I don't think I've ever had as much fun during a language class as I have while learning the Hindi alphabet.
Devanagari, as the writing system is called, has nearly 35 consonants and 11 vowels. Each of the vowels can appear either as independent characters or as symbols above, below, or adjacent to consonants. Additionally, whenever two consonants occur next to each other without a vowel in between, they form a single "conjunct character," which may or may not look anything like either of the two original characters (our book helpfully lists 100 of the "most common" conjuncts).
The consonants are ordered according to what part of the mouth is used to produce their sound: the throat, the palate, the lips, and so on. While it seems strange to begin the consonants with "K," it actually makes a lot more sense than our familiar A, B, C.
In class our tireless teacher, Binit ji, draws strange squiggles on the whiteboard and leads us in their pronunciation: "ka, kha, ga gha, anga! cha, chha, ja, jha, inya!" I wish you could actually hear this, because it's really quite funny. The tricky thing with Hindi pronunciation is that most consonants come in both aspirated and non-aspirated forms. "Kha," for example, is a completely different character from "ka," its non-aspirated cousin, and a native Hindi speaker would hear them as different sounds even if our coarse American ears would not.
How, exactly, does one aspirate? Our book says that you simply releases more breath when pronouncing an aspirated consonant. Seems simple enough, but I have been struggling with this issue, and I believe I am not alone (Sylvie's helpful insight during one class: "Just saying it louder doesn't make it aspirated").
Learning the alphabet, learning how to speak properly -- it's like being five years old all over again. All of the things I was sure I had down pat, I have had to relearn since arriving in India.
Recently we spent four days in Murahua, Bantu's village, living with families there and learning about life in rural India. During group check-in one afternoon, Christina remarked that if some major world disaster were to occur, we Americans, so utterly dependent on industry and fossil fuels and international supply lines, would likely starve, while residents of the self-sufficient villages of rural India would be totally fine. Similarly, I would add that in the highly improbable event of a worldwide silverware shortage -- spoons and forks disappearing overnight from kitchen drawers everywhere -- most Indians would hardly notice, while Americans would sit in awkward silence at the dinner table, staring at their food, wondering what to do next.
Indians traditionally eat only with their hands -- specifically, only the right hand, as the left hand is considered unclean. Since arriving in India, though, it has seldom been necessary for me to use my hands to eat. At the program house there is always silverware, and at my homestay in Varanasi, my host mother always brought me a fork or spoon with my plate.
In Murahua I also received a spoon with my food. But silverware made me feel so... Western, and one morning I decided I would do what everyone else did and use my hands. I dumped my bowl of dal onto my plate of rice, and watched my host mother, Gulabi Devi, to figure out what to do next.
Often, a small piece of chapati (a kind of flatbread, like a tortilla) is used like a fork to scoop up food and bring it from plate to mouth. But this meal was served without chapati, and I looked on as Gulabi (a priestess in the village's temple) mixed the lentils and rice together with her hand, and then brought a piece of the mixture to her mouth.
This is how babies eat in America, before they are taught that playing with your food is wrong. I felt disgusting. My hands were slimy. Every lump of this yellowish mushy mixture that I brought to my mouth made me gag. And yet there is definitely an art to eating with your hands, one that is lost after so many years of fork use. Gulabi was graceful, using only the tips of her fingers; I was a mess, requiring the entirety of my right hand (and an occasional prod from the forbidden left) to get the food straight and into my mouth.
As I made my way to the water tap -- followed, as always, by one of my host siblings (it was strange at the time, but doesn't it make sense that someone who doesn't know how to eat or speak or use the bathroom might also get lost on their way to wash their hands?) -- I reflected on this authentic experience and imagined myself not using a single fork or spoon for the rest of the trip. Then I reflected further and decided it would be enough to resolve to use spoons and forks less often.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Thursday, February 28, 2008
questions and answers
Early last week I mentioned to Bantu that I was interested in learning about the natural history of India. I knew that the depth of Bantu's connections in Varanasi was legendary; nevertheless, only a couple of days later, I was pleasantly surprised to see on the calendar that a lecture had been scheduled on the "Natural History of India."
When we sat down in the classroom that Friday afternoon, I expected to hear a rather straightforward lecture on ecology and geology and the like. Instead, our speaker, Krishna, began by listing all of the topics he could talk about -- from traditional gender roles in India to the sacredness of the Ganges to the reasons why Western science is like a religion -- and then asked us what we wanted to learn about. He told us he was a scientist at the University of Buffalo for several years before moving back to India to reconnect with his culture. Along the way he had picked up an intimate familiarity with the Western mind, so stubbornly "rational" and so ignorant about Asian cultures, and he knew exactly how to explain India to us in a way we could relate to. So for two hours we sat and listened, more attentively than any other classroom full of American students I have ever seen, as he explained to us why Hindus do not eat beef, and how the roles of men and women in rural India were different but not unequal. By the time he finished speaking, I felt I had learned so much -- although, none of it was what I expected to learn when I sat down for this "natural history" lecture.
In general, I find that whenever I ask a question in India, I get an answer that is totally fascinating but largely unrelated to the question I asked.
It took me a while to get used to the meandering way of speaking shared by many of those who have come to give us lectures -- a way that makes room for every interesting anecdote, that takes so many backtracks and diversions that it is often difficult to keep track of the point.
Because what is the point? What is the point of listening to someone talk? In high school I was conditioned to expect a speaker to have a clearly articulated thesis and a carefully structured outline, where each point was supposed to build on the last and to support the speaker's argument. What you were supposed to "take away" from a lecture was a two-to-three-sentence summary of the speaker's argument. Otherwise, how could you prove that you had learned anything?
But I find that our lectures and classes and my daily experiences in the city often defy easy summarization. (What did I learn today? Where do I begin...) India itself -- its congested roads and twisted alleys -- seems configured to resist any straight and direct path. Most of us, even those who came to India with a specific purpose in mind -- to learn the sitar or to study Ayurvedic medicine -- find ourselves wondering whether it would be better to pursue any of a number of new interests that have sprung up only in the two weeks since we got to India.
While the meandering path is less certain and, in theory, more risky, it seems to lead pretty consistently to something fantastic. Like one afternoon when Sylvie and I were walking through some of the alleys behind the ghats, with no particular destination in mind, and we suddenly came upon Lolarka Kund, a pool of water set some 50 steps below ground level. One of the oldest sacred sites in this, the oldest living city in the world.
Or, late one afternoon, when I poked my head into the temple on top of Assi Ghat.
I had been curious about the temple for a while, its massive stone spire dominating over the dozens of steps below. I figured I would take a quick look around and then go, but I found the main part of the temple locked behind a metal gate. A couple of old women were sitting on the floor in the vestibule, and they beckoned me to sit beside them. I took off my shoes and sat down, and from them I learned that the temple was dedicated to the goddess Laxmi. But neither of the women spoke much English, and as they turned back to speak with each other, I wondered how long I would wait before leaving.
Soon a third woman came, and unlocked the gate. The four of us stepped inside the temple, and I turned to the right and started to walk around the temple before I remembered something I had read once about it being sacrilegious to circumnambulate a temple in the counterclockwise direction. Was that for Buddhist temples or Hindu temples? I couldn't remember, but I figured it was best not to take the chance.
The women showed me the four minor shrines at the corners of the temple, dedicated to Rama and Sita, to Shiva, and to other gods. They offered me half a banana and some pomegranate seeds, and then poured a small amount of some reddish liquid into my cupped hands and motioned for me to drink. Remembering the story Christina told me about the students last semester who drank Ganges water and then got violently ill, I told the women I could not drink it. After some confusion, they decided I could pour it on my forehead instead.
Then they spread out a small rug in front of the main shrine and gestured for me to sit. One woman took out an instrument made of wood, shaped like a paddle and set with small cymbals like those on a tambourine. Another woman held a drum, and the third, the one who unlocked the temple, held a pair of small bells in her hand. She handed me an identical pair, and then the women began to play and sing.
Awkwardly I hit the bells together, trying to keep time as the women sang. Song after song, as the city grew darker outside, more women arrived and the rug became more crowded. I didn't understand a word they were singing -- whether they were asking the goddess for something, or giving thanks, or merely praising, I could not tell. As a white eighteen-year-old male, I couldn't have been more conspicuously out-of-place. But the women didn't seem to mind, and I sat on the edge of the rug, banging the bells together, watching.
After maybe a dozen songs, one of the women removed a flame from the central shrine and passed it around. I watched what the women did and mimicked them, passing my hand through the top of the fire and then touching my hand to my forehead.
After another song or two, it was over, and I followed the women as they filed out. As I walked back to my homestay, I thought about how fortunate I was to have come to that temple at that time of day, and how lucky I felt just to watch, just to listen.
When we sat down in the classroom that Friday afternoon, I expected to hear a rather straightforward lecture on ecology and geology and the like. Instead, our speaker, Krishna, began by listing all of the topics he could talk about -- from traditional gender roles in India to the sacredness of the Ganges to the reasons why Western science is like a religion -- and then asked us what we wanted to learn about. He told us he was a scientist at the University of Buffalo for several years before moving back to India to reconnect with his culture. Along the way he had picked up an intimate familiarity with the Western mind, so stubbornly "rational" and so ignorant about Asian cultures, and he knew exactly how to explain India to us in a way we could relate to. So for two hours we sat and listened, more attentively than any other classroom full of American students I have ever seen, as he explained to us why Hindus do not eat beef, and how the roles of men and women in rural India were different but not unequal. By the time he finished speaking, I felt I had learned so much -- although, none of it was what I expected to learn when I sat down for this "natural history" lecture.
In general, I find that whenever I ask a question in India, I get an answer that is totally fascinating but largely unrelated to the question I asked.
It took me a while to get used to the meandering way of speaking shared by many of those who have come to give us lectures -- a way that makes room for every interesting anecdote, that takes so many backtracks and diversions that it is often difficult to keep track of the point.
Because what is the point? What is the point of listening to someone talk? In high school I was conditioned to expect a speaker to have a clearly articulated thesis and a carefully structured outline, where each point was supposed to build on the last and to support the speaker's argument. What you were supposed to "take away" from a lecture was a two-to-three-sentence summary of the speaker's argument. Otherwise, how could you prove that you had learned anything?
But I find that our lectures and classes and my daily experiences in the city often defy easy summarization. (What did I learn today? Where do I begin...) India itself -- its congested roads and twisted alleys -- seems configured to resist any straight and direct path. Most of us, even those who came to India with a specific purpose in mind -- to learn the sitar or to study Ayurvedic medicine -- find ourselves wondering whether it would be better to pursue any of a number of new interests that have sprung up only in the two weeks since we got to India.
While the meandering path is less certain and, in theory, more risky, it seems to lead pretty consistently to something fantastic. Like one afternoon when Sylvie and I were walking through some of the alleys behind the ghats, with no particular destination in mind, and we suddenly came upon Lolarka Kund, a pool of water set some 50 steps below ground level. One of the oldest sacred sites in this, the oldest living city in the world.
Or, late one afternoon, when I poked my head into the temple on top of Assi Ghat.
I had been curious about the temple for a while, its massive stone spire dominating over the dozens of steps below. I figured I would take a quick look around and then go, but I found the main part of the temple locked behind a metal gate. A couple of old women were sitting on the floor in the vestibule, and they beckoned me to sit beside them. I took off my shoes and sat down, and from them I learned that the temple was dedicated to the goddess Laxmi. But neither of the women spoke much English, and as they turned back to speak with each other, I wondered how long I would wait before leaving.
Soon a third woman came, and unlocked the gate. The four of us stepped inside the temple, and I turned to the right and started to walk around the temple before I remembered something I had read once about it being sacrilegious to circumnambulate a temple in the counterclockwise direction. Was that for Buddhist temples or Hindu temples? I couldn't remember, but I figured it was best not to take the chance.
The women showed me the four minor shrines at the corners of the temple, dedicated to Rama and Sita, to Shiva, and to other gods. They offered me half a banana and some pomegranate seeds, and then poured a small amount of some reddish liquid into my cupped hands and motioned for me to drink. Remembering the story Christina told me about the students last semester who drank Ganges water and then got violently ill, I told the women I could not drink it. After some confusion, they decided I could pour it on my forehead instead.
Then they spread out a small rug in front of the main shrine and gestured for me to sit. One woman took out an instrument made of wood, shaped like a paddle and set with small cymbals like those on a tambourine. Another woman held a drum, and the third, the one who unlocked the temple, held a pair of small bells in her hand. She handed me an identical pair, and then the women began to play and sing.
Awkwardly I hit the bells together, trying to keep time as the women sang. Song after song, as the city grew darker outside, more women arrived and the rug became more crowded. I didn't understand a word they were singing -- whether they were asking the goddess for something, or giving thanks, or merely praising, I could not tell. As a white eighteen-year-old male, I couldn't have been more conspicuously out-of-place. But the women didn't seem to mind, and I sat on the edge of the rug, banging the bells together, watching.
After maybe a dozen songs, one of the women removed a flame from the central shrine and passed it around. I watched what the women did and mimicked them, passing my hand through the top of the fire and then touching my hand to my forehead.
After another song or two, it was over, and I followed the women as they filed out. As I walked back to my homestay, I thought about how fortunate I was to have come to that temple at that time of day, and how lucky I felt just to watch, just to listen.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
even in India
At about 2:30 on Tuesday I headed down to Asi Ghat, the furthest south of the ghats in Varanasi and the closest to our program house. Asi Ghat is one of the most popular of the ghats -- popular with the locals but apparently even more popular among Western tourists and truth-seekers. This was where we began our morning boat ride down the Ganges a couple of days ago. That day, each of us spent a couple of hours on a ghat of our choosing, and later in the afternoon, we went on a scavenger hunt around the Asi neighborhood. But in both instances we had stayed primarily along the fringes of the city and had not ventured into the tall, dark, narrow alleys for which the old city is famous.
I made my way to Dasashvameda Ghat, a very popular bathing ghat and the place where Lord Brahma, the creator god, allegedly sacrificed ten horses. Turning in from the river I found myself on a rather busy, broad paved road, filled with motorcycles and their honk-happy drivers.
I came to a temple compound, and, curious, turned into a narrow alleyway beside it. I followed the alley to its end and found myself in another alley, much busier and not much wider. Really, it seemed like I was in a different world. Buildings rose three or four stories on each side, dilapidated and peeling -- but it was amazing the builder would have devoted any effort at all to its ornamentation, since in the twilight of the alley and the press of the crowd it was impossible to stop and appreciate it. Really, to "stop and smell the roses" was not an option here, first of all because what you would have smelled you probably would not described as rose-like, but mostly because the movement of people (and even the occasional motorcycle) was relentless, and you had to be attentive, lest you lose your personal belongings or your balance. Shops occupied the ground floor of these rickety buildings, selling clothing, DVDs, fruit, everything. Stores were squeezed into a sliver of space on the side of the alley, or built into the ruins of once-imposing structures -- a testament to the capitalist spirit, I suppose.
A few turns and dead ends later, and I realized I had no idea where I was. Lost in the maze, but not particularly alarmed, I imagined the conversation I would have with my mother when I finally got her on the phone ("I hope you didn't go into any dark alleyways, honey." "Mom, every street in Varanasi is a dark alleyway."). The diversity of people in the streets was remarkable: women in saris of all colors alongside women covered in black, head-to-toe, as well as many wearing Western clothing a decade or so out of date. I was the only white face for as far as I could see in either direction, but I did not feel the least bit scared. If I was lost, I could always find my way to the Ganges and figure it out from there.
Finally I emerged out onto another busy, sunny street. The sun -- perhaps that could be my method of navigation. It was late in the afternoon, so the sun would be setting in the west. Wait -- I was in India. Did the sun set in the west in India? Yes, I decided. Even in India the sun sets in the west.
I oriented myself southward, in the general direction of Asi, and started walking. I was offered rides in rickshaws, silk scarves "for your girlfriend or mother" -- one particularly eager salesman followed me for several blocks before he finally let up. I was trying to shake off a second silk salesman when I found myself staring at a large red-and-yellow dragon on a pale blue background.
I tapped her on the shoulder and Sylvie turned around. Sylvie, Anna, Lily, and Claire were in the neighborhood shopping for fabric so that a tailor could make them Indian clothing. We shared a couple of rickshaws back to Asi, and as I considered the odds of running into four people in a sprawling city of millions, I remembered what Slade said, about how Varanasi was like the biggest village in the world.
After a couple of hours meandering through downtown, I really appreciated coming back to the relative quiet and airiness of Asi. It's starting to feel like home.
(P.S. If you're curious, check out the Yak Yak board on the Where There Be Dragons website to see postings from the other 11 students on my semester. Go to www.wheretherebedragons.com, click "Yak Yak" at the top of the page, and then select "Visions of India Semester" from the drop-down menu on the left, and select "Show All" from the menu that appears below it.)
I made my way to Dasashvameda Ghat, a very popular bathing ghat and the place where Lord Brahma, the creator god, allegedly sacrificed ten horses. Turning in from the river I found myself on a rather busy, broad paved road, filled with motorcycles and their honk-happy drivers.
I came to a temple compound, and, curious, turned into a narrow alleyway beside it. I followed the alley to its end and found myself in another alley, much busier and not much wider. Really, it seemed like I was in a different world. Buildings rose three or four stories on each side, dilapidated and peeling -- but it was amazing the builder would have devoted any effort at all to its ornamentation, since in the twilight of the alley and the press of the crowd it was impossible to stop and appreciate it. Really, to "stop and smell the roses" was not an option here, first of all because what you would have smelled you probably would not described as rose-like, but mostly because the movement of people (and even the occasional motorcycle) was relentless, and you had to be attentive, lest you lose your personal belongings or your balance. Shops occupied the ground floor of these rickety buildings, selling clothing, DVDs, fruit, everything. Stores were squeezed into a sliver of space on the side of the alley, or built into the ruins of once-imposing structures -- a testament to the capitalist spirit, I suppose.
A few turns and dead ends later, and I realized I had no idea where I was. Lost in the maze, but not particularly alarmed, I imagined the conversation I would have with my mother when I finally got her on the phone ("I hope you didn't go into any dark alleyways, honey." "Mom, every street in Varanasi is a dark alleyway."). The diversity of people in the streets was remarkable: women in saris of all colors alongside women covered in black, head-to-toe, as well as many wearing Western clothing a decade or so out of date. I was the only white face for as far as I could see in either direction, but I did not feel the least bit scared. If I was lost, I could always find my way to the Ganges and figure it out from there.
Finally I emerged out onto another busy, sunny street. The sun -- perhaps that could be my method of navigation. It was late in the afternoon, so the sun would be setting in the west. Wait -- I was in India. Did the sun set in the west in India? Yes, I decided. Even in India the sun sets in the west.
I oriented myself southward, in the general direction of Asi, and started walking. I was offered rides in rickshaws, silk scarves "for your girlfriend or mother" -- one particularly eager salesman followed me for several blocks before he finally let up. I was trying to shake off a second silk salesman when I found myself staring at a large red-and-yellow dragon on a pale blue background.
I tapped her on the shoulder and Sylvie turned around. Sylvie, Anna, Lily, and Claire were in the neighborhood shopping for fabric so that a tailor could make them Indian clothing. We shared a couple of rickshaws back to Asi, and as I considered the odds of running into four people in a sprawling city of millions, I remembered what Slade said, about how Varanasi was like the biggest village in the world.
After a couple of hours meandering through downtown, I really appreciated coming back to the relative quiet and airiness of Asi. It's starting to feel like home.
(P.S. If you're curious, check out the Yak Yak board on the Where There Be Dragons website to see postings from the other 11 students on my semester. Go to www.wheretherebedragons.com, click "Yak Yak" at the top of the page, and then select "Visions of India Semester" from the drop-down menu on the left, and select "Show All" from the menu that appears below it.)
Sunday, February 17, 2008
getting there
Were we in Asia yet?
It was before six AM in the Taipei airport, and everything was shiny. Stone floors, steel accents, windows, all polished to a high sheen, reflecting the greenish-white of the fluorescent lights, as if to put lie to the idea that Asia is a dirty, dingy place. It was gaudy and grating to eyes weary from thirteen hours of half-sleep in the bone-dry air of our flight from America.
We started an ocean away, in Los Angeles, at the Hacienda Hotel, a short drive from the airport. I had arrived the night before, February 8th, because my mom thought there might be snow and didn't want me chasing the group all around India trying to catch up. But there was no snow, and the rest of the group arrived, one by one, on February 9th.
The China and Himalaya semesters met up at the Hacienda that day, too, but soon we self-segregated into our respective groups. We went for a walk, figuring we'd have plenty of time to sit soon enough. We stopped at a supermarket and joked about a Dragons Los Angeles course, where it would be culturally-inappropriate for girls to wear any pants that went below the knees.
The hotel was hardly peaceful -- six lanes of traffic roaring by -- but as we sat in the courtyard of the hotel, warm and comfortable, I began to wonder, wouldn't it be better to just forget about this whole India thing and hang out in California for the next three months?
This is what India meant: resolving to deny that very real part of me that enjoys being warm and comfortable, that can't imagine life without hot showers, that likes to sleep late, sit on the couch, watch TV, go nowhere and do nothing.
Apart from the books I read and the gear I bought and packed, my main preparation for the three months I would spend in India was to sleep late and take lots of hot showers -- rest up and be comfortable while I still could. But a desire for rest can never be sated. You cannot store up sleep to counteract months of future fatigue. Past comfort is no comfort when you're uncomfortable.
The flight from Los Angeles took off at 11 PM and followed a curious route that curved over southern Alaska and far eastern Russia before turning south over Japan to Taiwan. But the route was irrelevant, since it was dark from the moment we boarded to the moment we disembarked. It was the longest night of my life. Somewhere over the Bering Sea we crossed the Date Line, and suddenly it was February 11th without it having ever seemed to be February 10th. I pondered the mysteries of time zones but found it easier to imagine I was a time traveler, miraculously two days into the future.
I was disoriented. And I wasn't alone in that feeling.
We settled in the coldest corner of the Taipei airport, us and the Himalaya group (they were also beginning their program in Calcutta) plus one of their instructors. We were finally in Asia -- but were we? The view across the vast tarmac was some low-slung buildings and scrubby trees under a gray sky -- nothing to suggest we were not in some typically ugly place in America. At times the airport filled with throngs of Taiwanese faces as planes arrived or departed, but mostly it was empty, cavernous, cold, and so very, very shiny. Shops sold Adidas, Nike, and iPods; the food court featured an Au Bon Pain, and a little further down, I believe there was a Starbucks. I got some fairly authentic-looking noodle soup.
Claire, Lily, and a couple of the Himalayans raced wheelchairs down the concourse to pass the time.
After eight hours in Taipei and a three-hour flight, we were in Bangkok's airport, a giant glass tube with a ceiling partly of fabric sails, filled with Caucasian tourists wearing tank tops and sunburns. I decided to forego the Burger King in favor of some pad thai. We had a six-hour layover in Bangkok but no comfortable place to wait. We settled on the cold stone floor and I tried to sleep, without much success.
About halfway into the flight from Bangkok to Calcutta, I awoke in a confused state of panic and profound unease. Perhaps it was partly because of the curried beans I had eaten on board, or the fact I had been cooped up in airplane and airports for nearly forty hours. But it was also because the moment I had dreaded for weeks was almost upon me: the moment I would step off the plane in India. When I would finally leave the climate-controlled cuccoon of Western technology for all of the dirt and disorder and discomfort of the developing world.
Why was I doing this? Why go to India when what I wanted, what I wanted, to do was stay at home?
One of the reasons I signed up to go to India was to experience the world as it truly is -- to understand and to see for myself how the majority of the human race lives, what they believe, think, and want. If, as Buddhists believe, suffering exists and the cause of suffering is clinging to an illusion that obscures the true nature of Reality, then how much greater of an illusion must we be living under if we refuse even to acknowledge the existence of that suffering and create for ourselves a microcosm of false peace, a still spot in the ocean while the rest of the turbulent world rages. In India, I hoped to more closely approach Truth.
We got off the plane and the air was cooler than I had expected. After passing through customs we met our leaders, Christina, Slade, and Bantu, and piled into taxis that looked like relics of the British Empire. Through a dense fog we sped into town, our drive honking as we approached each intersection, as if to announce his intent to violate applicable traffic laws. In the dark, the few trees by the side of the road were enough to suggest the jungle that this city once was.
We were in Asia.
It was before six AM in the Taipei airport, and everything was shiny. Stone floors, steel accents, windows, all polished to a high sheen, reflecting the greenish-white of the fluorescent lights, as if to put lie to the idea that Asia is a dirty, dingy place. It was gaudy and grating to eyes weary from thirteen hours of half-sleep in the bone-dry air of our flight from America.
We started an ocean away, in Los Angeles, at the Hacienda Hotel, a short drive from the airport. I had arrived the night before, February 8th, because my mom thought there might be snow and didn't want me chasing the group all around India trying to catch up. But there was no snow, and the rest of the group arrived, one by one, on February 9th.
The China and Himalaya semesters met up at the Hacienda that day, too, but soon we self-segregated into our respective groups. We went for a walk, figuring we'd have plenty of time to sit soon enough. We stopped at a supermarket and joked about a Dragons Los Angeles course, where it would be culturally-inappropriate for girls to wear any pants that went below the knees.
The hotel was hardly peaceful -- six lanes of traffic roaring by -- but as we sat in the courtyard of the hotel, warm and comfortable, I began to wonder, wouldn't it be better to just forget about this whole India thing and hang out in California for the next three months?
This is what India meant: resolving to deny that very real part of me that enjoys being warm and comfortable, that can't imagine life without hot showers, that likes to sleep late, sit on the couch, watch TV, go nowhere and do nothing.
Apart from the books I read and the gear I bought and packed, my main preparation for the three months I would spend in India was to sleep late and take lots of hot showers -- rest up and be comfortable while I still could. But a desire for rest can never be sated. You cannot store up sleep to counteract months of future fatigue. Past comfort is no comfort when you're uncomfortable.
The flight from Los Angeles took off at 11 PM and followed a curious route that curved over southern Alaska and far eastern Russia before turning south over Japan to Taiwan. But the route was irrelevant, since it was dark from the moment we boarded to the moment we disembarked. It was the longest night of my life. Somewhere over the Bering Sea we crossed the Date Line, and suddenly it was February 11th without it having ever seemed to be February 10th. I pondered the mysteries of time zones but found it easier to imagine I was a time traveler, miraculously two days into the future.
I was disoriented. And I wasn't alone in that feeling.
We settled in the coldest corner of the Taipei airport, us and the Himalaya group (they were also beginning their program in Calcutta) plus one of their instructors. We were finally in Asia -- but were we? The view across the vast tarmac was some low-slung buildings and scrubby trees under a gray sky -- nothing to suggest we were not in some typically ugly place in America. At times the airport filled with throngs of Taiwanese faces as planes arrived or departed, but mostly it was empty, cavernous, cold, and so very, very shiny. Shops sold Adidas, Nike, and iPods; the food court featured an Au Bon Pain, and a little further down, I believe there was a Starbucks. I got some fairly authentic-looking noodle soup.
Claire, Lily, and a couple of the Himalayans raced wheelchairs down the concourse to pass the time.
After eight hours in Taipei and a three-hour flight, we were in Bangkok's airport, a giant glass tube with a ceiling partly of fabric sails, filled with Caucasian tourists wearing tank tops and sunburns. I decided to forego the Burger King in favor of some pad thai. We had a six-hour layover in Bangkok but no comfortable place to wait. We settled on the cold stone floor and I tried to sleep, without much success.
About halfway into the flight from Bangkok to Calcutta, I awoke in a confused state of panic and profound unease. Perhaps it was partly because of the curried beans I had eaten on board, or the fact I had been cooped up in airplane and airports for nearly forty hours. But it was also because the moment I had dreaded for weeks was almost upon me: the moment I would step off the plane in India. When I would finally leave the climate-controlled cuccoon of Western technology for all of the dirt and disorder and discomfort of the developing world.
Why was I doing this? Why go to India when what I wanted, what I wanted, to do was stay at home?
One of the reasons I signed up to go to India was to experience the world as it truly is -- to understand and to see for myself how the majority of the human race lives, what they believe, think, and want. If, as Buddhists believe, suffering exists and the cause of suffering is clinging to an illusion that obscures the true nature of Reality, then how much greater of an illusion must we be living under if we refuse even to acknowledge the existence of that suffering and create for ourselves a microcosm of false peace, a still spot in the ocean while the rest of the turbulent world rages. In India, I hoped to more closely approach Truth.
We got off the plane and the air was cooler than I had expected. After passing through customs we met our leaders, Christina, Slade, and Bantu, and piled into taxis that looked like relics of the British Empire. Through a dense fog we sped into town, our drive honking as we approached each intersection, as if to announce his intent to violate applicable traffic laws. In the dark, the few trees by the side of the road were enough to suggest the jungle that this city once was.
We were in Asia.
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