Unapologetically India

I am you and you are me. (Day 1)

It isn’t easy to convey accurately the awesome wave of humanity that descends upon those willing to venture into the soul of India. As soon as the plane aiming Her direction is boarded and you observe the citizens of the subcontinent surrounding you, standing as soon as the flight attendant attempts to instruct all to sit, and you recognize that no rules are going to be followed by anyone, no answers will be clearly given to any questions asked and at best the seeker will be met with a smile and curious bobble of the head yet more likely ignored altogether or presented with a set of seemingly contradictory riddles, well, the egos relation to an understanding of what it means to be human in this world begins to dissolve as swiftly as ice on a blisteringly hot day in Delhi.

I long ago let go of any assumption that plans could be made by me when perched atop the mighty tigress generously allowing me to look briefly beyond the veil, to peer into a timeless space where even modernity seems to have missed the boat. Rocks are still seen as gods here. Time is a force that is worshiped. The friction between here and there, coming and going, worship and vulgarity all offer a throne for altogether different paths to emerge, for myriad Truths to coexist, to bicker, make love, grieve, disintegrate and Create.

Now all I do is show up and surrender. I walk through the alleys, filled as they are with silver, marigolds, holy shrines, puddles of piss and cow shit, passed the ancient reminders of a culture entirely devoted to excellence, stopping occasionally to chat with chai walas and finally swiftly merge into the mighty river of language and song and scents, subtle sounds, little and big bells ringing, conch shells sounding off simultaneously with the Muslim Call to Prayer and a thousand other prayers, prayers that sometimes result in peace, sometimes in war and before long my identity too disintegrates and all I see is a hundred thousand splendid suns, shimmering, truth-seeking eyes, all looking back at me from a million different potentialities whispering in unison, I am you and you are me. In them all I recognize my own horror. Our shared fears and hope. Humankind’s infinitely unfolding grief. It all looks deep into me and, like Kali Herself, blood dripping from Her tongue, reminding me that all of this, every speck of magnificence and worry, passes instantly. Gone.

I stand in the middle of a busy intersection. A strange moment of peace. Just as soon as I notice it, a new sad tone erupts as I bear witness to the endless line of desperate mothers, dressed beautifully, like the goddess’ they are, in the one sari they own, their children alongside them, laughing, playing freely, banging the back of bowls they have been given by one of the hundreds of Sikh volunteers who spent all day preparing a meal to serve freely to anyone who shows up as if they were tablas. I look up. A peacock. Surreal beauty juxtaposes wretched poverty. I trip slightly and stumble forward two steps. A pigeon falls dead where seconds before I had been standing. The peacock runs away. I freeze. I catch my breath. I choke. The air here is unbearable.

The sounds of rickshaws honking is too much. Everything is testing my patience. I want to scream. I try to cross the street, toward the exhausted man beating his son relentlessly. The child, helpless, cries hopelessly. Incense burns and butter lamps flicker in front of an image of Lord Jagannath. The sun goes down.

I enter the Sufi temple after waltzing awkwardly through a maze of dank corridors crowded with vendors selling sacred texts, cigarettes, roses and halal lamb flesh served on a skewer. The atmosphere is surreal, like suddenly traveling into a Sultans court. It is obvious no one here is thinking about what most of my fellow countrymen on the other side of the big pond are likely now thinking about. A woman is flailing, clearly submerged in ecstatic trance. No one bats an eye. A scene as normal as the man selling flowers, as normal as the father beating his child, the Sikh volunteers offering meals freely to all, the barefoot children with no home to return to tonight, the man who sat next to me on the airport, who just stared at me the entire flight, not feeling it was an odd thing to do whatsoever. Just staring, staring, staring.

Life. Raw, unapologetic, happening. Passing. Rising. Offering glimpses, little snippets of what this all means. A man shaves his beard on the side of another busy street, oblivious to anything but the task at hand. A wealthy, skeptical businessman receives a blessing from a naked sadhu saint. Bollywood anthems blare from an ashram classroom. This is India. Life erupting everywhere. Flawed and imperfect. Beautiful and Holy. Opposites dancing together eternally, churning relentlessly. Unfiltered, unbearable, overwhelming at times, awful, sacred, enchanting, repulsive, real.

I’m already homesick. It’s only day one. I hate leaving my wife and daughter. But somehow all this is reminding me of life’s most difficult task, to master the ability to learn how to let go. We are not husbands, wives, Americans, Hindus, haves or have nots. We are sound. We are space. We are moving, ising temporarily in a stream of neighboring planets now aligned perfectly. We are the memory of what has been forgotten and none of our silly games matter when met with the reality of Change. ॐ

This is India. This is where Buddha woke. This is where countless gods were born. This is where some of the greatest empires ever known rose gloriously and eventually fell, lost like all things to the dusts of time, buried under the putrid smell of greed and forgetfulness. Yet, the mystic eternal chooses to dwell here still, in the heart of the charnel grounds, in the rotting river Ganga, in the filth of city slums, on the busy street corner, in the eyes of an “untouchable” beggar, smiling where one would otherwise assume despair. There She is. Can you see Her?

The music starts.

God enters.

I get on the bus.

---

#mayallbeingsbehappyandfree