaws who are vying for your attention with the use of various tactics. Some come right up to you, walk with you, coaxing you. Some just call to you from a further distance: “Ah – o! Bait-o!” “Come! Sit!” My least favorite is when they simply stare you down and slap the seat of their rickshaw – like beckoning a dog.
The walk to school is only fifteen minutes if you walk at a leisurely pace, so I always skip over the bicycle tempters.
A steamy fresh cup of milky chai for five rupees outside of the University entrance, sipped on under the shade of the trees. A perfect place to people watch. I often find it hard here to just sit and people watch – because usually my white skin attracts enough attention to where I’m not the one doing the most watching. The tables just can’t be turned like that in a good people watching bout.
Sitting under the whirr of ceiling fans, attention catered to the wooden platform at the head of the classroom, my professor paces and speaks. Paces and speaks. And then stops, exclaims something witty. And then squints his eyes –
I learn how beauty is the root of war. I learn the ways of this patriarchal society. I learn about happiness and goals. The route of the lecture often bends off into present day constructions of religion, society, and spirituality. Most of the time I can’t believe how engaged I am in a philosophical discussion of the Way Things Are.
Way Things Are…………………………
Like a rip in your pants.
This morning proved to be highly unproductive. I made it to the University with the expectation of speaking with one of my professors, only to be shafted by his absence. The rain that I commuted through made this journey all the more discouraging. It’s not a quick task to get to school for me; I’m no longer spoiled by proximal convenience.
After I leave my apartment, I wind through the neighborhood streets to the main road. If it isn’t too early in the morning, I’ll walk up the street to a corner sweet shop and order two samosas (6 rupees a piece), stuffing the paper-bagged treats into my satchel. At this point I jump into a rickshaw that’s on the move – motorized rickshaws can hold up to five people, three in the back, and two in the front on either side of the driver, pressed underneath his flared elbows. Normally rickshaw drivers hunt for enough passengers to complete a full five person load each trip they make. So all I have to do is catch the eye of a driver who has one or two open seats and hop in –
I am taking only one class in the psychology department here (along with Hindi and another in the philosophy department), but it is taught by three different professors. School here is surmised a whole lot differently than back home… I like the way it works, but it’s incredibly inconvenient for a foreigner who is only taking one class.
The idea of school here, in general, works really well. We are taking classes at the Master’s level, and the master’s program is a two-year, four-semester long ordeal. So right now we are taking classes in either the first or the third semester of the program. Within each semester, there are only a certain number of classes available to take. Some are mandatory, and some are elective; and I would say for the most part that everyone is taking the same courses. (For the Indian students.) Students are at school almost everyday, bouncing around from class to class in the small maze of hallways for that department. All the professor’s offices are lined up against one wall, the office and department library are close by as well, and the rest are classrooms that are always filled with the same students, rotating from class to class. The classes are always full, and there is always plenty of interaction with the professors. There really isn’t a strict work load, in the sense that assignments are not given and then collected. There are just lectures and an abundant list of suggested readings. From all this information and discussion it is up to us to pick a paper topic that we’d like to focus on, so that we can compose a lengthy paper towards the end of November.
For a student actually enrolled in the University, this sounds great, non? A perfect opportunity to explore the material on your own with the guidance of professors who all specialize in a different area and thus can give you a different perspective on the material. As I said earlier, I have three professors for one class – so each week I am being lectured on the same subject from three fresh angles. How eye-opening! What an inspiration.
However, for a UC student here for one semester and only taking one or two classes in the department, it’s a little frustrating, to put it euphemistically. Since I’m only attending classes there three days a week, I’m missing out on announcements that happen during other parts of the day, as well as more time to interact with a professor I only see once a week. A lot of things happen there by word of mouth – changes in class times, changes in classrooms, new readings, new resources… there isn’t some online archive of everything that’s happening.
To continue my school commute that I began so long ago – after the rickshaw ride to the metro, I ride the line one stop down to the University station. Coming out of the station I am met by hoards of bicycle rickshaws who are vying for your attention with the use of various tactics. Some come right up to you, walk with you, coaxing you. Some just call to you from a further distance: “Ah – o! Bait-o!” “Come! Sit!” My least favorite is when they simply stare you down and slap the seat of their rickshaw – like beckoning a dog.
The walk to school is only fifteen minutes if you walk at a leisurely pace, so I always skip over the bicycle tempters.
A steamy fresh cup of milky chai for five rupees outside of the University entrance, sipped on under the shade of the trees. A perfect place to people watch. I often find it hard here to just sit and people watch – because usually my white skin attracts enough attention to where I’m not the one doing the most watching. The tables just can’t be turned like that in a good people watching bout.
Sitting under the whirr of ceiling fans, attention catered to the wooden platform at the head of the classroom, my professor paces and speaks. Paces and speaks. And then stops, exclaims something witty. And then squints his eyes –
I learn how beauty is the root of war. I learn the ways of this patriarchal society. I learn about happiness and goals. The route of the lecture often bends off into present day constructions of religion, society, and spirituality. Most of the time I can’t believe how engaged I am in a philosophical discussion of the Way Things Are.
Way Things Are…………………………
Monday, August 16, 2010
sam your osa
The sheer amount of bats and kites that whirl through the sky is absolutely breathtaking. The sunsets are always toned with a cool milky blue made by diaphanous layers of cloud and pollution. The moon, even when high in the sky, is colored because of all the haze its reflected light must pass through to reach us. The cap of sky above us is stretched into an extensive vastness that is riddled with trails of cloud smears.
One of my favorite ways to enjoy an evening is to catch this last bit of sunset. Ideally, I will have just come home from a day like today – the morning spent in Lodi Gardens, a beautifully expansive green park with burial temples from circa 1500, then grabbing a chocolate-y mocha at a nearby market, then letting my mind stumble in Hindi class. Finally, on the way back home I stopped at a cart on the street to buy some vegetables that I later turned into a delicious and spicy curry.
A beautiful part of my neighborhood in Delhi are the vegetable carts that men pull through the streets. Full of tomatoes, eggplant, onions, garlic, ginger, string beans, cauliflower, cabbage, and okra, these carts display a mélange of color and flavor waiting to be weighted by the kilo. The men either bike or walk through the narrow streets, their carts trail behind them. Voices echo against the maze of buildings as the vendors call up to warn you of their presence.
This weekend I’m planning on making a venture to Dharmasala. Only a ten hour bus run away, it should promise some quieter spaces and a chance to do a small trek… perhaps drop-in on some yoga and experience a cooking class or two. I feel like I can’t be settled here. I can’t have too much of a routine. I can’t be too bound. My time here is only so temporary and I need to shake myself up here as much as possible.
At least, that’s how I’ve been feeling…
It’s strange. And detached.
I also applied for and got accepted to a 10-day Vipassana Meditation retreat in the south of Delhi. If all goes according to plan, I should be shut up in my mind breathing and letting thoughts come and pass for the opening 10 days of September.
A bit apprehensive? Perhaps. The other night I was the first one to go to sleep out of my three roommates – and I actually felt the aching loneliness of my bed partner’s absence. Now, to imagine myself merely sleeping alone for 10 days is one thing that crunches my inner being into a feared desolation. I take myself to be a fairly independent person; but I also am aware that emotions can creep up on you given the right environmental circumstances. I guess I am afraid to be vulnerable to a new set of emotional probes.
The actual meditation part, all day, each day, for 10 days, I know will be difficult at first but ultimately rewarding. I think of the process a little like going through a heroin withdrawal (perhaps a strong, stretched comparison, but let me delve into it before you shut it away…) The first few days of sitting silently with my breath and my body and my mind will obviously be the most challenging. New feelings will unearth themselves, and I am sure that I will be thinking and feeling a lot of things in such a raw way that they will hit me in powerful ways. The monotony may sweep over me intensely and stretch each moment to be an unbearable experience that lasts a lifetime. Don’t you think a heroin addict breaking free of his dependency would feel the length and struggle in every moment?
Forced analogy ABORT!
Anyway, it would be an experience to have. I think I could only walk away from it churning and growing. Any experience, good or bad, will take its effect; an opportunity for learning and processing. We can’t expect everything to work itself out as a perfect twist of fate. Ups and downs are how we learn and live. How we learn to live.
One of my favorite ways to enjoy an evening is to catch this last bit of sunset. Ideally, I will have just come home from a day like today – the morning spent in Lodi Gardens, a beautifully expansive green park with burial temples from circa 1500, then grabbing a chocolate-y mocha at a nearby market, then letting my mind stumble in Hindi class. Finally, on the way back home I stopped at a cart on the street to buy some vegetables that I later turned into a delicious and spicy curry.
A beautiful part of my neighborhood in Delhi are the vegetable carts that men pull through the streets. Full of tomatoes, eggplant, onions, garlic, ginger, string beans, cauliflower, cabbage, and okra, these carts display a mélange of color and flavor waiting to be weighted by the kilo. The men either bike or walk through the narrow streets, their carts trail behind them. Voices echo against the maze of buildings as the vendors call up to warn you of their presence.
This weekend I’m planning on making a venture to Dharmasala. Only a ten hour bus run away, it should promise some quieter spaces and a chance to do a small trek… perhaps drop-in on some yoga and experience a cooking class or two. I feel like I can’t be settled here. I can’t have too much of a routine. I can’t be too bound. My time here is only so temporary and I need to shake myself up here as much as possible.
At least, that’s how I’ve been feeling…
It’s strange. And detached.
I also applied for and got accepted to a 10-day Vipassana Meditation retreat in the south of Delhi. If all goes according to plan, I should be shut up in my mind breathing and letting thoughts come and pass for the opening 10 days of September.
A bit apprehensive? Perhaps. The other night I was the first one to go to sleep out of my three roommates – and I actually felt the aching loneliness of my bed partner’s absence. Now, to imagine myself merely sleeping alone for 10 days is one thing that crunches my inner being into a feared desolation. I take myself to be a fairly independent person; but I also am aware that emotions can creep up on you given the right environmental circumstances. I guess I am afraid to be vulnerable to a new set of emotional probes.
The actual meditation part, all day, each day, for 10 days, I know will be difficult at first but ultimately rewarding. I think of the process a little like going through a heroin withdrawal (perhaps a strong, stretched comparison, but let me delve into it before you shut it away…) The first few days of sitting silently with my breath and my body and my mind will obviously be the most challenging. New feelings will unearth themselves, and I am sure that I will be thinking and feeling a lot of things in such a raw way that they will hit me in powerful ways. The monotony may sweep over me intensely and stretch each moment to be an unbearable experience that lasts a lifetime. Don’t you think a heroin addict breaking free of his dependency would feel the length and struggle in every moment?
Forced analogy ABORT!
Anyway, it would be an experience to have. I think I could only walk away from it churning and growing. Any experience, good or bad, will take its effect; an opportunity for learning and processing. We can’t expect everything to work itself out as a perfect twist of fate. Ups and downs are how we learn and live. How we learn to live.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
what a wastrel
The park across from our apartment, that lays just beyond the road at our door front, has again become a raging sea of goopy dirt and dusty water. The rains came this past week – and although the streets drain eventually, our park seems to contain its water very effectively. Maybe it’s really a community pool, and we accidentally mistook it for a park in its dry stages…
Yesterday we took a slight adventure to Connaught Place – near where we had stayed at the YWCA when we first arrived in India, before securing an apartment farther north. The base of the metro stairs, at the exit, met us with cascades of water slipping down the sleek black stairs. Luckily, a drainage system ushered the water away before it managed to crawl too far into the station. We stared up at the gray booming sky –
Our destination was simply a movie theater, somewhere up above in Connaught Place. Connaught Place is in the shape of a circle (going along with the theme of roundabouts that are scattered throughout Delhi, with makes it even more of a maze to navigate) packed with people and beggars and shops and bars and travel agencies and movie theaters and places to grab food – except at the moment, it is ravaged with construction. It is nearly impossible to perceive a store front, a sidewalk, a path, or to grasp any sort of cohesive vision of what this Place is supposed to look like. For example, in order to get from the metro station to the shielded walkway underneath an awning, we had to walk about 30 yards. This distance –
Caked with mud and viscous brown rainwater, trapped between rock and brick clusters, the entire area swallowed our feet as we slipped and dipped through a sopping mess of debris. At one point we had to walk single file across a beam of wood over a newly formed pond, step up over some metal bars, through what will someday become a brick-lined planter, down onto some piles of uneven rock, and more mud…
I felt like I was on a Safari through some concrete ruins. And on our left you will see the Wild Men in business suits, covering their head with brief cases, frolicking in shined shoes to get to the metro station.
Even navigating around Connaught Place itself was tricky – construction is literally flailing at every corner. Scaffolding made of what look like thick branches tied together in rectangular-like structures are in the middle of walkways, stuck in the mud. Holes gape at you from the ground, unprotected. Wire. Cranes. Chaos.
It’s all somehow incredibly beautiful, though; something that would inspire an artist to sculpt massive piles of debris in still visions of chaotic asceticism.
Yesterday we took a slight adventure to Connaught Place – near where we had stayed at the YWCA when we first arrived in India, before securing an apartment farther north. The base of the metro stairs, at the exit, met us with cascades of water slipping down the sleek black stairs. Luckily, a drainage system ushered the water away before it managed to crawl too far into the station. We stared up at the gray booming sky –
Our destination was simply a movie theater, somewhere up above in Connaught Place. Connaught Place is in the shape of a circle (going along with the theme of roundabouts that are scattered throughout Delhi, with makes it even more of a maze to navigate) packed with people and beggars and shops and bars and travel agencies and movie theaters and places to grab food – except at the moment, it is ravaged with construction. It is nearly impossible to perceive a store front, a sidewalk, a path, or to grasp any sort of cohesive vision of what this Place is supposed to look like. For example, in order to get from the metro station to the shielded walkway underneath an awning, we had to walk about 30 yards. This distance –
Caked with mud and viscous brown rainwater, trapped between rock and brick clusters, the entire area swallowed our feet as we slipped and dipped through a sopping mess of debris. At one point we had to walk single file across a beam of wood over a newly formed pond, step up over some metal bars, through what will someday become a brick-lined planter, down onto some piles of uneven rock, and more mud…
I felt like I was on a Safari through some concrete ruins. And on our left you will see the Wild Men in business suits, covering their head with brief cases, frolicking in shined shoes to get to the metro station.
Even navigating around Connaught Place itself was tricky – construction is literally flailing at every corner. Scaffolding made of what look like thick branches tied together in rectangular-like structures are in the middle of walkways, stuck in the mud. Holes gape at you from the ground, unprotected. Wire. Cranes. Chaos.
It’s all somehow incredibly beautiful, though; something that would inspire an artist to sculpt massive piles of debris in still visions of chaotic asceticism.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Delhi. Spew.
My face is back to its normal state. The culprit? Mango skins. Produces the same sort of rash like poison oak or poison ivy, as it belongs to the same plant family. Perhaps I got contact dermatitis around my mouth from scraping the mango pulp off of the skin with my teeth? Then the reaction morphed into bloated eyes and ears, a rash on my hands and arms and chest, and an itch that raged under the surface of my skin.
Eck, whatever the exact method of flaring a histamine response from my body, mango skins had everything to do with it. THOSE BASTARDS.
The funny thing is that I am constantly introducing so many new things to my body internally and externally that it was impossible to pinpoint any one thing that could be causing my face to balloon in a red rough plane of itchiness. Was it those new sheets that I bought? How about cashews? That mystery vegetable that I cooked the other night? That awful lip cream that I bought from the chemist?
To be honest I didn’t even suspect mangos. Only after consulting my mum and google for a couple hours did the idea even occur…
Anyway, the rashes are subsiding on my arms and hands and chest. More than anything I have gained an incredible peace of mind knowing that mango skins and I do not tango very well. I like not being skeptical of everything that comes in contact with my body. The helplessness of not knowing what is causing your body to rage against you is an awful feeling. Like any relationship, not being on the same page is really damaging. I should have just confronted my mango skins instead of ASSUMING we were compatible... what a fool I was.
That was one long week – worry what part of my face would be swollen when I woke up in the morning, if it would ever be ameliorated…
I think it helped with the staring, at least. People would dart their eyes over to me, as usual (because I’m white), and then they would get a glimpse of the rash I was attempting to conceal under my scarf – I think at this point they averted their eyes.
Eck, whatever the exact method of flaring a histamine response from my body, mango skins had everything to do with it. THOSE BASTARDS.
The funny thing is that I am constantly introducing so many new things to my body internally and externally that it was impossible to pinpoint any one thing that could be causing my face to balloon in a red rough plane of itchiness. Was it those new sheets that I bought? How about cashews? That mystery vegetable that I cooked the other night? That awful lip cream that I bought from the chemist?
To be honest I didn’t even suspect mangos. Only after consulting my mum and google for a couple hours did the idea even occur…
Anyway, the rashes are subsiding on my arms and hands and chest. More than anything I have gained an incredible peace of mind knowing that mango skins and I do not tango very well. I like not being skeptical of everything that comes in contact with my body. The helplessness of not knowing what is causing your body to rage against you is an awful feeling. Like any relationship, not being on the same page is really damaging. I should have just confronted my mango skins instead of ASSUMING we were compatible... what a fool I was.
That was one long week – worry what part of my face would be swollen when I woke up in the morning, if it would ever be ameliorated…
I think it helped with the staring, at least. People would dart their eyes over to me, as usual (because I’m white), and then they would get a glimpse of the rash I was attempting to conceal under my scarf – I think at this point they averted their eyes.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
FANS THAT GO *KABOOM* IN THE NIGHT
In the wee hours of the morning, as Kelly and I were drifting in and out of a not-so-deep slumber, a spark flew from the sky. The sky of our ceiling fan, that is. Our other roommate shot out of bed, “Do you smell that?”
“…no…”
We all tried to go back to sleep, but the electricity had gone out at this point and not having any air circulation lays in the thick heat in a much too perceptible bodily glaze that makes it entirely hard to relax into a slumber – also MY FACE felt like it was going to peel off –
>>>Speaking of face issues, I attempted to see a dermatologist yesterday. It was about six in the evening when I walked up to the hospital whose parking lot looked like a valet stand at a mall. Cars were parked haphazardly and constantly being herded in and around the cement lot. Papers flew around at desks inside the hospital. I was told by two different receptionists that the dermatologist was not in at the moment and I would need to return today. The first man I spoke with told me to come in at 11:30, and that he would be available for one hour only. The next lady I spoke with told me to come in at 12:00 exactly, and that he would be available until 1:00. These people were in reception desks probably 15 feet apart from one another.
<<<>>>
So lying awake in bed for a bit lead us to be conscious and mobile for the sunrise. Our first noted sunrise in India. The rise of the sun is really only perceptible once it gets up past the mass of dense smog lining the low part of the city. Today we saw gashes of pink light illuminated around the edges of clouds in splotchy patterns as the cradled hot orange sun became visible among the blue milky clouds/smog/pollution. A dream, I tell you. Masses of the misty clouds/smog/pollution rolled over and in front of the sun, sometimes obstructing the view of its exact shape – but leaving the wildly electric imprints of orange rose that it shed onto the sky around it.
A fitting comment for the morning: “This is an Indian sunrise. When would you ever see this back at home?”
And it’s true; of course there are plenty of things to see here that one wouldn’t see back at home – but something as simple and universal as the powerful imprint of a shockingly pink sunrise seems as though it would have notes of home. Instead, this sun rises like a different species of sun. It doesn’t awaken into a yellow yolk, but smears its presence…
That was beautiful.
So power out, but beautiful sunrise, and then that smell that my roommate spoke of? My phone charger, which had been plugged into the wall, literally exploded. Only half of it dangled from the outlet, and the rest lay in a charred black pile on the marble floor.
Awesome, India.
Everything else in our apartment, save the internet, is wonderful, though. Huge open spaces big enough to do yoga and handstands, to sleep, to read, to feast – throughout the day, but especially in the early morning and at night, vegetable vendors roll their carts through the narrow streets up and yell up to the residents with booming resonating voices. All you must do is peek down off of your balcony and motion for them to stop! Hold on! I will come down and purchase a kilo of tomatoes for a dollar!
Again, shall I be off to the hospital? Fix my FAAAAAAAAAAAACE. I am a bit nervous to put my face in the hands of India… but… alas, what else to do? I can only apply calamine lotion and Vaseline so many times…
It isn’t nearly as bad as yesterday or the day before – but it still feels as though someone has poured a vat of elmer’s all over my lips and then let it sit and crack in the sun. And I no longer look quite like a pomegranate. More just like a girl with puffy cheeks.
In the wee hours of the morning, as Kelly and I were drifting in and out of a not-so-deep slumber, a spark flew from the sky. The sky of our ceiling fan, that is. Our other roommate shot out of bed, “Do you smell that?”
“…no…”
We all tried to go back to sleep, but the electricity had gone out at this point and not having any air circulation lays in the thick heat in a much too perceptible bodily glaze that makes it entirely hard to relax into a slumber – also MY FACE felt like it was going to peel off –
>>>Speaking of face issues, I attempted to see a dermatologist yesterday. It was about six in the evening when I walked up to the hospital whose parking lot looked like a valet stand at a mall. Cars were parked haphazardly and constantly being herded in and around the cement lot. Papers flew around at desks inside the hospital. I was told by two different receptionists that the dermatologist was not in at the moment and I would need to return today. The first man I spoke with told me to come in at 11:30, and that he would be available for one hour only. The next lady I spoke with told me to come in at 12:00 exactly, and that he would be available until 1:00. These people were in reception desks probably 15 feet apart from one another.
<<<>>>
So lying awake in bed for a bit lead us to be conscious and mobile for the sunrise. Our first noted sunrise in India. The rise of the sun is really only perceptible once it gets up past the mass of dense smog lining the low part of the city. Today we saw gashes of pink light illuminated around the edges of clouds in splotchy patterns as the cradled hot orange sun became visible among the blue milky clouds/smog/pollution. A dream, I tell you. Masses of the misty clouds/smog/pollution rolled over and in front of the sun, sometimes obstructing the view of its exact shape – but leaving the wildly electric imprints of orange rose that it shed onto the sky around it.
A fitting comment for the morning: “This is an Indian sunrise. When would you ever see this back at home?”
And it’s true; of course there are plenty of things to see here that one wouldn’t see back at home – but something as simple and universal as the powerful imprint of a shockingly pink sunrise seems as though it would have notes of home. Instead, this sun rises like a different species of sun. It doesn’t awaken into a yellow yolk, but smears its presence…
That was beautiful.
So power out, but beautiful sunrise, and then that smell that my roommate spoke of? My phone charger, which had been plugged into the wall, literally exploded. Only half of it dangled from the outlet, and the rest lay in a charred black pile on the marble floor.
Awesome, India.
Everything else in our apartment, save the internet, is wonderful, though. Huge open spaces big enough to do yoga and handstands, to sleep, to read, to feast – throughout the day, but especially in the early morning and at night, vegetable vendors roll their carts through the narrow streets up and yell up to the residents with booming resonating voices. All you must do is peek down off of your balcony and motion for them to stop! Hold on! I will come down and purchase a kilo of tomatoes for a dollar!
Again, shall I be off to the hospital? Fix my FAAAAAAAAAAAACE. I am a bit nervous to put my face in the hands of India… but… alas, what else to do? I can only apply calamine lotion and Vaseline so many times…
It isn’t nearly as bad as yesterday or the day before – but it still feels as though someone has poured a vat of elmer’s all over my lips and then let it sit and crack in the sun. And I no longer look quite like a pomegranate. More just like a girl with puffy cheeks.
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