Conclusion of the Pilgrimage

Not in Bodh Gaya anymore

We made our way slowly east from Bihar into the state of West Bengal, descending into a more sultry climate. After 10 hours in transit, we arrived via the Poorba Express train to Howrah station. The shunting crawl at which we traversed the suburbs of Calcutta illustrated how words like express are entirely contingent upon one’s geographic location. The increased comfort of the 2^nd class coach, relative to 3^rd, was further enchanced by the train being largely empty for the latter half of the journey.

After bargaining for the fare, we followed our taxi driver pausing as a traffic police guard halted the oncoming cars for pedestrian passing. One large TATA truck careened through the gesture. The police guard hollered and swiftly wielded a wooden baton shattering the passenger window. Rather wide eyed I instantaneously recalled my final morning rounds, only hours before, at the Mahabodhi temple.

We arrived in Calcutta without hotel reservations which made the entry more cumbersome than either of us anticipated. Our taxi inched its way from the train station to the Chowringhee area through ‘very traffic jam’ as our driver commented. We stopped at hotel after hotel to find them all fully booked. After a half dozen attempts, Cris elected a very upscale hotel where they could accommodate us for two nights after which we moved to a less opulent hotel geared toward Indian business men. And so after a broad range of lodging from humble temple rooms, to the dark, damp, cold night in Sonauli to the lovely garden courtyard in Varanasi we checked into the finest hotel I have ever stayed in. I felt like a bedraggled ruffian walking with my backpack through the lobby. While this threshold in my journey seems almost intrisically surreal, I believe the nature of our lodging those first days contributed to this quality.

***

I spent last autumn and early winter deliberating about my plans after graduating from school. February last year, day four of a week long meditation retreat, the itinerary for this quasi epic journey arose. There’s simply no other way to phrase it. It was like watching a map draw itself. After the retreat’s conclusion I tested the waters by sending emails to Belgium, Israel and Australia, knocking at the door of friends and family to see if there would be proverbial room at the inn. Each came back with a resounding YES! While the details evolved over the months, even more than anticipated with Ewan’s entry into my life, the nature, the marrow of the journey has not changed. Today, I board a plane for Taipei. Today, six countries and one essential leg of this voyage conclude. Since boarding the train in Bodh Gaya, those hours watching mile after mile of the Indian countryside slip by I have felt both a tremendous amount of internal movement along with a feeling of being suspended in time and space. As if in free fall, the world has been moving at an astonishing rate with a concurrent quality of complete stillness.

Over these recent days I have experienced a broad range of emotions of excitement and joy to fear and overwhelm. By blessed introduction from writer and translator Bill Porter (Red Pine), I have a place to arrive, an old friend of his who has lived in Taiwan a long while, and knows everybody. Originally I questioned the wisdom of accepting this offer as Nic and his wife live outside of Taipei some distance, up a mountain. At this moment, I am doing mental prostrations in both Bill and Nic’s direction for a safe haven to land while I find my sea legs in a very new place still in the process of digesting the many facets of my travels in India.

***

Calcutta

I will summarize my final days in India in a rather limited manner. A trip to the Indian museum stands out most vividly amongst the few sites visited. The museum houses an extensive collection of Buddhist sculpture, mostly dating from the 5^th to the 10^th century CE, and excavated from the places in which we had just traveled. For the first time I was introduced to Gandharan sculpture, a blend of Grecian and Indian influences. It was the first time I have seen a Buddha with Roman features. Additionally and what most stirred me amongst the collection was the Bharhut Stupa Gate. An entire room is dedicated to the railings and gate of a stupa dating from the 1^st and 2^nd century BCE. From the museum description, “Profusely carved in red sandstone depicting scenes from the Buddha’s pre-birth stories, floral and animal motifs; besides yakshas, yakshinis, and devatas, the Bharhut remains constitute visual store-house for the reconstruction of the political, social, economic and cultural history of India during the 2^nd-1^st centuries BCE.” Beautiful round symmetrical carvings, maybe 18” in diameter, constitute a large amount of the railing, from winding leaves to peacocks, elephants to flowers.

Over our final days, Cris and I shared reflections on the journey, our learning about each other, ourselves. Interestingly, folding in all the hiccups and challenges, particularly of the first week on the road, both Cris and I felt satisfied and fulfilled with the nature and flow of the trip. Neither of us was inclined to change much of anything, even the tough pieces. Were someone to inquire about doing a similar trip I would simply modify suggestions based on their interests, needs, threshold for discomfort and uncertainty.

It was all a part of the pilgrimage…every step. I believe it’s safe to say neither Cris nor I could have done this trip without the other. I am extremely grateful for his having created an opportunity for me which I may not have encountered or pursued otherwise in this lifetime. Through both our interactions and other aspects of the journey I have learned more about human communication, my own misconceived and potentially injurious expectations and critical nature. On this journey I experienced a very intimate discomfort with my own affluence and privilege. And particularly in Varanasi, I felt a strong aversion to being a voyeuristic tourist, or perceiving myself as one.

Ewan just sent me what feels like an extremely poignant passage from the end of Ryszard Kapuściński’s Travels with Herodotus, a book which played a pivotal role in catalyzing our relationship.

Herodotus learns about his worlds with the rapturous enthusiasm of a child. His most important discovery? That there are many worlds. And that each is different. Each is important. And that one must learn about them, because these other worlds, these other cultures, are mirrors in which we can see ourselves, thanks to which we understand ourselves better—for we cannot define our own identity until having confronted that of others, as comparison.

And that is why Herodotus, having made this discovery—that the cultures of others are a mirror in which we can examine ourselves in order to understand ourselves better—every morning, tirelessly, again and again, sets out on his journey.

It’s all part of the pilgrimage and it will continue to be so, every breath, every step of every day until the end of this life.

***

 Calcutta did not pause for breath
as I sat that last morning on the narrow
tawny window seat of a hotel designed
for businessmen, the breakfast menu
a short list of paratha, puri & vegetables.
Outside the streets have been hosed down.
Trucks must pass every morning
as the day before I looked out 
upon darkened asphalt and wondered
about rain, but there was no rain. 
Kerosene stoves ardently burn
producing the morning’s tea, strainers
already wet and heavy with leaf,
clinging milk skin, the scent of cardamom,
filling the gutter a growing pile of discarded
palm size terracotta cups, whole and broken.
Calcutta is awake and moving, moving
broad banana filled baskets and easy chairs
atop human heads, moving rebar and cement
in carts pushed by hand or pedaled by foot,
moving woman on motorcycles, side saddle,
vibrant saree silk flowing cape-like
mystically evading ensnarement
in the rear wheel spokes. 
And crows, as they do everywhere, are
perched upon telephone wires, heckling
the human world from their lofty post.

And it was through a taxi window en route to the airport that I registered my final visual blur of India* vibrant and decrepit TATA trucks {Cris informed me along the way, noting our TATA bagged tea in multiple locations, that the company has recently bought Jaguar and maybe Lamborgini?} * Saturday morning fish market lining the hosed down streets * carts piled with fresh cut sugar cane being pressed for its milky juice * a wide array of items being carried atop human heads ~ broad banana filled baskets, enormous non-descript white plastic bags, several plush easy chairs * bicycle rickshaws arranged as if spooning each other for a night’s rest, not yet awakened for a day’s work * as indication throughout this country of construction happening somewhere nearby piles and piles of brick * the otherwise relatively drab streets vibrantly accented with colorful flowing sarees and shiny foil packets of the herb/tobacco mixes which it seems every single taxi/tuk tuk/bicycle rickshaw driver chews * empty chicken cages {vacant due to recent avian flu scares} * marigold malas (lays) threaded and hung for ritual offering * legions of sunshine yellow taxi cabs * men in wrapped in short sarongs or underwear engaged in morning bathing at common tap stands along the street * a stretch of tarps rigged up at 90 degrees along a building wall, sheltering homeless families * more piles of brick * glass cases stacked with pyramids of milky Indian sweets * piles of garbage being shoveled one soggy shovelful at a time into an open bed truck * open pharmacies * signs for the Calcutta Homeopathic College of Medicine, the Smile Zone Dental Clinic, The Pollution Under Control Certification program* more piles of brick * one extraordinary stretch of sweeping trees which temporarily changed the entire texture and quality of the air * just outside the airport rode a young man on a bicycle with large metal milk containers for saddle bags, grass wedged around the lid of each to create a tighter seal, the milk likely headed for one of the myriad tea stalls which, on a daily basis, with their pale brown sweet chai nourish and awaken the population of this country * Farewell mother India.

Pilgrimage Poems

 

 

pilgrims feet glide
across smooth grey stone
polished by centuries
turning the wheel

Dhammika Stupa, Sarnath, India
 

*** 

During an earlier chapter
of life when these hands
regularly wielded charcoal
and paint, sculpting tool & chisel,
my heart was often moved
in galley or museum corridor.
By contrast in recent years,
I have seldom been stirred
by another’s creative expression,
much to my own curiosity,
curiosity as to the loss of sensibility. 

And there I found myself in a sleepy corner
of Uttar Pradesh, the Middle Land
where thousands of years before a man traveled
from Bodh Gaya to Sarnath to teach
the eight fold path to those who would listen.
Rounding a corner into the museum’s north wing,
a museum where Kusana & Gupta sculptures
perched upon rudimentary pedestals,
signage slightly askew,
temperature entirely uncontrolled,
I came upon a sandy pale teaching Buddha
gracefully illuminated,
radiant at the end of the hall. 

Rising from below my sternum a warmth swelled
into my chest, flowing up my neck to fill
the cavities of my head, gently throbbing.  
I stood, in plain view of suspect museum docent,
rumpled and reverent Ladakhi pilgrims,
I stood unspeakably moved and I wept.

Archaelogical Museum, Sarnath, India
 

***

Standing in Lumbini, behind a line
of Thai pilgrims I awaited the opportunity
to approach a crumbling monument
of brick hung with hand painted sign
Birthplace of the Buddha. 

While the facial expressions
were wrapped in brown skin, Asian eyes,
prayer beads and gold leaf, the hushed reverence
recalled for me the shadowed basilica
of Jerusalem’s Holy Sepulcre. 
Specifically the parallel poise
as each pilgrim was perfectly captured
in contemplative solemn
by the camera.   

Here, this place
this stone mass is sacred,
worthy of reverence,
pilgrimage, photograph,
proof that given pilgrim
traversed sea and mountain
to lay her forehead
on this spot, eyes closed,
closed until the film advances.  

Maya Devi Temple, Lumbini

 
***

 “Never again!”  she professed
vehemence and laughter in her radiant face.
“No marriage!  No children!,
they are like the cord which binds
the lotus to the murky bottom,
Not the next life!”  she laughed
slapping my shoulder, warmly
remarking on the twinkle
of contentment and freedom
in my eyes.

Thai Temple, Lumbini, Nepal 
 

*** 

October 1998, I traveled 17 hours
by bus to this dusty place
and he was here in grey robes,
building this temple walking distance
from the Buddha’s birthplace
but thousands of miles from his Korean home.
When I arrived this time I recognized
his shining eyes and I asked.
Yes, he has been here
all the time, from the beginning
13 years.  Yes, yes he will stay. 
Maybe this lifetime,
maybe this whole lifetime
will be here
given to his lineage,
that merit woven into the Dharma’s
global tapestry.

Korean Temple, Lumbini, Nepal

***

undulating layers
of rusty moss covered brick
form an earthen rooted mountain,
consecrated the earthen
and the ethereal
event of burning the Buddha. 
Fire rendered ash
from bone and hair,
but he left his eyes
to all who followed,
left them imploring  
when you take a deep breath
be aware you are taking a deep breath
when you take a shallow breath
be aware you are you are taking a shallow breath.
Intense in its earth bound quality,
it was this form, this place
which stirred movement
in my sternum and deeper still
in my belly, like resonance with
the most primal of tuning forks. 

cremation Stupa, Kushinagar, India  

***

a slow reverent line
filed before glass
encased relics, smaller
than half a rice grain,
adorned in pageantry
but this is not
where I find the Buddha.  

Mahabodhi Society, annual relics display
Bodh Gaya, India
 

***

 
To Cris’ inquiry, I responded yes,  
I could return here, find a place
on the north side, beneath the treed canopy
and merge with the quiet cadence of arms
sweeping into prayer, bodies elongating,
hands sliding to lay forehead to wood. 
Yes.  I could return
to the same untrafficed corner
of the Mahabodhi temple,
nestle up against a low wall, prostrating
monk on my right, feet in front of me
an elder monk wearing grace
as pragmatically as his thick glasses. 
The second day I showed up we exchanged
warm smiles which I sense would broaden,
deepen were I to return tomorrow
and the day after, and even after that.

Mahabodhi Temple, Bodh Gaya, India
 

***

Having traveled the Middle Land’s
flat, dusty and chaotic roads for several weeks,
I welcomed the sanctuary of Vulture Peak’s
raw terrain; magnificent white veined charcoal crags
tumbling down into a motionless treed valley
dissected by a single winding road.  
I arrived to find the summit ruins filled,
3 saffron robed monks encircled
by a dozen Thai pilgrims swathed in white,
all seated on the ground in the late morning sun,
their eyes gently closed.  I climbed
up a face of porous rock, faced south
out to the calm valley’s expanse.  Their chanting ceased. 
We sat in silent communion.  Only wind
whispered amongst the hills, stirring my hair,
warmly caressing every inch of my face. 
A wind which seemed to carry with it voices,
pilgrims’ spirits, centuries of prayer and intention,
hope and gratitude for this life, and the next,
for oneself, for the world.   

Gujjikhuta, Vulture Peak, Rajgir, India

***

The temple grounds
were bustling when I arrived late
afternoon throngs, monastic and lay folk,
elders and children, Sri Lankan,
Tibetan, Caucasian, and Thai.

I settled on a tranquil corner
tucked up close
to a low wall, close
to several monks sitting
out of the fray. 

Initially, human noise prevailed;
chatter, chanting, footsteps.
Light waned.  Adhan cried out
from the mosque beyond
the temple gates.

Dusk rose, as did dampness
from the earth and the bird calls
swelled, filling trees and sky
drowning out human sound.

Pausing to unfold and recross my legs,
I opened my eyes to take in more
than sound.  The monks close by, previously
crimson wrapped pyramids,
had packed up to head home.
Two of the young ones, maybe in their 20s,
returned, crouched feet before me
to carefully appraise two handfuls
of fallen Bodhi leaves laying one
atop the other.  Even the dry crinkled ones,
not so amenable to stacking,
were delicately laid in the precious pile.  
I smiled thinking of the scavenged leaves
nestled between journal pages within my bag.   

Later still, the birds fell quiet,
the remaining human voices softened. 
A small rodent came furtively scritching.
The crickets began their rhythmic song
and the mute Bihari mosquitoes
danced upon my eyelids. 

   

Mahabodhi Temple, Bodh Gaya, India

 

 

Final Pilgrimage Destination

En Route to Bodh Gaya

There is a simple & surprisingly logical distinction between 2^nd and 3^rd class train travel in India. Goat and other livestock are not amongst the passengers in 3^rd class, nor are there baskets of cauliflower and cabbage. In a 2^nd class cabin there are 2 bunk type berths top and bottom on each side, in 3^rd class there are three. If traveling at night when all the berths are folded down, this would mean about 2 feet of vertical space per person. Thankfully, our 3 ½ hour 3^rd class ride from Varanasi to Gaya, 2^nd class being sold out, was during the day time. While the uppermost bunks are fixed, the middle fold up and all passengers sit casually sharing the horizontal surface of the lowermost bunk.

As with many elements of this part of the world, space was still at a premium. Cris pioneered the climb to the upper bunk. His enthusiasm in executing this acrobatic maneuver was hands down the clearest expression of his health and spirits being well on the mend. After a rather scrunched nap for him, we traded off. Even sitting on the bottom most bunk, one must duck or slouch in order to look out the low scratched and weathered window. As the cabins are not enclosed, one is continually serenaded by vendors passing along the narrow corridor, bucket or box in hand, each with their individual sing-songy pitch, ‘OhhhHHH, Sprite, Pepsi, Phanta, Phruiti, Padam MiiilK.’ ‘Paani, Paani, Paani…Paani ~WaateRR’ ‘Soup…Tomato Soup…Soup!’ ‘Chai…chhaaAAI, Coffee,’ ‘Gulab…Gulab Jamuum,’ not to mention the array of offerings for which I won’t even take a phonetic stab. Outside of taking in the many details of my first experience on Indian rail it was an uneventful journey. It’s amazing, in these circumstances, how much joy can be generated by the uneventful.

 

Bodh Gaya ~ Site of the Buddha’s Enlightenment

Then being a quester for the good, searching for the incomparable, matchless path of peace, while walking on tour through Magadha I arrived at Uruvela, {now Bodh Gaya}, the army township. There I saw a beautiful stretch of ground, a lovely woodland grove, a clear flowing river with a beautiful ford with a village nearby for support. And I thought; “Indeed, this is a good place for a young man set on striving.”

the Buddha as quoted in Middle Land, Middle Way

There is something deeply and quietly perfect about Bodh Gaya being our last major destination on this pilgrimage. Without realizing it, I recognized with our arrival here that Bodh Gaya fulfills some image I have unconsciously held as to how a sacred Buddhist place might look. Having traveled through flat, dusty terrain since our arrival in Delhi, the air quality was noticeably different with our arrival at the train station in Gaya. We wove through hills, hills with trees! on our taxi ride from the station 12km or so into Bodh Gaya.

Like with many Buddhist monasteries and places of worship, the main Mahabodhi temple at Bodh Gaya was largely destroyed with the Muslim invasion of India in the 12 & 13^th century. Thereafter, the remains fell into a state of further neglect and ruin. Apparently the devotion and support the Burmese Buddhist community were largely responsible for maintaining the temple for the some 600 years after the invasion. In the late 1800s, an effort to reconstruct and restore the temple’s splendor was initiated by the Burmese King and more fully manifested with the help of British pilgrim Alexander Cunningham, JD Beglar and the Indian government.

The temple grounds are delineated by a surrounding gate. One main and four smaller spires rise up amongst the trees from the rectangular foundation of the temple. It is the main spire which is initially visible from the road and the pedestrian market area leading up to the entry. A smooth stone path encircles the perimeter of the temple. Upon this path flows a rather constant stream of people circumambulating, some making the way one full body prostration at a time. From this path one looks down into the temple grounds. The main sanctuary is surrounded by myriad smaller stupas, the western side flanked by a magnificent bodhi tree, considered a distant relative of the original beneath which the Buddha purportedly sat. The south side is more open lawn and garden. On the north side, several large trees provide shade to those both meditating and doing purification through prostration practice, for hours, days, months.

Since arriving I have spent many hours walking the temple path and some time sitting down in the inner temple grounds. There is a beauty permeating this place which extends far beyond the visual. Two nights ago, I continued to circumambulate beyond dusk as the stars began appearing. Into a deep blue sky the main temple spire rose encircled by Orion and other constellations. There was a delicious crisp edge creeping into the air, cold on the fingers of my right hand and my cheeks, my left hand kept warm as I rotated prayer beads. Into the night there were still monks and nuns prostrating and meditating amongst the trees below. I was moved by a sense of how hard so many people are working, working to see clearly, to live in a good way, to contribute positively to the world.

This is indeed a global sanctuary. While the place is most vividly colored by the Tibetan monastic community’s crimson robes, there is monastic and lay presence here from Burma, Thailand, Sri Lanka, China, Nepal, Bhutan, Japan, Caucasians from Australian, Eastern & Western European, the US …not to mention a large mosque and several Hindu temples. We have encountered far and away more lay pilgrims from Sri Lanka and Thailand than any place else and that has been the case at every site we have visited.

Upon leaving the serenity of the interior grounds one encounters a rather intense barrage of energies outside the temple gates. The pedestrian area surrounding the temple is filled with vendors selling postcards, statues & memorabilia, mallas (prayer beads), prayer wheels, necklaces, medical masks, and a wide array of things for offering within the temple ~ flowers, incense and candles. In addition there is a veritable army of mostly children who beg for money, books or sponsorship in school.

These childrens’ presence, in conjunction with our accommodations here in Bodh Gaya and a variety of other luxuries along this journey have cumulatively stirred a lot of my own discomfort related to affluence, specifically having it when surrounded by those who do not. Cris’ means and predilection for certain amenities has afforded a level of comfort on this trip above what I would choose or be in a position to afford were I traveling here on my own. It is everything from a cab rather than the public bus, the choice later in the trip of hotels in lieu of temples, hotels with hot water and costs ranging from $20-50/night rather than $5. His choices are perhaps part of what has spared us from more relentless haggling, begging and harassment. However, even if we were strictly using public transportation, as with the train, the situation has simply not measured up to how intense I anticipated India would be in this regard. I believe my years in Nepal provided a certain level of inoculation.

It is indeed a poignant paradox; to walk the temple grounds filled by a sense of joy, peace and hope for the world, and upon exiting to be confronted by the horrendous disparities present in the world and my own humbling ineptitude to influence them. I find no tidy bow to wrap around this particular mental thread. It is simply one arena of contemplation for me in this place.

Rajgir & Nalanda

Back in the US, in research & preparation for this trip Cris corresponded with a monk named Ven S. Dhammika. Dhammika wrote several books which have guided our journey, Middle Land, Middle Way, and the Navel of the Earth: The History and Signficance of Bodh Gaya. He maintains a helpful website for those interested in this type of pilgrimage

http://www.buddhanet.net

In addition to itinerary suggestions, Dhammika offered Cris suggestions about which temples are most accommodating in Sarnath and Lumbini. In Bodh Gaya he suggested stopping in at the Mahabodhi Society to see if any pilgrim buses were making day trips to Rajgir and Nalanda (total of about 200km roundtrip). While they didn’t have any scheduled trips, they placed us in contact with a driver for the day. Krishna, the driver, presented himself at 7am in a gleaming brand new Toyota micro SUV. I could have cared less, however Cris (all 6’2” of him) was positively head over heels with the vehicle. It was the first really comfortable transportation experience since his arrival in this country. Astonishingly capable of maintaining the car’s pristine condition, Krishna fell toward the more agro end of the Indian driving spectrum, careening along the roads with occasional lurching stops to avoid other vehicles, potholes or livestock.

 

We arrived first at Rajgir where Krishna directed us to the dodgy chair lift arrangement which carried us up the rocky terrain to the top of Chhatha Hill which is crowned with the Shanti Stupa. Constructed by a Japanese monk back in the late 60s, the buildings nestle in the trees, and the spirit of the place, is truly quite graceful and beautifully done. Prayer flags were streaming off one side, fluttering in a light wind. I even found a rather unostentatious elegance to the gold Buddha images adorning the stupa. Our wanderings occurred to the tone of a single drum beat, deep and soft, which reverberated out like a slow heartbeat from the Nichiren temple there on the summit. This is the sect which roots its practice in the chanting of na myo ho ren ge kyo.

We descended by foot along a path which leads down and then up again to Gijjhakuta, the famous Vulture Peak, purportedly the Buddha’s favorite spot in Rajgir and where he delivered a variety of important discourse. Having been on the flat for the duration of our time in India, it was extraordinary to be in hills, rocky mountains with cleaner air and better visibility than I have seen anywhere. On the ascent of Vulture Peak, one passes two caves now adorned with pilgrims’ offerings of gold leaf, candles, katas (white silk scarves so critical in Tibetan culture/Buddhist practice), money and incense. We encountered pilgrim groups from Thailand and Sri Lanka, maybe 20 or so people in each, one group seated chanting at one of the caves, another further up.

Cris and I approached the lower of the two caves, empty but for us, and Cris turned around with bright shining eyes, “this is REAL!” And it was indeed. There was something so authentic and clear. Perhaps it was just being ‘outdoors’ in a way I haven’t been on this journey. A very sacred and serene quality pervaded the place. I continued on up to the summit. Seated in the main open area of ruins sat a group of Thai pilgrims, 3 saffron robed monks, the remainder of the group dressed in white. I climbed up on a bit of porous rock and sat facing south out on the valley. Initially the Thai group chanted…after a time they too fell silent. I sat in the silence of that valley. I could feel the sun’s warmth and the gentlest of breezes across every millimeter of skin on my face. I sat steeping in the beauty and intimacy of the moment, breathing in the silence and the wind and the energy of all the pilgrims who have come to that spot with reverence and intention and hope, hope for themselves perhaps, but I also would like to think hope for our world and what is possible in this life.

Later we continued onto the ruins of Nalanda. Beginning in the 6^th century and flourishing for some 700 years, Nalanda was a monumental Buddhist university, at its peak educating & housing 10-12,000 monks. Its halls, monasteries, and library met the same fate as other Buddhist institutions in India in the early 12^th century. Cris read somewhere that the library took 3 months to burn. If I recall correctly the ruins have only been excavated in the recent decades and work, evident during our visit, is still being done to preserve Nalanda’s remains. While the scale was undeniably extraordinary and thought provoking, my eyes and heart remained full all day from the precious morning visit at Gijjhakuta, Rajgir.

 

***

 

The temple grounds

were bustling when I arrived late

afternoon throngs, monastic and lay folk,

elders and children, Sri Lankan,

Tibetan, Caucasian, and Thai.

 

I settled on a tranquil corner

tucked up close

to a low wall, close

to several monks sitting

out of the fray.

 

Initially, human noise prevailed;

chatter, chanting, footsteps.

Light waned. Adhan cried out

from the mosque beyond

the temple gates.

 

Dusk rose, as did dampness

from the earth and the bird calls

swelled, filling trees and sky

drowning out human sound.

 

Pausing to unfold and recross my legs,

I opened my eyes to take in more

than sound. The monks close by, previously

wrapped crimson pyramids,

had packed up to head home.

Two of the young ones, maybe in their 20s,

returned, crouched feet before me

and carefully appraised two handfuls

of fallen Bodhi leaves, laying one

atop the other, even the dry crinkled ones,

not so amenable to stacking,

were delicately laid in the precious pile.

I smiled thinking of the scavenged leaves

nestled between journal pages within my bag.

 

Later still, the birds fell quiet,

the remaining human voices softened.

A small rodent came scritching

amongst the leaves.

The crickets began their rhythmic song

and the mute Bihari mosquitoes

danced upon my eyelids.

 

Mahabodhi Temple, BodhGaya, India

Interval in Varanasi

addendum to Kushinagar

Cris objected to my glossed over version of the parting with Vinaud, our driver from Sonauli to Varanasi. And so I’ll take a moment to amend the last entry. Vinaud was in his late 20s, maybe 30, not yet married, apparently has a girlfriend currently studying nursing in Saudi Arabia. In the final hours prior to our arrival in Varanasi he inquired repeatedly about my willingness to stay in contact. It’s an interchange I have encountered many times. People in Nepal were always probing to discern one’s willingness to help out with an entry visa for the US or help finding their way into school or a job. But from Vinaud there had been other questions, like When would I be coming back to India? Had I had a boyfriend when I lived in Nepal? Not one?! Not a single Nepali boyfriend?! And that boyfriend back in the US, the English teacher, when were we going to get married? Vinaud explained that if I called his mobile just once from America then he could call back and I wouldn’t have to pay. I explained, truthfully, that I currently have neither home nor phone and delicately evaded a direct answer with a simple herau (we’ll see).
Upon arrival at our hotel, Vinaud was warmly greeted having called ahead to a number of friends who work here. After depositing my bag I returned to say farewell. I found Vinaud in the hotel’s travel agency where he introduced me to one of the staff, yet another Nepali speaker. While Vinaud rather bashfully extended a scrap of paper with his name and phone number, his friend Tika was the one, in a delightfully indirect Asian fashion, who articulated Vinaud’s wishes more explicitly. He commented how much Vinaud had enjoyed meeting me, how sweetly I speak Nepali, what a good person I am (all customary Nepali flattery). Furthermore, he explained that Vinaud would be very happy to accompany me on any further outings during my time in India…even tonight, for example, if I was interested to go out after I had rested…or if in the coming days I had free time while in Varanasi, I need only call his mobile and he would happily drive back (the 250km) from Sonauli. I thanked Vinaud and Tika returning equally customary but hopefully more neutral flattery to Vinaud and said a parting namaste.

Varanasi

The first day in Varanasi was filled with nourishing quiet and rest. At dawn on the second day I went out on the waters of the Ganga. The Varanasi boat ride was one of the most intimate and moving experiences for my father during a trip my parents took to India in 1998, after visiting me in Nepal. The young Argentinian I met in Lumbini likewise spoke of the ghats (steps leading down to the Ganges) and their powerfully mystical quality. And so I went primed for a serene and somehow magical experience.
Navigating the river were dozens and dozens of tourist filled row boats. Some held 30 or more people with accompanying tour guide vocally conducting from the bow. The overall atmosphere felt like a slightly more reverent version of this country’s congested streets. Occasionally a hawker would careen into and hold onto our row boat, his own filled with wares for sale; marigold garlands, candles, postcards, videos, trinkets, and statues of Hindu Gods. As we ghosted along, I wondered if the boat arrangement was a clever way the Indians have devised to keep the tourists out of their hair. Allow us to look, but keep us out of the ghats. Intended or not, it quite brilliantly relegates most tourists to a movie screen experience of the entire dawning panorama, leaving the banks of the Ganges, I believe appropriately, in the hands of those for whom the river is laundry room, cremation site, ritual bathing place and God. I felt like a voyeur.
I found the sunrise view compelling in one particular respect. The river’s alluvial plane extends approximately a kilometer before reaching a distant hazy tree line. An impressive array of buildings crowd up to the stairs’ edge on the Varanasi side. However, looking east lies the most open expanse of land I have seen without human inhabitation since arriving in this country. Were I to live in a place with so little room afforded to the individual, I might too be drawn to praise a sun which rose across such a sweeping open space.
During and after the boat ride I reflected on past experiences in which I have felt less like an outsider. During my hospital work in Nepal, I witnessed the cremation of one of my patients. I rummaged back amongst old computer files to find the narrative. I believe it would be hard to rival the vividness and intimacy of that experience which is recounted below. In addition, I recognize that with our arrival in Varanasi, I lost my linguistic link to the surrounding culture. Many Indians speak English. However, it is my language and that of preexisting colonial rule, not their own. Considering all of this, my dawn experience on the Ganga of distance, even alienation is perhaps not so surprising. Note the account below is graphic and perhaps best to skip for the faint of heart.

I met Pravin at the hospital the morning after the death. Together, we went to collect Bahadur’s body. Inside the morgue it was cool and smelled stagnant. We found Bahadur’s body wrapped in white gauze. Pravin picked up his shoulders. I wrapped my fingers around his tiny ankles and we lifted his body. I thought it would sag in the middle; I expected his tiny body to be unwieldy. It was stiff, like a pine board, dead not even twelve hours. I gazed at his shape through the gauze, thinking about the words we had exchanged two days ago, thinking about the voice that had come from this body, now silenced. We moved him to a stretcher, into the back of a “dead ambulance,” and headed for the pyres of Pashupatinath.
I remember the heat of that day, that time of year before the rains come to cool the earth and fill the terraces. I learned to walk slowly on such days. That morning moved slowly with me, giving me enough time to absorb every detail. I had walked by the pyres a dozen times, always covering my mouth, choking on the smell. However, I had not before witnessed the cremation of any of the patients who died during my work. I felt a need to lay Bahadur’s body to rest, to see a body just like my own reduced to ash. Fifty feet away another cremation was in process. One rigid leg stretched out of the flames, muscle and skin remaining from the knee socket down. I stared without shame. As the sons of the deceased attempted to push the leg back into the blaze the corner of the pyre collapsed. The leg tumbled to the ground. With some difficulty, they pushed it back into the flames with a lengthy bamboo pole. I stood dumbstruck, as this human leg was pushed around like another piece of bamboo.
Pravin lit a small piece of wood and circled the body three times. He pulled the gauze back from his uncle’s face, set it on his lips, and recovered the face sending a ribbon of smoke into the air, like a visible, final breath. The fire was lit. Long wet grass was laid on top of the body. As the flames leapt upward they caught his hair first. It sizzled and coiled in on itself, blackened. I was overwhelmed by an almost childlike fascination with every detail. I did not cry, nor did I feel mournful. I saw this as Bahadur’s healing.
The fire consumed the flesh on his legs first, and eventually the attendant used a long bamboo pole to bend the legs back onto the abdomen. Occasionally he would bring the pole down hard on the body, gaining a sense of what was left. When the legs were no longer bone and tissue but smoke and ash, the body was carefully rotated using the pole—no lurching, no falling limbs. Bahadur’s skull and abdomen faced down into the earth, eating the fire. I stood and observed each detail, mildly numb, pensive, humbled by how our bodies burn as quickly as wood. It took only three hours for his body to be reduced to ash and swept into the creeping Bagmati River.
There was nothing left, not a bone, not a piece of hair, not a fingernail. I walked away from Bahadur’s cremation. I took a bus into the city to visit Palgi. Arriving at the bottom floor of her tiny apartment building, I paused and steadied myself, cheek and palm pressed against the cool cement wall. I shut my eyes for a moment and breathed more deeply than I had since the quiet of my morning zazen. I could smell the infection walking up the stairwell toward Palgi’s room. I had walked away from death and was walking again into death. We sat quietly after I explained where I had come from. That day, it was she who held my limp hand. We sat in silence, my eyes and mind still full of flames.

After the boat ride, our small group from the hotel was shuttled around to visit two different Hindu temples. Our guide was a borderline evangelical Brahmin caste Hindu, very passionate and vocally so about his faith and life view. In the context of those visits, I realized something these recent days. In Sarnath, Kushinagar, a bit less in Lumbini, I felt like I was visiting my place, like these sites were also for me. This morning, seeing and entering into places of worship for those of another faith I felt distinctly that it wasn’t my home. I was an outsider, and I have no interest in being a voyeur. This is a, perhaps the most fundamental and dynamic tension present for me in travel. I have a strong aversion to being detectably invasive and suppose this is the primary reason I have chosen to travel in few places for longer periods of time, optimally where I know people of that place.

***

On our 3rd morning I set out in search of an envelope en route to the post office. I wandered along the street stopping at the first corner store. They directed me next door to a shop almost identical in size and nature. Upon requesting the envelope in English, a 4 word interaction, the shopkeeper inquired, “Excuse me ma’am, are you Australian?” “Well…my mother is Australian, but I was raised in America.” “I have met many foreigners and your features look very Australian.” I was welcomed, by Mr Khan the shop owner, to sit down. We proceeded to have a lengthy conversation involving 3 silent onlookers and tea, served to all in the ubiquitous palm sized one-use terra cotta cups. Mr. Khan was most intrigued by why anyone would go to study in Nepal as there was no major university there and what use was it to speak Nepali. We spoke of the influence religion has on culture. I explained that traveling to a country the roots of which were non-Judeo Christian was one of the primary motivators in my initial travel to Asia.

In the haze of that late afternoon I returned to walk along the ghats. Every evening sunset is accompanied by a service at the main Dasadhwamedh Ghat. I wanted to give another try to the experience of Varanasi’s stretch of the Ganga. I had a very peaceful stroll along the steps. There were foreigners scattered through the crowd, however many of the women were dressed in culturally respectful Punjabi dress and I found the overall tourist presence somehow less offensive in this context than during the dawn boat ride. The Indians seemed largely unconcerned by us foreigners and carried on with their activities; drinking tea, chatting with friends, conducting prayer or puja. There were many young children wandering around with platters of marigold garlands and candle filled offering bowls for sale. While their pitch became more insistent as dusk approached, their manner was not particularly harassing or aggressive. I felt more comfortable tucking myself in a quiet corner and taking in the open common space, surrounded by the people for whom it is a part of their daily and sacred lives.

***

Akin to the cremation stupa in Kushinagar, I found the qi of Sarnath’s Dhammekha Stupa similarly organic and powerful. I took this morning of our last day to return there, only 8km away. Having arrived rather early, for the first hour or so it was only myself circumambulating with half dozen of Tibetan stock; the soft shuffle of feet along worn flat stone, the gentle murmur of mantras, occasional bells from nearby temples.
I said a silent prayer of gratitude for all those who have contributed to my journey along this Dharma path. My teachers Zoketsu Norman Fischer, Shodo Harada Roshi, Dai Chi. In some ways almost more sustaining on a day to day basis have been the brothers and sisters I have encountered in this practice over the years ~ John * Lillian * Dan * Florence * Tim * Gillian * Ed * Yusan * Shosan * Sokei * Robby * Mimi * Matthew * Jeff * Mary * Cris * Jay * Betty * Enen * Judy * Miche. And all of these people further stand on the shoulders of so many generations who have turned this wheel for such a very long time.
While I write here with reasonable openness, beneath what I articulate about this journey is a deeper exploration of my internal landscape. These days I have been looking at patterns in my behavior and character which are extremely distant from any enlightened state and frustratingly obstinate. And like all those who have practiced right in the crucible of their own human limitations, I keep picking myself up like a child, dusting off my knees, and placing one foot in front of the other. This too is part of the pilgrimage.
We have now spent four days in Varanasi. Although Cris continues to have residual chest congestion and fatigue, his energy and spirits are greatly improved. Tomorrow we travel by train to Bodh Gaya, where the Buddha achieved enlightenment.

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.