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.
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.
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