Welcome to India!

I have contributed to this writing incrementally over the past 2 weeks and only with our arrival in Varanasi have had the opportunity to post this, now, lengthy narrative.

New Delhi ~ Return to a place I have never been

I was not prepared for India to feel so familiar. Since my arrival in Delhi, I have been stunned by the resonance with my experiences in Hindu Nepal. There has been a profound sense of returning

I have returned to a land where rains bathe the land
only in summer, and the Winter and Spring
are enveloped in a cloud of pollution and dust.
I have returned to a world of vibrantly dressed women,
flowing folds of silk and cotton, crimson, fuchsia, vermillion,
long black braids fall down their backs, the ears
and wrists of those who can afford it adorned in gold.
I have returned to a territory where dawn is greeted
with offerings to the Gods; candles, incense, food
laid at shrines unabashedly nestled between storefronts,
as regular a part of the landscape as bicycle rickshaws
and push stands selling bananas, oranges, pomegranate.
And all this occurs to the blaring soundtrack from
the most recent Hindi film and the guttural clearing
of mouth and sinuses by men…and women.
I have returned to a place where tucked into the space
of a glorified broom closet, one finds the corner store
but they aren’t relegated to corners, they are ubiquitous
and within one finds batteries, soap, stick –on-bindi,
deyhydration salts, matches, school notebooks,
lice shampoo, kite string, biscuits, candy…
I have returned to a place where a subtle wiggle
of the head, and anyone who has every traveled
to the subcontinent knows the gesture of which I speak,
indicates yes and okay and occasionally a non-commital
no without the speaker really saying no.
And I have returned to one of the many corners of the world
where a good measure of the goods used
to sustain human life are transported short distances
born on the head or back of another human.

 

Sarnath ~ The Deer Park in which the Buddha Taught for the First time

One of the things which led me to study in Nepal in 1994 was a desire to spend time in a country the roots of which were not Judeo-Christian in origin. I didn’t have much previous exposure to Buddhism in theory or practice. In a lecture given by one of the professors from Tribuvan Universe in Kathmandu entitled something like Introduction to Mahayana Buddhism, I recall him paraphrasing or perhaps even directly quoting the Buddha, “When you take a deep breath, be aware you are taking a deep breath. When you take a shallow breath, be aware you are taking a shallow breath.”
It made rather pure and fundamental sense to me, the idea of being awake and aware to what I was doing, whatever that was. It was more than a year later that by another series of events I found my way to a Zen sitting group in my college town of Waterville, Maine. If you’re interested in a longer account of the journey that led me there, it appears in an anthology of essays garishly titled Blue Jean Buddha, subtitle something like essays by young Buddhists.
My Buddhist practice has never been devotional. By that I mean I do not revere the Buddha as God. For many years I even shied away from the title Buddhist. Rather I articulated that I had a Buddhist meditation practice. For me, both initially, and throughout these years of practice it has remained exactly that, practice. I meditate on the cushion so that when I get up and move around in the world I will hopefully, at the most rudimentary level, remain aware when I am taking a deep or shallow breath. My intention and desire is for the ripples of that awareness to permeate my thought, speech, and actions. And like a small child who, when learning how to walk, doesn’t give up after falling down I keep picking myself up, dusting off my knees and trundling along every breath, every day.

***

Over the time I lived in Nepal, I withdrew more and more from Hindu culture, gravitating instead toward the people and customs of my closest friends who were all of Tibetan rooted ethnic groups (primarily Sherpa and Tamang). It was with them that I found the greatest warmth and ease. And while my days in the dusty, urban streets of Delhi were a return to Hindu culture, my arrival at Sarnath, wandering through the Deer Park, in which the Buddha first began teaching the Dharma, and the other temples and stupas, I have found more of those of I’ll just call them Tibetan stock. Again, there has been a wave of homecoming.
First in the Archaeological Museum I encountered perhaps half a dozen in Tibetan dress, prayer beads (malas) in hand, touching their foreheads to every statue, muttering om mani padme hum. These were hill people, reasonably rumpled even tattered dress, their lack of familiarity with the modern so evident in the very way they moved. Within the Deer Park, I spent some time sitting close to the Dharmek Stupa, a huge monument 28 meters in diameter and 33 high, dating to the Mauryan Period (323-185 BCE). While it’s unknown what the stupa was built to commemorate, it is assumedly the site of the Buddha’s preaching to his first 5 disciples. It is the focal point of the park for devotees. Some meditate close by. Some circumambulate, laying flowers or white silk scarves (katas). Several groups of Tibetan stock were doing prostrations, chanting. I sat close to one such group and sank deeply into their recitation; rhythmic, both melodic and softly guttural.

The end of our second day in Sarnath, I returned to this stupa to circumambulate. As dusk approached, the small crowd further thinned leaving only myself and a dozen of Tibetan stock with their soft voices and the gentle click of prayer beads. A swell of gratitude inside was ushered in with tears. I wept quietly as I walked. I felt tremendous tenderness and a sense of shared humanity. I felt gratitude for all of those who have turned the wheel of the Dharma paving the way for me to practice, to be aware when my breath is shallow and when it is deep.

Sonauli ~It’s All Part of the Pilgrimage

“Despite its dry climate and harsh environment, India, along with Egypt, China and Mesopotamia, was one of the great cradles of human civilization. It was the central Ganges valley, or what was called the Middle Land (majjhimades), that many of Indian civilization’s greatest ideas and innovations sprang up. The Buddha was born in the Middle Land and spent his whole life walking its dusty roads, meditating in its dry forests and teaching in its cities, towns and villages…The extent of the Middle Land is very precisely defined in the ancient Buddhist scriptures. In the Vinaya we are told that it extended in the east to the town of Kajangata, in the southeast to the Salalavati River, in the southwest to the town of Satakannika, in the west to the Brahmin village of Thuna and its northern borders are marked by the Usiraddhaja Mountains…
…Being as it were the sacred land of Buddhism, the Middle Land has inspired pilgrims throughout the centuries to overcome enormous obstacles and to risk their lives to see the places associated with the Buddha’s life. They have come from all the regions of India, from China, Korea, Sumatra, Burma and Sri Lanka…descending into the hot dusty atmosphere of the Middle Land often meant sickness or even death for these travelers…Of the many who set out, a large number never returned, and some never even managed to get to the Middle Land…Even if they pilgrims still faced the considerable hardships that the unhealthy climate, the not infrequent political strife and the long deserted roads offered…But those who successfully completed a pilgrimage and returned home safely did so with their faith stronger than ever, and the knowledge that they had walked where the Buddha had walked gave them a joy that remained with them all their lives…To set out on a pilgrimage required patience, courage, faith and a cheerful disregard for hardships, and those who returned home found these qualities strengthened.”
                                                 ~ Middle Land, Middle way S Dhammika

By contrast to those who have traveled before us, our way is easy. We have access to a wide variety of transportation. We are not traversing mountains in winter. And although precautions against malaria and dysentary are important, there is likely less threat of disease and death than faced by previous pilgrims. Having given Cris free reign to determine the itinerary and parameters of this journey, he decided 3-4 weeks seemed reasonable. And yet, these recent days have been a series of decisions to pare down the number of stops on the itinerary due to the pragmatic reality of time. Movement between places in this part of the world seems to require hours of leg work in preparation and close to a day in execution, almost regardless of the distance.
Cris and I share a similar sensibility in prioritizing more time spent in fewer places, and still we have spent the lion’s share of our time moving rather than being still. AND my own mantra for this trip…this, too, is the pilgrimage, every moment, every breath, every irritation and challenge, my internal response, every morsel of it constitutes the pilgrimage. I’m learning a great deal. With that learning comes growth, and that very growth is one of the elements compelling this chapter of travel in my life.

***

When one is traveling by bus in this part of the world, there is little to do other than gaze out the window and take in the landscape. Golden mustard fields * markets filled with carts and tarps stacked with mounds of cauliflower, red onion, green cabbage, eggplant, beans, greens, pomegranate, oranges, bananas * water buffalo with their skin draped heavily off the bone * kites dancing in the sky * children and adults squatting on a wall, beside a field, beneath a tree bare ass to the wind as they have a BM * children in British blue school uniforms * small mud houses – I know the feeling of these houses on the inside, the smell of the earthen walls and the cook fire * hand hewn furniture, hand plane being used to smooth table tops and chair arms, these items likely going into the large concrete homes lightly peppered through the countryside, towering over the majority of one story structures * occasionally a few women in full, black burka * roadside restaurants, open to the air with rice, daal and vegetables awaiting buses like ours to pause, purge their human contents and feed quickly before moving on * small store fronts with glass cases of Indian sweets, little other glass in the entire village but automobile windows * the bicycle repair man with his wares of tubes and chains set out on a tarp on the ground * tiny men folded on themselves squatting, stainless steal cup filled with milk sweetened tea in hand * stacks of discarded tires , piles of rebar, bamboo, hay, dung drying in the sun, the odd vibrant clump of marigolds; children wandering and playing freely, chickens roaming freely, cattle, goats * a two man team, one with the wheelbarrow, one with the shovel, patching holes in the road with broken concrete and tar * the occasional shrine with altar reddened by tika * sarees hanging out to dry * dusty trees the only thing breaking an expansive flat landscape of fields which disappears into the hazy horizon.

Sonauli was not on the itinerary. It is not a sacred Buddhist site. Sonauli is the border crossing between India & Nepal where we arrived between 9 and 10pm after taking 12 hoursby bus to traverse the 250km from Sarnath. The space afforded the body on public buses is…suboptimal, even for me a humble 5’5″, Cris’ 6’4″ is another story. I had a penchant for riding on top of buses in Nepal, but that seems to be illegal here. And so traveling on a rough not quite two lane road, the driver, one hand engaging the horn most minutes, safely threaded us between bicycles, cows, trucks, other buses, tuk-tuks, and carts filled with everything from hay to building materials. And this, every bump and groove is a part of the pilgrimage.
Arriving so late, we were discouraged from making the remainder of the journey to Lumbini that night and stayed in a rather dingy hole in Sonauli. I have a reasonable amount of experience with such rudimentary lodging arrangements. However, I recognize now, having witnessed Cris’ response to our night in Sonauli, that my threshold for such accommodations may exceed average. It was a difficult journey; many hours of cramped jostling inhaling air thick and chokingly dusty & polluted. Still, close to the end of it I commented light heartedly, “but look, we’re traveling under the full moon in INDIA!”

***

My return to Nepal for the first time since December 1998 is a rather mixed experience. It has been a positive delight to casually banter with everyone from the border guards to children along the road and bask in the comments of how sweetly I speak their language. And this, this southern strip of the country is not my home within this place. My home is further north. It is Bouddhanath, one of the two major Buddhist stupas and the heart of the Sherpa and Tibetan community within the Kathmandu Valley. It is portions of the middle & high hills, Simigaun and the Rolwaling Valley in the Dolkha district, these are home. While I am intellectually clear about my decision to continue from India on to Taiwan rather than traveling for a stretch in Nepal, my arrival here has ushered in an understandable and I believe healthy sense of wistfulness and yearning. And all this too is part of the pilgrimage.

Lumbini ~ Birth Place of the Buddha

I visited here in the autumn 9 years ago. At that time the Nepali government had just launched a huge campaign to beautify and enliven Lumbini and opened parcels of land to a variety of countries for temple development. Lumbini was and is still a dusty, rather disjointed little place with a Disney Land quality; each country enthusiastically demonstrating pride and prowess by building a bigger and better temple than the others.
The Nepali government’s efforts are visible in some aspects of infrastructure; a paved pathway alongside the canal which divides Mahayana temples to the west, Theravadan on the eastern side. The main Maya Devi Temple, site marking where the Buddha was born, has been surrounded by carefully tended gardens, meditation platforms built around some of the larger trees throughout. Hundreds of fresh strings of prayer flags are hung between the trees, perhaps simply a manifestation of more pilgrims visiting at this time. I recall only several lifeless strands from my previous visit.

In just these recent days I have had a number of delightful encounters with other travelers; always an intriguing experience to learn both where people have just come from in the immediate sense, but also in the larger sense, how and why they have come to subcontinent. Justina, a bright eyed Argentinian woman in her early 20s, and I were sharing one of the dormitory style rooms here at the Korean Temple. She reminds me much of myself a decade ago when my travels were more open in purpose and time horizon. Her eyes shone with a particular receptivity and curiosity which I see as an almost intrinsic and precious element of that era of life. In Sravasti, where the Buddha spent much of the last 20 years of his life, she arrived intending to stay for a meditation retreat and then continue on, but she ended up staying a month…because she could. When she spoke of her experiences at a variety of pilgrimage sites, she articulated something I have felt but not yet put words to,
You know, these places here and in northern India, it’s nice to visit them, but there’s really nothing there. You go and find a patch of dusty grass. You can sit under a tree. But I can go just outside the gardens of that place and sit under a tree anywhere, and farther away from all the people it is probably even more peaceful.

***

Since our fateful night in Sonauli Cris’ health moved in a downward spiral with an aggressive assault by cold and damp or a probable bacterial upper respiratory infection depending on one’s vocabulary and health paradigm…I try to think in both. On our second day in Lumbini, after a feverish night and the decision to begin a course of antibiotics, Cris spent much of the day resting.
I went out for a walk in the afternoon and at one of the Tibetan temples encountered some of the most astounding tanka paintings I have ever seen; covering the ceiling, interior walls, and wrapping around the entirety of the exterior. The gem of the day occurred when, after hesitating a bit at the entry way, I chose to wander into the Thai temple, thinking I would just stop in shortly to see the interior and continue walking. I made eye contact with one of the monks and, simply upon asking how many others lived there, opened an animated conversation. Over the following hour and half we chatted, I was served coffee and some fresh Thai sweets, given a tour of the garden verdant with both vegetables and a variety of herbs they use medicinally and shown their home made steam bath. I was quite inspired by the steam bath construction. A leaning bamboo frame, maybe 8’ square-ish, stands covered in pale blue plastic. A pipe is fed through a hole in the plastic on one side. The pipe attaches to a 5 gallon recycled metal cooking oil container which is stuffed full of fresh lemongrass and other herbs, heated over a small fire and produces steam to fill the small plastic enclosed space.
Sudas (or Sutaap?), the monk additionally introduced me to Vilia, a Thai woman in her late 60s with a firey and vital spirit. She has been over from Thailand for about a month, lived and studied in the US for sometime. We spoke at length. She explained that if she had truly found the Dharma earlier in life she would not have married. And she swore to herself, and gestured emphatically with a wide grin, she would not do this again, not the next time (ie she was not going to marry and have children in the next life, but rather devote it solely to the Dharma). She told me I had the sparkle of contentment and freedom in my eyes.

En route to Kushinagar ~ Where the Buddha died/entered Parinirvana

Our departure from Lumbini began with a canvas-covered jeep ride from the Korean temple as far as the border. Cris’ rode, groaning, awkwardly scrunched in the back, head repeatedly banging against the roof. In the interest of Cris’ health we decieded against another dusty bus ride and had called ahead to arrange car and driver from the border as far as Kushinagar. When I walked up to introduce myself to the driver I asked if he spoke English, “No. Only Hindi & Nepali.” “Nepali?! Great!” I exclaimed and then we launched into comfortable banter. Vinaud, our driver, has been an extremely kind, gentle, patient blessing on our journey. He is one of the least aggressive drivers I have encountered since arrival in India, maybe laying on his horn only ever 30-40 seconds rather than at 15 second intervals as most drivers do.
As we approached Gorakhpur, Vinaud expressed concern for Cris’ health. He asked if we needed to see a doctor before continuing onto Kushinagar. After a quick mobile phone call Vinaud arranged to pick up a friend who knew good doctors. We proceeded to weave our way through the narrow pollution and vehicle choked streets of Gorakhpur. Our first 3 stops seemed rather discriminating, the friend asking for specific doctors. However, as we encountered queue after queue with proposed 2 hour waits, Cris’ stamina for the degraded air quality and over stimulation of the crowded streets declined. After an unfruitful hour, we abandoned the search, thanked and dropped off Vinaud’s friend, and carried onto Kushinagar. In contrast to our experience with the bus, Cris was actually able to rest and even doze during the ride.
As we were driving east to Kushinagar I began theoretical negotiations with Vinaud about his willingness to drive us as far as Varanasi (note that many of the explicity yeses written here were some version or another of the subcontinental non-verbal head wiggle.

“Vinaud brother, if we were interested to stay in Kushinagar one day and have you drive us on to Varanasi, would you be willing to do that?”
“Sure sister. Your friend is very sick. The bus will be uncomfortable and take lots of time. Driving will be peaceful for him. Okay wiggle.”
“How much would you ask?”
“Well, sister, you know it’s a long way. There are lots of toll stations between here and there. They ask a lot. And then I would have drive all the way back from Varanasi to Sonauli, 300km, it’s very far.”
“Yes brother, I understand. Already you have done so much for us. You have given my friend so much love {concern} (the direct translation from Nepali is to do/make love for someone, I find it a very endearing phrase which communicates providing care and concern). I understand that you have gone to a lot of trouble.”
“No, it hasn’t been any trouble for me.”
“Brother, tell me, how much might you ask?”
“Gas is really expensive. Here I’m with you today, then traveling all the way to Varanasi, and then a whole other day to return to Sonauli…3 days.”
“Brother, take your time. Think about it. There’s no hurry. When you have an idea, you tell me.”
wiggle, wiggle, wiggle

Perhaps an hour later Vinaud came back with an offer which I then countered. There was further discussion, and again we let the subject lie. Only toward our arrival in Kushinagar did we settle on final arrangements to everyone’s liking, the only way that I measure success in the realm of bartering.

We arrived in Kushinagar to find a similar cold dampness pervading everything as we had encountered in Lumbini, possible even worse. The blankets in the Chinese temple where we stayed were moist to the touch. We decided to take only the afternoon and following morning to visit Kushinagar. In the interest of Cris’ rehabilitation we would continue south to the warmer climate of Varanasi. Prior to heading north, Cris had surveyed the hotels in Varanasi and pre-booked several days at the Hotel Surya with modern amenities such as consistent electricity (not the case in any of the temples in which we stayed) hot water, toilet paper, a reasonable array of non-Indian food (to Cris’ liking), and internet (of particular importance to me). Cris’ mood lightened significantly that afternoon. I saw him smile for the first time in 3 days. Perhaps it was the antibiotics, perhaps the ease of the travel arrangements, perhaps some creature comforts on the very near horizon.

***

In contrast to previous times in my life, I do not feel so much draw or curiosity to participate in the ritual of those temples in which we are staying. While I feel great respect and gratitude for their unique traditions and the refuge they have offered us, over the years I have developed my own morning ritual in sitting practice. With this trip, I have incorporated 108 prostrations into my mornings; more homage to my experiences of the Dharma in Nepal than my own lineage and practice. I have vivid memories of crimson clothed monks extending their bodies in full length prostrations on the flat stones around the perimeter of Bouddhanath in Kathmandu. In addition to daily prostrations somehow rooting my attention at the beginning of each day on this journey, I also believe this practice is one of the primary reasons I have remained healthy amidst the exposure of this past week, slight scratchy throat one day, slight stuffy nose the next. Small cuts are slow to heal, things have become easily infected. Breaking a light sweat each morning and incorporating a bit of yang activity into a distinctly yin journey has felt critical. My leg muscles stopped burning after the first few days and the abrasions on my knees have almost stopped weeping.

***

There are several sites in Kushinagar related to the Buddha’s death/entry into Parinirvana. A modern structure, built in 1956 by the Indian government, houses a reclining Buddha statue which dates from the 5th century and is apparently one of the very few representations of the Buddha’s death found in northern India. With only about 4-6 feet of walking space tracing the perimeter of the statue, the entire space was a bottle neck of devotees, Buddhist monks, lay people, and Hindus. If one continues out of the center of this small town several kilometers one comes upon the Cremation Stupa, originally 34 meters in diameter. The stupa is now a remarkable, undulating mass of bricks, moss wrapping the northern side. Small white candles were lit in a few places, two groups of pilrims sat chanting and making offerings. The grounds are relatively small and immaculately kept, not a leaf left uncollected.
In this place, I experienced a powerful and somehow earthen quality unlike anything I have encountered on this journey. I didn’t have our book with me and so as I was circumambulating didn’t recall which site marked which event. I only registered the feeling, a very deep rooted quality, a stillness and it was compelling. I was struck by a sense of paradox; to experience a place which felt both powerful and intensely connected to the earth commemorating the cremation of a man whose entire life was dedicated to the teaching and helping others to awaken to the reality of impermanence. Although we didn’t talk about it much, both Cris and I had similar feelings about the stupa. We returned the following morning to spend some time there before our departure.

After breakfast in Kushinagar, shared with a precious group of about 20 monks under the age of perhaps 12, we began our journey back to Varanasi. It was a long day, traversing the same roads we had in the days prior; miles and miles of brilliant yellow mustard flowers. In one area, the fields were dotted with small mud covered conical smoke stacks emitting thick black smoke. The sugar cane harvest is underway and these are the way in which they process the cane.
We parted ways with Vinaud after 2 days of travel. He introduced me to one of his friends, recent Kathmandu transplant, who works here in the Hotel Surya, Varanasi. And so if I choose I have another opportunity for more guph suph (chat) in Nepali in these next couple days. Vinaud was a true blessing along our way. If you happen to be traveling anywhere in Uttar Pradesh he would be a spectacular traveling companion. While I encouraged him, for his own benefit in this economy, to work on his English, I can only say that in Nepali he is a delightful conversationalist and apparently gentle soul.

Cris’ health is improving although incrementally. Considering the stress to his body and mind over these recent days, we both find it quite extraordinary that his cardiac condition has remained stable . I believe it was the afternoon we were in Kushinagar, walking by the fruit stands that I asked him with an impish spirit how the equanimity was going? “Soon.” he commented with a slightly grave smirk. “soon. I’m evidently paying for all the sins of my evil karma of past lives.” “But just think,” I responded, “You’ve got me…after all you could be doing this alone. Then you would be really S-O-L.” We will stay here for 3 days and during that time deliberate about our movement on to Bodh Gaya and the surrounding area (Rajgir, Nalanda etc). This, too, is part of the pilgrimage.