Transparency part 2

Written in Darjeeling--January 2009

A 10km roundtrip walk to a monastery, the pollution, coal burning, automobiles, buses, trucks, black.

At one in the afternoon I stand outside my room in Old Bellevue’s enclosed porch and someone is behind me. I didn’t know there was anyone else here.  Ah, grand, an elderly English gentleman in a tweed smoking jacket carrying handwritten letters.

Namaste

The sun is out but the mist and pollution hangs and there are no mountains.

 I must say the first sentences of Gandhi’s essay on Ethical Religion and Lama Thubten Yeshe’s lectures, The Essence of Tibetan Buddhism throw me completely off, it’s a wonder I keep reading but it would be worse if I didn’t and I haven’t…

“Today, I’m unfortunate. And today, you’re unfortunate as well, because you have to put up with me, the garbage man.”

Breakfast at Glenary’s is surreal; Maranatha music from 1983 plays above, patrons look out over a hillside of corrugated metal, breakfast arrives, fresh orange juice, a gold pot of masala tea, fried eggs and salty bacon for a 100rs.  In comes another pair of stunning ladies in a room of stunning women and I sit and write. 

The knot in my back is ever present, though sleep was good.  I slept in my clothes.  The shower is hot alright but I was too cold to take off my clothes.  I did wash my hair and shave since that is all one is going to see anyways. 

Built in 1887 the hotel’s owner knows the Dalai Lama, a faded photo of the two sit on a mantle in the hotel’s private room, a collection of antiques I had the privileged of seeing one afternoon. 

“I am Tibetan”

Honey insists on returning a gift for the red stone I gave her this afternoon: black and white wool socks.  I walked away, she’s so pretty, into the square, with my male bag of socks, shampoo, headache medicine, tissue, and there she was, asking me to sit with her for a glass of milk tea.  Big brown beautiful eyes, freckles, if she let me kiss her I would have.  Her business, how can I help.

J: come with me to the Tibetan refugee camp.
H: I can’t.  My business.

I touched her cheek with my warm hand. Her cheeks were ice cold.  She said she was cold. Can I make you warm. No, wait, did I say it or only think it, I surely
thought it.

*
Siddartha is the owner’s son but he runs the hotel.  He left his job as a lawyer in London for eight years to run this old place.  I envy him. 

Where do you store water in a city on the side of a mountain, 6818ft into the clouds.  A pot of real Darjeeling castle tea, the best I am told, and three cookies and a tacky candy bar I had forgotten at the bottom of my backseat pocket. 

“you are my hiding place…
you are my _________”
“o worthy is the Lamb”
Kungas For Momos

KE Timi Lea KhanuBho

Honey o sweet you are.

On the way to find Kungas Restaurant, Lonely Planet famous for its momos I passed Honey and she had a line of customers.  We looked and I kept walking albeit slower making eye contact with one of the bystanders.  Then I pulled out my rehearsed line and she came over:

J: KeTimi Lea KhanuBho?
H: What?

J: KeTimi Lea KhanuBhAo? 

Obviously my tone was off whack.  An old fella who wears a Fighting Illini shirt over his winter coat every day pronounces it like a BAow but that doesn’t make any sense in part because he has about eight teeth so I show Honey the phrase  and then in English, Have you eaten? A punch in the arm and a no and a hearty laugh.

J: momos I am looking for momos. 

And I found them and they were good, very good, twelve of them veggie, steamed, a 7-up and a nice glass of lemon-honey tea, all for 98 rupees.  I gave the stunned looking girl 160 rupees and then wrapped myself Arabee style with my warm Tibetan blanket and left. 

I like Honey and I know she likes me, however there’s no time for any kind of relationship since I am leaving and really…

Ke garne?  I don’t know what to do other than simply let it be.  Thank you George-Paul-John and Sligo.

“good morning Dr. Chandler”

“omigod its full of stars”. 

The tv hasn’t worked today. Honey was impressed I could hum Hari ram hari ram Hari Krishna hari ram.

J: do you dance? H: I don’t like.
J: You never danced before. 

How old is this girl?  twenty at the most?  It is possible she has never danced before.

J: Do you want to dance now?
H: Where?
J: Right here.  I pointed to the cement in the mall where we sat and sipped chai and chatted. 


Honey has no name for me and that’s fine.  She has a sense of humor and really insisted on this obligation, insisting I select a hat or gloves from a shop run by her friend, her sister, synonymous words in India.  I chose the black and white ones and she refused the money because of the red stone.

J:  ok, give me back the red stone. 

And we laughed heartily and there, a beautiful smile, how it warms my heart.

9:40.  Going to sleep early and not drinking hard stuff to knock me out is tough.  Smoke too much and you just lie there and listen to a 112 year old house.  And the dogs.

And no one else.

I still think of the old English fella with the letters.  I burn candles at night, a nice and warm reminder that fire is. 

fire-water    sun-moon   rain-fish

H: Where you living?
J: Belleview, right up here.  Where do you live?

H: Near railway station.

I walked by this station, built by the British to exploit the price of potatoes between the cities of Darjeeling and Sigulari.  And it is still used because walking up and down is tiring sometimes.  Good exercise, right, except for my aching back. 

J: Do you take the train home every night?

She smiled so big.  No tattoos.  I thought I saw one at the crotch of her left thumb and pointing finger, Christian crosses, Hindu oms on men and women were frequent. 

25 January Sunday

A desire to love is attachment. The desire to live with someone is natural. I wish to attach myself to someone.

non-attachment eliminates suffering. 

“The psychology of attachment is over estimation, an unrealistic attitude”

So wishing any relationship with Honey is wrong?  This is very sad.  This makes me very sad and I suffer in silence. 

How do I interpret myself now? It’s 7:20, no sunrise, my nose is cold, my feet are cold, my nose is stuffy.  I threw a big rock at a pack of angry dogs behind the hotel who wouldn’t let me walk around and the rock hit one dog with a sick thud and it obviously hurt.  “Just let me #@%@ walk, ok, for crying out loud, why do you make me do this, dammit?”

I don’t understand.  Am I supposed to be alone?  I don’t want to be alone. Am I selfish wishing and praying and desiring to be with someone I love?  It isn’t right and it hurts.

Shakyamuni Buddha had a 100 wives and was still dissatisfied?  I don’t know how to think anymore.

Oh yes, the dual mind, controlling the dualism and keeping it un-irritable is a noble challenge.  The peace of ultimate reality eliminates the dualistic thinking. 

Mahamudra or dzog-chen

Attachment to anything is wrong.  Liberation of the human spirit is non-attachment.  Even God?

The nature of God and the manifestation of God in nature and humanity is to be enjoyed.  To enjoy beauty isn’t attachment.  It is pleasure.  A sunrise and the majesty of the Himalayas is wonderful especially if they are seen, throwing rocks at stupid dogs isn’t. 

How will I ever find love if I think?  It seems impossible.

Mr. Buddha, dude, this is suffering. 

The energy of desire and attachment can be used to liberate.  Use desire as a medicine for growth.

“I can deal with all my problems. I can solve all my problems”

“My problems are all related to things I don’t have”

Renunciation

bodhicitta    equilibrium/middle way

Emptiness

                                                           meditation

“I am attached to no one and therefore have the capacity to empty all desire and find love, joy and real happiness”

So, how does one therefore go about achieving the only thing God appears to keep from me?  No attachment, can I therefore even say and use this word, God?

love
money

sacred medicine

you’re not able to save and taking on a woman who has 1. no education, 2. education.  What are you thinking?

love

compassion

It is difficult because of the fear she won’t love me unconditionally the way I ought to love unconditionally in any relationship, oh little princess.

I feel very selfish.  I could contribute so much to her and her family and her community and to her people.  My God, what do you want, John?


Eliminate poverty, marry a woman from a third world country

No Maranatha music this morning to write to, thank goodness.   Nothing wrong with Maranatha music, it evokes emotions and memories.  Instead I have in front of me two people who just prayed before the meal: an American woman with a big camera, big hair and who is with a missionary organization.

Thank God for Red Hot Chili Peppers

“…and it’s Californication…”

I think this tourist is out of her home and country for the first time.  Her guide, a Nepalese man laughs out of politeness to her absurdities: “I don’t like this coffee. I never drink coffee in America,” and deep down he’d rather talk to a tree.

And then they left.  My apologies for not intervening into their auras, if she were younger, perhaps, and lighter, and prettier, and less American.  My ill thoughts were kept in control but still…

How do dogs know someone is a visitor and someone is staying at the hotel?  Back in front of the hotel one of the hotel dogs came up to me gently wagging its tail and we looked at each other.  He knew who I was.  Another black dog, looking quite noble and ferocious with a thick neck like a malmute, sits on a plinth looking over the valley.  He looks at me, not menancingly, but…I don’t know.  The pack behind the building were quite alarmed I was there but why.  

A big pot of delicious masala tea serves four cups. 

Where there is charity there is love. 

True?  False?

Is the charity a non-moral or moral act? 

A.  If it is non-moral then it may not be love though love varies in degree.

B.  If it is moral then it must be love and the kind of love that doesn’t expect anything in return.

Jesus, mother and Joe

                                                    “FEEL LIKE GOD”

an advertisement for a motorcycle, a man sitting on his new bike. 

Gorkaland

her last words:

“when you come back I’ll introduce you to a friend” HA

Prerna, aka Honey, is all of 17.  I guessed, I hoped, she’d be at least 21.

“you same age as my father” 

At first she guessed 24, and I kissed her dirty black and white gloves.  The same age as her father, thanks for dragging me back into reality. 

*

My hands are cold.  The hot shower was good until it ran out and a quick dress kept me warm. Now, the feet are cold and my breath reveals thick cold air. Beverly Hills 90210 kept me away from writing and I don’t know.  I guess, perhaps not, I don’t know.  Here we always looked at the wealthy with envy and enjoyed when they suffered, usually for selfish reasons.  But this show, what a bunch of clowns. 

I enjoyed the time with Prerena, actually I think I’ll stay with Honey, because she was really sweet. 

H: Don’t sing when you are eating.
J: Why not?  I like the momos.
H:  My mother say not good habit.

J: My mother says it is a good habit to sing at the table…Hari ram hari ram hari Krishna hari ram, hari ram hari ram…”

It was a low hum actually.  She took me to a hole in the wall no tourists would ever enter unless a gorgeous 17 year old took your hand and led you in.  There was a picnic table with five patrons sitting on one side and three of us on the other side and there was just enough room for three stand next to the kitchen where fresh beef momos were steamed.      

J: These momos are long.  Much different from last nights veggie momos.  Those were more like the Chinese dumplings.

H: These are Gorkhamomos.

Across from me a Gorkha wearing a t-shirt and an ivory sword pendent around his neck ate the things with his hands.  Honey and I ate them with forks, chopsticks and eventually succumbed to using our hands.  We also got soup of the brothy kind and it was very good, though I had no idea what it was.

H: I like no rich people tea.  I like poor people tea. 

And we had tea in the mall where on a clear day the Himalayas circle us.  For three days I saw nothing. 

J: July 22 you will be 18.  Wow.  What do you want to do?

She couldn’t answer and in a way it was an unfair question.  Her choices are limited and most wishes were dreams.  She doesn’t want to go to school.  She’s 17 and likes to sleep but she is good with little emaciated puppies who will be dead within weeks. 

I sat across the lane from Honey’s shawls, hung on a line against a wall trying to get a photo off when a short man with a fat pink dog sat down in front of me, both of them shaking their heads.  Namaste to both of you now please move. 

*
The maps of Darjeeling I’ve seen show the place is flat and it is anything but, rendering them useless.  An afternoon looking for Lloyds Botanical Gardens and even asking people to show me the way was a farce.  And then two hours later I’m told it is closed.  Today is Sunday.  On the twisty up and down lanes I did find a convent, the Bishop’s house, and plenty of schools.  The city layout is similar to Shimla’s: you go up or you go down. 

Honey wanted me to try poor people food.  I always hesitate with vendor food even if it looks good because its always spicy hot.  We tried Pootchka, little shells where the man with dark oily hands stuffed pieces of potato, peas, nuts, salt, chili, and with a frightening jar of water which he dipped the stuffing thing into and we each enjoyed five of them for ten rupees.  I guessed if I had ordered them alone they would have cost fifty.  If I knew they were this good I wouldn’t have minded though I know how much a local is charged I’d feel taken advantage of, which is fine if extortion pursing a vendors lips is ridiculously high.

Tomorrow is Republic day and I must travel south to get to the airport in Sagulari for an afternoon flight to Kolkata and lordylou, an eight hour taxi for a 3:20pm flight. 

The rights of the Common man (and woman)

Fundamentalist Hindus calling themselves the moral police, beat women at a party, accusing them of immoral behavior in the state of Karnataka.  Shame on them, your violence is worse than any of your accusations.  Ghandi would be appalled and so are we. 

I found the Tibetan Refugee Self Help center and men were stacking wood planks and kids along with Mariano and Andy were shooting hoops while Beckman (his t-shirt said so) repaired the nets.

B: You be sponsor?
J:  Sure, why not?
B: You be sponsor?  (laughing )

J: Yes, and I am going to take your photo putting up the nets.  Om mani pay-me um dude.

And then we played a game until I was out of breath and sweaty and we won 6-3.

Sixty years of India Republicanism

Sixty five percent of Indians live in villages.  Why, we got a rural republic here. 

J:  Mariano, please tell me you are not from Argentina because you look exactly like that dude who plays basketball for the San Antonio Spurs.

M: Yes, I am from Argentina.  Ginobli.

A nice fella, along with his girlfriend and Andy from Leeds who played with a black furry newari hat.  Nice chaps indeed. 

The guidebook says carpets were for sale here.  Not today.  The gift shop has a big pad lock on the door.  I did have the intention of buying something but played hoops with the kids and the boys. 

                                                                        Ho hum-Lo Lun

And I played without water.  I didn’t talk to Mariano’s girlfriend  but she did offer peanuts.  I sucked on lemon cough drops which I don’t recommend but it was better than nothing for the next hour until I found a shop.

“Bring domestic violence to a halt, ring a bell”

“Touts, don’t harass female tourists”

Incredible India Ads

After the visit and game I set off for the BoisyBaty Monastery and it didn’t take too long this time to find it though I did pass the path a few times, folks kind enough to turn me around when I asked.  I stopped at a tiny kiosk named millennium and when I motioned for drink, water being the desire, a woman waved me inside and there she was rolling momos and offered me a bottle of millennium rum.  Yikes, the food smelled good but water was my objective. 

As soon as Honey asked my age I knew my minutes were turning into seconds which turned into the end:
J: 937
H: What? Ha.  Really.  How old?
J:  139, I think this is my fourth life.  I believe in reincarnation on occasion and when it is necessary.

sigh fizzle drizzle sizzle cold

Not paying attention to anyone is very very liberating and when a 17 year old is unafraid to lead me around like an Irish fucking setter, I should be flattered. 

Two adorable kids play with and around me while I sit on a two foot plastic stool, the little boy plays hide and seek with a girl a year older and neither of them speak a word of English. 

I looked all around to buy something for Honey, something that would surprise her, something not from her, but alas…I did find a nice 70/30 pashmini shawl exactly like the one I priced earlier in the day at 700 rupees:

J:  3200 rupees? You gotta be kidding me.
s:  good price, special sale for you.

J:  I saw one like this for 700 rupees, I have never heard of such unspeakable theft!!!

What color are you? 

Black White

out of sight

light the bowl

spark a candle

feel the freeze

inside your feet

renounce, don't sneeze

*

Peten, the young man at the Bellevue counter led me into the room full of collectibles that Siddhartha the owner said I could visit.  Cool stuff included a Victrola, two silver double barreled pistols with gold inlay and very heavy, once owned no doubt by a brit who probably couldn’t shoot a pomegranate off his mother’s head, the photo of Siddartha’s father shaking hands with the Dalai Lama, old wardrobes, beautiful Indian silver, a half dozen hi-fi systems with old LPs including Trini Lopez singing West Side Story tunes, If I had a hammer, and This land is my land…and Petum hadn’t heard of any of the songs I hummed for him. 

Butia Busty, The Monastery.  A temple dog was not at all happy to see me.  Earlier a smaller mutt blocked my path with its snarl.  A little girl stood by and watched me confront the ratty dog and I asked her to pull this mutt’s chain so I could pass, as if I knew she and the dog knew each other well enough.  Well, she must have because she cracked a stick at the little wienie and I passed by. For her kindness I gave her a tiny bouquet of yellow and purple flowers I picked on the way…

The temple dog was another matter.  I read temple dogs are reincarnations of those who wanted to live the life of a monk and couldn’t cut it and here they are to live a life worthy enough to return as a human and try again.  This old orange beast howled as I approached, albeit slowly:

J:  Please, I will not take photos and I will take off my shoes, alright?  I am not your enemy and if you try anything you’re coming back as a cat if you don’t shut the hell up.