Read The Adventures of Bindi Girl: (2012) Online
Authors: Erin Reese
The Adventures of Bindi Girl: (2012) (2 page)
And, I was too exhausted to move. I simply could not go on working myself to the bone in a career that was killing me, in a culture that emphasizes ambition, $UCCE$$ and praising the name of the Almighty—the Almighty American Dollar, that is. Every day, I’d don smoothly-tailored suits and three-inch high heels, race to the office, and—with the drive of a pit bull—produce, produce, produce. I was the top-performing corporate headhunter in a commission-only position—a job at which I was indisputably talented, but with no time or energy left to breathe, to rest, to think, to BE.
When the world as we knew it plunged to pieces on September 11, 2001 and travel was declared unsafe due to terrorism, I took an entirely different tack: since I was symbolically ready to die anyway, I opted to dive off the cliff.
Within a month after making my decision, I gave up my apartment, sold ninety percent of my household possessions, packed one bag, took the cat to my mother’s, and summoned every single ounce of courage I could, for I would need it. I had nothing to lose and therefore everything to gain. Where might I land? Terrified and quivering in my flip-flops, I took off for a six-month, solo journey to wander the Indian subcontinent, with no idea what I’d find on the other side of the world.
Since childhood, She had called to me—the most mysterious, the most intimidating, the most extreme of destinations I could dream of.
Her name was, is, and shall forever be: India.
I’m doing my best to keep my mind distracted, munching the Indian Airlines freebies—pouches of spicy, dried lentil
dal
instead of your usual peanut packets—handed out by sari-clad stewardesses.
What an odd snack.
(Chew; crunch, crunch, crunch.)
The plane cabin is so poorly compressed that the crew is dispersing clusters of cotton balls to stuff in our ears in order to alleviate discomfort. The fuselage rattles furiously, as we bumble and bounce over Bangladesh. The turbulence is so rough, I’m wondering if we’ll actually make it at all.
I start to meditate, observing the breath through my nostrils—inflow, outflow—as I’ve been taught. What else to do when you’re about to plummet to your death, except observe?
A few babies begin to wail, heads pounding in pain. I feel sorry for them; my own brain feels like it’s about to burst as we begin a daring descent into Delhi.
What’s awaiting me? Is this the shape of things to come?
A voice, unexpected, seems to bubble up from nowhere:
India will reveal to you
the places in your heart
that must be purified.
Oh, that night. That crazy, crazy night.
That middle of the night when I landed at Indira Gandhi International airport, arriving in Delhi on the holiday of Diwali…
Night of Lakshmi! Night of the great light!
Crackers blasting, blowing eardrums, taxi twisting and turning through the inky black night!
Whirling through the smoke-filled air, chai wallahs and street people huddling on the side of the pothole-ridden, dingy road as the driver hurls through time and space.
Crash-landing in the capital city of India, another planet entirely—there’s no place like Om! Whizzing past the “March to Independence” Gandhi Memorial toward the Main Bazaar, explosions of light and kaleidoscope as fireworks shoot through the air…
This—
this
is my personal welcome party!
“HAPPY DIWALI!!!” yells India.
“HAPPY DIWALI!!!” yells the cab driver, turning his head to speak directly to me, continuing pedal to the metal, one hand steering the wheel as we barely avoid sideswiping a bumbling bullock cart and we tear into the narrow streets of the bazaar.
“HAPPY DIWALI!!!” yells the hotel night manager, shoving a box of sweets in my face as I lug my backpack up and drop it before the front desk. My first
prasad
(food blessed by the gods), that fateful night—milk sweets made from
chana
(chickpea) gram flour and loads of
ghee
(clarified butter).
Flashes of travel guide warnings pass before my eyes: to accept the stranger’s sweet offering, or decline gracefully. Like Alice contemplating her next move on the chessboard, I weigh the risks: delight, diarrhea, or drugging.
Hmmm, let me think
—but not too much! That millisecond of standing there in the lobby of the cheap hotel at 3 a.m., wondering whether to go ahead and let life “EAT ME” alive, I opt to throw caution to the wind and shove the sugary cube down the hatch.
Simultaneously scared shitless and ferociously fearless.
Mother India called, I answered, and I came.
I lived to tell about it—and to share it with you, exactly as it happened.
Enjoy the ride.
5
th
of November, New Delhi
I made it! I’m here in New Delhi, in Pahar Ganj Main Bazaar, after about thirty-six hours of traveling from San Francisco, including three flights and a taxi ride that made me sweat.
Wow
. I feel so comfortable here. It is just great. There is so much to absorb, flooding in all at once—the food, the smells, the
shit
, the grossness, the beauty.
I haven’t ever seen women shine like the Indian women do, in their saris and Punjabi (
salwar kameez
) suits. I walked into a tailor shop today, picked out some material, and had a Punjabi made for around $9.00—custom fit for me—and I pick it up tomorrow. For those who aren’t familiar with these suits, they are the loose pants and long, to-the-knee tops (
kurtas
) and matching shawls (
dupattas
) that women wear in India. The women wear the long scarf draped over one shoulder or both shoulders, hanging down the back.
I feel like all my prayers have been answered thus far. I’m not holding my breath, though, and I know I need to stay alert and cautious. Of course, everyone in the Main Bazaar wants to be your friend, chatting you up and inviting you to see their wares. I don’t have the slightest idea how to bargain in a friendly, non-defensive fashion yet, which is ironic considering my former career as a corporate headhunter in San Francisco.
Via the
Lonely Planet
online bulletin board, I made arrangements to meet a fellow traveler this morning at our hotel. This young man from London is also a meditator—he’s on his way to Kathmandu for a long winter’s retreat at a Buddhist monastery. I am
so
grateful that I made these meeting arrangements, for I would have been more than a wee bit intimidated walking alone my first hours through the Main Bazaar, which is where my little hotel is.
Today, the two of us went to the New Delhi train station and bought our onward journey rail tickets. Tomorrow night, I’m taking a Second Class sleeper to Dharamsala in the northwest corner of the nation. Dharamsala is where His Holiness the XIV Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government are living in exile. In about a week, I am scheduled to take a ten-day Introduction to Tibetan Buddhism course at a center there, so I will arrive several days early in order to adjust to the high altitude—and to decompress a bit.
Things are so incredibly inexpensive here. I really, really don’t like to shop in the West. I find it bothersome and a chore. But, here—boy, oh boy, I could drop some serious cash. I find myself reeling from the colors, the materials, the pure sensory glory of it all. AND I HAVEN’T EVEN BEEN IN DELHI TWENTY-FOUR HOURS!
I walked into my slummy (by American standards) hotel last night feeling giddy and grateful to all the angels and supportive mortals who helped me make it thus far. I love my hotel; it even has a rooftop restaurant overlooking Delhi that is so peaceful and a perfect place to chill out.
The air quality here is astounding. Even in the daytime, it is slightly dark. The sun is a disk hidden behind smog so thick it looks like the moon during an overcast dusk. I don’t think I’d ever want to jog here, even if I did have my running shoes. Besides, I’d never make it past the cows and shit. (There’s a rumor that the prison sentence for hitting a cow and killing her, by car, is worse than hitting and killing a human. The cows are our mothers, you know.)
Oh, yes! Last night the entire country welcomed me to India! The evening I arrived was the peak of the “festival of lights,” Diwali—a five-day festival welcoming the god Rama (an incarnation of the protector god, Vishnu) home from the forest. The Indians light the way for Rama to get back to his family, and the country goes mad with fireworks and firecrackers. Diwali is brighter than any Christmas light fest I’ve ever seen!
My connecting flight was three hours late from Bangkok, and I was a drooling, brain-dead Gumby by the time I arrived in Delhi. But when I rode in that night taxi from the airport to my hotel, I saw all the lights and joyous festivity of Diwali, and felt the welcoming spirit of all Delhiites, and I thought, wow, perfect timing. If I had arrived “on time,” I would have missed the beauty of it all!
I am vibrating with a warm heart, filled with energy and joy, rolling with it all—and so grateful I took the plunge to dive into India.
7
th
of November, McLeod Ganj
I arrived late afternoon yesterday in McLeod Ganj, near Dharamsala, in the north Indian state of Himachal Pradesh. What an absolute contrast from Delhi! I actually changed countries, in essence. All of a sudden, I’ve gone from being inundated with saris, sticky heat and filth, to being in Tibet.
Well, not quite Tibet. Due to the huge influx of tourist income, McLeod Ganj is totally westernized, which makes it feel like an Indian version of Aspen or Tahoe.
I have barely settled in, but I think it will take a few days to adjust to the high altitude. I checked into a guidebook-recommended Tibetan hotel, which, unsurprisingly, has turned out to be very popular with backpackers—it’s a real epicenter of activity replete with Internet, a busy restaurant, and bakery.
But, it’s a little too hip and hopping for my taste. I need a respite, so I’m moving my things in an hour or so to the guest house my intuition was originally hinting at, a peaceful little place off the beaten path, also run by Tibetans. I took an early morning walk over there to check it out. The views are spectacular and the place is quiet and very clean. The smell of Tibetan incense greeted me as I walked in.
The Tibetan people are as magical and hypnotizing to look at as the Indians, but different. I lose myself in awe, staring at the people of Asia. (I suppose that is what they might be doing in return as I am ogled everywhere I go. I know much of the attention I receive is due to the fact that I am a foreign woman, traveling alone. If I were blonde, I would be looked at even more.) I see such a deep, old wisdom in the faces of the Tibetans, a life of cold mountain terrain and fierce conditions. I could stare at the elders for hours. I want to ask them about their lives, their old land, the invasion of the Chinese, their courageous acts as refugees.
In contrast, I see wisdom and ancient knowledge in the Indians, yes; but with their softer faces and big doe eyes, I see more of an innocence—almost childlike—and emotionality. Like water as opposed to the earthy Tibetans, I suppose.
Just when I finally get myself dressed in traditional clothing of Indian women (my personal-tailored
salwar kameez
), I am in a new land where the Tibetan women dress in
chupas
—long, heavy fabric dresses with colorful aprons. Their hair is piled high on their heads in braids mixed with colorful threads—beautiful.
The first thing I am grateful for in McLeod is the fresh air. I felt like smoking cigarettes in Delhi to calibrate my oxygen intake with the pollution. Here in McLeod, with crisp and clean Himalayan foothill air, the views of the Kangra Valley are spectacular. McLeod is a high hill settlement, and the residences are built precariously on steep mountainsides. Thousands of multicolored Tibetan prayer flags fly across the skies—and I can actually see the sun and the sky here (as opposed to Delhi).
I am happy, if a little confused, boggled—disoriented—by the quick switch from the full-on India of Delhi, to touristy Tibetan Dharamsala. I’m not sure which country I am in at the moment. I know the next step is to settle into a place for a while, to really feel the people and the culture.
My ten-day Tibetan Buddhism introductory course in Mahayana meditation begins next week. Until now, my meditation practice has been in the Theravadan tradition known as Vipassana, which is widely spread throughout Burma (Myanmar), Thailand, Sri Lanka, and other parts of Southeast Asia. Vipassana is a Pali word from the time of the Buddha, which means “seeing clearly.” While my Vipassana sitting practice has been and continues to be invaluable, I feel I owe it to myself to become familiarized with the other “branch” of Buddhism while I am here in McLeod Ganj, or “Little Lhasa.” This course could be a door-opener to understand the Tibetan people, the history, and the teachings of His Holiness the Dalai Lama—not to mention enjoying my time even more. I will be here for at least two weeks, and probably longer.
12
th
of November, McLeod Ganj
Two days ago, the Dalai Lama returned from a trip to Mongolia and the entire town came out to greet him. His Holiness zipped past the well-wishers in his little car, blessing us all with his hand held up in a boon-granting pose and wearing a big compassionate smile on his face. I snapped a proper tourist photo as he drove past quite fast. I’m sure the only thing one will see in the photo will be the standard automobile. His Holiness is supposed to hold a public audience sometime later this month, but it is not for certain. He
is
one of the busiest people on the face of the planet. Even I would be unselfish enough to give the man some peace! That said, I’d still love to shake his hand and receive a blessing.
This morning I took the opportunity to visit a traditional Tibetan medical doctor. I had to bring a sample of my first urine of the morning (toted in my bag, wrapped in plastic, praying it wouldn’t leak). Here’s how it went:
