A Monk and a City

So I officially should resign my blog-ship because I am the worst blogger ever. BUT I'm officially back in Bodh Gaya and ready to go. There are three moderately huge things to cover that would each typically deserve their own post, so I'll break them up one by one to avoid the massive blob of all things India that have happened over the past couple weeks.

Ordination:

 Every year, Antioch allows its students on the program the option to ordain as Burmese monks in the Theravadan tradition for a week. Two weeks ago, I did it.

Out of the 36 kids on the program, 10 guys and 7 girls ordained, which involved a shaving ceremony and a robing ceremony, and the next day, we went out to the river to dump our hair. In addition to the 5 precept we were already following (no lying, killing, sexual misconduct, stealing, or intoxicants), we weren't allowed to handle money, eat after 12:00, wear perfumes or ornamentation (watch included), sleep on high or luxurious beds, and sing, dance, or entertain excessively. Every time we sat down, we had to layout a seat cover, which we always carried for us. We were never allowed to be out of our robes, and we were supposed to sleep and shower in our one pair of under-robes. I kind of broke the shower rule: no bucket shower can be that strategic. We went first in line at all of the meals and sat closest to the teacher in class. We never sat next to the nuns, and in a perfect world, a male layperson would sit next to the monks so that a woman never would.

In the evenings after meditation, we had honey lemon water with U Hla Myint, our Theravadan teacher who was ordained for twenty years before he got married and disrobed. Oh my GOD, the honey lemon water was fantastic. After the ten of us downed a bottle of honey the first night, the women in the kitchen started mixing it in so that we didn't have the chance to destroy their tea table with massive amounts of sticky deliciousness. That was easily my favorite part of ordination.

Since it's been a while, here are a few entries from my journal:

September 17, 2012
"So it's my first full day of being an ordained monk, and I thought it would be best to write down my reasons why I decided to ordain so that, at the end of my time, I can see if the reasons were reflected in my experience and how they had changed or adapted.

Going into it, I couldn't really think of a reason not to. This was an incredible experience that probably won't come around again any time soon, and what did I have to lose? A few dinners? The little hair I had? A week of my life? It seemed like I would be trading virtually nothing for the strong possibility of a something.
The problem is that I don't know what that something is. Originally, the idea was that by giving up food, music, and money, I would disassociate myself from the everyday things we hide behind. I am not my clothes, my hair, or anything else. By having nothing, I would have only myself and my thoughts, and maybe, just maybe, I'd find out what I am.

It's a great idea, and I appreciate the novelty, but I didn't associate with any of that any way. I still feel like me, just a robbed and balder version. It makes me wonder what I do associate with, what sacrifices I could make to really challenge my concept of identity. I guess there's always the option of giving up more. But I don't think that's necessary. What I have left is my fan, Western toilet, breakfast, lunch, and cold showers. I've already left home and left college, including the family and friends that are still there, waiting. The people and things in my life are representations of who I am, but I realize that the person I am is something distinct from that. I may have new clothes, customs, and a new name, but in the end, nothing has changed."

**Fun fact: my monk name in Pali is "Dewennda," which is translated as "celestial king." Things worked out well.**

Thoughts from others:

"I feel like I'm ignoring some parts of myself (singing, dancing, expression) in favor of others. I just don't know what those are yet" (Evelyn)

"Up till this point, we've always been looking at the system (caste, gender, etc.), and we've been outside of it. I might not like something, but it doesn't really matter because I'm Western and it's not really my life. It's hard because now, we're a part of it, and we haven't done anything for our position in it" (Claire)

"The idea of ordination was for us to enter into and understand a social framework other than our own, but even though we're technically in it, we're still not operating in it. The system runs on ideas of karma and reincarnation, and if we believed, you guys (the sangha) would be holy people. But to us, you're just our friends. All we see is this new, unfair hierarchy" (Michelle)

"I know that a bunch of laypeople are kind of upset because we didn't choose to be part of this, but we still have to be. We didn't ordain, we didn't want to be different. So why are we being treated differently?" (Chris)

September 18
Maybe there is no difference, and maybe that in itself is different enough.
The entire idea of Buddhism is non-attachment , the shedding of conventional identities and distinctions to recognize that there is no "Joe," no "man," let alone no "monk." I wear these robes to signify the sacrifices I've made in search of enlightenment, but they are not me. This undeserved stratum in society is not mine.
At their barest qualities, Joe and Dewennda are no different, and both are still bound to this world of suffering and mortality. Change my name, change my clothes, but none of that changes the truth. None of that changes me.

Theravadan Buddhism:
This is for all those Ahmuricans out there who know as little about Buddhism as I did coming here. Keep in mind, this is a super Meditation 101 outline, and there's a lot of theory, philosophy, and practice that people have written books about. This is just for a blog, and thus, you have me.

For the past month, we've been working on the Theravadan tradition of Buddhism, often considered the most classic and stringent school...and rightly so.

The first meditation style we learned was Samadhi, concentration or tranquility meditation. We sat for about half an hour early in the morning and later in the evening with our legs crossed, and on ambitious days, in a half-lotus position. The meditator focuses solely on the nostril, the gateway of the breath. In. Out. In. Out.
If his mind drifts, he brings it back into the breath. If he is in pain, hot, or both, he brings it into the breath. And when the mind is filled only with the awareness of breath, it is too full, too focused to allow any defilement.

Metta is tranlated as "loving kindness." At the end of each evening meditation, we are to foster a sense of well-being and let it emanate outwards from ourselves into the world. Each phrase below is repeated twice, but we are supposed to also keep it personal and not get caught up in the labels.
    1. There are beings frightened or not frightened. May they be well and happy.
    2. There are beings visible or invisible. May they be well and happy.
    3. There are beings living near or far. May they be well and happy.
    4. There are beings having more rebirths or no more rebirths. May they be well and happy.
    5. There are beings tall, short, or medium. May they be well and happy.
    6. There are beings big, small, or medium. May they be well and happy.
    7. There are beings gross, subtle, or medium. May they be well and happy.
(I'm really hoping I'm not gross or subtle....and I'm still not sure why they're opposites).

Vipassana means "wise seer." Back in the day, one spent years on Samadhi meditation and mastered all of the jhanas before he began Vipassana, but there has been a recent movement in the tradition that made Vipassana much more accessible to the common person. Hence, we're allowed to practice, capable or not.

Basically, the meditator is supposed to watch his body. Sensations, thoughts, and desires arise in the mind, but he is not to make any kind of judgment. Just watch as they come, and eventually, as they go. When the power goes out and the fan dies, he notes "hot, hot." When his nose itches, he notes "itching, itching." And when it passes without a response, he returns his focus to the rising and falling of the abdomen.

For the first half an hour, we walk. We find a straight line about twelve feet long, and we focus on the lifting, moving, and placing of each foot. We walk very slowly, paying attention to the pressure of each footfall, the movement of energy carried in each step. And it's about five times easier to stay awake...not that falling asleep isn't possible. Trust me.

By realizing that all things come, last, and go, we are to realize that nothing is permanent and that everything is in a constant state of change. We cling to things in this world that are bound to fade and leave us reaching after something that wasn't ever there to begin with. This is why people find Buddhism pessimistic, but it's also why people find it liberating. I would write more about it, and I probably will in the future, but after four weeks of meditation, philosophy classes, and complete immersion in this religion, I'd much rather step back right now and take a nap.

Varanasi:
Varanasi is "the city of lights," the oldest surviving city in the world after 4,000 years, and the site of the Buddha's first sermon after enlightenment. And it was a hella good time.

The train ride began like any other, with some good conversations and games of Go Fish, Spit, and Egyptian Rat Screw. Then things got strange in all the good ways possible.
Ben YH was passing a bench with a woman playing a flute. He told her that her playing was beautiful, and she invited him to sit down with her and her posse. Turns out, they were a band heading to a concert in Calcutta, and ten minutes later, the entire car was full of music. They busted out their instruments, we busted out ours, and it was a solid two-hour jam session. For so long, we have been inundated with cautionary tales of travelers. Every one waiting outside the gates of the vihar had a hidden intention. I was white and I had money; they were Indian and they were trying to get it. The line was drawn.
But in that car, we erased it.

The next day, we woke up at about 5:45, rented out a boat, and watched the sunrise over the Ganges. There were no brilliant bursts of light, no choir of hallelujahs arising forth from the river. It was much more subtle. Slowly, light blues and pinks crept into the horizon, mixing with the heavy dust to blur the colors into each other like chalk on a sidewalk canvas. The sun was a round and distinct red, but it was deep and dull, seemingly incapable of lighting up the world, but somehow doing it any way.

After a terrible breakfast of tasteless cheese and maple-sausage coffee, we went shopping for silk in the Muslim Quarter. The silk shop owner was incredibly kind, giving us chai masala and talking for about half an hour about how authentic his shop was. An hour later, we found ourselves at Gateway Hotel, only the snazziest hotel in town, for lunch. Apparently, the chief minister was coming in the next day, so security was pretty tight. But one of the guards gave each of us a caramel candy, so all was right in the world. An average meal was around 500-600 Rps, which is roughly $10-12. I spent 225 Rps ($4) on a mango lassi that I will never regret. Later that night, there was a beautiful concert with two musicians at a nearby hotel, but after a long day, I have no shame in saying that I totally fell asleep. Oops.

That Saturday, I slept in for the first time since I can remember, waking up at a whopping 7:30. After a plate of chocolate pancakes and a pot of tea, we were on our way to the cremation ghats. Pictures not allowed--and not wanted--so we left our cameras in our pockets as the priest of the ghat explained the process of dying in Varanasi.  When someone dies, they bring the body to the ghat and wash the body in the river. After it dries, it's ready for the pyre. The closest relative (oldest son, husband, dad, etc.) shaves his head and bathes in the Ganges also, dressing in white for the burning. Women aren't allowed into the ghat in fear that, lost in grief, they will toss themselves onto the fire. Hey, when in Rome.

It was really strange being there. I knew that under those six piles of wood, there was a body being slow roasted for hours on end. I knew that the strange object sticking out from the logs was a leg, singed and deformed in the heat. But it didn't seem real. There was no smell (thanks to the type of wood), no crying, and no body. It was surreal, and I left soon after, unable to feel anything and not wanting to.

Round 2 consisted of lunch at Brown Bread cafe, and three fantastic cheeses and breads later, we were on the road again. We picked up some candies at a supposedly renowned sweets shop and a chocobanana muffin at Open Hand cafe. Then, we were just in time for a Bollywood movie. Bollywood. Everything you imagine it being.

That night, we ate at Ashish (because we obviously hadn't eaten enough). It was a local but fantastic Indian place where we sat cross-legged on a mat with a small tea table for the food. I got the special thali, and unlike the vihar, they spared no spices.


My time at Varnasi was mainly spent eating, shopping, and driving, like any good tourist. But it wasn't about what I was doing as much as it was about who I was doing it with. In the hotel, we met a guy on a Ford fellowship doing research on the Tibetan people in exile/education system in Dharmsala named Patrick. Then, at the same hotel, we ran into Grant, who was an alum of the program two years ago, and his friend Lilly. With a spattering of other guest appearances by girls enrolled in a four-year international college majoring in Human Trafficking and Prostitution, and another who was designing a filtration system for the runoff water in a ghat that can be used for agriculture, we had a fantastic time. After meeting these people and hearing their stories, I can't imagine not coming back here. Once upon a time, three months seemed liked forever, but this is an entirely new world. I'm only scratching the surface.

The Power of She(va)

I can't really say any of this from personal experience, but from the outside looking in, it seems really hard to be a woman in India. Hundreds of societal expectations, none written down in a "How to Survive India" handbook, guide every step and frame every sentence long before you do or say anything. There is an image of modesty and appropriateness that is always looming, always embedded as a subconscious standard of dress, language, and anything else under the sun...and it's a standard the men don't have.

Is it fair? Oppressive? I'm not really in a position to say. But as far as rural India is concerned, all I know is that it is. And it has been for a very long time.

We, as Americans, are walking into a culture with thousands of years of history, traditions, and customs that aren't going to change in the next three months. It's different, and it can be hard- but fighting isn't much of an option. All we are left to do is put aside whatever our definition of "equality" is and try on these new ideas, to live the life we came to experience.

First of all, I want to give credit to all the girls on the trip. They are the ones who have to make sure their salwars are covering everything above the ankle, who keep walking as the local men take pictures from a distance, and who are constantly shadowed by the stereotype of the Western woman: sexually available to all.
        Dancing or singing in public? Prostitute.
        Making direct eye contact with a man? Prostitute.
        Smiling (suggestively?) ? Prostitute
We have a severe lack of prostitutes on this trip, and I really respect the women here who have the patience to maintain that image, no matter how frustrating it can be.

Secondly, I would like to give credit to the Indian women who, although not the head, are the heart of this country.
They may have the same standards held above them, but there is no compromise. These women watch their own steps, and each one has purpose, power, and dignity. What they do to regulate and restrict themselves isn't out of shame, it's out of a desire to preserve and protect who they are as women.

During my time in Delhi, I found myself at Gandhi Smirti, the place where Gandhi was assassinated. Among all the monuments that commemorated India's movement towards independence, there was a room right in the middle full of the women who made all the difference. My favorite was Rani Gidalu, the "Joan of Arc" of the Nagaland who led a force of 4,000 volunteers in guerrilla warfare against the British. She was 17 when she was captured and tortured. But she gave them nothing until India was officially declared independent...over a decade later.

An example a little closer to home is Sister Molini, a Nepalese nun and one of the three Samadhi meditation teachers here at the Vihar.
Growing up in a home with eight other siblings, her family couldn't always afford clothes. When she went to school, she would put on the uniform light green lungi and one of her dad's old military shirts. When she was 12, her mom got sick, forcing Sister Molini to drop out of school for the year to care care of her. Against all odds, she went back to school, and with the help of state scholarships, graduated law school in her early twenties.
A few years later, she was in an accident that left her in the hospital for three months. During that time, someone donated a book that crossed her bed and changed her life: The Life of the Buddha.

"Everything that's happening, you do." -Sister Molini

 She realized that she was angry. Angry at her father for not being able to provide for her and her sisters and angry at her mother for holding her back from an education. But ultimately, she realized that her life was her own. The best way to take control, to change her life, was to become personally and intimately involved with the teaching that had set her free and to become a nun.

31 years later, she began an orphanage for girls thrown out of human trafficking, typically because they had contracted HIV. The girls are kidnapped at around 6 years old, and by the time they find their way to Sister Molini, they are no older than 13. These seven girls were taken from their home, violated, plagued with a disease that will haunt them for the rest of their lives, and tossed out with no where to go and no one to care. Sister Molini gave them a bed, a meal, and a hope for something better.

These women I have met in India are stronger than I can imagine. They may not talk to me, but they definitely have a voice. Humility may serve its purpose, but the moment that a woman's family and the life she loves are threatened, there are no holds barred. Hell hath no fury, and it be best that men don't forget.

I Am Here.

I am here.
It's a simple enough sentence, but it's one that I'm only beginning to really understand.

Delhi was an extremely fast city, a constant flow of beggars, rickshaws, and buses working their way around each other like a puzzle with ever moving pieces that always seem to fit but never seem to finish. So we learned to move with it, caught somewhere in the stream of venders, restaurants, and marketplaces. We learned to waved away beggars while waving down tuk tuks and to haggle, to never take anything at face value. Here, everything is a lot deeper and more intricate than what it first appears to be.

Every temple I've been to so far, whether Buddhist, Sikh, or Muslim, has been ornamented with gold, silver, and a deep sense of serenity. But just outside is the immediate reality of the beggars and their place in the hierarchy of India. Broken men with crippling deformities are forced to walk on all fours; women, hunched against the weight of their years, quietly tap your shoulder, searching for a little bit of food, a little bit of money, or a little bit of humanity to touch her own; children paint fake mustaches above their lips and perform, doing flips and tricks as a man from their syndicate watches from a distance and waits for the money they make.

We are told that as Americans, as white people, we are beautiful. Even further, we are heroes. But who are we saving, and what are we saving them from? To become a student of Buddhism, I had to let go of everything to take on nothing. But thousands of people wait on the street day after day and beg to hold on to just that: nothing. No one can save what they can't touch, and these are the untouchables.

 

There is no change in sight, no hope for a life different than the one they have now. They aren't looking for an answer or a solution that will deliver them from their caste. But still, they look at us and our blue eyes, pale skin, and money pouches. And they know they will never have it. They aren't looking for a different life- they're looking to see if one exists.
When I look at the stars, I know that I will never reach them, but I don't care. The knowledge that a man has walked on the moon and that NASA has sent drones to explore and chart far-off planets is enough. I don't need to leave where I am, but I do need to know that something else, something more, is out there. I guess, in that way, I can understand the beggars. I can understand the stares from around corners and across streets. I can understand the giggles and whispering as I walk by. I have done nothing to deserve any attention at all...nothing more than simply be there. Simply exist.

But now I'm in Bodh Gaya. I'm here.
For the first few days, I listened to everyone else's "aha" stories, those moments where it hit them that they were halfway across the world eating different foods and wearing different clothes, and that we weren't leaving any time soon. I didn't have that moment, and I was getting frustrated.

Yeah, I ate all the same thalis and dal, for better or worse. I dodged the same cows in the streets, looked at the same fabrics, and I sat there under the same bodhi tree where the Buddha was enlightened over 2,000 years ago. Yet no eureka, no overwhelming sensation that screamed "I'M IN INDIA!" Nada.
I was seeing, hearing, and walking Bodh Gaya, but I wasn't feeling it at all. Faced with all that "here" had to offer, all I had expected and all that surprised me, something was missing. Last night sitting on the roof of the Vihar, I realized that I was.

That sounds stupid to say, especially to write out, but it makes sense to me. I came to India with the purpose of simply seeing what was here and taking from it what I could. But the difference between seeing a place and living there is that living is a two-way relationship. You bring everything you are and invest everything you have in the place you call home, for no matter how long. I came to observe, but it's impossible to stop there. I (with everything I am) live (in every way I can) here (with everything that is). Suddenly, it's not that simple of a sentence.