TravelStream™ news feed for member globalgramma on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/globalgramma en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Sat, 18 Apr 2009 09:50:36 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1239598440/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1239598440/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1239598440/tpod.html Sat, 18 Apr 2009 09:50:36 -0400 A beleaguered grandmother's search for peace of mind and the deep self in the ancient land of the Vedas.

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Bageshwar, Uttarakhand, India

I arrived in Bageshwar, Uttarakhand, on the evening of April 6th for a 4 day stay at Baba Lokenath Dham. The Dham is the small temple that Baba Shuddhaanandaa built for Baba Lokenath, the great Himalayan master who appeared to him in 1978, and who serves as Baba's source of inspiration for everything he does. The Dham sits serenely alone about 2/3 way up the southernmost forested hillside of Bageshwar, looking north to about 10 Himalayan foothills, with the town nestled in the narrow river valley between them. The Saryu River, melted from the Pindar Glacier of Nanda Devi, curls through the valley, forking just below the Dham to form a small island. The river fills the air with the constant, soothing sound of water eagerly rushing over rock. Rising above the foothills to the North, stretching across most of the horizon on a clear day, are the rugged, snow-capped high Himalayan mountains of Magtoli, Pancha Chuli, and Nanda Devi. The climb to the Dham was challenging for me. Since the town was crawling with Nepali porters (who are real supermen), my ludicrously heavy luggage didn't make it prohibitive. For Rs. 120 (I paid him Rs 150...the equivalent of $3 USD), I got away with feeling ridiculous and guilty, watching the man carry my three overburdened bags, while I lagged far behind him and Bhupal, beet red in the afternoon sun, huffing, puffing and pausing to catch my breath every 50-100 feet of the criss-crossing path. As we passed houses along the lower levels of the path, women in bright colored saris were working in their gardens, tending their cows and goats, carrying their babies, visiting with one another. They literally howled with friendly laughter at the spectacle of me. These villagers are so fit and hardy, with the vigorous life they lead, walking and climbing these hills carrying everything they need, they just couldn't help themselves.Reaching the Dham, I was greeted with a clear and stunning view of the snow-capped mountains, glowing golden in the late afternoon sun. It felt like a personal welcoming blessing from Baba Lokenath. The weather was cloudy for the next 3 days, but on the last two days, the mountains were often in full view. Nestled beneath the terrace in front of the temple is a series of three simple, concrete bedrooms. The priest and his son share the largest room. I had the next one. As I settled into mine that night, I met an unexpected, additional welcoming committee of two. The first was a huge spider who, after much internal deliberation, I conclusively determined to be the size of a tarantula (just not as hairy or thick bodied). He stood motionless in the SW upper corner of the room, next to several cracks in the concrete, directly above my bed at the pillow end. My bed was nestled up against the wall. When I finally got over my shock enough to turn around, I gasped out loud (again), seeing that another, smaller spider (but not small by any means for a house spider), was on the wall beside the light switch that I had just been groping for in the dark. I remembered all of Baba's stories about scorpions and tigers, and that no one who comes to Lokenath Dham can be harmed...including animals. (See Entry #17: Of Scorpions, Tigers & Snakes -- and Trust in God). The bigger spider looked more like an animal than an insect to me. He looked like could eat me for lunch...and that I didn't see a plethora of other insects around the room for him to dine on was not in the least bit reassuring. But who was I to violate Baba's promise of safety to anyone who takes refuge in him? This spider had taken refuge in the Dham. So I slowly, oh-so-calmly-and-quietly, so as not to disturb him, pulled my bed away from the wall while talking to him in as soothing a tone as I could muster. "I am going to just move my bed out from the wall a little, to give you some space, just in case you need to come down here tonight. I will leave you alone. I am not going to hurt you. You will leave me alone. You won't hurt me. Then we can both go happily about our business, respecting each other's distance....right? Just please, please don't crawl on me in my sleep. Please stay away from my bed tonight." The surprising news is, I actually slept, and slept well, after wondering for about 20 minutes if I was having a heart attack. It helped that I never saw the big one moving throughout my stay there. He was out of his lair each night when I came into the room. He seemed to just sit there, motionless. And once I turned the light off, if I ever needed to turn the light on again, he was gone again. I took solace in choosing to think of him being back inside that crack. I came to consider him my roommate. Enough on spiders (though there is more to tell)... and back to the temple.The salmon/peach colored temple sits quietly, nestled into the steeply sloping, grass and pine duff covered hillside, with a wrought-iron fenced terrace that wraps around toward the east. I spent most of my days sitting on the terrace, soaking in the peace, mesmerized by the endless varieties of exquisite birds (orange headed, bright green, long tailed parrots; several large and small species of blue birds; the tiniest bird I have ever seen; tiny and medium sized yellow birds; a beautifully defined chickadee; several varieties of very elegant, long tailed birds, a red-red-red bird, to mention only a few) as well as animals (lemurs, monkeys, weasels), and the occasional villager wandering silently up one of the many interlacing foot and animal paths, shepherding their cattle, who were seeking tastier grass. At one point, I asked the priest about the tigers that Baba said roam the area. "Are any still around?" "Yes," he said, pointing to an area of jutting rocks on the very nearby hillside, about 400-600 feet away, "One lives in a cave right over there. Many animals have been killed, goats, cows..." Stunned at just how close that was, I immediately ran to get my camera.When I asked Bhupal the next morning about the last time he saw the tiger, he responded casually, "About 15 days ago, right over there," pointing just below the Dham to the southeast, maybe 200-300 feet away. Each day after that, every time I saw a villager following their cows over that way to graze in late afternoon, I was more than a bit apprehensive (and mystified) at the risk they were taking. But the priest later assured me when I mentioned it that the tiger only comes out at night. (But I distinctly remember Baba saying that they sometimes come to sun themselves on the terrace. Sun=Day, Right?)I was hoping for a sighting, at a nice, safe distance, of course, but left without one. It's a bit odd that I am more afraid of spiders than tigers. Some people might consider it a good thing...a blessing even...that I had no experience to change my perspective on that.Bhupal, the priest, who appears in his late 30s to early 40s to me, lives at the temple with his 8 year old son, Chandra Pandey. He takes beautiful, loving care of the temple and grounds and the garden and has been here almost 20 years. (He must have been extremely young when he started.) He performs a morning and evening puja here, but no one else seems to ever come. It is a quiet, lonely life for Bhupal, which is why his son came to live with him. "It's not good to be alone so much," he said one day. I never asked about his wife, but I assume that she couldn't take the isolation. Bhupal and Chandra Pandey play cricket on the temple terrace. When Bhupal goes to market, Chandra hangs longingly over the fence, anticipating his father's return for a game. Chandra Pandey makes cricket balls out of plastic bags and rubber bands. I thought briefly that I might buy them a cricket ball, but I soon thought better of it. Would a real ball make his game with his father any more enjoyable than it already is? There would be no way to touch or improve on the fun they are already having together. And a real cricket ball wouldn't loft as softly as these homespun ones do. With a good whack from the bat, a real ball would fly over the fence and bounce down the hill to be lost in in the dense trees near the houses below. Some already do that already, but they pose no loss. So, No. A real cricket ball would actually spoil their game. It would steal the joy in it.Bhupal took very gracious care of me. He cooked delicious meals of rice, dal, subgee (vegetables) and chapatis every day. He cooks in their room and washes dishes on the walkway from a bucket of water. Pouring the water into the garden for the flowers. He would never even let me wash my own dishes. On the second night I was there, I heard a woman's loud screaming after I had gone to bed. I came outside to see if someone needed help. Bhupal was washing dishes on the walkway. "Rajneesh devotees live in that house down there. They carry on like that several nights each week," he said smiling, amused at the silliness of it. The screaming went from prolonged, wailing pain to guttural rage and everywhere in between ... real primal scream stuff. I could only imagine what these simple villagers thought, and how hard it must be for those living right next door to them.The Rajneeshee's wild carryings on couldn't really disturb the beauty of the Dham, though. The indescribable, deep eternal peace of Baba Lokenath's presence is palpable. It soaks the hillside. It saturates the air. It reaches out, touches you, and draws you in. Stepping on to that terrace that first evening, I immediately felt, "This is home. I could stay here forever." Just breathing is meditation. I began to have an inkling of what is being said in the 108 Names, when it refers to Baba Lokenath as, "the Eternal and Unmoving". After 4 days of soaking it in, I will be back for more, and a longer stay, next year, with a better camera. And I have joined the ranks of the few other devotees who have come here who are urging Baba to develop capacity for a small retreat here at the Dham
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1238523900/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1238523900/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1238523900/tpod.html Wed, 01 Apr 2009 05:28:31 -0400 A beleaguered grandmother's search for peace of mind and the deep self in the ancient land of the Vedas.

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Rishikesh, Uttarakhand, India

March 31, 2009Photos with a story are noted by an asterisk next to the title. I am headed back to Rishikesh today, since I have never felt comfortable in Uttarkashi. It is a lovely setting, but there is only one less than inspiring restaurant that I could find that is very expensive, almost no one speaks English, and there is no place to go and enjoy the Ganges in the shade when it is sunny and warm enough to go. So I am pretty much stuck in my hotel room on a noisy road. The magnetism of Rishikesh asserts itself once again!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1238392560/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1238392560/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1238392560/tpod.html Wed, 01 Apr 2009 05:25:16 -0400 A beleaguered grandmother's search for peace of mind and the deep self in the ancient land of the Vedas.

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Rishikesh, Uttarakhand, India

For anyone who doesn't know, Rishikesh is where the Holy Mother Ganga (River Ganges) descends from the Himalayas to the vast plains of India as she makes her way southeast to empty into the Bay of Bengal. I was doing research for Lisa's Himalaya film script, so took many more photos than I normally would and thought I would share some of them. It will take more than 1 entry. All of the photos have a caption, but there are too many to write up a story on each of them. I am putting an asterisk by the ones I have written a story for.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1235890980/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1235890980/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1235890980/tpod.html Sun, 29 Mar 2009 15:18:27 -0400 A beleaguered grandmother's search for peace of mind and the deep self in the ancient land of the Vedas.

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Rishikesh, Uttarakhand, India

Rishikesh sits in a narrow river valley cut by the Holy Mother Ganga (River Ganges) through the forested Himalayan foothills on the North, East and West, then opening into the vast, flat plains of India to the South. Mother Ganga twists and turns between the mountains, bending several times as she passes through Rishikesh before she opens to spread herself out to a wider expanse as she travels, with her life and grace giving waters, through the plains. The Ganga gives and sustains life for billions of Indians as she courses eastward for 1500 miles to the Bay of Bengal. Here in Rishikesh, closer to her mountain source, her waters are a lovely green and they are pure (pure being relative in India, when people empty so much garbage into her). She is held sacred by Hindus, with good reason, and has mystical powers to which I can personally attest. I have been longing to come to the Ganga and put my feet in her every day for 14 years. While in Kolkata she is far too polluted to consider that; here she is welcoming and clean enough to actually do it. With its hodgepodge of large and small, new and old ashrams, temples, mostly dingy looking hotels, and vendor stall footpaths crowded with hippy backpacker type tourists from all over the world, cows (and cow pies), thousands of mendicant sadhus (Hindu monks in orange robes), other beggars, and roaring motorcycles recklessly blasting their way through the crowds, Rishikesh town sits along the quickly rising banks of the hillsides above the Ganga's alternately sandy and boulder strewn beaches and cliffs. In the busiest areas of town, large steps (ghats) lead to the Ganges. This is a city in love and at play with Mother Ganga. Old and poor women sit at the ghats, selling tiny leaf bowl arrangements of flowers, incense and burning camphor lamps to offer into the Ganga with your prayers. Young and old come and bow, stand in her, reverently dipping their cupped hands into her waters, then raising them with fingertips pointed downward, pouring the water back to her. Then they splash their heads with what remains of her sacred waters on their fingertips. Boys and men regularly take playful and prayerful, gasping and shivering dips in her cold waters. Women do as well, but fully clothed and much more tentatively than the men and boys. The sadhus live everywhere on her banks, in little huts, in tents, among the rocks, sleeping on steps of the ghats. Cows are everywhere, on the footpaths, lounging and foraging the beaches. Stray dogs, a few mules, are often in the mix, while monkeys stay closer to the path, on rooftops, in trees, sitting on fences, or clinging to the bridge railing. The brown monkeys are aggressive. One attempting to grab my bag the other day. When the woman I was sitting with tried to loudly shoo it away, the monkey lunged at her just short of attack mode. We promptly moved. (These animals can really fight if they want to!) Yesterday, another one actually did grab it, but I managed to keep a strong hold and it retreated. The larger, grey monkeys are harmless. Two foot bridges at opposite ends of town allow pedestrians to cross the river between the major commercial-and-ashram districts of the town. You can also take a boat across and avoid the crowds. Crossing the footbridges is an adventure as motorcycles, bicycles, and old men pulling very heavy loads in carts make their way between crowds of pedestrians, beggars and hawkers. Pathetic looking old women and crippled men sit with their backs against the wire fence, shaking their bowls, appealing to you for donations. Young boys are clamoring for you to buy a small bowl of grey chapati balls to throw over the fence and feed the fish below. For the first time yesterday I stopped and looked down where they were tossing these balls, and was astounded to see a gathering of phenomenally huge fish below (see photos).Mother Ganga's sands are more dazzling than you can imagine. While most beaches glisten and reflect light in the sun, the Ganga's sand flashes with such brilliant, intensely white and fiery light that you feel you are walking in sand littered with shaved diamonds. It is as if all the soul light, the infinite light and pure life force, of all the eons of Himalayan masters who have bathed in the Ganga and prayed beside her in the mountains have permeated her very sands.In 1994, toward the end of my time in Kolkata, my taxi driver had insisted that I had to go to the Ganga when I was in an utterly ugly, snarly and toxic state. He refused to take me back to my hotel as I had insisted that he do. Instead, he drove me to Ramakrishna's Ashram, told me we wouldn't leave until I went to go the ghat (steps to the river), and stood at least ankle deep in the Ganga for 2 or 3 minutes. I begrudgingly did as I was told without the least expectation of any spiritual experience. Standing in the water, it felt as if I was standing in champagne, bubbly, soothing, refreshing.... It was very pleasant, nothing more. But when I stepped out of the river, I was completely ecstatic. Every cell of my body was literally singing with joy, so much that I skipped and sang my way back to the taxi to thank the driver (when only five minutes before I wanted to knock him in the head). So I know that the powers of Mother Ganga are real. This time, I also come without expectations for a "spiritual experience" because I know that kind of grace is not repeatable in any way. But I do know her powers are real, and she stirs deep, nameless emotions in me. On my way here, when I first saw her in Haridwar at night as I was crossing in an autorickshaw, I broke into tears without having the faintest idea why. So I come with a prayer to her. Sitting beside her, I am filled with deep, deep peace...with quiet joy ... More and more, I am experiencing her energy as I lose myself in her placid and gently swirling currents, and in her shimmering, effervescent and mystifying, pulsing rivulets. Watching her unconstrained, happy leaping over rocks, delighting in her little silver leaping from her waters' edges at sunset, I think I understand why so many Indians, even when they are very poor, are happy. They have her as a model, a physical embodiment of life's capacity to flow effortlessly and happily forward, to sustain our human hearts and lives, to nourish our souls, however few our belongings might be. So I pray to become more like her in her essential nature, in her seemingly infinite capacity to absorb our human ignorance, foibles and suffering, while moving forward with natural ease, beauty, peace and joy.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1201800480/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1201800480/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1201800480/tpod.html Sun, 29 Mar 2009 15:16:49 -0400 A beleaguered grandmother's search for peace of mind and the deep self in the ancient land of the Vedas.

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Kolkata (Calcutta), West Bengal, India

Baba told a beautiful little story tonight. Coming back from Assam yesterday, he was in the airport standing in the security line, bundled up with his black cap drawn over his ears and his forehead, all wrapped up in woolen scarves with hardly any of his face showing. (It was very cold in Assam.) A heavy set man walked up to him from nowhere and asked in a quietly incredulous, penetrating way, "Who are you?" Baba was quiet as he looked back at the man. Then he asked, "Who do you think I am?" The man looked Baba in the eyes, then scanned Baba from head to foot, and replied, "I think you are a MahaPurush (a great saint)." He paused again, then added, "One thing is for sure, you are no ordinary man. You have a presence. You have such a light about you. I have never seen anyone with such light. Everything about you has a glow. You must be a mahatma, a very great soul, a true Holy One." "You are very close," Baba responded. "I am a speck of dust on the feet of such a One. I am a servant of a Holy One." Baba's response obviously overwhelmed this man. "Would you please be so kind as to spend a few minutes with me?" the man pleaded. "I would love to be able to, but it is not possible now. I must catch the flight to Kolkata. It is boarding. I am late now and will miss my flight." "You will not miss your flight," the man said. Removing a walkie talkie from of his pocket, he proceeded to instruct someone to hold the plane until he got there, that he would personally be bringing a passenger to the plane. "They will not leave without you. Now would you please give me just 2 minutes of your time?" "What is it that you want to ask me?" Baba inquired. "I don't want to ask you anything. I just want to spend a few moments with you. I want your blessing.""O.K." said Baba. They visited for a few moments. Baba shared some of his insights about life and the world and how we can all work to change it. The man told Baba that he was a devotee of Bholanath (one of the titles of Siva), that he had totally surrendered his life to Siva. "Then you want for nothing, you need absolutely nothing from anyone else," Baba said, "He is the Lord that orders the entire Universe, if you have surrendered to him, everything about your life is in his hands." The man led Baba to his office to show Baba his altar, with its image of Siva. The man, it turns out, was the Director of Security for the entire airport. Then he kept his promise. He took Baba back into the main terminal area. He called several guards, who rushed over to carry Baba's bags. So here is our sweet, white robed monk with his black winter ski cap and thick woolen scarves wrapped around his neck, being escorted by the Director of Security and 3 uniformed security guards with guns who are carrying his bags. The Director is leading Baba past the crowd to the security scanner, personally seeing to it that no one touches Baba as Baba goes through the body check area. It was quite the spectacle. The crowds parted like the Red Sea in front of them as they made their way. Apparently no one receives this kind of treatment but heads of state. The man led Baba to the front of the line at the gate, guards still in tow with Baba's carry-on bags. Then he got down on his hands and knees and reverently bowed at Baba's feet in front of the guards and everyone there. I asked Baba, "When something like this happens, is it because there is a soul connection between the two of you and some kind of recognition has occurred?" "Absolutely," Baba said. "No one else came up to me like that. The airport was full of people. I am in airports all the time. No one else saw what he saw in me. There was some powerful connection between us from a former life. We had a predestined appointment then and there, some karmic dance to complete, me in service to him, him honoring me in the way that he did. Nothing happens out of nowhere."
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1238298780/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1238298780/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1238298780/tpod.html Sun, 29 Mar 2009 08:25:43 -0400 A beleaguered grandmother's search for peace of mind and the deep self in the ancient land of the Vedas.

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Uttarkashi, Uttarakhand, India

March 28, 2009Rishikesh has a way of hanging on to those who come here (I was supposed to leave on the 25th). But this morning at 7:30, I was finally up and loaded, with my ridiculous amount of luggage, in the auto rickshaw, headed for the bus terminal and a 7 hour ride to Uttarkashi. [Rickshaws in Rishikesh are often called "toot toots" --sounds like foot-- because of the very loud, distinctive, sputtering noise their engines make.]The bus climbed and climbed and climbed initially, at a wonderfully slow pace that allowed for relaxed enjoyment of the scenery. And, as has been the case since finishing the Vipassana retreat, I could just relax and be in the full, natural wonder of it all without my mind interfering and holding me three veils back from being present to the moment. It was 155 kilometers of winding, winding, winding, up and down (mostly up), through the constant bends and hair-pin turns between almost completely terraced, tightly packed, massive mountains and the dammed Ganges. These mountains are constantly dotted with colorful villages and hamlets, and the roads and footpaths lacing one to another. I couldn't help but marvel at all the human labor that had sculpted these mountains and maintained these terraces over thousands of years. The irregular patterns of the terracing fascinate me to no end. Many are brilliant hues of emerald green, while others were turning various shades of yellow with ripening wheat. Still others were fallow, gray-white and rocky. At the bottom of the mountains were rocky streams, all of which I assume, ultimately feed into the Ganges. The mountain air was cool, its purity exuberant and invigorating. I couldn't bear to close the window, even at times the air got cold. So I simply wrapped my head and shoulders in my wool shawl and fancied myself looking like a woman from the Middle East, while holding my hands out the window taking as many photos as I dared to in order to save disk space for the wonders surely yet to come. About 50 kilometers into the trip, silent, stately pines became the dominant tree species. They caught the morning sun, softly spinning suffused white light along the thin, fanning threads of their long, draping needles ... to a mesmerizing, magical effect. There were so many places I wanted to stop, I found myself fantasizing about learning to drive a motorcycle this coming summer, so that next year I can rent a bike and make this trip on my own, taking all the time I want, wherever I want, soaking it all in and taking many more photos. It's a little far out for this 62 year old Grandma, but not totally out of character either. There are some parts of India that just cry to be seen on a motorbike. So I am not willing to be closed to that as a possibility. (I think the bike will have to be fire engine red.)About 20 km from Uttarkashi, our bus driver suddenly developed an irrepressible sense of urgency to get there and be done with us. Our peaceful meandering through the mountains abruptly ended, as we literally screamed through nearby towns and mountains, horn blaring at 90 decibles without interruption, careening over rubbled roads, through tight turns. On a road that is about 1-1/2 lanes wide, it was quite hairy meeting oncoming traffic. When I wasn't gasping, I was laughing out loud. I am sure my fellow passengers thought I was crazy. More than once, I had to remind myself that I was on this trip at Baba's instruction, so there was no way I was going to die in a bus crash, however reckless this driver was determined to be.All in all, it was a blissful trip...one I won't soon forget and which I will always treasure. The deep peace of the mountains, the purity of the air, felt like home. These photos in no way do justice to the magnificent scenery. I forgot to set the camera to "scene" so the focus didn't catch the detail of the sculpted mountain terraces. Almost all of which were completely terraced.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1238035560/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1238035560/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1238035560/tpod.html Wed, 25 Mar 2009 23:16:02 -0400 A beleaguered grandmother's search for peace of mind and the deep self in the ancient land of the Vedas.

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Dehradun, Uttarakhand, India

Hi Everyone,I am back from the Vipassana Retreat in Dehradun...very happy I did it, and also glad that I was flying blind when I decided to go. I might not have done it if I knew more about the retreat itself and the facility at which it was held. But the core practice is exactly what this 62 year old woman needs to rein in her wild, untamed, often torturous mind. I have never felt more hopeful of actually being able to do that now that I have this practice. I highly recommend Goenka Vipassana to anyone who is fed up with getting beaten up by their own mind. Just be prepared to do some real work. I am not so sure I would recommend that you take a course in India, however.The retreat involved 10 days of Noble Silence. If we had any problems, we were supposed to talk to our teacher assistants. The women's teacher assistants spoke little to no English, and gestures often failed as well. The oldest woman sometimes spoke to us in streams of Hindi, though we could not understand a word she said. The other woman just shrugged her shoulders, looked at us blankly, and said "teacher" (as in talk to the teacher). Dehradun is only an hour and a half away from Rishikesh. The trees are taller, and the air is generally cool in the shade, but in the direct sunlight, it gets very hot quickly around midday. With a tin roof on the meditation hall that sits exposed to full sun, and with the natural and seemingly endless Indian forbearance of heat, the many fans were never turned on (not once!). The doors were always shut, and while the windows were opened, the curtains were not at the teacher's specific instruction, impeding any air flow. So the two early afternoon sessions were literally like meditating in a blast furnace. I would wet down my pants and hair to cope with the heat, but that drew ants and other bugs to me like I was a gallon of honey. Great fun meditating! Note: Vipassana practice is designed to end all aversion and cravings and to develop enduring equanimity of mind. Oh, did I have opportunities to practice non-aversion by confronting my intense inclinations toward it!Of course, my tendency to try to fix everything immediately kicked into high gear. During meditation, besides drafting about 16 blogs and remembering everything I have left undone for the last 2 years, I planned all sorts of strategies for solving all the retreat facility's problems ... from bringing the western toilets up to a reasonable standard of hygiene and usability (they seemed to leak from every point, making for a most creepy experience), to burying the garbage (they now just toss it over the fence just like the rest of India), to reducing the heat in the meditation hall. I planned (mind you, this is while meditating) on installing a thatched roof over the tin one, leaving all doors and windows open in the hall after the morning meditation and running the fans for just 5 or 10 minutes before meditation and during our 5 minute breaks to draw the heat out of the building rather than have it build up so intensely. I even wrote an extensive note to the teacher (breaking one of the rules against writing) listing my suggestions and offering to make an extra donation if it would be spent on good toilet repair so other retreat participants would not have to endure what we were. The teacher was not particularly interested in my suggestions during the middle of the course and told me to practice non-aversion. (He was right...it was not the right time to be problem solving. I was diverting myself from the real focus of the retreat and was getting carried away.)Nonetheless, I often caught myself wondering: Are all these fans for show? Do they have an exact point (near death) at which they surrender and actually turn them on? ....115+ degrees outside, 130+ degrees inside? (I realize that they didn't want to run fans during the meditation sessions since we were focusing on subtle body sensations as the essential practice - and the air would be a gross sensation that overpowered our ability to discern/experience more subtle ones. But I questioned and argued with them internally: Would fans and moving air be any more overpowering than this ridiculously intense (and avoidable) radiant heat is? The good news is that Goenka Vipassana is the pure form of what Buddha practiced to attain enlightenment and what he taught to others. It is imminently worthwhile, whatever I had to go through at this particular facility. The practice only survived in its pure form in Burma. It is an incredibly focused technique, absolutely universal and non-sectarian. And it is given in simple and uniform in instruction at donation-only retreat centers all over the world. However simple the technique is, though, it is real work. This is no warm fuzzy, ecstatic form of meditation, but it makes up for that in effectiveness. It is not simple to actually DO with a neophyte's mind and lifelong emotional patterns jumping all over the place. You end up seeing just how out of control your mind is while observing your body sensations to whatever degree you are able. By the time I left the course, though, I had a bit of a handle on it, and my commitment in place to use it, with some real rigor. So I survived, my ten days of 4 AM wake up calls, and 4:30 AM - 9 PM meditations (10 hours a day for 10 days + meal breaks sandwiched in). And I learned a lot about myself in the process. I have been assured by other participants who have done courses elsewhere that retreat facilities in other countries have more western sensibilities and standards in place.If you get a chance, check out the film: Doing Time, Doing Vipassana. It is an inspiring documentary film about how Vipassana courses are being used in Indian prisons. The Vipassana website is: www.dhamma.org, in case anyone wants to learn more.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1236873300/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1236873300/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1236873300/tpod.html Thu, 12 Mar 2009 12:02:26 -0400 A beleaguered grandmother's search for peace of mind and the deep self in the ancient land of the Vedas.

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Rishikesh, Uttarakhand, India

Tomorrow I am leaving for a 10 day Vipassana Retreat in Dehradun (about an hour from Rishikesh). 10 days of silence, full time meditation, no internet! So my dearest and closest, please do not worry about me if you do not hear anything for 10 days. I will be coming back to Rishikesh for 1 night on my way to Uttarkashi (farther up in the Himalayas), will stay there for about a week, then go to Bageshwar (10 hours east) before returning to Kolkata and then home!Today I had a boat ride up the Ganga, but I am too tired to upload the photos...that will have to come later. It was beautiful, needless to say.Love to you all,Ann
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1236273840/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1236273840/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1236273840/tpod.html Thu, 05 Mar 2009 13:06:47 -0500 A beleaguered grandmother's search for peace of mind and the deep self in the ancient land of the Vedas.

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Rishikesh, Uttarakhand, India

[Side Note: After 2 days in bed hovering on the crampy / exhaustion side of traveler's dysentery. I am fully back to myself today, having escaped its full blown, lengthy misery (and the necessity of hardcore antibiotics) with the homeopathic medical kit that Baba had his miraculous Dr. Ronen Roy make up for me before I left Kolkata. Personally, I think Dr. Roy should create homeopathic traveling kits for sale on the internet and make himself available for phone consults! (He is one of LDLM's homeopathic physicians. He treats about 200 people each day in Kolkata's slums.) I had a MUCH easier time of it this time than I have ever had before going the allopathic route ... and anyone who travels India gets sick! It's a given.] *** I have finally settled on a daily routine here in Rishikesh. It took me much longer to find the right one than I had hoped it would, but now that I have it...I couldn't be happier.I always wake early, usually around 1st light, to the lusty, blustery, often howling winds that come rushing down from the Himalayas to Rishikesh in the cool of each night. I get up, put on a long sleeved turtleneck, my cozy woolen shawl, and some socks, open my door and sit on my front porch until 7, when the hotel café opens. I order a small pot of marsala chai (spiced milk tea), and return to my little terraced garden to sip on it while enjoying the lively, Rishikesh dawn.The heaving trees flash with streaks of the new day's light once the pinks disappear. And the air is alive with more than exuberant, rushing wind as flitting, chittering, whistling, thweetiing and trilling song birds refuse to be outdone by the cawing and darting crows. I continue enjoying the morning, bathe, pray a bit, journal, work on the internet (gmail chatting with my daughter Lisa in Portland) until taking a late breakfast. As the sun heats up by mid morning, the winds die obediently back, like a good dog that has been firmly commanded to sit and be still by its master. By noon it is usually hot, well into the 80s (but almost never humid)...my Mother Ganga time.I walk down the hill from the enclave of backpacker hotels and restaurants where I stay to the main road, catch an autorickshaw (Rs 10, about 20 cents) to the RamJhula foot Bridge (south of here). I walk across the bridge, looking for the fish below and jumping out of the way of aggressive motorcyclists, avoiding the beggars if I can, then turn left toward the sandy, rock strewn beaches on the northeast side of the bridge. I find a quiet place to sit on a rock with my ankles in the wonderfully cool and refreshing waters at the river's edge. I get up, roll my pant legs up, wade in her, and work up my courage for an ever-so-brief and breathless swim, fully clothed (as all women do) in the icy waters a few feet farther out from shore. Quickly returning to sit on a rock, for a few moments water drains out of my rolled pant legs like a tiny, noisy faucet, which fascinates me for some obscure reason. My wet clothes keep me pleasantly cool for hours in the heat, though, so I am never uncomfortable. For me, sitting beside the Ganga alternates between meditation and a child's playful, abandoned delight. I am completely mystified, and totally entranced, by her placid, ever moving swirling currents and how they constantly reverse in the breeze, criss-crossing to form hundreds of thousands undulating, light kissed waves and rivulets. She evokes a lightness of being, and a natural, flowing happiness that I lost access to long ago, if I ever knew it at all in this lifetime.At some point, I chant the 108 Names of Baba Lokenath with her water gently lapping over my feet. Then I walk barefoot the short distance away to the Sivananda Kutir - a small little chapel where the great Hindu Master Sivananda did intensely focused meditation and tapas (sacrifice to God) for 10 straight years. The energy of the Kutir is so palpably deep that going into meditation ...even for MY restless, anxious mind ... has never been easier. Just breathing into the energy that is already there all around me carries me away to quiet ecstasy or unspeakably deep stillness. Sivananda must have been a very great master, indeed to be able to charge the air and ground with this energy (he did his sadhanna here from 1924-34.)The Kutir opens from 9-11 a.m. and then again from 3-5:30 p.m. for anyone to drop in and meditate. Silence is requested and kept. I leave at 4:10 pm, walk back across the bridge, catch a rickshaw up the hill to the "High Banks" hotels in order to make it to afternoon yoga from 5-6:30 pm. I am a pretty ridiculous spectacle on a yoga mat for the 1st time in my life at age 62 and over 200 lbs, but the young yoga instructor is patient and loving, seems very pure in spirit ... and is utterly inspiring in his perfectly demonstrated yogic postures. He also imbues the sessions with quiet and deep awareness of yogic philosophy that is the whole reason for doing yoga in the first placeSo this is the routine and the practice I will keep for the remainder of the time I am in Rishikesh. I am so happy with it, and am deriving so much benefit from it, that I may stay here longer than I originally planned.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1198003620/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1198003620/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/globalgramma/india_journey/1198003620/tpod.html Sun, 01 Mar 2009 11:31:45 -0500 A beleaguered grandmother's search for peace of mind and the deep self in the ancient land of the Vedas.

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Puri, Orissa, India

Part I: Hotel Stench/Mosquito Hell My time in Puri degenerated quickly from bliss to misery, due to the fact that my hotel (the Samudra) had been recommended by Lonely Planet and shouldn't have been. It was a lovely new building, with great staff, seaside facing balconies, and a very reasonable price. The problem: the "creek" running beside the hotel was nothing short of an open sewer that deposited its virulent and noxious, mosquito infested material wealth into a marshy field almost immediately in front of the hotel (though that fact was visually obscured) before emptying into the sea about a hundred yards to the north. The stench was overwhelming, no matter which way the wind blew. Even with a strong wind, the balcony was unbearable. Though management provided a mosquito device in the room that did a fairly adequate job at night, the bathroom had no screens on the vent or drains, so mosquitoes were always coming in there. In an area where filthy ponds are breeding grounds for malaria and dengue fever, in addition to a number of other, equally deadly diseases, every mosquito bite is life threatening.Not having quite mastered the art of the stable mind, all of this led to a paranoid freak out on my part. Rushing into the bathroom waving my arms and legs, armed with the room-service menu to kill any and all mosquitoes I possibly could, I would violently banging and fanning around the toilet to send any that were there into flight. Then I would sit down, wave my arms and legs the entire time on the John, jump up in a murderous rage to kill as many mosquitoes as possible, furtively make sure there were none around me as I opened the door and jumped through it to my room, slamming it behind me. Showers were almost as much fun. Rush in like a mad woman. Kill any mosquito I could spot and reach. Watch for others while I jerkily doused myself with soap and shampoo, rinsed off in seconds, grabbed the towel and ran out, slamming the door behind me to dry myself off in my room rather than the bathroom. It was exhausting. I would lay there for hours trying not to need to pee, telling myself why I didn't need to take a shower just yet. By day 2, I was ready to move hotels, but had no confidence of finding a better one, and was too exhausted to do so then. By day 3, I was sick. [Suspected culprit: though one of the bottles of mineral water I had purchased at the hotel had a fresh, sealed cap, it smelled and tasted bad (ever so faintly sewer-like). ] One bad thing about India is that you cannot ever be completely sure that the bottled water you are buying has not been oh-so-cleverly-and-deceptively locally recycled! A fortunate thing about India is that you don't need an Rx. You just go to a medicine shop, tell them what you need and they sell it to you. It's cheap, too. Now well familiar with this routine, my 5 day regimen of Flagyl 400mg, 3xDay cost me exactly Rs 10 (about 30 cents!). I slept for 3 days, ate nothing, and was thrilled to get on the night train back to Kolkata, but fast approaching zero tolerance for the filth of India. Part II: The God of the SmallThere were high points to my time in Puri before I got ill. The Peace Restaurant's clean little garden quickly became my safe haven. I trusted the food and the water there. The aesthetics were great. When I was well, I sat under its open air, bamboo and thatched roofs, enjoying the plants, clean and fresh, odor-free quiet as I sipped on pots of milk tea and visited with other travelers at its brightly painted blue and red wooden tables. My rickshaw drivers were the real gems of my stay in Puri. I rotated between two of them, Vijay and Hari, because I couldn't bear to say no to either's request to reschedule for the next outing. I asked both if I could interview them about their lives and take some photos of them. Vijay was thrilled to accommodate me. Hari, who was older, shy and spoke less English, with very bright eyes and an eager, vulnerable smile, was not the least bit interested. At one point, Vijay and I passed an intersection filled on one side with an anxious crowd, many of whom were pushing and shoving one another. Vijay explained to me that they were waiting for their weekly ration of cooking oil. The poor are given ration cards and receive 1/2 liter of oil each week for Rs. 5, when the normal price is Rs. 50 for 1/2 liter). When I asked if I could take pictures, he urged me not to, that it could cause trouble. The government might take a dim view, and the crowd might react. (49% of Orissa's population lives below India's poverty line, and the only way to keep violence down and ensure any stability is to ration certain domestic supplies at a subsidized price. Like all government programs, a lot of the goods and funds are siphoned off the top by graft, so the oil might run out before everyone in this crowd receives theirs.) When we later drove past the crowd again, I hid my camera and took one of these photos. Then Vijay took me across the street to the roof of the humble "rickshaw driver's temple" that he visits every day to pray, where I took another photo of the crowd. Vijay: rickshaw driver sageVijay, a very young looking 42, is strong, energetic, talkative and speaks relatively good, though definitely limited, English. He is sincere and kind, nice looking, married, a father of 4, always respectful. His rickshaw, which he rents for Rs. 25/day (about 65 cents) is tattered and worn, as was Hari's. It costs Vijay Rs 100/day to feed his family. His 86 year old mother lives with him and his wife with no financial help from his older brother, who is in the military, has a good salary and a big house. When I asked if Vijay usually makes enough to feed the family, the answer seemed to be yes. When I asked if they have ever gone hungry, the answer was no, "except for after the 1999 flood" caused by a monster cyclone. They lived on U.N. supplies for months, which were inadequate. Almost no one came to Puri for 6 to 8 months, and the tourist industry didn't fully bounce back for 2 years. Vijay rents the house they live in for Rs. 1000 per month. They moved there after the flood (it killed over 300,000 people in Orissa, the Sundarbans and Bangladesh). The water came up to his chest in their previous house during the flooding. When he later drove me by that house (which rented for Rs. 300), I was aghast that it sat right next to the smelly "creek" that eventually empties in front of my hotel. I could only wonder how horrible it would have been to live within 10 feet of that filth and odor, and was relieved for the entire family that they now share a nicer house farther away. Vijay's father was a railway worker who was killed in a train accident when Vijay was very young (before he was 5). Vijay became a rickshaw driver when he was only 10 years old. The thought of a 10 year old Vijay struggling to pull overly generous western bodies like my own, sometimes 2 or 3 of them at a time, up the slight hills of Puri, was haunting. Honored to be invited to Vijay's house to meet his wife and family, I asked Vijay if there was any place we could stop for some flowers for me to buy for his wife. He said there wasn't. Luckily, I had brought a packet of Marie biscuits to offer, just in case. Their house turned out to be a one room, windowless cement structure in the back yard of a larger, more middle class home. It was about the size of a garage, and very dark, with only natural light coming through the open doorway and a two 15" square vents at the top of the side walls, near the 12-15 foot ceiling. Floor to ceiling shelves, stuffed with who knows what lifetime accumulations of meager, gray and dusty goods, clothing, bedding, etc., lined three walls. One wall, with fewer shelves, held the family altar. Literally half the room was taken up with a four poster, double bed, the only furniture in the room. Their 15 year old daughter was asleep on the bed. Vijay's mother, who sat on the cement floor, in a green cotton sari with no under blouse, and his wife greeted me warmly. I pranamed to both of them, touching their feet, then touched my own forehead and heart, a ritual of respect, feeling very humbled to be a guest in their home. In the far corner of the open area kitchen utensils, a few pots and an oil lamp sat on the cement floor. They obviously had no electricity.They woke their daughter, who was not in the least excited to get up to meet me. I asked if I could take their photos. Vijay's wife gave their daughter's hair a vigorous combing and changed her sari, putting on an under blouse. Vijay went to his landlord's house to have someone write out their mailing address so I could send them photos (probably the only ones they will ever have). Not wanting to overstay my welcome or intrude as a voyeur into their private lives, I thanked them for meeting me and we said our good byes. "My people... my class... my family name... not rickshaw drivers," Vijay would often say, "My people priests, offer pujas." Vijay attempted to share his spiritual insights with me, the full significance which I rarely grasped due to the language barrier. Once, though, pranaming, with his hands held together at the palms in front of his face, he asked me several times, "Which finger first?" Not understanding the question or the urgency and significance he was obviously giving it, I initially had a difficult time responding. I finally guessed, "The middle finger? ... because it is longest, and reaches the highest?" "No," Vijay informed me emphatically as he bowed, again and again to show me. "It's the little finger, the smallest finger. The smallest finger is first, because it is first to bow before God."Vijay is a happy man who enjoys his life. He is proud of his family. His son attends the local college, studying science. He has a 10 day old grandchild. "Many families, much fighting. No fighting, my family! My wife, my mother, my children - all my children good children -- love each other. My mother says, 'MY daughter, MY daughter' to my wife."Though Vijay dreams of owning his own rickshaw (that would cost Rs. 7000, almost $200 USD) and his own home, he does not squander the smallest particle of his peace of mind or enjoyment of life because he does not see the realization of those dreams anywhere on the horizon. I wondered how many of us are as happy with our lives as Vijay is. How many of us can say there is no fighting, only love in our homes? How many of us live, like Vijay, with such an open and content heart, while being driven to penetrate the heart and essence of the mystery of what makes a worthy, first offering to God? The longer I stay in India, the more I realize how much we all have to learn from people like Vijay. Vijay is not uncommon among the poor here. These good people, however poor and whatever their hardships, so often retain their emotional availability. The life of their soul blooms in the context they are given. More and more I see these people as the soul and heart of India, the message of India to the rest of us.
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