Why I love India
It's hot...and humid. It's monsoon season and the neighbour allows his dogs to yap and bark and bark and yap infinitely all day and night. Only when it rains, it seems, does he let them inside. There's peace and stillness in those torrential downpours, unless of course, i'm walking somewhere, then it's just dodging puddles of indeterminate content and depth. Scurrying like a waterbug when the light comes on, I'm caught, again. Hoping the big shoe doesn't come down to turn out the lights forever.
This morning, I was late rising, but still i sat and watched the palms outside my third story window as their fingers delicately dripped in the downpour. Mesmerized, I ignore the bites of tiny, mach-speed mosquitos. I've given up trying to outwit them. A truce of sorts. I don't embarrass myself by trying to kill them and they mostly stay out from under my net while I sleep. Otherwise, their silent stealthful presence largely goes unnoticed until the swelling and itching and cursing begins.
This is India. Welcome home to my heart even as the body protests with cramps and bites and heatrash and the stains of sweat that spread under the armpits of my cheap Indian "costumes," the clothes I wear to fit in at work, my yoga therapy internship. I wear the silly scarves, backwards over my shoulders, even in the sweltering heat. Every time I move, I must fuss with their awkward attempts to escape their precarious perch. I observe as the women inhale, raise their arms, exhale, lower their arms and those scarves magically stay as if pinned in place. It's as much of a mystery to me as the traffic. How can my rickshaw driver be sure that we will fit into the tiny place in the flow of traffic that even a rush of air would be afraid to try to inhabit. Where does he get the faith that tells him that two quick blasts on the horn is all he needs to secure our place in the current? Perhaps he would wonder the same thing if he saw my canoe charge into a micro-eddy on the river. What magic is holding that boat midstream with the water rushing by on both sides as I smile and bob around? All I can do is trust and clutch the ruppee notes in my sweaty hand until the ride is over and i hand over the soggy crumpled bills, the agreed upon price for the ride, at least 100% more than an Indian would pay, and 1/100th the price I'd pay for a much less entertaining and death-defying ride anywhere in the western world.
The dogs bark. I type. I type. The dogs bark. There's a rhythm and flow to it all, like the end of the multicoloured sari, flying behind the motorcycle carrying father, mother, toddler, infant. Somehow that sailing sari never gets caught in the wheel. The family, weaving through traffic, bare headed in faith and fearlessness, remains atop the seat in the weaving tapestry of cars, busses, cows, goats, garbage, pedestrians, bicycles, rickshaws, puddles, potholes, potholes in puddles, children, dogs and the invisible force of religion, palpable everywhere.
I wait for the rain and the silence, or I find the silence within while the dogs continue their reverie in another dimension. Here, there is no peace but the peace that is created by oneself, through abhyasa (practice) and vairagyam (letting go). This is the way to samadhi. With the dogs, not in spite of the dogs. With the sweat and the vagrant scarves, the mosquitos, the smog, the dirt, the pain of poverty all around, with the filthy puddles and the delicately dripping palms, the pre-dawn power of chant and a temple on every corner. Ah India.
This morning, I was late rising, but still i sat and watched the palms outside my third story window as their fingers delicately dripped in the downpour. Mesmerized, I ignore the bites of tiny, mach-speed mosquitos. I've given up trying to outwit them. A truce of sorts. I don't embarrass myself by trying to kill them and they mostly stay out from under my net while I sleep. Otherwise, their silent stealthful presence largely goes unnoticed until the swelling and itching and cursing begins.
This is India. Welcome home to my heart even as the body protests with cramps and bites and heatrash and the stains of sweat that spread under the armpits of my cheap Indian "costumes," the clothes I wear to fit in at work, my yoga therapy internship. I wear the silly scarves, backwards over my shoulders, even in the sweltering heat. Every time I move, I must fuss with their awkward attempts to escape their precarious perch. I observe as the women inhale, raise their arms, exhale, lower their arms and those scarves magically stay as if pinned in place. It's as much of a mystery to me as the traffic. How can my rickshaw driver be sure that we will fit into the tiny place in the flow of traffic that even a rush of air would be afraid to try to inhabit. Where does he get the faith that tells him that two quick blasts on the horn is all he needs to secure our place in the current? Perhaps he would wonder the same thing if he saw my canoe charge into a micro-eddy on the river. What magic is holding that boat midstream with the water rushing by on both sides as I smile and bob around? All I can do is trust and clutch the ruppee notes in my sweaty hand until the ride is over and i hand over the soggy crumpled bills, the agreed upon price for the ride, at least 100% more than an Indian would pay, and 1/100th the price I'd pay for a much less entertaining and death-defying ride anywhere in the western world.
The dogs bark. I type. I type. The dogs bark. There's a rhythm and flow to it all, like the end of the multicoloured sari, flying behind the motorcycle carrying father, mother, toddler, infant. Somehow that sailing sari never gets caught in the wheel. The family, weaving through traffic, bare headed in faith and fearlessness, remains atop the seat in the weaving tapestry of cars, busses, cows, goats, garbage, pedestrians, bicycles, rickshaws, puddles, potholes, potholes in puddles, children, dogs and the invisible force of religion, palpable everywhere.
I wait for the rain and the silence, or I find the silence within while the dogs continue their reverie in another dimension. Here, there is no peace but the peace that is created by oneself, through abhyasa (practice) and vairagyam (letting go). This is the way to samadhi. With the dogs, not in spite of the dogs. With the sweat and the vagrant scarves, the mosquitos, the smog, the dirt, the pain of poverty all around, with the filthy puddles and the delicately dripping palms, the pre-dawn power of chant and a temple on every corner. Ah India.