India Travels

On to Pushkar

I’m ready to leave Bikaner after a day and a half. Three days ago I scrubbed Jaisalmer from the tour, yesterday I cut Jodphur. Only Pushkar and Jaipur to go, but at least I will have a couple of days in each place. All in all, five days travelling and five days sightseeing. Next time I’ll pick places closer together, on better roads. I forgot to mention that the road from Churu to Bikaner is a one lane; when lorries approach Sunder carefully drives the car off the edge of the highway and down to the sand below. It’s a drop.

We are on the highway by 7:00 AM because I daren’t eat; not even coffee. My stomach is grateful. Sundar is excited; he tells me several times that Pushkar is a very holy city, and many people stay longer than intended. I’m templed out, so I hope Pushkar has more to offer.

We average an outstanding 45 km. per hour, and reach Pushkar before noon. The hotel looks good, complete with pool. The hotel owner is a treat – he calls me his elder sister. I look at him and ask to see his driver’s license. I get a great room, overlooking the mountains. For a few minutes I even turn on the air conditioner, even though I know it is bad for the lungs. I have a shower under what turns out to be the best shower I’ve found in all of India. What a fabulous treat. Of course the drought is raging in Rajasthan, too, so I make an effort to get clean and get out.

I’m in the city by early afternoon. Pushkar is built around a lovely lake, with ghats [steps] leading down to the holy water from the many temples that surround the lake. Because it is a holy city, vehicular traffic is prohibited during the day. What a welcome relief to dodge only the odd motorbike.

A young man approaches me with a greeting and some flower petals. After the usual welcome and what country am I from, he directs me into a temple. It must be one of the main ones, I think, judging by the list of Rules for Foreigners painted on the concrete, in yellow and black. I take a picture of the Rules – one of the rules is no pictures of the ghat, but surely the Rules don’t count? I head carefully down the steps, alert for rats. I’ll be on Rat Patrol for some time, I expect. No rats, only a priest, and I successfully negotiate the right to say my own prayer and toss my flower in the water. I learned in Chennai these blessings can be expensive items, so I routinely pass. Nice of him to let me, I later learn, as I poke my head into another temple or two. In my last one, a man in a white jacket and trousers, wearing an orange sash, accousts me, impatiently presses a flower towards my hand, and points me in the direction of the ghat. I say no, thank you, and begin to sidle backwards. He shouts, what is wrong with me? I have no respect! and similar imprecautions. I escape, slightly shaken.

And, between temples, now viewed only from the outside, I look at the goodies displayed by the Rajasthan merchants. Many goodies, and many foreign people buying them up. I have not seen so many foreigners since the Singapore airport. I hear accents from Australia and Great Britian, language from Scandanaia, Italy, France and places I can’t identify. This is a popular tourist destination, but I am not sure why.

By the next moring I think I have figured it out. The cafes all serve Western food, the pace is slower than in other Indian towns, and almost everyone speaks English. This is a great stop for the foreigner overwhelmed by India. I am quite enjoying myself.

As I walk into the old city I turn left, and meander down a dusty little street. All the corner merchants direct me to continue straight, toward the lake. They are quite insistent. I tell them I am exploring, and I find . . . the Maharaja Camel Tour office – actually, it is a table in the sand, surrounded by great signage. Gopal, the young salesperson, calls me over. He extolls the virtues of a two or three hour sunset cruise over the desert on a camel. I am almost sold but what, I wonder, is the cost? Rs. 50 per hour, ma’am. About $3.20 for two hours. I sign up, not knowing that I have been given the cut-rate price. Perhaps I still look shellshocked from the days of driving? I spend the day in fairly mindless activity. [That means I don’t do any shopping: shopping can be a curse, I’ve learned. And it is hard work.]

I meet the temple-crier from yesterday as I turn the corner and head for the lake street. He accousts me again, even more vociferously than before. Must be a slow time for blessings. I say, pleasently, ‘Sir, you accosted me yesterday, and you are accousting me again today. If you do not stop, I shall call a police man’. My clear communication works like a charm.

As I continue on, the gypsies run up to me, merrily greeting me as a favoured friend from many years past. They are all so beautiful, I ask if I may take a picture. Of course. While I am taking it, the youngest woman begins to henna my right hand. I take a pic of that, too. These’s one born every minute, as my father used to say. We repair to a quieter place where Camilla, the younger gypsy’s mom, orders a Pepsi, says it is good luck for me to pay, and begins the other hand. She slips a ring on my forefinger; for me to remember her. We are sisters. We discuss the Sisterhood, and how gypsies are treated in Rajasthan. Much better than the Roma people in Slovakia, I learn. And then it is time to pay for the henna. Camilla would like Rs. 500; even I am shocked. We talk price goodnaturedly, then I get out my wallet. I lay out all my money for the day: four 100 rupee notes, and three 10’s. What would she like? Well, she would like it all. But I want some, too. We agree she will take Rs. 220 and I will pay the other 10 for her Pepsi. The henna is lovely, the two different patterns intriguing. Walking around town throughout the day I see that the gypsies are also the local sex-trade workers, and I feel better about my donation.

There is a temple I want to see, the only Brahmin Temple in India, so they say. I walk in and suddenly realise, after negotiating all those hot marble steps in my bare feet, that I do not have a handkerchief to cover my head. I use a map, but it leaves something to be desired. When I exit the Temple I head into one of Pushkar’s largest fabric shops, and ask to buy a hankerchief. The owner does not sell such, but he sends me to the back, with his son, to have someone cut me a hankie from a bolt of material. I hunt for a remnant and finally find something fairly small. As I am hunting, and the man is cutting, I see the shop. Lots of happy people. I mention this to the owner as I thank him for my new headcovering. He is pleased. Of course he will not let me pay for the cloth, but I am welcome to take pics of his shop. He is a huge exporter to Canada. No, he never heard of SA 8000, but he is interested, and clearly a good employer. I go back and take shots of the sorting room, sewing room and open areas. Everyone is smiling. I wonder where the handloomed fabric comes from, and, for once, I decide not to ask. It is good to see well employed people in good working conditions. It reminds me that not all of India is abusing workers in the fabric business.

And at last it is time for my camel safari. There are three other people. As promised, I have the best camel. Another man wants him, but Gopal says I saw him first. Sharvin, the camel driver, tells me which way to lean and gets Johnney up. It’s a long way up. Sharvin walks beside the camel for the first hour. I ask if he would like my sandals; his thongs don’t look so good for desert walking. Of course he says no. After about an hour we take a break. The camel goes down and I intuit which way to lean. Jane of Arabia. Ha, I think, more like L.M. Montgomery’s Jane of Lantern Hill. After the break Sharvin joins me on the camel. I learn that a camel saddle is huge; Sharvin is sitting almost a foot behind me. I find out he is 21, and started to learn the camel-driving business when he turned 12. He does farm work in the off-season. I don’t ask about school. We talk about agriculture and the Camel Festival in October/ November/ December each year, depending on the moon. He calls me mama, in two sharp syllables. I’m having fun.

Back in town Gopal calls me over for a chai. I love this custom; whether buying or not, visitors to a shop are offered chai. We talk about the overnight safari he has organised for tomorrow night. Ah, too bad, I leave in the morning. Curious, I ask for more details. Two and one-half hours into the desert, set up camp, the camel drivers lay out blankets, cook supper over a fire, sometimes sing. Lemon tea at bedtime, bananas and chai in the morning. Sounds good. I say I will go to my hotel and think. Gopal tells me to be there at 8 the next morning if I want to go – he has to make arrangements for food. I think I knew as I left that I would change my plans, and, of course, I sign up the next morning, not quite at 8:00 AM, but close.

I have a gentle day, just talking with the people I have met. Late in the morning I go back to the hotel for a shower and a sleep. I pack my cell phone so I can call my children from the desert, and Sundar drives me to the old town late in the afternoon. He seems unworried about my overnight camel safari, which surprises me. Must be the influence of the holy city.

There are six people on this tour: three young women and a man from Israel, Muriel from Switzerland, and her companion, Richard. Muriel is taking a break from married life, her husband and her two children. I wish my French were better so we could talk more about this interesting concept. Richard is a social activist with a UK singing and percussion group called Seize the Day. They have a website, www.seizetheday.org. They were in Seattle to sing at the WTO protest. They are funded by organizations like Greenpeace. Richard and I have lots to talk about, and later, in the dark desert, we sing.

The trip out is grand. I’ve caught onto the rythym of Johnney’s walk, and I sit relaxed as Sharvin points out antelope, small black and white birds with 9” legs, mango trees, irrigation, small and market-garden-sized flower farms, and chapatti flour – I recognise it as barley. Flowers are a huge trade in Pushkar, because of the temples, and Sharvin tells me they also sell to neighbouring towns. It is so nice to see the desert slowly. We pass the Canada-Rajasthan Water Project, suitably flagged on the metal sign. Sharvin is so pleased to show me this 1989 initiative. I don’t tell him that Canada now spends less than 1% of GNP on foreign assistance. But I think about it. Shameful, isn't it?

We arrive at the campsite and everyone but me goes for a desert walk. I stay and watch the feverish activity as the camel drivers set up camp, collect twigs, unpack wood, and get the fire going in the pit. Food comes off the backs of camels; cleverly hidden under blankets. One youngster, about ten or twelve, acts as kitchen helper to the man who is obviously the cook. I learn he is that man's son. I watch with interest, and no sense of sadness whatsoever, as this child, who has probably never seen the inside of a schoolroom, learns the family business. This is just a hint of my thinking these days; when I have it a little more together I'll write about it.

Sharvin brings me two blankets, decides one is not clean enough, and gets another. My cell phone does not work in the desert, and I suddenly realise I ought to have packed my jacket. Sharvin realises he has forgotten his knife – do I have one? Ah yes, Swiss Army, unfortunately sitting on the dash of the car. Later, he cuts himself with the small knife on the Leatherman that one of my co-travellers produced. I could call an ambulance, if the cell phone worked, but my bandaids and so far unused antiseptic pads are at the hotel, in my make-up case. Jane of Lantern Hill. Next time I’ll think more about the packing.

We eat a delicious meal of rice, dal, and chapatti balls, cooked in the fire. So good. Everyone is tired. Richard and I exchange protest songs, sometimes singing along with one another. Sharvin slips me another heavy quilt; even without my jacket I am not going to be cold. And everyone goes to sleep but me. How can they sleep with the stars shining so brilliantly? I stay awake for a long time, looking and thinking. Rajasthan has not been the holiday I expected, but there have been some lovely moments, and this one is unforgettable. I store it up in my memory bank, kicking out a few hundred miles of narrow, rutted road, to make room.

Small disclaimer: This computer has Word 97, and no spell check. The errors got by me . . .

On the Road to Rajasthan

Off to Bikaner, which I think is about 16 hours away, on the other side of Rajasthan. Sundar thinks we will get a long way but it is now 2:30 PM and I am not hopeful. We start down the mountain but don’t reach the bottom. Darkness falls, and we are still winding around the curves. I forget that I have to eat, and by the time we stop I am too tired, and my stomach hurts. There is no coffee. We go on and on, stop for two lorry accidents. No one is hurt, but each time the two lorries block the narrow road, nose to nose. It takes a while. Maybe an hour, but I don’t look. Finally I must lay down on the back seat. My back is on fire. What on earth am I doing here?

At midnight, we get to Chandigar, still in the province of Himachel Pradesh. We have yet to traverse Haryanya before we get to Rajasthan. If Sundar was not such a sweet kid I would call the tour off. But he is so eager, so thrilled that I insisted on him as my driver, and so excited to take me to Rajasthan. I grit my teeth, hard. Harder when I see the room. But it is a bed, and I fall in.

I’m up at 6:30-ish, we hit the road at 7:30. Today I will remember to eat. Today Sundar thinks we will get to Bikaner. We drive across Haryana, its agricultural delights somewhat less thrilling the second time through. But I am taken with the tractors and bullock carts pulling huge, and I mean huge, carts loaded with hay that is wrapped in white sheeting to keep the load on the cart. The sides of the hay almost touch the ground on each side. I wonder how they get the hay on the cart, but never see the work in progress. This is a productive state: rice and other grain is being harvested, as is sugar cane. It, too, goes by piled impossibly high on the carts.

Darkness falls. We drive, and drive. And drive. We cross into Rajasthan – if there is a big sign welcoming me to this desert state, I can’t see it in the dark. I hit the back seat. After sixteen hours of driving, interrupted by two one-hour stops for flat tires, and with very few stops for chai – there are no tea stalls that serve coffee on this road – we arrive in Churu. I look at the room. It is a bed. I am so cross with myself for taking this tour. I tell Sundar I will be ready at 6:30 AM. He looks at me with such compassion and tells me I am tired. We will start at 7:30. And I reflect that nothing is ever all bad – or all good.

Another morning. The sun gathers strength. Merciless is a good adjective. I wonder why it is always on my side of the car? A peacock runs across the road; I am unimpressed. One peacock does not make a picnic. I fashion a blind from the dark green scarf of my salwar kameez and roll it up into the window. Better. Why did I not think of this before? I can’t have the window down anyway, the air is so dry. My mouth is a raisin, the rest of my face a prune. If Pam could see me now she would certainly stop for moisturizers. I decide that is a fine idea, and stop at a Chemist’s Shop. All they have is cold cream with aloe, but it can’t hurt. I buy another gel for back pain, my Tiger Balm long gone.

We drive and drive some more. The desert is not just an open expanse of sand dunes; stunted trees and grasses break up the landscape. I see many camels and I am finally thrilled. They are pulling carts, for the most part, very few carry a person. They hold their noses high in the air – smelling water? They flap their fat lips all the time. Does this keep their lips from turning into raisins, I wonder? They place their feet with royal grace, slowly covering the ground. The camels are my absolute favorites of all the animals I have seen since my arrival in India.

We get to Bikaner. It is noon, our first short drive. My spirits pick up ‘til I learn there is no room in the hotel. We drive to another and the owner, taking one look at my exhausted face, decides to give me a lovely room. Heavy, carved, Queen Anne furniture, a king-sized carriage bed, a decent shower and a faux fireplace, with little blue peacocks pained on its white surface. I appreciate them. I shower, sleep, and start this note on the owner's office computer. It is too hot to go out yet.

At 4:00 we head off to the famous Jungrath Fort. A young guide is sitting in an alcove just inside the fort; he tells me all the good reasons why I should hire him. After my experience with young Babua in Agra, whom I will eventually tell you about, I hire Issu immediately. We get my ticket, and head off at a good clip, up the steep rise with raised concrete lines that once helped elephants traverse the entrance. They don’t help me, and I come to a stop at the top. I tell Issu I cannot hurry. He leaves me, has a long conversation in an office, while I watch with overheated disinterest. He returns, smiling. He has managed to change my unchangeable ticket to tomorrow. We will leave the fort until I am rested.

He whistles up a three-wheel auto and tells me a tour of the old city would be a good idea. I agree. Sundar is pouting. He fancies himself as my bodyguard, and he does not know these people. I invite him along. A nice idea but it makes the auto very cramped. And hotter. They make room for me in the middle - ha! I choose the outside.

We saw many lovely places, but the best was the Jain temple. One of my profound experiences while in India forty years ago was visiting a Jain temple, near Bangalore, with my father. He would have enjoyed today. This temple was built three or four hundred years ago, and the paintings are perfectly preserved. Where there are not pictures of people carrying on their daily lives – cooking, eating, playing, working, loving, warring, raising children, worshipping and holding festivals – the upper walls and ceilings are covered with clouds and flashes of lightening. A prayer for rain in the desert. The priest speaks some English. He invites me into the Sanctum where signs forbid entry. He leads me upstairs to a smaller area of worship. And he tells me his family has served in this temple for 31 generations. He introduces me to his oldest son, who will take over when he dies. I feel a sense of timelessness.

Issu has become my guide for Bikaner, and Sunder is happy – he does not know all the history I want to hear about, and his English is stretched by my many questions. Issu tells me to eat at the Palace, now converted into a hotel, next to my hotel. And he says he will be back at 7:30 in the morning; we are going to the Red Temple, the eighth wonder of the world. Sunder is all smiles, he, too, has told me about this Red Temple. Funny, I can’t find it in my travel book.

I look around the Palace, then head for the empty dining room. I order a Scotch. Delicious. I have a lovely dinner, see a puppet show common to the larger hotels, and hit the sack. And I’m up at 6:30 AM. I’ve actually given up all thoughts of resting on this tour. My fellows are waiting in the lobby and we head out into the desert. After 32 kms. we arrive, doff our shoes, and enter the Temple. I’m busy fishing out my handkerchief and getting my head properly covered. We line up to enter the inside of Temple and I notice movement to my right. I look over, near the ground, and see rats. Rats and rats and rats. Rats. We are in the RAT Temple, not the RED Temple. A hasty look upwards - yes, the Temple is white. My toes curl right up under my feet; I am balanced precariously. What to do?? Sundar is Hindu, as are the other visitors already in line; I can’t just run screaming for the door. The floor must be so filthy. I have no socks. I remember the rat that bit Chris in the barn when he was four. These rats seem to be sticking to the sides, where large round dishes of milk are set out for their pleasure. There is also a large pile of grain, which the rats share with the pigeons. My stomach rocks. The fellows go up to the area of the Temple where visitors are invited to view the local god and walk, clockwise, to see the various paintings of the gods. I smile, I think, and shake my head; I won’t be going up. As soon as it is decent, I leave. They know something is wrong, and so I tell them rats are not my thing. Issu explains that they represent the reincarnation of those who were evil during a previous lifetime, and their physical manifestations are cared for at the Temple. I resolve to be good. Really good.

And there is still the fort to see. I head back to the hotel, foolishly have an omlette, and use butter with someone else’s crumbs on my toast. The fort is a blur, my stomach continues to rock. The heat is intense. No, I do not want to see the armory, I am interested in peace. Issu is disappointed and I am too sick to ask him what he thinks about the India-Pakistan peace talks.

Back in my darkened hotel room I sleep fitfully for four hours, then finally toss my cookies. What good luck – I am just heat exhausted, I don’t have food poisoning. The next morning we leave for Pushkar. And I, dear reader, must leave to complete many errands before I say good-bye to Chennai and get the train for Bangalore. Yes, it is the 31st of March today, and I’m playing catch-up. In time I know I will convert all my little pieces of paper into website offerings. I have so many things to share with you, but it all takes time. And thank you for sharing my journey - these writings have become an important part of my travels.

Leaving McLeod Ganj

First, a little context: It’s about 9:30 AM on March 20th and I’m on the road to Bikaner from Churu, Rajasthan. It’s about 160 kms. We started at 7:30 AM and with luck we may arrive by noon. The car is a little bit of a thing, with ventilation grids that do not produce air, tired shocks, no rear view mirrors, tiny tires, a speedometer that remains resolutely at zero, and an intermittent horn. Remember my friend in McLeod Ganj who gave me the useful horn reframe? Yesterday and the day before, on narrow mountain roads, I thought about how nice it would be to sound the horn at each hairpin turn. And I wondered why I did not book my twelve-day holiday through the charming Mr. Gupta at Ways Tours and Travels in McLeod Ganj. But I digress.

Teeth grit against the potholes, I begin to compose this note: Sheer, stunning stupidity has landed me on the road to Rajasthan. How did I manage this feat, you might ask? Well …

Delhi was not my favorite stop – one night in a hotel with ants and dirty sheets, one night in a marginally better hotel, and a final night in a decent place. Hotel changes are hard on me. Hard on most travellers.

After the Tex-Tiles fair I am ready for some fun and determined to see Delhi at Night. At Connought Circle, the tourist hub, I find a Government of India tourist centre. I talk with a lovely fellow who offers me two days in Delhi by car, and night for those lights. Why take a bus when the price of this luxury is so low? I explain I have meetings the next day. No problem, madam, we shall put a car and driver at your disposal, no charge. They drive me back to hotel number two. I feel pretty good, and better when my driver takes me into the Singh Palace, where they show me a beautiful room for $25.00. It is late and I tell them I will check in the next morning.

The car picks me up early, I check out and in, again, and drive back to the travel shop. There, I meet with yet another man, who asks me what I will do after McLeod Ganj. Don’t know. Can’t go to see my friend in Nepal – too dangerous right now. Can’t fly too Turkey – too expensive. Well, he smiles, why not go to Rajasthan?? Beautiful cities, comfortable hotels, lovely villages. And for such a little bit of money. And it is a truly inexpensive tour; 10 days with car, driver, all hotels, all entrance fees -–I only have to pay for my food and souvenirs. How can I miss? For those of you who will have similar opportunities in the future, there are a few other questions to ask: In what shape are the roads? What is the distance from one of these lovely cities to the next? And how long does that take to drive? How many stops in those lovely villages? What is the state of the car? Could I have a ride in the car you will send? And so on. I bet other questions will arise before this tour is over. On to the tour:

I leave McLeod Ganj on the 18th at 4:00 PM, after the Teachings. I’m feeling a bit downcast; the day has been filled with good-byes, some of them quite touching. I’d like to check in to the monastery up the mountain and just stay. Maybe take some classes in Buddhism at the Tibetan Library, for Rs. 150 per month, about $5.00 Cdn. Maybe next time, I console myself.

I stop to replace a change purse I gave away in the afternoon. A merchant, and a man I think of as one of my new friends, sees me stop across the street and materializes beside the car. He smiles broadly, spontaneously throws open his arms and gives me a big hug. I have not had many hugs in India, and his lifts my spirits immeasurably. Change purse in hand, I jump into the car and we’re off.

Of course I have one more thing to do, and my young driver, Sundar, accommodates, although he is not happy. I want to go to Rewalsar, site of the Padmasambava cave. Padmasambava is the Indian monk who took Buddhism to Tibet. He is a huge figure in the Buddhist tradition. I learned about him in The Coffee Café where, each morning, I received a gift.

We drive slowly through the hairpin curves, through Dharamsala, through many more little Indian towns, and at 7:30 PM we arrive in Bir, a tiny town renowned for its beautiful monasteries. Sundar thinks we should keep driving, to Rewalser. I don’t. We stay at a lovely little guesthouse nestled in the mountains. I don’t think I’m hungry, but after a shower I go out to the kitchen anyway, just to chat with my hosts.

This Indian couple are cooking dinner, and invite me to join them for meal, no charge. I say I am a little hungry, and I would be honoured to eat with them, in the kitchen, and pay. We are set. I watch them dance around each other in this large, well-equipped space. If poetry really has motion, they are poetry. He makes it clear that she has taught him how to work in the kitchen; he is merely her helper. Every so often I get behind a closed door and find that patriarchy is asleep. It is just so pleasant, sitting there. The two of them love this part of their day, I think.

I watch them some more. She cooks and stirs, adds spice, breathes in warm aromas from several pots, occasionally adds more spice. She does not need to taste. He slices, dices, peels and anticipates her next request. Dinner is placed in front of me and I know I am in the presence of two truly terrific cooks. A cool yogurt dal with sprigs of cilantro and a crispy white puffed rice, a curry veg spiced just to Western taste, a green paste. I overcome my aversion to green vegetables and try the green paste first. Whatever the combination, it is hot, spicy and simply delicious. And so is everything else. The chapatis are feather light, with white insides. The lady shows me the special flour she uses; it is the consistency of medium sand. I ask about the green dish. Cooked spinach. Hmmm, I did not think I liked cooked spinach. I have seconds.

We talk over dinner. They have worked at many jobs in their lives. Two years ago they bought the guesthouse, and he tells me repeatedly it will take three years to get it fixed properly. I think it is pretty darn good now. And I think I have met the best cook in India. Do you give cooking lessons, madam? Gales of giggles greet this. I suggest they consider my question a serious suggestion. Many foreigners love cooking classes. Mentally I revise my next stay in India, adding time for cooking classes with this modest woman.

The couple tell me I must go up the mountain to the Sherb Ling Monastery before I leave. Conscious of time and Sundar’s deep desire to get to Rajasthan, I am ready at 6:15 AM. The car tiptoes up the mountain over crushed, pointed rock. Sundar is a terrific driver and cares for his car; I can only imagine the pain he is feeling. Tires are likely in pain, too. Coming back down, he tells me we will take a different route, longer but better for the tires. We descend on a perfect highway road, past beautifully constructed and cared for Buddhist stupas. It takes less time. I guess my guide just wanted me to see the back of the mountain . . .

At the top we find a huge monastery. The monk at Reception gives me a twenty-page book about the complex, which includes retreat houses for both monks and nuns, two guesthouses for foreign visitors, and a number of other buildings. This monastery also houses a large school for child monks. I watch the children running around the interior of the monastery, adjusting their robes, laughing, and getting ready for class. Several youngsters, about eight I think, go through their books and appear very purposeful in their activity. Perhaps it is a tst day? I see children from 6 to 16, and later have a chance to photograph some of them, in the parking lot, still clutching their breakfast bowls. The Temple, which I came to see, lives up to everything I was told. The hangings, wafting on slender threads from the roof of the Temple, are antiques; absolutely beautiful and perfectly preserved.

We leave Bir behind and head for the cave at Rewalsar. It is about 8:15 AM and I have not had enough coffee. Sundar is hoping to drive straight through. We have a short chat about my age, the fact the I must stop every four hours, that although I do not eat lunch, I do eat breakfast and we should watch for a tea stand where I can do just that. Sundar starts watching.

A word about Sundar. He is 21 years old, and stayed in school up to standard five. He was raised in Haryana, a beautiful agricultural state that I have now driven through twice. At the age of twelve he went to work on the family farm, full-time. This is the age many children leave school and join their father’s enterprise. I think about this for a moment. When Dan and Pam, my two oldest children, were six, they started going to the dairy barn at night to help their father with the milking and clean-up. They did not particularly want to go, and some nights I remember tears, but they went. This short reflection gives me another view of child labour. I'm thinking about this a lot, and will eventually put up a note.

Sundar has worked at many jobs. At one point he drove a truck and he tells me this is very dangerous work. In the two nights to come, I will see the danger first-hand. Sundar is a quiet, gentle and extremely good-hearted young man. He calls me mother. It beats ma’am. And there is no way in this lifetime that he could ever bring himself to call me Jane. As we travel further and further, he knows the horrible roads are creating havoc with my back, and he drives with exquisite caution. Of course I can’t tell what our speed is, but I watch the kilometers go by, and we seem to be averaging 30 to 40 km/hour. Lots of time to see the sights, but I do not ask to stop for pictures – we are on a mission to get to the next stop. I miss a few stellar pics, but it is hot, and dirty, and who knows how long it will take to get to the next hotel? Perhaps a couple of lorries will collide again, and we’ll be stopped for an hour or more. This is not pleasant travel, my friends.

Sundar’s English is fundamental, and abstract questions do not compute. I think this is, in part, because he has remained very young. For example, I saw the most amazing thing: dung being piled up in intricate circles, till the edifice comes to a point, about ten feet tall. I did stop for a picture and will get it up eventually. So, I saw the cow dung drying, and the intricate buildings that, once finished, are covered with straw and tied with twine. I ask Sundar to tell me more. He pauses, thinks, and says: “The cow potty is for fire, Mother, in the winter when it is cold. The cover protects it from the rain, rain,” this last accompanied rain motions. We talk about this some more. We pass a partially opened dung house, and Sundar points to the bit of wall that has been removed near the bottom. Fire, take out, he tells me, and I thank him for helping me to understand. I step hard on my impatience, and after a while I quietly tell Sundar that the name for cow potty is actually cattle dung. His discomfort with this terminology shows in his averted eyes. No matter what his language, this youngster just wants me to be happy. I resolve to stay kind even when I feel awful. And I do feel awful.

We arrive at Rewalsar, and Sundar asks the location of the cave. It is up the mountain. Above it, at the top, is a very sacred Hindu Temple. Sundar is elated; he is a devout Hindu and of course he has only heard of this place. Can we go? Of course, I want to see it to. On the way we meet a man who sells offerings for the Temple. Would we drive him up? This is one of the joys of having a vehicle; we have offered rides to many people. On the way up Sundar purchases an offering bag for me. Inside is a coconut, a large bag of puffed rice, a bindi package and a red piece of chiffon, three feet long, stitched on either side with one-inch tinsel fabric.

We arrive and walk past about twenty shops selling the offering bundles. How does anyone make any money, I wonder, sitting here on the top of a huge mountain? Do that many people actually make a pilgrimage, I ask? Indeed. In fact there is a festival coming when people will come here for 10 days of prayers. As I walk, I wrap the coconut in the fabric, as I’ve seen in the shops. I feel quite ecumenical.

We doff our shoes when we reach the Temple, and go in. Sundar talks with the priest, and receives a blessing. I also receive a blessing. We walk around the sanctuary and I find my favorite goddess, Sarasvatti, goddess of education.

And we are off to Padmasambava’s cave. On the way down from the Hindu Temple the prayer flags, which astonished me on the first pass going up, leave me breathless. There are literally hundreds of thousands of prayer flags stretched between trees, hung between bushes, hanging down parts of the mountain, on the telephone wires – it is really something. Who hung all these flags, I wonder?

I soon learn as I meet the one man who runs a tea stall and souvenir shop at the bottom of a very steep flight of steps. We exchange greetings, chat a bit. As I go to leave, he asks if I would like a set of prayer flags. No thank you, I tell him pleasantly, I have quite a few. Then it hits me – people who come to the cave and the mountain hang the flags! I buy a small set, reasonably priced. And today there is a prayer flag waving just for you, dear reader, – whether you be family, friend, colleague, student or one of the many new friends who now visit my website.

The climb is straight up, but it is cool, and with some stops I get to the first landing. We enter the cave of Padmasambava. It is low, and very lovely. I sit for a while. Then we travel up higher, to see the secret cave. I wonder why he needed a secret cave? I go a little higher up, and Sundar helps me hang my flags. They are rippling merrily in the breeze as I leave. At the bottom of the hill we have a chai, because the young man does not have any coffee, and we’re off. Off to Bikaner! Maybe.

The Indian Handloom Industry

Written March 31, 2004:

Since I started my Weblog I have never written a story in real time, that is, the day it happened. It’s late at the Cybercafe, but I’m wide awake and kind of excited to share this day while it is fresh.

I awake tired and out of sorts on my first morning in Delhi, after a miserable hotel[s] check-in experience the night before. Not certain I even want to get up, I check for ants on the telephone and call for a very large thermos of coffee. It arrives eventually, as does the hot water in the shower. Maybe I should just head for bed, but breakfast calls. Mindful of the ants, the exposed wiring, the dirty sheets I insisted be changed, the stained upholstery and a myriad of other details, I decide not to eat at the hotel.

Over breakfast in a nearby café a man asks pleasantly if I am in town for the Handicrafts Exposition? Well no, but it sounds interesting. Indeed it is, he assures me. I decide it might just be a gentle way to spend my first day. I am mindful this time of the auto hassle at the train last night, where the first driver whispered hoarsely, “Give me 350 rupees” and the final driver took me to the hotel for Rs. 150 after I threatened to fly out of his cab as he was once more changing the price.

I say, “What do you suppose an auto should charge me?” He smiles, thinks and decides Rupees 70. I go outside, show the driver the address, and the cost. Rs. 70! The day is looking up. Forty-five minutes later we pull up at Pragati Maiden, a huge exhibition complex, with colourful flags flying and people everywhere. I pay my young driver more than we agreed – it was a long drive through heavy traffic, longer than he expected, I think.

With much good fortune I find myself sitting on the shuttle bus that will take me to Halls 6 and 7, the Tex-Styles India 2004 exposition of ‘Textiles: Inspired and International’. Fortune follows me into the Registration area, where in no time I am equipped with an official badge on a long yellow and blue tie, stating my name, University and Canada. Blue letters on orange at the bottom of the plastic covered badge announce I am a BUYER. The Business Visitors Guide, 5 inches by 9 and half an inch thick, is in my hand. Wondering if I’m in a little deep, I ask the man who has organized all this with a flick of the wrist and my business card, “And what is the registration fee, please?” “No charge, madam, you are our guest.” Never happen in my country, I tell him, as I express my appreciation. We smile and as he moves away, I ask the yellow-shirted young men working the desks where I might find a coffee. They smile and point to an unseen coffee vendor outside. But my benefactor overhears and returns. Won’t I please follow him to the VIP lounge, and enjoy a cup of coffee?

I’m comfortably ensconced in the VIP lounge, enjoying the excellent coffee ordered by that same man as he left. I’m feeling very VIP-ish. I open the Business Visitors Guide to page xiv and read about the “exclusive showcasing of the sensuous silks of India”, the exciting range of wools, the two trend forums with interpretations of top designers and fashion professionals, innovations and concepts in fabrics, furnishings and accessories from production centers all over the country. As I read, I want my friends Shelley and Bob here with me, to interpret the wonderful weaving I know I will see inside. Another sip of coffee, from the not-quite-translucent china cup. This day is a very nice treat.

I turn to page xv, India as a Textile Nation. The first mill was organized in 1854, and today the industry is the second largest in the world, with 3,021 mills. I read on. As I turn the page, I learn the textile industry in India accounts for over 3 per cent of GDP, 14 percent of industrial production and over 22 percent of export earnings. It employs several million persons, directly and indirectly, from growing cotton through to the final delivery of hand loomed garments.

At March 2003 India has 3,021 Spinning and Composite units [companies, I later learn] employing 1.1 million workers. The 1.69 Powerlooms in the decentralized sector employ about 6 million workers. “India has about 24 percent of the world spindleage and nearly 43 percent of world loomage (which after including handlooms goes up to 61 percent of total global share). Almost 20 percent of the loomage is done on handlooms. My heart sinks. I know that handloom and embroidery workers are at the forefront of UN defined human rights abuses, from the International Labour Organization, to CEDAW, the CRC and, of course, the UDHR. These women, and their children, labour at the mercy of sweatshop employers in unspeakable conditions. Now I wish my friend Michael was here, to ask some of the questions I know I will.

Finished my coffee, I head into the Exposition. It is Ali Baba’s cave; rich silks spill down walls and over beautifully embroidered pillows. The pillows are tossed everywhere – on beds, chairs, tables, the floor, shelves – and the beds are medleys of cotton sheeting. I think of my friend Diane; she would so enjoy this collection of interior designs. Even the display areas are deftly designed interiors, many constructed of glass and wood. I am approached by a young couple that has a display – they compliment me on my Indian dress. I chuckle; wouldn’t you know it, this day I chose to wear my only polyester salwar kameez.

Polyester does not belong in Ali’s cave of treasures, and soon, neither do I. I see a young merchant whose booth is filled with heavily encrusted, embroidered wall hangings. From the back, he brings me one hanging embroidered with semi-precious and precious gemstones. Exquisite. I ask: and where is your factory? I learn it is in Delhi. Ah, I say, and would it be possible to visit? I wonder about the working conditions of women embroiderers. Oh no, no women work there – only men. Ah, only men? Yes, broad smile. Well, I wonder about the working conditions of men, as well. Could I visit the factory? No factory – all work is done in homes. His contemptuous smile does not reach his hard eyes. Checkmate. He thinks I am a fool, and I think he may be right. Feeling overtired, overwhelmed and utterly impotent, I leave the treasure chest and walk out into the central hall.

Picking up in McLeod Ganj, at 10:00 PM on my last night here – so much for real time!

And I walk right into the booth of The Handloom Export Promotion Council. I’ll be they will be able to help me. I wait till all three men are free, introduce myself and say I’d like some information. Is my English okay? Oh, yes. Good. I explain my concerns and questions. The third man’s face lights up with enthusiasm. He reaches behind and hands me the ‘Indian Handlooms: Profile of Member Participants’, an eight page, five colour, heavy paper brochure identifying the booth numbers of the handloom heavyweights. Not surprisingly, it does not highlight human rights. My English is not okay. When I finally make myself understood, they appear unhappy.

I persevere, and eventually find an unpretentious booth in another central hall, with a sign that reads ‘Textiles Committee’. The English of the young man and woman at the table is excellent. They are thrilled to see me. They have a ton of material and lots to tell me. The Textiles Committee is an autonomous and statutory body set up by the Government of India. Its role is to promote a quality Indian textile industry and trade. To that end it calibrates equipment; tests textiles, dyes and chemicals; accredits laboratories according to different standards and educates laboratory personnel; provides neutral and unbiased reports; trains industry personnel in textile testing; and offers a quick-response troubleshooting service. In addition to all this, the Textiles Committee promotes socially responsible manufacturing that enables ethical sourcing.

Ah, I say, tell me more. They show me a four page, 8-point type paper. It describes the internal industry standard for management systems in the handloom industry that wish to demonstrate Social Accountability. It is called SA 8000. It is based on the UDHR, theCRC and the ILO Conventions. SA 8000 has a mission statement, objectives, and principles that include no child labour and no forced labour, freedom of association, worker health and safety standards, fair compensation and no sex discrimination. It offers a rationale and the steps a company must take to receive SA 8000 certification. It takes 10 – 12 months to get the certification and it costs big rupees. Certification is voluntary.

Wow. I am so impressed. And so relieved. The work is underway. How many companies have this certification, I ask? Twenty. Ah, twenty, I say. Yes. And how many handloom industries are there in India? Lakhs and lakhs. Well, one lakh is 100,000, so I have a sense of how disheartened these young people must feel some days. Lakhs and lakhs. It must be difficult for you sometimes, I observe. Solemn nods. I say I’m going to get a coffee and will return. I go outside to the tea stand. And think.

I return with an idea. Those twenty handloom companies, how hard would it be to let importers in the West know about their ethical practice? People in the West are big on ethical sourcing. I tell them about my free trade coffee and the couple who sell it from their store. I get more information, email addresses and experience my first sense of empowerment of the day.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot. I know so little about this industry. I don’t know exactly how to proceed to learn more. I do have the name of a human rights worker in Mysore who rescues workers, whole families, from sweatshop conditions in the handloom industry. I will meet him before I leave India. And then I will enlist the help of my friends in Canada. I hope those twenty SA 8000 companies are in for a real surge in orders. How hard can it be to start a small movement on ethical sourcing?

McLeod Ganj

Tomorrow I will leave McLeod Ganj, believing that I will return to this tiny, tidy, warm and friendly town. I have met many astonishing people, several of whom have offered me a lesson. It is just amazing to know each morning, when I go to The Coffee Café for breakfast, someone will sit with me and offer me more understanding, new ideas or an interesting explanation.

Today after the Teachings I have chai with Mr. Ali Baba whose shop, of course, is called Ali Baba’s Treasures. When he first told me his name, I introduced myself as Scherazade. His name is really Altaf, but he goes by Ali, the name his grandfather called him. Horns honk, even in McLeod Ganj. As we sit on the step a row of honking vehicles roar by. I tell Ali the horns in India have started to grate on me. He reminds me that there are a lot of people in India, and without the horns, many more would die in pedestrian-vehicle accidents. A first-rate reframe. He also reminds me that lorrys in this area have a sign on their bumpers asking drivers to "Use dipper at night". On the way here I learned this means to flash one's lights before passing. Ali identifies this request as an attempt to reduce the noise, but of course it is impossible during the day.

I am reminded of the day Zena carefully stopped her car, on an icy road, to allow a young woman to cross. Pedestrians, she told me, have the right-of-way in BC. Ah, yes. And I expect the same in India, when it is just not true. Maybe not even possible. There are indeed a lot of people in India, and if traffic stopped for the torrents of foot traffic on every road, it might stay forever stopped. I will add this learning to my intention to act with more patience. And be careful crossing the road.

Back to McLeod Ganj. Everyone, from the merchants who sell their wares on cots by the side of the road, to those with fascinating shops lining the roadways, is so pleasant. I look at everything; buy little. When the merchants who have given me their time and shown me their wares say ‘thank you for stopping’, I believe they really mean it.

Even the beggars that line the road to the Temple are generous with their greetings. I greet each with a smile and a respectful 'Namaste' as I walk by, and they return my greeting with warm words and an answering smile. It was not ever so. On my first day, walking to the Temple, a man sang out 'Namaste, madam'. Preoccupied with getting to the Temple, to get that good seat, I responded briefly. He asked, 'How are you?' Shamefully, I did not respond, and his words drifted after me, 'Fine, thank you. And how are you?' On my way back the second time, with my Security badge in hand, I stopped to apologize. And of course, he smiled and said 'Thank you, madam'.

For the most part, the beggars are middle-aged to old. Nut-brown, small, wizened, often deformed, blind, or missing limbs, they have a strong sense of community and a culture of caring for one another. One lady is always wrapped in blankets, even on the hottest day, sitting in the sun. On that cold day when I wore all my high-tech warm clothes to the Temple, she was sitting with a group of friends, clasping her mittened stumps together, merrily keeping warm. Someone had lit a wood fire in a wok for her, and she was happy. As His Holiness says, over and over, we are all the same; all we want to do is decrease our suffering and increase our happiness. I have felt some compassion for beggars in the past; I expect meeting these brave folk in McLeod Ganj will increase my compassion and respect.

The Dalai Lama: Day Nine

I’m up at 6:30AM. Groan. While my body is somewhat rested, my mind is weary, and I bring it into the day with a very hot shower. Again I bless my wonderful room, and beautiful bath, at the Sahil Plaza. I smile at the nearly empty Bio-Suds Jeanette brought over before I left, thanking her. All my clothes are washed, and they dry quickly in my sunny room.

I am determined to find the Toshida Centre today, where the English language Teachings are held each morning from 9:30 to 11:00. I have a coffee and buy water at the teashop near my hotel, then walk briskly up the hill to the auto stand. Each time I travel up this hill from my hotel I reflect that it will be downhill all the way on my return. To my surprise, my legs are even stronger than when I arrived. Guess I've been missing those Kamloops hills.

The auto will be Rs. 40. Seems a lot, but as we go up and up, meeting other autos where we come to a dead stop, then proceed with caution, I realize the price is fair. I look dooooown over the edge, and think of the Duffy Lake Road.

I am at the Centre at 9:00AM, and instead of looking around I go right away to the Meditation Hall where the Teachings take place. It is quite beautiful. Six large sitting Buddhas adorn the front, each in a glass case, and hangings of various Mandelas cover the walls. There is much more, but I know you get my drift. Because I did not distract myself – a possible first when sightseeing – I have a chair with arms at the back of the room. I close my eyes and let my mind seek rest. Well, I encourage it; my eyes pop open and I read the Toshida brochure I’ve been carrying for two days. They offer an eight-day retreat the week before the Spring Teachings. Ummm. Maybe in two years. Maybe one or some of my children will come with me. Pleasant thoughts. The Hall fills until there are five people sitting on chairs and about seventy-five on cushions. The teacher arrives, apologizing that she is two minutes late.

She is older than I, and as I listen I think she must be a counselor. She is also maternal, and sometimes speaks like a mom to the young people in front of her. She tells us that it is important to take Refuge before taking vows for arising or engaging bodhicitta, the ‘good mind’. She admonishes us to try some of the precepts first to see if we like them. We may not. Don’t rush into practice she advises; try it for maybe two years before taking Refuge, because to have this mind, one must practice. She advises us to keep our own religion, just as His Holiness did yesterday.

She says: “His Holiness will give the bodhicitta vow today – think hard! You need to hear what His Holiness recommends. Yesterday He said that Buddhism is not the best religion; you can still be a Christian and practice the mind precepts. If you take Refuge and the vows you are a Buddhist. There is no rush; in some Christian religions there is sometimes a rush. Not in this religion”. [Small smile, I expect Christianity was her original religious tradition and she knows whereof she speaks.] She hands out the bodhicitta vows and goes over them carefully. I reflect that while it took me a while to get to Toshida, I’m here on the right day.

She goes on to discuss many topics, including compassion and joy. She says “Rejoice for others who have more than you. If you need help, only these people can help you, but you can’t ask if you are jealous”. Makes sense.

On equanimity: “Stop seeing others as good or bad. We are all completely the same; we all want to be happy. That is why the worst person in the world is so bad – that person is just trying to be happy. We are all the same”.

“Compassion for the self is so hard; you identify with your negativity, so you must learn to love yourself – the minute you do, your ego goes”. Ummm, I wonder, how does that happen? One more area for study. I pick her words up again: “Learn to act when you hurt others. Don’t just give an apology, a request to get your peace of mind back. Act! Ask the person you have harmed, ‘What can I do for you?’ Get rid of your guilt. Then let go of your guilt and forgive yourself – it is enough to know you would not do that again”. You can see why I think she is a counselor, and a good one. I take her words deeply into my heart. I reflect that McLeod Ganj is a good place to commit to some small life changes. I note my feeling of gratitude, then I file out of the Mediation Hall with the others, and walk briskly to the gate. Must be at the Temple by 11:45 at the latest, and I’m hungry.

My auto driver believed me when I asked him to come back at 11:00 – he is waiting and I am so happy; it’s a long way back down with no breakfast. I share my ride with a young woman who is returning to Denmark today. We load up her backpack, bedroll, purses, and plastic bags packed to busting; I smile at the auto driver, glad that I paid extra on the up trip. We go back; it seems even higher up on the way down.

I eat and walk to the Temple. Caz is there, and I tell her about the morning teaching on bodhicitta. She gives me a lovely metaphor to distinguish aspiring and engaging bodhicitta: It is like the child who falls in the river; all those people on the shore aspire that she will be safe, but only the mother engages – she jumps in. I ask her about the mantra His Holiness asked us, yesterday, to repeat a few times - Om Mani Padme Hum. She tells me there are whole commentaries on this mantra, and I chuckle. Of course! Put simply, she says, it is a mantra of compassion for all sentient beings, a mantra on the Buddha of Compassion.

His Holiness enters, and when He gets to the podium I see Him hand a sturdy umbrella to one of the monks. It is hot and clear, and the entire Temple is covered with tarps. The umbrella functions as a cane. Yes, he is tired. I’ll bet His body hurts. I reflect on the great energy this man in His seventies gives to the world.

He teaches on the bodhicitta vow, and tells us He will do aspiring bodhicitta today; engaging bodhicitta tomorrow. He teaches about the meaning of the vow, the commitment, and its place in Buddhist philosophy. He recalls His great joy when He took his aspiring bodhicitta vow, and how He remembers it still. The ceremony is fairly long, made shorter by the places where His Holiness tells us He will leave out whole chunks. A very practical man. I place my hands together and watch the joy in the faces of those around me, renewing or taking their vow for the first time.

When the vow is finished His Holiness whips into the texts, first the Tibetan, then the English. His speech is even more rapid and lilting, his voice utterly compelling. Tea comes out early but He seems oblivious until the prayers stop him at 2:45. At five to four He closes the English text and announces He will read from the 100,000 Songs – the Biography of my old friend Milarepa. He reads for five minutes, puts the book away. As He leaves, I notice He has eschewed the umbrella and He takes his customary time to greet people as He walks back to his home. I have such deep respect and admiration for this gentle man.

And so, dear friends, ends my wondering reflection on what I think I heard His Holiness say during my nine days at the Temple. Thank you for reading and for your notes of encouragement.

Tonight I must pack and say goodbye to the kind friends I made while living in McLeod Ganj. It has been a gentle stop on my exciting tour of India. A stop that has given my body a chance to rest, and my heart and mind much to reflect on. I am so very fortunate.

Speaking of a rested body, last night’s massage was a wonder. The amazing Dr. Lyi added her chiropractic skills to her many ministrations and my bones feel like they're walking on a cloud.

I hope to get another couple of notes up in the next week. Meantime, this amazing Internet Café in McLeod Ganj is loading all my photos – they just dedicate one machine to run all day, uploading to my weblog. Smart, super service. Takes a long time to get photos up – Arjun did not tell me about that part of Typepad! – but I’m going to make good use of the eventual albums. Instead of writing long notes about various things, I shall add text to my pics and truly actualize the 1,000-word adage.

Off to the Temple for Day Ten. Tomorrow will be my final Teaching - Day 11, dear Pom.

The Dalai Lama: Day Eight

Tonight I am writing in real time, which is a treat. I want to keep up my weblog, but sometimes time slips away. I'm enjoying the Teachings and having some fun after class. I have a long piece on the handloom industry one-half done, and hope to get it up before I leave McLeod Ganj - also one on temporary trials and tribulations while travelling.

Today I learned something on my way to the Temple, and wrote it down. A very common mantra in Buddhism is OM MANI PADME HUM. Did you know that? I almost know what it means now, but won’t add that tonight until I’m sure.

Today, His Holiness tells us, we will look at arousing and engaging bodhicitta, ‘the good mind’. If we want to enlighten ourselves we need the bodhicitta path. If we rest bodhicitta in compassion and wisdom we will see less self-grasping and ignorance. A few variations on this theme and His Holiness moves on.

He does not claim that Buddhism is the best religion in the world. There are two aspects of religion – religion and philosophy. The major religions all have these two aspects, He reflects, except He is not sure about those that worship the sun and the moon. If you ask Him, what is the best religion in the world, that is like asking him, what is the best medicine in the world? Whatever cures your illness is best. In Buddhist philosophy, there is no Creator God; this might disturb some Christians.

But when you look at the best religion it is like being healthy, or having indigestion and suffering. If you are healthy you can take all the delicious Tibetan food you want, no matter how oily. Much laughter. If you have indigestion, you can’t. So it is difficult to answer what religion is good – whatever is best for you. For Him, Buddhism is best, for Christians some ideas are not best and might even develop wrong view. Good or bad is your personal idea. In philosophy, Buddhism is the most detailed, but He never says Buddhism is best – not even here! If you claim your practice is the 'best', this is foolish. It is what text is most profound for you. When He hears what some people say about some religions He wonders – He can’t do this Himself. One Buddhist text notes that falling on one extreme is dangerous. So the main point [this is a common wrap-up, I’m learning] of many religions of the world must be to make a distinction between religion and philosophy.

“Since I’m already digressing, let me digress more”, he laughs. And he digresses to a Biography in the Tibetan text. It is about objecting to another’s religious philosophy. For me, the learning is, “Some scholars may read hurriedly and give objection to [complain about] the text without giving it much thought”. My distractable mind wonders to my own reading style; His Holiness pulls me back. It is silly to state one’s religion is the best and complain about the rest, but you can still use your intelligence. All philosophies have different understandings. He teases a Master on the stage with him that outer emptiness may be black – but it could also be white.

The text on arousing bodhicitta tells us to first develop equanimity, reject tenseness and closeness. Have love and compassion for all sentient beings in the world, not just your relatives and friends. When anger arises, try to see it as apart. Give it a colour – red, perhaps – the nature of anger. It is important for ‘I’ to be able to see the self, so this mindfulness is very important. You love yourself, not because you stand out from the crowd, but because you want happiness and not suffering. This is attachment.

There is much more, of course, but this is what stands out from my notes tonight. I think His Holiness is tiring; we have ended at 4:00 PM for the past two days. I know I am tired, and so, goodnight.

The Dalai Lama: Day Seven

Today is a language lesson. My new FM radio is terrific, but all I hear is Russian. I know, because the large Russian lady who inserted herself to my left, between the Tibetan lady I spoke of yesterday and me, understands every word. There is some consternation in the English speakers around me, but eventually we all fall quiet and listen to the cadence of His Holiness’ voice. The Russian lady places one leg behind my back, one in front of me, on the ground.

His Holiness is simply amazing. When He is working from a text His body is quiet, but His quick speaking voice soars through the octaves, from amazingly low to comfortably high. When He is teaching from His own notes, which He seldom consults, His body rocks from side to side, His finger points, He rubs His head, covers His chin, and lets His arms go akimbo on occasion. He is serious, then He laughs deeply. He tells funny and poignant stories about Himself to illustrate His points. He truly wants us to understand. He knows how hard it is, and He says so. He is a truly great teacher.

Eventually someone in the translation room must notice that all the FM channels are tuned to one translation. English returns. The teachings are on Tantra texts. I listen without comprehension, unable to write. Maybe in two years . . .

The Dalai Lama: Day Six

I head out for breakfast with sore limbs, remembering to be grateful that I am not in hospital in Dharamsala. I ask a lady monk if I may join her at her table, in the busy breakfast place where I always eat. She welcomes me with a gentle smile. She tells me she is from England, and as we exchange traveller’s details, she adds that her English name used to be Pauline; she became Tensen Chou in 1980. She used to be an English teacher. She is a lovely lady, well into her sixties I guess, given her very short gray hair. She is also a very active nun, and we have a good discussion. I ask questions, she responds. I am so blessed by these mini-teachings. I share my various confusions. At one point she smiles gently and says, “You’ve been here before, you know.” She says a little more, and I agree with her. I don’t even feel funny about what she says; it just fits.

I walk to the temple and head to my accustomed spot. Crossing the lawn I see Karma Namgyal waving me over. A spot has come open near where he sits, and he is saving it for me! And it is not just any spot; I will sit for the rest of the Teachings on a high step, with my feet down, a complete joy for my back. I’m at the edge of a large row of Tibetan people, row five, in fact. They sit behind a railing, in front of which sit twenty rows of monks. In front of them is His Holiness, maybe 70 feet away. I know that is the best of all, but I am so grateful to be able to sit my painful body comfortably, that I almost forget. What a gift to receive this seat on this day.

I’m sitting next to Caz and Deborah, from Qualicum Beach on lovely Vancouver Island. Caz tells me I am going to bake, even with the huge tarp above me. I glance at my beautiful, woolen, long sleeved Dalai Lama dress, and agree. Tomorrow I will bring it with me as a pillow. I run down to Security with the backpack holding the two pillows I needed on the balcony – won’t need to lug them anymore, and there is no room for them on the bench.

The Tibetan lady to the other side of me is the keeper of respect. She lets me know I cannot place my books behind my ankles, even if they are standing up. She advises me to make my shoes smaller. She waves her cane at a couple of Tibetan boys who are doing something wrong. During the Teachings, when I lean ’way forward to stretch my painful neck, she taps my back briskly. She thinks I am asleep. I appreciate her diligence, and resolve to find a proper book bag. After the teachings I do - a beautiful maroon and gold Tibetan book bag with a candle from the Cali Chakra embriodered on the front.

Prayers begin at noon, and at 12:30 His Holiness enters from the back of the huge area covered by sitting people. We continue to sit, and I learn later from Caz that no one is to be above Him, other than His entourage, most of whom tower over Him. About six monks walk in first. One carries a 10” brass bowl of burning incense, two carry white prayer shawls wrapped around about a dozen sticks of also-burning incense, two carry something about two feet long and three inches wide - one wrapped in gold and one in maroon, the colour of the monks’ robes. Security comes next, again about half a dozen, and then His Holiness, followed by more Security. His Holiness is bent over, greeting people, smiling broadly, laughing and talking. He is so joyous, so small, so commanding in his presence. It is quite a moment for me.

He reaches the podium, greets the Masters sitting to the right, and prostrates Himself three times to the Temple behind where He sits. He mounts a short flight of steps to the cushions, and people rise. Three times, everyone around me lifts their prayerful hands above their head, to their forehead, their lower face, their heart, and then they place their hands on the ground and make a deep prostration. I make myself small.

A monk leads the chanting prayers, using a microphone. I can’t see him, but Caz tells me he is there; Deborah saw the microphone. I wondered if the prayers were recorded; always the same, always loud enough to follow. Near the end, His Holiness brings his mouth close to his own mic and we can hear his chanting. When the chants end, everyone in my area throws rice in the air. I don’t know why, but I will eventually learn, I suppose. Or maybe I’ll just figure it out. Or not.

Yesterday I am overcome with curiosity about another increase in Security – four men with machine guns on each balcony. I recognize my insatiable need to know, my “tell me all” approach, my collusion in gossip. I recognize these as afflicted emotions and today I resolve to stop thinking about the guns.

His Holiness begins. I learn in the first few sentences that the name of the great Lama in the story is Jetsun Milarepa, [his name and some of his songs are in my book] and his is the Biography of 100,000 Songs. And near the end of the Teachings His Holiness tells us He is not going to finish the 100,000 Songs – He can’t force Himself. Maybe next year.

Today’s Teaching is on finding the perfect Lama, or teacher. His Holiness tells the non-Buddhist part of his audience that “In the prayer we normally recite it says ‘May I meet the perfect Lama and achieve enlightenment.’” This is necessary, He goes on, because we must share peace and calmness, otherwise we will see the negative and bring unhappiness. We need a teacher to develop our mental states, recognize afflicted emotions and find the counterforces. When we transform the mind we balance the elements in our bodies; our physical health improves, and we lose competitiveness and jealousy.

He notes that political power in disturbed minds creates suffering, and talks about September 11th. Strong negative emotions within the mind can be used to create immense powers of destruction – and life becomes destructive through negative thoughts and afflicted emotions. If we use positive qualities, life becomes precious.

Older persons, He goes on, can reflect on life; their mental qualities are more clear, they feel less suspicion, their mind is more able to develop experience through relentless and continuous effort. He does not claim any experience, but he sees things differently from 40 years ago. He can become more quiet; a calm relaxed person. He can recognize afflicted emotions as enemies and not welcome them. We may reflect on positive qualities at death and the next life will be better. If you die, the emotions of regret, hatred, thoughts of your miserable death, how you will miss relatives and friends - all these make it very hard to help you reach liberation. It is the law of causality; what life you lead determines the kind of death you experience.

He moves to the Tibetan text, Making the Mind Itself Take Rest. This book is much like the English text, Words of My Perfect Teacher.

And he talks and talks about how important it is to find a good teacher. He advises us not to rush to one like a dog to meat – especially the Western friends. He has heard many unhappy stories about how students happily embraced a Lama without thought; later they were disgusted by the Lama and by the Dharma. He also talks at length about how to be a good student. It is important to practice what the Lama says – if you can’t because it is illogical, then talk to the Lama, refute if it does not conform to general teaching, judge it. There is no blind faith in Buddhism, and he does not want a confused teacher confusing the student even more. He tells students how to be good students, and reminds them that, “Your mind is totally tired of travelling on the wrong path, this is why you want to meditate and practice.”

He begins the chapter from my text, on ‘How to follow a spiritual friend’. He started a little before 1:00 today, and, like a good teacher who wants his students to really get the point, he is still going strong at 2:45. Usually we end around 2:30. Young men are serving tea; they started about 10 minutes ago. Suddenly, and surprisingly, drowning out the voice of His Holiness, the mid-afternoon prayers and chants begin. He finishes his sentence and sits back. The translator is chucking, I think, as he gives the last few sentences. I know His Holiness must have earlier requested this interruption, but it is n eye-opener, nonetheless. Tea ends, the Teachings begin, and we read a lot from my text. I write madly in the margins when His Holiness stops to expand on a point. The day ends with a very brief story from the Biographies; he was not kidding.

The Dalai Lama: Day Five

I wake up wondering if I should put any of my thoughts regarding the Teachings on my website. I understand so little. Then it occurs to me that my friends know this too, and some appreciate that I share my confusion.

I go to the Temple at 11:30 and head for my space. I move my blanket a foot over, in front of the stair rail. I am certain this will make the difference to my radio, but when His Holiness begins to speak I am overwhelmed by static. This time I apologize quickly to the monk beside me and move immediately to the stairs. As I go past the very reserved man who stands behind me, and to whom I have never spoken, he hands me his second radio. What a blessing. I sit on the stairs anyway, until tea. But when I move back to the balcony, his radio continues to work. Clearly I need a new radio.

Today His Holiness is talking about the clear, light mind and meditating on emptiness. He says many things that I scribble down without understanding. At one point he says, “It is not explained so clearly in the work, but the main point is to actualize the ephemeral self free of fabrication and discursive thoughts, to the clear light path.” I’m going to need a lot more teaching. He goes on that we meditate on emptiness to remove self-grasping, but that is not enough; we need a clear, light mind. He encourages us to practice, to teach our mind, stage by stage, making the mind take rest.

The causes of samsara are permanent and unchanging; they may be external but are still manifestations of the mind. Negative actions arise from the undisciplined mind, positive from a disciplined mind, and a clear mind allows for discipline. Our ups and downs are actions of the past; if we harm someone we will get a negative result, if we help, a positive one. In McLeod Ganj I have learned that there is good karma and bad karma. It’s a start.

His Holiness moves to the four levels of knowing. He talks about the separation of the afflicted emotions for liberation; developing a Buddha nature and the clear light mind as the basis of wisdom. He reflects on primordial meaning, the foundation of all, and to applied meaning. I listen without understanding either. This wonderful man stops, says, “I’m not so clear here, I must read the Commentary”. For over a minute he reads, and then resumes. He picks up on applied meaning. The main point is ignorance, inborn and so on, not knowing oneself. Ignorance is the root of all afflicted emotion; it arises in attachment and binds us to positive and negative action. So we must cultivate a life of ordinary clothes, ordinary food, and move to a conditioned course of actualization. You can imagine it is an experience to think I understand the first part of a sentence, and be hopelessly lost by the end!

His Holiness is done teaching from his notes, and moves to the text. He pauses, laughs, and tells us he has forgotten his eyeglasses. He recalls that when he was a little kid there was someone who would pretend to make binoculars with his hands around his eyes, to see things in the distance. He says he will have to do this.

And he finishes the chapter on the many hells and sufferings. He left off at the suffering of animals, and picks up with the suffering of humans. There is a lot of suffering, from before birth to after death. He gets to the sufferings of old age where the text describes, point by point, how when we are old we can no longer get up with no hands, as we did in our youth; we can no longer get up with one hand, as we did in our middle age; indeed, we need two hands to pull ourselves up. The very young monks to my right, on the other side of the balcony railing, grin shyly at me. Yes, they are visualizing how I wrap two hands around the railing to stand at teatime, and again at the end of the Teachings. I nod solemnly, and then smile broadly. Thus it is to enter old age.

When the Teachings end I head off in search of a better radio. Various merchants all suggest the same store, and I find a radio with a good antenna. As I walk down to my hotel I realize I could shop all day – McLeod Ganj is a treasure trove of beautiful clothes, jewelry, brass, rugs, prayer shawls and other beauties from Kashmir, Nepal, Tibet and, of course, India. I hear His Holiness saying, the other day, “If you have one ring on your finger, why do you need two?” There's something to be said for this practice.