There's No Place Like Home

It was a few weeks after we arrived in India. I was sitting in the back of a rickshaw, squeezed between Reid-ji and Willy. I put my arms around their shoulders for the sake of friendship and space. In front of us, a faint beam of light peered through clouds of dust, casting the night in a dying yellow and a dull brown. We had just had dinner, but I don’t remember where. We should go home, I said over the horns and “hello, friends!” coming from the streets. Florida was a world away, and Galesburg was just a bit farther. No, I wasn’t thinking of them at all. I was thinking of a white hallway, a burning stick of jasmine incense, and a daybed. I was thinking of a monastery.

In that moment, I was thinking of home.

Over half a year later, I’m in my dad’s living room wearing only a pair of old boxers and a Homecoming shirt from high school. Needless to say, things have changed.

A small recap of my readjustment: the first time I bowed to someone in London, I didn’t think twice. The second time was in Barcelona, and I tried to make it look like an awkward wave and laughed it off.

The bike lanes in Europe confused me, and fixed prices were frustrating, especially when the conversion rate worked overtime to destroy my checking account. Now, I’ve reached an inner peace where I can buy a $7 sandwich and not physically assault the Subway worker over and over again in my imagination. Welcome back to the West.

When I stepped off the train into Galesburg, it was like India never happened. Uncle Billy’s bakery was still a few doors down on Seminary (delicious as always), and there were small patches of snow that marked Illinois’ early attempts at winter. I walked down South Street, got my keys from KPD, and ten minutes later, opened the door to my apartment. Without further ado, life went on.

Winter term passed in a familiar flurry of observation hours, Carl Sandburg, and candlelit pledge meetings. I had my place, and I fit into it again perfectly. A long time ago, I had to let go of Florida, family, and friends and go to college. Then, I had to let go of Knox to study abroad. Now, I have to let go of India and return.

No street vender is going to sell me a veg samosa, and if I end half of my sentences with “tik,” people will start wondering why I joined the wrong fraternity. Galesburg is not Gaya, and no amount of rabbit feet or shooting stars is going to change that. But after three years, this small midwestern town has become my home too, and that is all I could ask for.

The beautiful thing about a home is that it is always there. Of course, every year there are new students, new professors, and new cereals in the Fat Cave. Change is inevitable, but so is consistency. Whether it be a year or a decade from now, the sugar maples will still burst with red in the fall, and the faint smell of blooming magnolias will mark the beginning of spring. And I will remember.

Eventually, Odysseus sailed his way back to Ithaca, and Dorothy tapped her bougie heels back to Kansas.  In accordance with heroic tradition, I turned on Solitaire and watched as India disappeared down the runway. I left, and that is a reality I need to accept.

So this is my resolution: let go. A journey means nothing without the return home, and if India is to mean anything, it needs to mean something to who and where I am now. On some mornings before the sun rises, I take the pillows off my bed and sit half-naked with my eyes half-closed in meditation. My mala beads stay on my desk next to the alarm clock, and my notes from Robin Metz’s lectures mainly consist of Om signs and the lyrics to “Bloody Sunday” in Devanagari. Somewhere an ocean away, a Burmese vihar stands right where I left it. But what happened there is still embedded in my head and my heart. For that, I am incredibly grateful.

Maybe one day I’ll find myself on the streets of Bodh Gaya again, waving down a tuk-tuk and giving the driver instructions and a 20-rupee bill. Maybe not. Either way, for a small amount of time, I called a village in northeastern India my home. Some things never change.

The Non-Normal

Sometimes I forget that I'm in India. I forget to stand still and really, truly be surprised by where I am and what I'm doing.
I forget that what I see here day after day isn't, or wasn't, a part of my life a few months ago. In those moments that I remember, I see the rocky brown mountains occasionally interspersed with the dark green of trees. I see the craters left by development in the mountainsides, as if God was a three year old with a sledgehammer and a mission. I smell the dust kicked up by tires, hooves, and feet, the scent of deep earth and ash that permeates my clothes, hair, and lungs.

I remember that at home, I wear flannel and that I listen to my iPhone when I run. In the States, I didn't even wear a watch. Now, I don't leave my room without a kurta, mala beads, and my 10-rupee gold-foiled Ambedkar ring. I keep thinking that I've stayed the same throughout this trip, stayed "normal." Then I remember what normal was and how far from it I've gone.

Three months ago to the day, I was learning to read Devanagari script. The lines upon lines of scratched letters are still in my notebook, incontestable evidence that once upon a time, I knew nothing. My first word that I taught myself in Hindi was "phal," or "fruit." Although I'm still a few lifetimes from fluent, I can tell the difference between a street sign and a cave painting--and I call that a step up.

So, as all reflections must go, what does this mean for me, for my "normal"? What am I going back to, and who am I going back as? Those are big questions that might take more than a car ride to find out. But what I do know, or might know, is that there is no such thing as normal. When I go back to the land of flannel and fox squirrels, I will have at the very least an awareness of an Other. I will know that across the street and across the world, there are billions of equally valid and equally illusory "normals" that can change with a plane ticket and a pair of pyjamas. I left to see the world only to find out that there isn't one world to see. Yeah, I've been to India. But Thailand? Burma? the Congo? Europe? How many millions of experiences have I not had? How many normals have I never known as my own?

There is a giant looming mass of the Unknown that my visa doesn't cover, but it's not unknowable. At least, not completely. And maybe the knowledge that things can be different, that things already are different, is enough for now.

A Bollywood Recap

(I got exhausted while typing this. Heads up.)
I saw a Bollywood movie last night in downtown (?) Nagpur with Erin and Hanna, the two girls traveling with me. Now quickly think of all stereotypes attached to Bollywood and how ridiculous they would all be crammed in a three-hour movie. I saw it. And I had a movie-theater samosa to top it off.

Title: Jab Tak Hai Jaan (loosely translated: Best Movie Ever!)

Plot summary: Rich Indian girl in London is fated to marry a white dude, but falls in love with an Indian musician/waiter. But then he is hit by a truck, and she prays that if he lives, she promises leave him for the white guy. He lives, and she leaves. Super emotional. Really, though.

So he joins the Indian army as part of the bomb squad. Why the bomb squad? Rule one of Bollywood: don't ask questions.
Ten years later, a super hot, young journalist starts to report on the unit that he joined. By the end of her report, she falls in love. But he can't love her because he loves someone else far away from long ago. She returns to London to produce her piece, but her boss says that the man must come to London to corroborate the story. After begging him to return to London despite his history there, he comes. Day one: he gets hit by another car... yeah, it happened.

Naturally, he experiences retrograde amnesia, so he can't remember anything that happened between the two accidents, including the first woman leaving, him joining the army, and the news reporter that he came to London for. Oh my God!

Wanting to help, the reporter tracks down the first woman, finding her at her daughter's birthday party. But for the man, she agrees to meet him and pretend that they were never separated over the ten years. She brings him home, and they "live" together. But she, unable to live with the lie, calls it quits. Enter the reporter.
Pretending to do a report on his condition, she walks him through his life up until the first accident. But it didn't do much until there was a bomb threat on one of the trains. Suddenly, his past overcomes him and he enters 007 mode, disarming the bomb before it explodes.

Realizing that he had been lied to, he leaves the first woman (who had since revealed her undying love for him and that she had divorced her husband years ago). But it is too late for the reporter also, who had let him go for reasons I'm still not sure about. He returns to the army, but we are told that this bomb, his 108th, is his last. He is not scared to die, he is not backing down, but he wants to finally have a chance to live the life he's always wanted. In the last scene, he turns around and sees the first woman dressed all in white. He walks over and gives her a ring.
This is not a story about a hero. This is not a story about bravery. It's a story about love.

*Throw in a lot of music, montages, and sexually objectified women, and you've seen India at it's best.

From Jab Tak Hai Jaan: "Jiya Re"

Namaste from Nagpur

So this post will probably take me ten minutes, and it'll probably show. Be forewarned.

I'm sorry for not posting for the last few weeks. Life at the vihar was crazy with classes finishing, finals, and getting ready for ISP (Independent Study Period). As a testament to that, I stayed up until midnight and beyond...twice. Leave it to finals to make life in India feel like the good ol' American college days.

But now, I've officially said "bye" to Bodh Gaya, and after a four-hour delay and a 25-hour train ride, I'm in the wild, wild Western India. For the next three weeks, I'm going to be bouncing throughout Maharashtra, from Nagpur to Pune and finally, Mumbai.

But, first, here's a little context: the program funds each of us for a month of research on whatever topic we pick, anywhere in India. As long as it somehow relates to Buddhism and we aren't moving in with a drug lord, it's pretty much a green light. A lot of my friends went North to Sikkim, Darjeeling, Dharmsala, and in short, the Himalayas. For a while, I was going to kick back, study some Lecha folklore, and do the same thing. Needless to say, I didn't.

Part of me still wonders what it would be like to look out my window and see snow-covered mountains, wrapping my Tibetan shawl just a little tighter to keep the bite of winter at bay. What would it be like to switch out an endless river of daal and chapati with a plate of hot momos and a steaming cup of butter tea? Maybe I'll never know, but that was, and is, my choice to live with.

So why? Why hit up the cities of the South (really, West) instead of the breezy and beautiful North? Long story short: because I came to study Buddhism, and I wanted to do that in India.

This is by no means a knock on those who went North. I love them, miss them, and wish them the best. But when I close my eyes and picture India, I don't see the crisp peaks of the Himalayas. I see a street full of saris, slicked hair, and rickshaws in a constant dance of stopping and going, always fitting, always flowing as one. I smell a warm, buttery garlic naan roasting in a tandoori oven, and I taste the first burst of juice from a fresh orange. I hear Hindi broken up by broken English. That, to me, is the India I came to see, and years from now, it's the India I want to remember. So here I am.

Now, I'm studying the progression of Dalit literature and its representation of Ambedkarite, and thus Buddhist, ideals. I'm looking into the deep, dark, and dirty past of Hindu oppression and listening as those captive give rise to a new voice, one that hasn't been heard in centuries. These are stories, poems, and plays inherently angry, filled with pain and suffering that I couldn't begin to imagine. But they are also full of hope. Underlying each, there is a lingering potential for change, freedom, and expression. For generations, these people were "untouchable," branded by their society for sins from their past lives. No one would walk in their shadow, let alone touch them. They lived on the brink of civilization, always kept at a distance, always sick, always starving. But 60 years ago under the leadership of Dr. B.R. Ambedkar, they revoked karma, fate, and God(s). They found their humanity.

My Life be Like...

I've been wanting to write out a solid schedule of a typical day in the vihar for a while now, something that says "this is what a Tuesday is like."
I wanted to share with the world what my new "normal" was in India, but sadly, after realizing that I've been here for over six weeks, I still have nothing. Between the different meditation traditions, the papers, and the weekends on mountains, in cities, and at temples, there is no such thing as normal. A typical 9 to 5 day is just another myth of America.
Since my life is about to become a flurry of Tibetan meditation, Independent Study research, and Halloween (this Saturday!), I figured this is as close to normal as India is ever going to be for me. So here is a sketch, as loose as silk pajamas and as malleable as the cow poop on the street. But hey, it's something.

5:15 a.m.: A bell rings through the hallway. I ignore the first one, wake up to the second, and get up on the third. My kurta is draped over my bedpost, and I pull it over my head as I walk out the door. The yoga room is empty, with the exception of Ben, and we do some stretches to wake up. Yoga is notably harder in Zen robes or a man-skirt. Be warned.

5:30 a.m.: Meditation begins in the Buddha hall. Slowly but surely, India has gotten cooler, so the need to shoot daggers at Sensei as he closes a window or turns down the fans have disappeared. Each tradition has a distinct flavor, but not totally mutually exclusive. Whether I'm forming the mudra or breathing out white smoke and taking on the doubts of the world, it's still my mind. That never changes (....or does it?)

6:30 a.m.: I take my one plate and spoon down to the dining hall for silent breakfast. India is big into this idea that breakfast is the biggest meal of the day, and then they get progressively smaller throughout the day. Whatever.
All I know is that breakfast is always fantastic.
There's a pretty reliable cycle between cereal and hot milk, porridge with baked apples, toast and a fried egg with a Paula-Dean amount of butter, and a disgustingly enormous English muffin-esque thing that I will never know the name of, with a spattering of the occasional french toast day or crepe Sunday. On the table, there is butter, peanut butter, honey, and either mango, mixed fruit, marmalade, or strawberry jam.
On the side, there are bowls of palm sugar syrup, which is thicker and darker than maple syrup, flax seed, and sesame to taste. And as sure as the sun rising, there are pomegranate seeds. POMEGRANATE SEEDS! It's as if the deliciousness of fruity pebbles and the healthiness of Kashi made a beautiful Indian breakfast baby.

7:30 a.m.: Hindi class. Sometimes I play the game, "which do I know better: Spanish or Hindi?" And it's often a toss up.
I've decided that there's this giant blob of brain designated to "foreign language," and everything inside of it, Hindi or Spanish, becomes interchangeable, creating the wonderful language of Spindi.  Unfortunately, the bigger the blob gets, the more I forget English, effectively making me the most blundering, blubbering English Lit major ever. Such is life.

8:30 a.m.: Philosophy. What is philosophy? What is to think? Who is the thinker? Between Yogacara and chariots with wheels with spokes, I often walk away with a headache. Not a bad one, just one that makes me want to lie down for a long time and never think again.

10:00 a.m.: And the world is right again. Teatime.
On the beginning of this trip, me and tea had an unhealthy, possibly abusive relationship. The transition from trenta iced coffees to chai masala was a little too smooth, and one obsession became the other.
Also, there are these round coconut "biscuits" that they've stopped putting out because of its mass consumption and, layered with freshly ground peanut butter and a dash of salt, become the epitome of perfection. Once upon a time, I thought I'd lose weight here. Then I went to teatime. The end.

Favorite teas: lemon grass, cherry almond, rooibos with honey, mint, and chamomile rose

10:30 a.m.: Traditionally, this holy time is reserved for nap time, but there have been a few times when I've audited the Anthro class for an academic change of pace. Unfortunately, the nap-less me is a dysfunctional me, and most of the time, I cuddle up with my mosquito net and "meditate horizontally."

12:00 p.m.: Hindi Round 2, without the white board. Guarav-ji asked three assistant teachers to come in every day, split us up, and work with us in smaller groups for language practice. Vishnu-ji, Shanti-ji, and Achina-ji each have their own accent, vocabulary, and teaching style.

1:00 p.m.: Don't get me wrong, lunch isn't bad, and when it rolls around, I've got my plate ready to go.  But it's not my favorite.
Daal (lentils) seems to be a lunchtime staple along with a side of beets in a variety of forms: chopped beets, shredded beets, beet and carrot salad. Indian yogurt is pretty good with a spoonful of sugar, courtesy of Mary Poppins, and I've mastered my phobia of grapefruit. (Editor's note: turns out it's really pomela. Phobia restored).
I've not no quarrel with lunch. It's enjoyable, it does its job, and we part ways as friends.

1:30/1:45 p.m.: Free time, which isn't really free at all. It's get-everything-done time. Whether I have to run to the bazaar for soap or Rajesh for some pants, this is the prime time.
Exhibit A. It's 2:50 and I'm downstairs in the bazaar interneting. If there's nothing to do, there's always homework. Always.

4:00 p.m.: Back to teatime. This is why I get fat.
A peanut-butapple (like a caramel apple with peanut butter), banana dripping with honey, or a slightly curried smiley-face cookie, and no Jenny Craig commercial can save my diet.

5:00 p.m.: Sitting, sitting, sitting. Sitting is form is emptiness. Tara is sitting on my head.

6:30-ish p.m.: Hallelujah, the gods are good. If it's not Madras Monday with some awesome $1 dhosas, which it is today, then we're chowing down some fried momos or panneer of any variety for dinner. Calyans is a hotspot, but I'm also good with Gautam's, Lotus, or Tirupati.

7:30/8:00 p.m.: Occasionally I do homework at my desk, but it's a severe rarity. The night before a test, a study group takes over the classroom and uses the whiteboard, marker courtesy of the library. Last night, our T.A. woke up to "I Hamesha Love You."
On a chill night, the library is a pretty great place to study, have some company, and read some books.

9:30 p.m.: After a quick, cold shower, it's off to bed.

Do You Believe in Magic?

Yesterday was a day of new beginnings.

First of all, it marked the official start of the second half of the term, and to celebrate, the entire vihar went into a spring (?) cleaning frenzy. Wet kurtas and saris hung out in the sun, dripping from the clotheslines lining the hallway, and the smell of Dettol saturated the air from mop buckets and bathroom floors. After the super official health inspector, aka our history prof, cleared each of the rooms, she gave my room a giant pink star for doing the best job. It's a point of pride.

Maybe more importantly, though, was the wedding.
Gwendolyn, the program manager who makes sure that we have electricity, running water, and pillows at least the majority of the time, got married to Adam, her boyfriend of four years, this morning. As an American couple who met in Japan and tied the knot in India, they decided to have the wedding be a dual Theravadan-Zen ceremony. Being international is a lifestyle.
Now, I had a lot of trouble understanding the concept of marriage within Buddhism because a lot of people do it... but it doesn't make sense.

It's not uncommon in a lot of Buddhist countries for the groom-to-be to ordain as a monk for three months before the wedding day so that he gain the spiritual understanding and leadership he will need as a husband and father. In the same vein, thousands of monks disrobe every year because of the classic boy meets girl and falls in love story. But there's still a "but."

I've taken a lot from Buddhism over the past few weeks, and I really can't express how grateful I am for this opportunity and how much I've learned about myself, India, and life as a whole. But in the end, Buddhism says that there is no self, and these concepts of "me," "you," and any relationship between the two are conventional, conceptual fictions. To reach enlightenment, one lets go of "me," "mine," and desire, freeing him or herself from craving, and thus, suffering. This is a super Buddhism 101 summary, and there's so much more to it, but I'm just trying to set the scene.

Now, it wouldn't be a realistic expectation for everyone everywhere to drop everything, shave their heads, and pick up some robes. The sangha (monastic community) depends on the alms of the laypeople for their food and shelter as they continue on their journey towards nirvana. In turn, the laypeople make merit that will enable them to be reborn in another life in a position that will allow them to ordain and reach enlightenment. Eventually.
But the underpinning thought is still there: live your life, fall in love, but know that ultimately, it's not real. So tonight, I went to dinner with Sensei, and he restored all of my faith in a chuckling, almost incomprehensible English. Buddhism says that there are two realities: conventional and ultimate. And the key part of understanding either is realizing that both are real. Nirvana is samsara, reality is delusion. Zen isn't about theory, labeling, or philosophy; it's about living. It's about the pure experience of reality, conventional or otherwise, and love can be a part of that.

"Marry You" by Bruno Mars

Admittedly, I'm caught in the throes of conventional reality. I get attached, I get hurt, and sometimes, I suffer. But I'm no where near giving that up.
From where I stand, I want to want. I want to be happy and enjoy the happiness that I have here and now. Whatever pain comes along the way is life, and it's worth it.

The wedding this morning was absolutely beautiful. Everyone dressed up (makeup allowed), Indian kids ran in, out, and all around the Mahabodhi, pilgrims crammed their way in to watch, and the nuns were taking an endless string of pictures. All was India, and all was right.
There shouldn't be a "but" in life or love, and something I've really enjoyed about meditation, zen especially, is the idea that everything just is. There is life, there is love. No questions, no hesitations.

"The question in Buddhism is with the 'I' and the 'you,' but the love? The love is real." (Katie, our TA)

I don't believe in fairy tales, but I do believe in magic. I believe in the ups, the downs, and all the beauty in between. Magic isn't in a lamp, ruby slippers, or all the fairy dust in the world. It's about coming home from a 9 to 5 to a cup of coffee, an advil, and a kid running up to the car door. It's about sitting out on the porch for a summertime sunset. Magic isn't extraordinary or supernatural--it's an everyday, mundane miracle.

The latest incarnation of Oedipus, the continued romance of Beauty and the Beast, stand this afternoon on the corner of Forty-second Street and Fifth Avenue, waiting for the traffic light to change." (Joseph Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces)

I'm not ready to give up on the story, and even if there's no palace, no wizard in the land of Oz, there is absolutely a happily ever after. And it starts today.

Myths of America

I've been out of the States for about a month now, but it feels like it's been a lifetime and more (which, thanks to rebirth, is totally possible). These are the things that, when I'm surrounded by cows and Sri Lankan pilgrims, I cling to like Oz or Santa Clause. These are the faintly remembered dreams of another place, another time that at this point might never have been real to begin with.

1. Air conditioning: India is HOT! There really isn't much else to say. A fan or a cool breeze are merciful gifts from God that faintly dry the constant streams of sweat dripping down my back. But to stop sweating completely? Over my dehydrated, sunburned body.
A magic machine that turns an entire room cold? Don't tell me lies.

2. Meat: Going 100% veg really hasn't been that much of an issue, and as someone who has had zero experience with Indian food, I'm enjoying the hundreds of ways there are to avoid eating animals. But sometimes, when I'm waiting for another round of buttered naan, I can't help but think of a bacon cheeseburger dripping with fat and barbecue sauce.

3. Black people: Thought I saw one guy today walking to the Japanese temple, but he was South Indian. The search continues.

4. Consistent electricity: There have been many light-less study sessions in the library spent not knowing whether it's worth the effort to go get my candle. And there have been even more meditation sessions that have been solely dedicated to sending metta to the fan. I firmly believe that a constant flow of power is impossible.

5. Cold milk: Earlier this trip, I was craving something cold. A milkshake, a smoothie... hell, an ice cube would have worked, which is also a myth of America. I almost cried when I saw cereal and a giant vat of milk at breakfast. I'm pretty sure I managed a few authentic tears when I sat down and saw steam coming up from my cornflakes. It was hot milk
 Honestly, it would almost be worth a few days over a toilet for a cold glass of 2% and a nice PB 'n J.

6. Jeans: I wore them in the States, I wore them in London, but now, my jeans are just decorations I put on my shelf a long time ago. The thickness, the stiffness... the pockets! Unbelievable. Now, I'm rocking some hardcore pajama pants...and that's on the days that I'm wearing pants.

7. IPhones: Complete and constant access to the internet anywhere, anytime. Want to know what the weather will be later? No problem. Lost? Don't ask a local in tragically broken Hindi, just ask Siri.

8. $10 meals: Last night, I went to a fancy Thai restaurant for some pad thai, and the bill was around 140 Rps., which is around $3 rounded up. That was an expensive night out. Tonight, for three dhosas, three mago drinks, and some chai: also $3. When a bottle of water is around 40 cents, the $5 footlong looks like a scam.

9. Midnight: I woke up at 12:00 a.m. once, and it was for a middle-of-the-night trip to the bathroom. My wake-up time is a pretty established 5:15 am, so falling asleep at 10:00 p.m. is a quick recipe for a very angry, never fun Joe.

10. Parties: going hand in hand with the nonexistence of midnight, my Saturday nights are more likely spent up on the roof looking at the stars. The Five Precepts and a 9:00 curfew have done a pretty good job of stamping out sin.

11. Multiple brands:
"I'd like some toilet paper, please."
"You're in luck! We have one of those."
"Thanks, India."

12. Set prices: Haggling has become a favorite hobby of mine. Since I'm white, I'm automatically a rich tourist in the eyes of all venders, beggars, and rickshaw drivers. If I don't work them down to at least half price, I'm doing something terribly wrong.

13. Washing Machines: No one who has a washing machine should have dirty laundry. Ever.
For the most part, I don't trust myself with my kurtas, pajamas, and lungis. Here, Dadai-ji (Grandmother) takes our nasty, sweat-soaked laundry, and in a few days, she comes back with a  pile of crisp, fresh, and ironed goodness. And it only costs about 120 Rps.
But when it comes to my boxers, tshirts, and workout pants, I go old school. The soaking, soaping, rinsing, and wringing take a solid 40 minutes to get it all done. Then a long day in the sun should finish the job. The idea that I could toss in clothes, taking about 2 minutes, and use those other 38 to sit back, eat some chips, and watch t.v.? Never will I complain again.