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.
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.
Joe: So glad you arrived safely. I follow the blog every day - what a great adventure it will be in a very quiet respectful way. You're in our thoughts and prayers. Love Grandma & Grandpa Steffen.
ReplyDeleteWhat a great gift. To be fully "in" a place. I think we fear extravagance- reckless abandonment to the the spirit. The wanton destruction of a jar of perfume. The unreserved pouring out of ourselves. Surrender. Thank you for the reminder that although it is not India, I have a place and a people to whom I can give my complete self.
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