bangalore - quick note

In Bangalore on paid internet time - and super busy playing with my Circus Yoga family. Will write a more formal post next week or so... Am in the training with the most incredible group of young men, they are all in their early 20's and either were street kids or child laborers. They decided to change their world, and taught themselves fire dance and drumming. As a team of 10, they now tour and perform internationally, Sweden is up next, and recently they were on a television program like American Idol here in India. They are making a living and paying for their education through their performances and spend all of their free time donating time working with youth in orphanages here, and poor schools teaching movement, music, theatre. Most either are working on or have their masters in social work or a related field. I am totally inspired, and deeply thankful to call them friends. I hope to get them to Bal Ashram and the school there. The kids would love it.

Found today: razor. toilet paper. best place in the world for dosa (rice like pancake thing - amazing). Incredible ayurvedic skin products.

This equals a very good day.

Happy Holidays everyone. Much love.
Carrie

p.s. I am receiving all your comments and love whether posted on the blog, through facebook or email. I can't respond for some reason on blogger. But I just want to say that the love really means alot.

p.p.s. Oh, and for those of you who want to donate to Project Shakti, I will be updating the www.rasamaya.com website soon with a page and a donation button.

I left my heart in Varanasi: Bal Ashram

Right now I want a floruescent pink t-shirt with 1980’s bubble lettering that says, “I left my heart in Varanasi.” Leaving the ashram yesterday I was misty eyed to say the least. Kamla, the mother of this ashram who keeps everything running smoothly with her lovely husband Lokna, took me around to say goodbye and be acknowledged by every single person. The heart breaking pieces of course were hugging all the children goodbye, and saying goodbye to Kamla as she placed a sacred garland of flowers over my head. Babaji, his assistant Shivani (who is in my mind the goddess of everything associated with all ashram happenings here and in Sonoma), and my beloved harmonium and voice teacher Tiwariji said our goodbyes early this morning. They were off to a girl’s school two hours away to give a lecture. Tiwariji who comes from a long line of Brahman (priest caste) sent me off with gorgeous crystal mala beads (prayer beads) he had been saving, and instructions on how to prepare them for use, Shivani with words of wisdom, and Babaji with a blessing and a talisman of sorts for protection. The love here is overflowing and it simply radiates from everyone. Its impossible to not become completely engulfed.

I’ve also fallen in love with the city. For as filthy and nuts as it is, there is something charming about the sheer chaos of it. It seems like “real” India to me, and a little more of what I expected to find. Wild ranting holy men, school children packed into rickshaws, cows in the middle of a two lane road, processionals of the deceased cast against the lavish preparations for a wedding. Riding down the Ganges at sunrise is magic, young street children running along side my boat crying out “Namaste! Namaste!” Varanasi is beauty and the beast.

This morning, I began the initiation of guru/disciple in the Aghor tradition. Though I have been involved with the ashram for about five years, and studying with Babaji (real name Harihar Ramji), I had yet until today to officially accept him as my guru, and he to take me as his student. Guru translates as “teacher.” The initiation process is less theological and cult like than it may sound. Initiation really means a dedication to the philosophies of the ashram and an honoring of the relationship of teacher and student. While steeped in Hinduism (this is India after all) it is without specific religious affiliation. This said, it does accept the simple principle that there is a divine presence - but we are (or have the potential to be) that divine presence. In other words, self and that thing you can’t describe that seems bigger than you are in actuality one in the same, regardless of if you call it God, Allah, Brahma or simply that ‘ah-ha’ moment. I have known that we are all interconnected for a long time. Once in a very deep meditation about six years ago, I witnessed my body split open on a hinge that divided me into right and left halves, inside was everything, the whole universe - and I could see every single detail of it. It was indescribable. From that moment forward I have known in my heart without question, we are all truly, completely, intimately, connected.

I have been given a short, beautiful and sacred practice by Babaji which I will do every day without excuses for the rest of my life. When I feel ready to receive a mantra specific to me, I will ask Babaji and he can accept or refuse. After receiving the mantra our relationship is sealed, and he is indebted to pass on all the knowledge he has in the Aghor tradition, and I to faithfully continue to practice. It will be a slow lifelong process, each lesson given as I am the student am ready to accept it and he the teacher is ready to give it. It is no different than learning music. You cannot compose a symphony until you first learn a scale. In both the Aghor tradition, and in my harmonium playing I am learning the scale, one gorgeously rich and sometimes painful note at a time. It is quite beautiful this relationship of teacher to student, and an ancient one. For westerners it may be easier to think of it in terms of a mentorship. I am honored to be a small part of this incredible lineage.

Ashram life is very busy, it is not simply meditating or doing asana (yoga postures) all day as one might think. In fact far from it. The place begins stirring around 5am, the children are up by six and reciting mantra (chanting/prayer) by 6:45. They circumambulate the temple, and if Babaji is in the straw hut next to the temple they go for Satsang (discussion led by the guru) for a few moments. We, the staff and volunteers begin our morning meditation by 7:15am, then go sit with Babaji. Sometimes we just talk, or he asks questions, other times he has pearls of wisdom or something specific to discuss. For his part, Babaji will continue to receive and speak with people from the village and community all day, discussing everything to politics, life at home, to offering advice. This is all done in between meetings with his staff. He is very present in all projects at the ashram. It is amazing how many people come to pay their respects or seek counsel every day. Some just come to sit in the temple. One man in particular struck me as notable, he comes everyday twice a day to do puja (prayer). During these times, he cries out “Baba” which means “father” over and over. We can all imitate it - it kind of makes you smile, as it goes on several hours a day, these are the times where your ipod comes in handy.

After breakfast everyone does Seva (selfless service) till lunch while the children are at school. My seva was gardening, which I can already see some of you snickering at. I wasn’t allowed to actually plant anything after admitting to my black thumb, but I did weeding, and a lot of work with the mixing and spreading compost, which involved putting my hands right into “sacred cow” dung and mixing it with the compost base. As someone who as a child had an OCD issue that involved washing my hands till they bled after using the bathroom, this is probably about the worst thing in the world to assign me to do. But my filter on cleanliness has changed since being here…Plus, my friend Sarah, gardener extraordinaire, tells me that cow dung is actually quite clean….oh good - that makes it so much better. In India cow droppings (which are EVERYWHERE) are considered usable for fueling fire, compost, building walls and floors. Oh the sacred cow. I don‘t think there is an ounce of OCD left in me anywhere after this trip. Did I mention my toilet the whole time at the ashram was a squat toilet? Believe it or not, I actually think I prefer them now. I also have fallen in love with bucket showers… try it sometime - fill a bucket with hot water, wash yourself from the bucket. Then take the hot wet full size bath towel wrap yourself up in it, refill the bucket with hot water and use a large cup to pour hot water over your head while you soap and wash your hair. Even better if someone else does it for you. Yum.

Anyways - onto cleaner topics - the afternoons are varied - everyone takes rest from 1 - 3 (which is lovely and something I hope to implement at home). The children have chores, seva, homework, music lessons. I buzzed around them helping with homework or taking pictures. Then at 6:15 we all do Arati together, the sacred daily ritual that involves chanting, acknowledgement of the five elements and group satsang again with Babaji. Baba often talks to the children during this time, quizzing them on everything from math to English. At the last satsang I attended Tiwariji read all of their book reports (including some of the staff who sweetly wrote them as well). The questions were related to the idea of “what is an ashram?.“ The chef made everyone laugh with his essay which started out with, “the Ashram is not a hotel…. Everyone should wash their dishes” Babaji asked the children why during the ceremony of Arati we bow and touch our heads to the temple floor. They were a little stumped, his answer, “to let your problems roll off your shoulders. All your stress all your worries go. You give it all back.” I thought this was particularly beautiful. This is what being around him is like. Light and love.

I never believed in the idea of the guru before Babaji, now I can’t imagine any other way. It was hard for me to accept that such a thing as enlightened beings exist in today’s world. But to be in his presence, it simply makes the world a better place. As I explained to a seeker, “whether you believe in the idea of guru or not doesn’t matter. This man is kind, a good man, and he is changing the world, one person at a time. He is dedicated his life to serving others. That is what matters.” To give it tangible words for those of you who might not understand, I imagine it would have been like hanging out with Mother Teresa or Ghandi. A life devoted to service and the betterment of all of mankind. You know the saying, “it takes a village…“ that is the philosophy of an ashram. I believe we do not have to walk the path to a rich life alone. When we are in community with others who hold similar philosophy and similar goals, creating change becomes easier and more bountiful. This is what every yoga studio, religious institute, and retreat center in the world is striving for - some more successful than others. It is my opinion that success as community has everything to do with ego. A boastful institution where there is power struggle all the time never accomplishes anything. I see that played out in government organizations, and often sadly in our religious institutions time and time again. This ashram and it’s community is egoless, the change it creates in the world is some of the fastest paced and most result filled I have ever witnessed.

The philosophies of ashram life are simple.

~ Dedicated to recognizing the divine within yourself
~ Dedication to family
~ Dedication to sadhana (daily practice)
~ Dedication to seva (selfless service)

The Aghor tradition is one that is dedicated to selfless service to the needs of humanity. This ashram in particular is heavily steeped in serving mankind through holistic means. Because they are too numerous to mention, I am outlining some of the major projects below. I would also like to add that all of this has been accomplished in 10 years. Unbelievable.

1. The elimination of the caste system in India. At the ashram everyone is treated as equals. In particular one man comes to mind, from the lowest of low of the classes, the ashram has provided him a safe space to share his immense talents. He is an artist, craftsman, and all around general good soul who can do and fix just about everything, the world would of never known if he hadn‘t been given a chance. The man who drove my boat down the river Ganges who didn’t speak any English, was welcomed into the ashram for breakfast. The taxi drivers stay for tea. There are no divides.

2. The empowerment of women. Not only does the ashram employ strong women, but one if its projects which I am quickly becoming intimately connected with is Project Shakti, which once we have the funding, become a home for abused women. This home will hopefully be attached or near the ashram. Abuse of all kinds (psychological, physical, sexual) is a major, major problem here. I mentioned some about it in a previous post. There are few options for women here, especially those with little education. Most the safe houses created are only stopping points that may provide counseling and therapy, but do little to help remove women from abusive situations. Suicide rates among women and children are shocking. I spent some time searching out residential safe houses in India for women. They are few and far between. This will serve as a pilot model for hopefully other institutions to be created. While the ashram cannot currently provide housing for women, they have already begun a vocational program to teach women who are poor. For now, there is a sewing school that has opened. There is hope to also teach these women to clean houses, and cook. Perhaps eventually to learn basic English which will increase their employment opportunities (which is the second language here). While these may seem like low paying jobs, you must realize these women have little to no education, and this is a stepping stone to freedom. Project Shakti will also allow the ashram to house more abandoned babies, and to help put an end to baby killing. I recently encountered a young mother who is unmarried. She has tried to kill her baby several times. As a single mother, she has no education, no options, no vocation, and no chance of marrying. Without a baby, she can lie and at least hope for marriage. She is living in an abusive situation with family and has no way out. Her story is the same story of many, many women here. She still has light in her eyes. These are the women we can try to help before the light goes out. Project Shakti is under my skin, and I hope to lend a heavy hand in getting it underway. Please let me know if you would like to donate or be involved. I am open to fundraising ideas and suggestions.

3. A safe home and education for children living in poverty on the streets of Varansi
My friend Melanie who recently visited here, remarked in her blog that she expected to arrive to a space with dirty uneducated children, and instead found well groomed, eloquent, well behaved children. It couldn’t be more true. The ashram currently has 16 boys of varying ages living here residentially and one girl. All of the children have arrived through a connection with a government agency. The little girl Vidya (now 4) and her brother Indra (now 2) are the only two who were dropped off at the home. They were found living on the streets. Their parent’s had died, and Vidya who is a strong willed little girl that captured my heart, was quite literally raising her brother Indra. Soham, the young boy whose education and needs we pay for through Rasamaya and Dover Yoga, was brought to the ashram by the agency. He didn’t speak for almost a year. No one knows for sure, but they are fairly certain he was physically abused. He is shy still, and sweet and sensitive. The first time he threw his arms around me and kissed me on the cheek I almost broke into tears. He asks very direct pointed questions, “Who are your parents? Where do they live? When are you coming back?” These children are bright and articulate. The hope is not that they become engineers, bankers and architects - though that is certainly not discouraged - but rather that they grow up to be good men, who respect women, as well as people from all walks of life. Last year, a school was created on the property to help meet the needs not only of the boys but also the community. Quality education is a problem in Varanasi as well. In a year it has grown from 35 to over 120+ students. The children are given uniforms, and they pay tuition on a sliding scale. The teachers, who are amazing dedicated individuals, all come from a program called Alice which is having huge, huge success rates in India. Alice is a philosophy system, that teaches students the importance of opening their minds and realizing that all knowledge is already within. The success rate of students in this program is amazing.

In addition to the school, some of the older boys and the staff make visits weekly if possible to a government run orphange. This space has been referred to as a ‘children’s prison.” Children are pulled off the street, and thrown into this orphanage. The living situation is atrocious, they cannot leave until there are 18. The situation there is dire, and the education is horrible. The reality is, they would be better off on the street. It is truly that bad from what I hear. When released, most of these children will go back to a life on the streets. There is little to be done, except try to bring some sunshine into their lives on a weekly basis. I tried to visit when I was here, but could not go because of regulations of who can be admitted.

4. Doc Eye & Vision Varanasi. Someone should give this man a Nobel Peace Prize. An eye doctor from London, he dedicates three months of every year to setting up an eye clinic at the ashram. His office is his bedroom. He is open several days of the week, and locals from Varanasi come to the free clinic to have their eyes examined. His room is filled with 100’s of pairs of glasses brought by his assistant, a local doctor who works at the hospital. Normally, the crowd is of limited size (still astronomical - close to 100 patients a day), but on Christmas day they just open up the gates for anyone. Last year they saw 400 people, this year they expect at least 600. He works tirelessly, and we affectionately refer to him as “Doc Eye.” He is jovial, light hearted, and honest. He and I hit it off, and I miss talking with him already. I spent some time during my visit in his clinic photographing and observing. Half the time he had to make an educated guess. One woman needed surgery, chances are - she won’t get it. So he gave her drops and sent her on her way with instructions and hope for the best. Another old woman couldn’t hear, and didn’t speak local dialect. They made a guess for her prescription, when she put on the new glasses she started to cry and then touched everyone’s feet in the room in gratitude, including mine. A younger woman who had an incredibly high prescription needed new glasses, that would be custom made for free by the hospital. She grabbed my hands, motioning to her clothes and mine, repeating the same word over and over. I couldn’t understand what she was pleading that I comprehend - I had it translated by the local doctor… she was asking for small frames. I smiled at her vanity, recognizing it as my own with my own high script. I gave her hands a squeeze and we all got a chuckle out of it and promised her small frames. I asked Doc how much of his work is a guessing game, and he said “we help the ones we can help. There are just so many.”

5. Eco - village Varanasi. A large plot of land has been purchased on the opposite river bank from the ashram. It is a work in progress, but most of the land has been cleared and it will serve as not only a garden but also an educational facility to teach about sustainability to the local community. Farming organically has all but disappeared from Indian villages with giant batches of DET and other pesticides being used on crops (shipped over none the less from the USA - ever wonder where all that stuff goes once our country declares it ‘unsafe‘ for our citizens? Now you know). Also garbage is a major issue here. Even at the ashram, what can be recycled is, and there is compost, but all other garbage simply has to be burned. Burning is still more sustainable than the alternative preferred by most Indian people to just throw their garbage into the roadside or hillside. Seeing past the trash to the real beauty of India has been the most difficult part of coming here. There are no garbage trucks or waste management facilities, at least not as we think of them. As India becomes more and more westernized the mentality is shifting to “more, more.” Many no longer know how to live off the land. Kamla, who has been in India for a long time, says that the India she knew 10 years ago, is very different than the India today. The problem there, is that the resources aren’t present for how to deal with the increased consumer consumption attitude. Even the green initiative here, which is all over the news, is more focused on how can we produce more energy, more effectively so we can have more, rather than how can we utilize and change the structures already in place. The children of the ashram are already learning to garden, but hopefully this eco-village will give them more tools to eventually become teachers and leaders in the community.

An objective list for the eco-village is being created during Babaji’s time here. Things as simple as theft and security need to be addressed. Last year a small fence was put up around the crops, however animals and some locals came and took much of the produce. Also there is an issue of irrigation. While a pump has been installed, means on how to most effectively water the large plots of land are being discussed.


As I said, there is much in the works here. Change in the world begins in the heart, and from there it spreads one person at a time. It is high time for us all to look within ourselves and start to make a call for change. I don’t believe we can continue the way we are for much longer. It is time to get back to the earth, back to community, and back to the things in life that really matter. Now back to searching for my “I left my heart in Varanasi” t-shirt.

How the Itsy Bitsy Spider may have Saved my Life

I have recently come out the other side some of the most frightening hours of my life. I know the trains in India are next to impossible to understand, and I have been warned intently time and time again since arriving that the trains are not safe for a woman traveling alone. However, the organization I used to reserve my travel arrangements booked two legs of my journey on a train, so I just assumed everything was going to be fine and that I shouldn‘t worry. Never assume. My first warning should have been that my train was leaving in the middle of the night. Because of this, Sanjay, my driver found me a hotel to rest at from 6 - 11pm. I now know what a $10 hotel in India looks and feels like. This said, this is the kind of accommodation he normally would stay at while I’m at a “nicer” hotel (though some of the dives I’ve been at make this debatable). As for the $10 accommodation - I’ll put it this way, I brought a travel size thing of Lysol spray, which I picked up on a whim back in the States thinking I wouldn’t need it - I used the whole thing on the bed before I laid on top of it. The whole time I tried to sleep the movie screen of my brain was playing that horrible expose from 20/20 where they showed things that live on hotel beds. But when faced with the choice of staying up straight for 36 hours or resting, rest simply had to come first.

So here’s where the real nightmare begins. At 11:00pm I arrive to the train station in Agra for a train that didn’t leave till 2am. The trains are perpetually late in India, as is everything. Let me explain what it’s like at that time of night at the Agra station - imagine people sleeping, spitting, and changing everywhere, some ticket holders and some not (there is no security). Now add in a few stray cows and dogs, a couple people arguing, and no clear signage for anything and there you have it. I received the normal amount of harassment at the train station, but nothing I haven’t encountered at every other major city location in India. When the train finally arrived I found myself standing with four other bamboozled back packing tourists looking for a coach named B2, that simply did not exist. We started yelling for where to find it and were pointed to the end of the track which left the five of us sprinting with people screaming “run, run!!” while pointing and laughing. To their regard, we did look like idiots. Of course true to form for a disaster story, the train started moving, and it was a game time decision: A) take my chances and hop on a random coach, or, B) be left in the station with no driver, and no place to go in the middle of the night. I picked A which was a terrible decision. We all did - I have no idea how the other backpackers faired as we got split up, yours truly being the only one alone, but I know at one stop, two of the men came out yelling, “oh my god, oh my god…” running down the track to get on another coach. Unlike most trains in the states, there is no way to walk between coaches, and at least on the coach I was riding - no one comes looking for your ticket - you are sealed in completely shut.

The coach I ended up was the coach for the very poor. When I hopped on I saw giant bags of some kind of grain, naked babies, filth, mice, and everyone (about 50 people at least) had their face turned a blind eye away from each other. I knew I was in trouble - white American single woman with a giant backpack all alone. This spells “money” as well as “fool“. I tried to settle in by sitting on top of two of the big bags of food in the back wall behind the coach by the bathroom (which might I add this said “bathroom” was two holes in the bottom of the train with urine and feces laying around). Within the first ten minutes I realized I was in a dangerous spot, man after man came back and eyed me up and down. I had an alarm/flashlight device I bought in my pocket but it wouldn’t of done any good. Plus, being by the bathroom, it would of been easy to force me in and close the door, rob me or do other unmentionable things. I also knew no one would come to my defense. These are desperately poor people. Things went from bad to worse quickly with one man coming back, glaring at me and then returning to the back of the cabin and waking up some other men. I do not think of myself as a paranoid person, if I did I wouldn’t India alone in the first place. But in that moment, in my absolute gut I knew my life was at risk. These are things you listen to. I am normally calm in emergencies, and with no obvious solution except leave my bag and jump from the train in the middle of nowhere or hope that someone would raise their gaze and rescue me if I sounded the alarm I started to silently pray. One Hail Mary, one Gayatri Mantra over and over and over. Over the prayers my friend Linda’s words came to me, “I always try to sit in the ladies coach with the women and babies.” Well this was a mixed car not a female only, so I found the nearest awake small child I could and started making eyes at it. I was smiling, waving, making faces, anything I could to keep the child engaged. I probably looked insane. It took all of my willpower to pretend I didn’t notice the impending threat coming towards me from the back of train. I tried telling the father who was holding this very dirty, big brown eyed gorgeous three year old, how beautiful he was, and I broke into a quiet rendition of the “itsy bitsy spider” to keep the child entertained, hand movements and all. Miraculously, the father smiled and asked me to sit. The men in the back of the train sat back down. I have never been so scared in my entire life.

The next six hours of my life were spent trying to make conversation with 3 Indian families and entertain their children. An older toothless woman adopted me, we pointed at each other’s jewelry, her petting my face and my skin and arms. I gave her my favorite silver ring, which she could barely get on her gnarled fingers. At one point she actually fell asleep with her head on my lap, and the father with his head on my shoulder. I helped another woman safety pin too big dirty pants on her naked one year old that had a horrible eye infection, and worked on some simple English with another child. I held some of the children so the mothers could nurse others. I also made it abundantly clear I was trying to get to the city of Khajuraho. It was clear I didn’t understand Hindi, less alone their local village dialect, and none of them spoke any English (at least not that they were willing to share). While it seemed as if everything was now going swimmingly, in the sea of mothers in colorful saris and doting fathers I continued to pray in the quiet moments, because there was something that was still not right in my gut.

I had been told that Khajuraho was 4 hours a way, but with a two hour delay I wasn’t keeping good track of time. Eventually the woman with the child in the too big pants hid her sari over her face so her husband couldn’t see what she was telling me. She leaned in close to my ear whispering, “I sorry this/you… late” and then with her eyes motioned to her husband and the men we were sitting with. I looked desperately to the other two women across from me, and they both looked me directly in the eyes apologetically. There is so much we can say with our eyes. All of a sudden I completely understood. They were all getting off the train in Mahoba not in Khajuraho, and the men had every intention of taking me off and too god knows where and to do god knows what with me. They had figured out where I needed to go and then let me miss my spot. They had wedged me in to the seat in such a way that I couldn‘t really see out the window (there is a giant screen over it that has to be lifted to see anything). With it being 6am there was no light out so it was impossible to see, not to mention the big bags of grain that had been rearranged to let people pass through the aisle, which were now blocking my passage out. I never knew quite where we were. The whole time the men had been motioning to me to sit anytime I got up going “Khajuraho, Khajuraho” indicating they understood where I needed to go. When I was feigning sleep to avoid conversation, I had noticed the men were pointing to my bag, but naively I didn’t think much of it. But now, I understood I was definitely at the least going to be robbed, at best case scenario, I would have had to pay for the ride to Khajuraho (which would not have been by car - probably by oxcart) - at worst - well let‘s not go there.

Then it hit me - call Sanjay have him speak to some of the men. I had tried to express that I had friends meeting me in Khajuraho (which was a lie). Thank God he gave me his phone number, and I thought enough of it to buy a cell phone. I got him on the phone and shoved the phone into the ear of first a woman who spoke Hindi, and then one of the father for confirmation.. Turns out I had missed my stop by an hour and half, and I was going to be in the middle of nowhere, in a poverty stricken area. He told me the men on the train are going to try to take me to Khajuraho, but that he was making calls, to wait and he would send a taxi from my hotel in Khajuraho to get me. I was also informed that under no circumstances was I to go with the men on the train. And true to his word, he did find a taxi for me. I managed to get off in Mahoba, along with the rest of the train not withstanding a lot of jeering and pulling at me to go in multiple directions. The only good out of it was the sweet old lady, who was powerless in the whole situation, who rubbed my cheek and said ‘Love.” and smiled her big toothless smile and walked away with her grumpy, yelling husband. I walked off, amazingly everything still in tact, and tried to go see the station manager for a protective place to rest, which was futile as he didn’t speak English and was rude at best. So I settled for a bench near him and waited from my driver for over 2 hours. Driving back to Khajuraho through the surrounding poverty stricken towns, I have no doubt I would of met a horrible fate had I allowed any of the people to drive me. The taxi driver on the way back to Khajuraho remarked time and time again how every single village and town we drove through was incredibly dangerous. In my heart, I don’t believe I would of made it.

But I’m safe now.

I’m not upset by the experience just blissfully thankful to be okay. You must understand, that people are incredibly poor here as a whole, and women are completely powerless, at least those not born into wealth. Because I am seeking to really understand India, I am prying a lot and asking a lot of personal questions. I spent a good deal of time talking to a Muslim man about the cost of living for his family. The base living price for a family of 5 is $400 a month. This covers only food, shelter, education. For my Muslim friend as a primary school teacher he only makes $100 a month salary. A typical driver’s salary is $60 a month. This is why everyone must work nonstop, and most work multiple jobs. It’s a constant wheel of poverty racing against hours in a week. And in many families, the women do not work outside the home, leaving the men as the sole earners. In the villages of course the living cost is much lower, but so is the income. And no one has cars, only the wealthy, so the village people must go by train or by rickshaw, or oxcart to sell their crops or wares in the city. In addition you should realize that five is a low number for a family. In many households there are 10 or more family members residing together. And it is expected, not requested that you will care for your elders. In addition it is common practice to produce children until you have at least boy to carry on the family name. Abortion based on female gender from ultrasounds and the killing of baby girls after birth is part of the underbelly of India that people don’t talking about, but it’s prevalent and happening, at least in the lower economic class. Everywhere I go, I am told that no one has any money. Many people, especially those in villages work seasonally. In Khajuraho there is no income other than from tourism, which only happens six months of the year. So everyone heads to major cities to find work on the alternate months. It is the way of life here.

The second thing that put me at higher risk is that women have no power here. I will be writing about arranged marriage and the dowry system which is alive and well in another post. In general the role of the woman is to service her husband and her family. Women are viewed and commonly treated as disposable. Beating your wife is still considered acceptable and common by many. Sexism or “Eve-bating” is a big problem for female tourists here, and technically punishable by law, but it‘s not enforced. It has been a horrible issue for me since I‘ve arrived. So much so, I have had only one driver that spoke English who has not sexually harassed me by either making sexual overtones, flat out asking me to have sex with him, or to be his girlfriend. I arranged my travel plans through an Indian tourist agency to help get me from city to city and set up my hotels, and after some prying I managed to find out that the agency has actually bothered to call the drivers and guides ahead of time to tell them that I am “beautiful and sexy American woman traveling alone.” In fact, the owner of the agency called to check in after the train incident. His first words out of his mouth after introducing himself were not I‘m sorry this happened but instead, “I hear you are very beautiful, you must send me a picture. I am sorry I did not get to meet you.“ He repeated this several times in our conversation, and actually offered to fly to Delhi to meet me in person because of my “beauty.” It’s not flattering, it’s disgusting. This is a man who has an MBA from Berkley. He should know better. Wait till I have time to write up a review about him and his company on Trip Advisor and Yahoo. The taxi driver that picked me up from the train station also thought nothing of showing me off, despite my obvious upset from the train which he fully understood. He stopped for tea at a roadside stand in the middle of no man’s land in the countryside. He insisted I get out and have tea and pulled up a chair for me to sit. Sometimes it’s best here to just shut up and go along for your own safety. Next thing I knew I was literally surrounded by 10 men in a half circle just staring at me. No words, just staring. This was of course a little frightening with no obvious exit, but I recognize I’m an oddity, especially in the countryside. So I just held my breath, drank my tea and hoped for the best. It was fine, they were just curious, my driver told me they had never seen a “white woman” before - but still it was unnerving.

I don’t blame the men in the back of the train for rallying for attack, nor do I blame the other men for plotting against me to cause me to end up at another station. How can I judge them? If it came down to rob the pale, clueless, American girl in the wrong place at the wrong time, or feed my struggling family - I believe that family would win. Morals aside, it’s hard to say what any of us would do in the face of poverty. I would never claim to be so righteous to think I wouldn’t do the same to feed or protect my family. I also don’t blame the women for what happened - what choice did they have? I wish I thought I was being paranoid about the situation, but in my heart I know I was in extreme danger. I learned a lot - for one, I really got to see poverty up close and personal. It makes one pause and reassess value of material things, of resources. The last few years have been particularly tough in India from what I’m told, partially thanks to global warming and partially to faltering economies all over the world. Crops are not producing well, and the tourist industry is down. Being here makes me think about everything in a more global sense… the waste I create increases global warming which will affect the crops, the food I waste could be a meal for someone else. The money I throw away on lazy things like coffee and a bagel is a day’s earnings here. It’s mind boggling really.

I am safe now in Varansi in the children’s ashram. All is well.

Bollywood and Visual arts in india.

Today was Sanjay my driver’s birthday. For his birthday he really wanted to go see a Bollywood film. He kept insisting I needed to see the theater in Jaipur. I'm so glad I agreed. It was absolutely gorgeous, two floors, with state of the art sound equipment, dark wood sculpted paneling in the lobby, and white sculpted wall interior. I understand why he was so excited to show it to me. The cinema only shows one film, which was a comedy, De Dana Dan. A Bollywood film, it didn’t have subtitles, but regardless I was laughing through the whole thing. It was easy enough to understand the storyline without needing to understand the words. I was surprised - I take that back - I was blown away - it not only rivaled any American comedy I’ve seen, but it was about 1000x’s more clever while being much cleaner. And true to Bollywood form, every so often in a dramatic moment it cuts to a charmingly ridiculous, but wonderfully orchestrated, dance and song number with the main characters. I’ve never really given Bollywood a second thought until now, but as of today I’m officially a fan. Check out the movie: http://dedanadan.erosentertainment.com/

Which brings me to my next thing. The visual arts in India. This is something keeps on surprising me. Today I went to another discarded monument, which is a shame because it is absolutely gorgeous. Jawahar Kala Kendra is the name, it was built in 1993 and is brilliant contemporary architecture with nine structures each representing a planet. Each one displays a different version of handicrafts and textiles. It’s a little known gem, that was sadly vacant of patrons other than myself when I visited. Much like the National Museum, it was immensely dusty and spots were incredibly dirty, great works of culture and art just glazed over in a layer of grime. My guess is that the funding just isn’t there to keep this great landmark alive. However, there was a sculptor in residence that I had the pleasure of spending time with. His name is Raj Kumawat. Raj is beyond talented. He is currently preparing for a show in Mumbai in a gallery, which he has to pay crazy fees for, shipping, gallery cuts, he will barely cover his costs if he sells anything. And anyone that’s ever sculpted knows how expensive of an art form sculpture is. He doesn’t speak English, but we were able to talk through my driver who translated. I am hoping to buy one of his sculptures when I’m back in the states, they are only about $600 US which is absurdly inexpensive for bronze. He doesn’t have a website, but he’s working on getting one. That’s the thing about all this talent here. Artisans often don’t have the means to get their work out there. It’s like the National Contemporary Art Gallery I went to, I wrote down the names of all of these amazing artists, came back to my room, Googled them, and for the most part, found absolutely nothing on the web. Sad to think these artists are at the National Gallery but none of the rest of the world will ever get to know more about them unless you come here. I’ve been buying up as art as I can, and am seriously considering a trip back over just for this purpose somewhere down the road. I hate to see great talent go to waste, or not be given the credit it’s due.

The Deafening Sound of Poverty.

The poverty here is deafening. That is the word that keeps coming up when I try to think of how to describe it. It shouts out at you from every single city block, every corner, every side street, and every monument. I cannot even begin to describe it. I am trying to capture it on film, but until you experience it firsthand there are really no words. There is housing constructed of old pieces of machinery, boxes and fabric on every single road. People wandering barefoot through sewage and oceans of garbage. Children are playing in trash alongside filthy goats, pigs, monkeys, and cows, while running up to your car beating on your window begging. One little boy yesterday - with clear green eyes that looked right through me - just held his hands up and stared. It was apparent he was mentally challenged. I had to close my eyes and look away. I knew coming to India I had to be thick skinned about it, not give money, less compromise my safety in the swarm that it creates. Still, I feel guilty, that I'm not doling out to every open hand. In trying to not be a ridiculously cautious tourist I felt the need to confirm this "no giving money to the poor" idea today with both my guide and my driver. They told me it’s true, that you simply cannot give money to the beggars. But today my heart shattered into a million pieces. Outside of the Amber Fort while walking towards my driver, I was approached by two children in ragged clothing, the older boy could not possibly have been older than 7, and the little girl no more than 4. As I walked they ran ahead of me the boy instructing the little girl to “go, go!” This little pig tailed filthy bundle of love would get a few paces ahead of me and then as if she had no spine at all go into a full backbend and then stand on her head and flip back over. Again and again and again… like a trained monkey. The whole time crying, “madam, madam, watch.” Thank god for big sunglasses to hide my watering eyes. Being a single white American woman here in a patriarchal society I am a moving target at all times. I have to keep a constant guard up, even with my beloved driver I've had to be stern with (who is now making inappropriate sexual comments I'm afraid). I have to be resolved in my demands stating them several times almost anytime I have one, and seem somewhat cold and distant to stay safe. Sanjay remarked that I don’t seem to be very emotional. I told him it was from running my own business for ten years. What he doesn’t see is me crying in my hotel room at night, my heart hurts, it just physically aches...

Jaipur could be beautiful if it weren’t for the fact everything is so run down and covered in trash. But it’s like that everywhere - so you begin to try to look past it. Yesterday I was drinking something that was supposed to be coffee in a Styrofoam cup. When I was done Sanjay asked for my cup, so I handed it to him not knowing he was going to roll down the window and toss it into the street. That’s how it is here. And everyone, I mean everyone is looking for a dime. In a restaurant today without asking a little boy came up to my table and performed a cute traditional dance from Rajasthan. Before I tipped him, (because I had no choice not to as he stood there waiting) I asked to take his picture. He didn’t approach the other tables this way. This seems to happen everywhere I go. Like I said, I’m a sitting duck. A woman holding a baby caught me taking her picture from elephant today, she chased after me crying, “money, money, you took my picture.” I finally lost it on the tourist scam today in a shop in downtown Jaipur, which I was taken to without my permission. They do a lovely job of showing you how they make things, the batik prints, the polished jewelry, but then you are wrangled through 12 rooms all of different handicrafts. Which sounds divine, except you are absolutely expected to buy despite there “no haggling, no bartering” signs posted everywhere. It took an hour and a half to get out of there and I wasn’t even through room six. I finally lost my temper in the textile room, and said “that’s it fellas, I have had enough, I am done shopping and I will think about it.” They actually called after me, “but ma’am you haven’t bought anything.” When I got outside I let my guide and my driver have a few words too. It's really tough here. Great beauty juxtaposed against the backdrop of immense poverty. I think you give money where you can, support who you can, and if you succeed in making a difference in at least one person's life, than you have lived well. At least this is what I have to believe, especially here.

As I write this from the roof of my hotel, there are kites flying in the sky all over Jaipur. It gives me hope, and I offer my prayers up to the heavens...

p.s. On a happier note - The Amber Fort is one of the most beautiful architectural sites I have ever seen. And I met the most lovley artist today named Ram, at the Capital Palace. They have a gallery of all original handicrafts from artists admired by the Royal Family. I bought four of his paintings as gifts, and he drew me an elephant for luck on the back of my ticket, blessed me, and threw in an extra painting of an elephant for free. These are the moments I will treasure.

Wanna pet my snake?

"Wanna pet my snake?" If I had a dollar for every time I've heard that line I'd be a rich lady. But this time, I'm afraid it was for real. I've been hanging my head out the car window trying to snap images of Indian life, when I'm whipped back into reality by a "holy man" with a giant chocolate colored snake at the driver window. Sanjay my driver quickly grabs a coin touches it to the snake and then deposits it in the man's flower covered urn. Apparently, this brings good luck, and as such I am instructed to do the same. Now, this would be okay except anyone that knows me knows that the only thing I am deathly terrified of in the entire world is in fact snakes. And here I am trapped, in the place that heaven forgot with a snake sneaking through the window. I suddenly have this vision that it will attack if I don't pay. The holy man waits. Quickly, I grab a coin and like a game toss chuck it in the urn, brushing the snake on the way. Bleck! Ick... Brrr.. I'm still shaking off the feeling.

At this point after everything I've seen, nothing suprises me.

I have also learned that there is a shady side to the tourist industry. Drivers of all kinds (taxi, limo, bus, etc) actually earn points by taking you to tourist trap stores, where typically everything is overpriced. The sales people at these places are pushy to say the least. I have already been bullied into two overpriced boxes of tea. I'm getting better at saying no, but it's tough - they literally follow you around the store, pulling out things along the way. I have agreed to go into these stores, because as I mentioned before - I adore my driver. If he earns enough points by the end of the year he earns a cash bonus. This is the least I can do. Most of these places are junk, but today we actually stopped at a beautiful store, owned by a family from Kashmir. First off, everyone I've met from Kashmir is exquisitely beautiful, and the men are no exception. Not even one second through the door I got swept off my feet by a young man who grabbed my hand, "you are so beautiful, let me show you around." In my head I'm already channeling my inner Jerry Maguire moment "you had me at hello." He's an excellent salesperson, next thing I know I'm being served tea, and watching a Kashmir rug being made on the loom. The whole process is explained to me in depth, all while he's kneeling at my side gazing into my eyes - how it takes a year and half to make a rug, how the threading is so carefully done by hand. It's true, the rugs really are works of art. Then we went to jewelry section... my weakness. I looked at everything, and though it was much nicer than anything I have seen thus far I thought I was home free... until.... I spotted a tray of what appeared to be antique earrings. Apparently, my radar managed to find the most expensive items in the jewelry section as they were old pieces from Kashmir, or so I'm told. Next thing I know he is taking off my scarf, and gently taking out my earrings and putting in the new ones all while telling me how gorgeous I am, and brushing my cheek and my hair. I am being dressed and undressed from the bust up and decorated by this exquisite human being - but hey, I just went with it. There is something about that kind of man - the gentle touch, the genuine intrigue, the admiring looks, the almost conceited confidence - makes me go weak in the knees. You all know what I'm talking about. Its probably a good thing I had to turn him down for a date since I was on my way out of Delhi (insert sigh). But ahhh...needless to say, I left feeling like I had just had sex without the work and a take home gift of a gorgeous pair of earrings.... even if I did have to barter the price down from $275 to $50.

oh and p.s. - today i mastered squat toilets. the fun never stops.

what happens when you say "what the hell?" 60 foot monkeys and amazing food.

Delhi.

"What's that? Is that Hanuman?" I am pointing at a 60 foot tall giant pink monkey sculpture in the middle of downtown Delhi. "It's a temple" says my guide and with eyebrows raised - "wanna go see?" How could I say no - it's a 60 foot tall sculpture in the middle of insane traffic. After we navigate the traffic and the beggars, I'm instructed to wash my hands, take off my shoes, and in we go. At first it's what I expected - garish sculptures of Hanuman, Shiva, Sita, Ram, Kali among other deities. But then I notice the giant sculptured crocodile's mouth. My guide asks me if I want to go inside the mouth - so I take a peek in - it involves a steep staircase that goes underground into darkness and the unknown but I figure - "what the hell how bad can this be?" So down I go, crouching through smaller and smaller openings till I'm almost on my knees into an underground cave. The cave is filled with more brightly adorned vegas style sculptures, adding some glow to the otherwise dank, dark and musty smell... Then I look up ahead and - oh no - a huge deep puddle. This is exactly the kind of thing tourists are warned about. "do not go wading about barefoot through bodies of water, no matter how shallow" I remember reading that somewhere, maybe for me they should of added - "in a cave in the middle of a dirty, dirty, city." I look to my guide, who is earnestly blessing himself in front of almost every deity and again think - "what the hell, there's really no politely turning back so - offer it up right?" In I go pants wet, wading up to my ankles, barefoot in Lord knows what. I round the corner of the cave to dry land, and voila there's a holy man!! He offers me a blessing, anointing my forehead with some red paste, offering me holy water to drink, and prasad (blessed food) of seeds and dried fruit. Perhaps, the journey really is the destination.

My guide and I have hit it off. He likes my adventurous spirit, and we are already planning future trips to see "real India" where he can take me into the rural villages to stay with families, but not this trip. This trip I have an agenda of tourist things to see. Per my request, he drops me next at the National Museum, which is in horrible condition. Having owned and art gallery and worked at a museum, I'm a little horrified at how these timeless pieces are being cared for. But, on the brightside, since they don't care - I was able to pay to use my camera to get some luscious shots of the sculptures (which cameras don't do much damage to - regardless I was flash "off"). I spent so much time inside my guide thought he lost me. After we zipped off to the National Gallery of Modern Art which a fascinating look into some of India's current leading artists. I have a list of artists whose work I admired while I was there, and have googled most of them. Not suprisingly, there is very little about them on the web, and very few of them have websites. There is so much hidden talent in the world.

Both of us starving, he suggests we go to place for lunch only known for locals. There is a line out the door and not a foreigner in sight. Again, this is the kind of thing your mother warns you about. There are flies everywhere, and giant bubbling concoctions in the window with lazy, street, dogs lolling about. My guide tells me he takes barely any of his guests here. Only the special ones. I smile, but really I'm just hoping I don't get food poisoning and that the blessing from the holy man keeps on ticking through this meal. When we finally get a seat in the crammed restaurant it is with a ton of other folks at a table - like I said in another post - personal space does not exist here. First course raw red onion with chutney. As is custom, there are no utensils. As you might imagine after a giant plate of this suprisingly delicious treat, I won't be snuggling up to anyone anytime soon. This is followed by naan, fish, chicken, and beef. All served in the most amazing, rich, delicious sauces that make you think you've died and gone to heaven. The first bite of fish was completely a food orgasm. We share everything, and whatever I don't finish, my guide just reaches over and eats right off my plate. That's the way here. I half expected the guy across the table to do the same thing.

I tried to snap a few pictures of the restaurant and managed to get a couple but was quickly told no more. So instead I settled for talking to my lovely new friend, turns out he has a wife, two boys, a dog. He has worked for the travel industry for years and is hoping a job comes through at a new upscale hotel where he will be handling all of their marketing and travel for tourists. He only does this driving work when times are tough, but in general he's a do it yourself travel agent. He's incredibly proud of his work, his heart is in it, and also in his Hindu faith. He is part of a system that still believes that elders are always right, so much so, that even as a grown man (I would guess him to be about 40), if he wants to go on a trip he must first have it approved by his older brother and his mother. He will never divorce, and is devoted to his family, though it is apparent that while he supports and understands my brazen career oriented American personality, in his world - the woman's place is in the home. He is kind, knowledgeable, he tells wonderful stories, and he is genuinely concerned for my safety - at least for the next three days.

I think I adore this man. Tommorrow Jaipur.

Welcome to India.

"Shit!" Milan Kumar, my young driver exclaimed as he mutters a quick prayer and makes the sign of the cross or just an "x" on the windshield. A striped tabby has just run in front of our taxi. "I thought only black cats were bad luck," I pipe up from the back seat. "No. No. Lady - all cats... very, very, bad luck." Excellent. We are just leaving the airport and my trip hasn't even started.

India hits you full frontal from the second you arrive. People are everywhere, and I do mean everywhere, personal space just doesn't exist here. Riding in the taxi reminds me of being in New York. The idea of passing involves beeping enough that the car in front of you creates a third lane in a two lane street so you can pass on either side. I am so glad I was talked out of renting a car, it would of been signing my own death certificate. As we zip along through the streets of Delhi to my hotel, I am struck by the fact that there is so much dust. It reminds me of driving in Costa Rica, but the difference is - in Costa Rica the streets were actually dust, but here the streets are paved, but there are just piles of dirt on the side of the road, as if it was too much trouble to remove the dirt when putting the road in. In downtown, at least what I've seen it, there are stores upon stores, right next to hovels where people are gathered around pit fires, sleeping under make shift housing, clothes drying on downed electrical lines. I am not in the glamourous part of town. I know this.

Getting here has been an adventure. My travel started from North Carolina to home on Tuesday night for a quick bag change and then back to the airport to come to Delhi. I estimate I have now been up for almost 36 hours with intermittent airplane sleep. I came here with a cough that's been plaguing me for three days. It seems to be nothing, certainly not enough to keep me home - no fever, no pain, just a dry pointless cough, but I did feel bad for anyone sitting near me. When dismembarking from the plane I had to fill out a H1N1 questionnaire, as well as have my temperature taken via a thermal body scanning device. I held my breath through the line, praying to not go into a coughing fit. "Have you had any fever, coughing, been exposed to anyone who may have had H1N1?" I blatently lied, knowing full well that practically half the people I know in New Hampshire have had it or been exposed to it. Luckily, I made it through - I caught a glimpse of the quarantine area - not a place I'd want to spend the night. I thought I was home free, but alas they insisted on a bag and body search. Pulled into a little dark room off the customs area with one other woman, I was patted down thoroughly (thankfully by a woman) - it's been a while since anyone's hands were well - "there" shall we say. My bags were completely emptied, but I was released. Thankfully, Milan was still waiting for me. The hotel called to check on me as I was running so late from expected arrival.

As we're zipping along, it brought back memories of the summer I lived in Florence. I was barely 21. I remember arriving at the airport in Paris for a flight change. I was so nervous that I thought I would throw up. Instead I went to information to find a place to smoke to calm my nerves and they sent me outside of the airport. When I came back in, I noticed everyone in the airport was smoking, and the ladies at information were laughing at me. Playing a joke on the stupid American. So naive. My first night in Florence, I was swept off my feet by some young Italian who took me to the top of Santa Croce to 'look at the stars.' He actually said "you know I could rape you, you shouldn't trust random men in Italy." Lesson learned. He became a friend and a protector for the rest of my time in Italy, a friend that time and distance has lost. He was hoping to meeting an American girl whose father owned Pepsi that he could marry. Lucky for me - I wasn't that girl. I look back at how naive I was, and how young. Older and wiser now I travel more safely, and more aware. Thank God I didn't come here when I was young - I think the city would of eaten me alive. I don't know how young girls now a days do it. Milan, in between cell phone talking and beeping must of read my mind, he looks back "Lady, lock your door."

My hotel is well - how do I put this - filthy. But the people are kind, and I have a bed to sleep in - which is more than I can say for many here. Luckily I brought almonds and peanut-butter-chocolate-wafery bar goodness to snack on - this is dinner. I'm in for the night - I thought initially I might go for a walk, but noticed that there are very few women on the streets, none are alone. So I think I'll count my blessings and just rest. I'm not sure when I'll be writing again. Hopefully I can find an outlet that works and that will convert energy to my computer. If not, I may be relying on internet cafes.

Oddly, despite all the chaos, I feel complete at peace. Once, when I was trying to find comparisons for Hindu religion to Christianity I was sending regular emails back and forth with the scholar Georg Feuerstein. I kept asking, "is it like this?" and he kept saying, "no." I kept trying to make comparisons, and to each and every one he responded "no, it's not like that at all." Finally, after about the tenth time he wrote "You must find comfort in the chaos that is Hinduism." I didn't email him again after that.

I'm already finding comfort in the chaos. Tommorow sightseeing in Delhi. Ah - India.