Pictures from my Travels in India, Feb 14 2010 to August 9 2010

(With low internet speeds, you may want to open this web page, go make dinner or take a shower or something, and them come back and look over my adventures - loading all of these pictures may take a little time.

Also - almost all of these pictures, obviously, were taken by me, or by someone I gave my camera to. Some were borrowed from friends photo collections. And, while I was at some locations, it didn't occur to me to take a picture of the place/building itself - so I went back later, while putting this album together, and copied off of the internet pretty pictures of some places)





When I left South East Asia, I had a few more things that I wanted to do that I hadn't gotten around to - adventures around Chiang Mai, visit Wat Marp Jun monastery in Rayong Thailand, see Laos, visit a friend in Ho Chi Mihn City. But I made sure to get to India by mid-February so that I could meet up with my friend Anitra and her family.

Anitra was my housemate for five years, and is one of the people in the world I feel closest with. Her husband Freedom is rapidly becoming a friend, and their child Antara is my favorite kid in the world. Anitra has been practicing yoga, learning Sanskrit, and otherwise immersing herself in Indian culture for years, and Freedom has been studying and teaching the best of Indian culture for even longer. Freedom has lived in India part of the past ten years, and the Cole family spent the 2009-2010 Indian not-unbelievably-hot season (November to February) in Varanasi.

Tearing myself away from Thailand to meet up with them before they left was the right move. Like so many people, I found India immediately overwhelming, but having my India-experienced friends to meet right when I got there was invaluable to soften the shock. They gave me a mountain of helpful tips - like, when I first got there and about to step into a rickshaw, I'd be all, "Namaste and Jai Ram, Sir, yes, that seems like a fair price", and Freedom, standing next to me, would start laughing, tell me "He's trying to rip you off cuz you're a tourist - offer him one fifth the price", and then say something in Hindi to the guy to knock him back.

People warned me before I got to India. They said: traffic is insane, Indians drive along constantly honking, everything is dirty, cows wander on the streets, men pee along city streets, it's such a mix of people, it's the land of extremes. They said, it's an assault on the senses - a barrage of colors, beauty and ugliness, words, music, sounds, smells. Not much works efficiently, logically, predictably. People told me: nothing can prepare you. So, I took all their words to heart, and was ready for too much.

But, indeed: I was not ready. My first day, as I rode from the Varanasi airport into town, it was like the opening scene to ... well, it was like whatever that Star Wars prequel was that began with Obi Wan Trainspotting and Anakin Poutnik zipping through a space battle full of space fighters and just about space crashing into a whole space lot of them. My autorickshaw zipped all around what seemed like completely random traffic patterns, and about eight hundred times we headed straight for another vehicle going the other way before we or they veered off at the last second. Everything was hyper-real. It was all too much. I was all like, "You've got to be fucking kidding me. Really. This can not be really happening in real reality."

And after arriving at my hotel, putting down my stuff, and I went back down onto the streets, I was all like, "I can't handle this - this is insane - I need to get out of here." Before I got to India, people said there are cows in the street. Well, nobody told me that, in some places in India, there's cows (and water buffalo) everywhere in the street, doing, well, all the things that animals tend to do. For weeks, I regularly felt like I wanted to leave - it would just get to me - the crowds of pushy people, cows, mangy dogs, vehicle honking, people yelling, dirt and shit, open sewers, piles of nasty old garbage, rusting metal and crumbling buildings, things broken or barely working, public transit running late, power outages, slaughtered animals hanging on hooks, people staring, guys calling to me to shop at their store or ride their rickshaw, constant little scams and dishonesties.

People also kept telling me, just when you're ready to give up on India's dirty crowed pushy noisiness, you will notice how beautiful, graceful, fascinating, timeless, and ancient the whole thing is, or you find an oasis in the chaos that feels magical, or a local will reach out and do something kind, and you'll feel refreshed again. As people say, India has a mysterious and compelling heart that cannot be explained, only experienced. As most people in America know, Indian cultural achievements (cuisines, classical music and dance, traditional architecture, philosophy) are among the most sophisticated and impressive in the world. There is many thousands of years of exciting history evident in India, it is the cradle of Buddhism, the Vedas, yoga, and meditation, there is an ever-present sense of the sacred that continuously surprises a traveller, there are many sophisticated intelligent up-and-coming world-power people who are interesting to talk to, there is so much wonderful stuff like that. There is a moving sense in some parts of the country of seeing poor simple people with their traditions, dignity, and will to survive. And, of course, it's nice that the nation is so cheap to travel in. People said, you will come to love India, in such a deep way that you will not understand. You'll never believe it when you get there, they told me, but, the instant you leave, you will want to come back. And, yeah. That too.

I like this from quote from the travel web site Travel Independent

India: Miss at your peril - it's the 'highlight of independent travel' - However bear in mind: a lot of hassle, heat and long distances. Wow, here it is - the epitome of Asia and all travel. That love it / hate it thing that everyone speaks about. Yes, it's damn trying and hard work, but India has so much to offer on and off the tourist trail: English spoken, culturally/historically fascinating, good transport, cheap, and just plain brilliant. But take it easy and do a little bit at a time. This really is one of the few places on the globe you can still get serious culture shock and sensual overload. India really is just so much it's almost impossible to introduce and summarize, perhaps the only common theme is you'll feel like all your senses are being assaulted. It's hard to understand and explain just why somewhere so often dirty, hot, ugly and full of hassle has such an appeal. The answer lies enigmatically with it being often the exact opposite. There is just no way that it won't have an effect on you and if (like me and thousands of others) you leave after your first trip loathing it, you'll probably remember your visit fondly, and be back many, many times.

I spoze that an encounter with the unfamiliar and unpredictable is a big part of the spiritual benefit of travel - it shows (like in meditation) that what one formerly thought was an absolute of the human condition is instead relative. And allowing the strange experiences to make me bigger was a wonderful part for me of being in India.




WOW!ndia




There was a pasta restaurant across an alley from Anitra's family's apartment. It was perfect - big plates of delicious homemade pasta for about $2.50 - perfect, except for the massive clouds of flies. Anyway, here is Antara walking around the joint, looking for new phenomena to explore/play with/pull on/chew on/break/etc.




One thing I love about Antara is her dignity. She seems to know who she is and what she wants, and is almost never smiley-approval seeking, like many kids are




Make new friends, but keep the old




God save the Queen




The Coles paid for the private schooling of a bright early teen Indian girl named Bubita. Bubita was sweet and fun to talk to, and, yeah, really smart. But she also seemed to skip school a lot to make money for her demanding parents, by selling candles down on the ghats (the temples along the Ganges River). This put the Coles in a bind as to whether to continue to pay for her school.

As the months went on, I eventually got to know many Indians on a real level, as friends. But, when I first arrived in India, I mostly ignored Indians as I went about my day. They were mostly going about their daily lives, much of which I didn't understand. And for the many Indians (mostly men) who did step to me on the street ("Hello, my friend ..."), it was a bummer but I just assumed that whatever they wanted to talk to me about, I was probably not interested. But yeah many times a day someone would penetrate the wall, and then usually there was real sweetness. Especially, of course, the kids.




"Me too, mommy, me too."




Antara, with a pan man. Pan is a mix of sweet and bitter herbs that is used kind of like chewing tobacco. Many Indian streets, train stations, stairwell walls, etc have bright red stains from pan spitting.




Girl, meet geese. Geese, meet girl.




Freedom is one of the top Joytish (Indian-system) astrologers in the world (he's given lectures, taught classes, published books, etc.). He therefore seemed pleased to show Antara a display of different goddess figures, each representing a different planet.

That same afternoon, we stopped by a different temple, where some snaggle-toothed old bahkti-hearted dudes keep the kirtan odes to Ram going twenty-four/seven. Freedom sang along, I played cymbals and drum, and Antara chased her balloon around the room.

Speaking of music, just like Thailand, I was surprised how little Indians listen to Justin Timberlake, and how most of them almost exclusively listened to indigenous music. And Varanasi seemed to be a center for people to practice, perform, and learn traditional Indian music - sitar, tabla drums, serengi, voice, harmonium, violin, etc. It seemed like there was an Indian classical music concert somewhere in town pretty much each night I was there. Freedom took me to a few times to see some beautiful, complex, patient, ancient music being performed.




My cap was confiscated by the local authorities








Me n my homiez




I found traffic to be insanely chaotic all over India, but nowhere more so than in Varanasi




A view I had many times while in India: the back of the head of a rickshaw walla (a bicycle taxi peddle-man), as he propelled me down the street




I imagine over all of India that there are at least a million men, perhaps millions of them, working as rickshaw wallas. Some of these guys annoyed me with their aggressive attitude, but many of them, skinny, dressed in rags, and eager to work, I felt compassion and pity for.




Freedom and I went through Varanasi near the Ganges, and he took a whole bunch of pictures of me




























We were snapping pics of me in this doorway, and a gaggle of li'l cuties came running by








A bunch of people on Facebook have told me that they love this picture, the joy it brings them, which has felt good for me to read. The whole "Indian classical dance" posture was the munchkin in purple's idea. I was a little surprised - the rest of the girls immediately knew exactly what to do, as soon as purple-dress-girl suggested it.




































I find your lack of faith ... disturbing
















A few friends warned me that theft is out of control in India, but I generally felt safer on the streets of India than I do on the streets in many parts of the USA. It seemed to me that most Indians had an instinctive sense of ahimsa (non-harming).




























It is my understanding that, for a devout Hindu, being cremated in Varanasi next to the Ganges is like getting your own reality TV show would be for an American - boom, you win at life. Marnikarnika Ghat is the name of the main cremation ghat, and it is a whole overwhelming circus of bodies, colors, smells, con men, grieving relatives, tourists, etc. These pictures are at one of the smaller burning ghats.




















The next few pictures are of the ghats (river-side temples) of Varanasi, and I got them from the web. I am posting these pictures in part to remind myself what that place was like, and in part to show you that the Varanasi ghats have become a large part of the international iconography that people unconsciously think of when they think of India (along with, say, the Taj Mahal, tigers cobras and elephants, women wearing saris and men wearing turbans, etc).




























Devout Hindus travel from all over the nation to take a holy dip in the holy Ganges river in holy Varanasi city.

Sometimes while I was there I would see big tour groups of older folks, often with their heads shaved bald and wearing holy white garments, being shepherded and instructed in the ritual process by tour guides who seemed a little bit like con men, hustlers.

Indians used the Ganges river in Varanasi for many purposes, including religiously ritual dips and other devotional activities, daily bathing, doing laundry, and disposal of dead animals. Their immune systems were generally able to handle the river, but it wasn't safe for Westerners. The Lonely Planet says, what is considered safe, "clean" water is less than 500 fecal coliform bacteria per liter - but the Ganges in Varanasi is shit-filled - after ~200 municipalities upstream dump their sewage in it, it is at about 1.5 million bacteria per liter. It is ironic to me that this river, so symbolically "clean" to the Hindu mindset, is literally so filthy.




Laundry wallas doing their thing. They would slap the wet clothes hard against the concrete slabs, as a way to wring them out.

While in Thailand, I would often give my dirty clothes to guest house staff to wash. Once in India, though, I took on the habit of other Westerners that I talked to, and always did all my own laundry, in a sink or a bucket. I didn't want my clothes to come back to me stretched, ripped, soaked in river shit-water, or discolored (from being washed in a machine or bucket along with non-colorsafe Indian clothes).




Solar powered clothes drying




There was a hangout scene in my Varanasi guesthouse - guitars, beedie cigarettes (Indian farmer cigarettes, rolled in a leaf, cost about half a cent each), games, and late night bullshit sessions talking about traveling, Indian philosophy, home countries, etc. Here, I am out for pizza with some of the people from the scene. Alex, the Romanian dude in the yellow shirt and glasses, was the person I felt closest too.

India is tougher, less convenient, to travel in than is Thailand. Thankfully, though, that meant that, among traveling Westerners, there were fewer [frat n sorority / Spring Break / Eurotrash / douchebag] -type backpackers than in Thailand - travelers in India seem relatively more sincere, deep, and "spiritual."

Anyway ... one day, while eating with Anitra and Freedom at the same pizzeria as in the picture, I met a Venezuelan PhD physical anthropologist woman whose Italian boyfriend from six months earlier took a ritual dip in the Ganges, trying to have a local experience. But, boyfriend's European immune system wasn't ready for the reality of the river: he got an infection in his nose, it spread to his brain, and he was dead within a week.




Helping Stav the sweet Israeli girl from my guesthouse take her travel digital pictures off of her thumb drive, to get them burned to DVD. In accessing some files from my computer as part of the process, I discovered that the cyber cafe's computers were packed to the gills with scores of viruses, ready to hop onto anything stuck in their USB port. I came up with an analogy: my travel computer is to a girlfriend, as a cyber cafe computer is to a crack whore.




Buying oranges with the Israeli girls




"Hmmmm ... no, I don't know why they call 'em 'oranges' either"




The tall German guy in the white collared shirt was a professional magician. He did a bunch of tricks and some hypnosis on the Israeli girls and on the daughters of the Indian guesthouse-running family. I do not think it would have been possible for all of them to have been more hot for him. (yeah, I briefly considered a new career in the magical arts)




I do not think that I have ever been to any city where heart-felt religious ritual and meaning is so worked into the daily rhythm of life as much as it is in some of the places I was in India, say Varanasi and Rishakesh.

Here I am at a Durga temple in Varansi. They sent us tourists up to a roof walkway overlooking the temple, while crowds of Indians did puja (praying, offerings, and other forms of religious practice) inside the temple itself

Apparently, the Hindu temple that is considered the most important and holy in Varanasi is a one named Vishwanath (a different temple than the one in this picture). Muslims destroyed the original Vishwanath temple about 300 years ago, and modern Muslims keep trying to blow up the current one, so there are soldiers and metal-detector checkpoints all around the alleys that lead to the temple. When I got to the gate, solders pointed to a big sign that says, "Gentlemen not of the Hindu faith are requested to not attempt to enter the temple." But when I lifted up my shirt and showed them the tattoo of Avalokiteshvara Boddhisattva on my shoulder, they let me in - I guess Buddhism was close enough to Hinduism for government work.

I patently waited on line for my chance to do puja, but the li'l old dot-on-the-forehead grandmas in saris kept pushing me aside, madly scrambling to get up to the altar. Finally, a solder pushed me on the back, and I got the message - I started throwing elbows, knocking the grandmas aside, slowly clawing my way though the scrum so that I could pour my bowl of milk and flowers on the Shiva lingam. It felt weird to get physical like that in a temple, but soon all the rest of the pilgrims were smiling at me, the white boy joining in in their world.




The Durga temple again.

I have heard India described as a land of extreme opposites. One example was, there is a contrast between bright colors of the temples, religious posters, flower garlands, clothing, painting on trucks, etc., and the drabness of so much else.




Shaina, a beautiful yoga teacher from Washington State, who I met at a Kashmiri Shaivism (Hindu philosophy) lecture. She and I were walking along the ghats when a boy came up selling caged exotic birds. An owl was 300 rupees (about $7). Shaina said something like that owls were her power animal, and bought one, so that she could let it fly free. She wondered aloud for hours after that if she should have bought the other owl also.




To the my left, not visible in the picture, was a big terraced pit. The story was that Parvati, Lord Shiva's wife, dropped her earring, and that Lord Shiva dug the pit recovering it. Accordingly - LL Cool S.

If you ever visit Varanasi, I recommend walking along the ghats at all different hours of the days - early morning, late morning, afternoon, and evening (when the pujas happen). I wouldn't walk in the middle of the night, though - not safe.




Shaina and I went on a day-trip to Saranath, a ruined monastery and garden-park just outside of Varanasi. The monastery was where The Buddha spent much of his time. In this picture, I am at the two-millennium-old Dhamekh Stupa, which commemorates the spot where The Buddha gave his first teaching.

When we got to the stupa, there was a battalion of Thai monks (in tan robes) and lay people (in white pajamas) chanting. After my time in Thai monasteries, I found the sound of their voices both comforting and grating.




Me in The Buddha's main monastery (or, what's left of it)




Thai Theravadan monks and a Tibetan Vajrayana monk, reflecting very different forms of Buddhism, but both in Saranath to pay respects to The Buddha's legacy. Monks and priests from different lineages together was a sight I eventually saw at other holy sites in India, but was delightful for me when I first saw it .




A pre-dawn boat ride on the Ganges - one of the classic things tourists do in visiting Varanasi




"If you stare too long into the Abyss, the Abyss will stare back into you." -- Nietzsche

(In Soviet Russia, picture takes you!)




A boy rowed up, and I bought a li'l candle-boat from him. Then I lit the candle, I made a wish, and I sent the candle on its way down the holy river.




















A local skinhead tough guy

The swastika is actually an ancient good-luck symbol in Hinduism/Buddhism, and you can see it all around in India. It seems to have a totally different resonance for Indians than it instinctively does for Westerners.

Speaking of different cultural meanings, I noticed that we Western travelers in India seemed to do things that seemed to be rude by Indian standards. One example was Western tourists, men and women, wearing less clothes and showing more skin than is considered polite, in temples and on the street. Another example is Westerners being comparatively "demanding", expecting buses to arrive on time (i.e. not take hour long breaks for no reason, something Indians seem to accept with an alien sense of sanguinity). Another is ordering a meal just for ourselves, and then eating it, without offering to share. Another is buying a bottle of drinking water, and considering it exclusively ours, as if it won't be used again by someone else, wrapping our lips around the aperture as we drank. In India, the polite way to drink from a bottle of water is to hold it above your mouth and pour it in, without your lips ever touching the bottle.

In the hotel I stayed at in Mumbai, every day the staff took empty water bottles from tourists' rooms, filled them with tap water, and stacked them near the door. I presumed that they then gave/sold the bottles to poor folks on the street.

Indians, of course, also did many things that probably seemed to be fine by their standards, but were rude by ours sensibilities. Many of these acts might have come from many Indians growing up with less of a sense of personal boundaries than we have - being raised sharing a room with siblings, and in a house crowded with relatives.

I usually didn't mind when Indians stared at my computer screen while I was working. I disliked, however, when people would brush, lean, or push up against me without noticing that they were doing so, or, worse still, push against on my back in a crowd when if I couldn't go any faster (I think it was un-malicious in intent, but the worst thing in the history of life, ever, was people pressing their fists into my kidneys while crossing a crowded bridge). The ear-splitting honking that car and motorcycle drivers did, even when right next to me, was also annoying in about forty-seven ways, as was the way many Indians seemed to find it unremarkable to talk at full volume, or even yell, in the middle of the night (on a train, on a bus, in a hotel).

Something that brought nausea to me both in India and Thailand was the way people (mostly old men) would hock nasty loogies as loud as they could, often with an extended raspy throat clearing beforehand, in public, even inside restaurants. I also disliked how many people would just cough and sneeze out into the air, not even into their hands, much less into their forearm or inner elbow.




When I first got to India, seeing cows lollygagging in the streets was interesting/shocking/exotic to me for a while.

And while it was often fun to see big gentle beasts wandering around in the middle of everyday life, having them block traffic was less fun, and big cow shit slides all over the streets (and accompanying clouds of flies) was least fun of all.

Another thing you can see from the picture is my least favorite thing about India - trash strewn about carelessly, in cities and in the countryside.




India, the old and the new, mingling together




My friends of Indian ancestry in the US are all so refined, thoughtful, rational, and high-achieving, that, before getting to India, I was somehow under the impression that all/most/many Indians in the home country are like that. They're not.

Anyway, if you ever find yourself resenting what you do to make money, be glad that you are not one of the people who collects cow shit, forms it into patties, dries it in the sun, and sells it as cooking fuel




... or the guy whose job it is to pick up trash from the railroad tracks (toilets from the trains drain directly onto the tracks)




After I left Varanasi, I took a train to Bodhgaya, a town best known as the spot where The Buddha attained full liberation/enlightenment, after he sat all night under a tree in the middle of the open field. I expected it to be like Saranath, carefully manicured lawns and museums. But modern Bodhgaya is no longer that serene, 2,500 years later. Instead, it has paved streets full of the typical busy Indian overwhelm that I have become familiar with - jostling noisy crowds of people vehicles and cows, piles of garbage, people constantly coming up wanting me to buy something, crumbly buildings and homes, and even snaggle-toothed beggars wearing dirty rags and holding outstretched hands (which is actually a rare sight for me in India). I spoze that all makes sense, given that the tiny state of Bihar has more people in it (85 mil) than any EU country.

But Bodhgaya is also unusual for an Indian town, in that it contains relatively luxurious, air conditioned hotels and restaurants catering to international pilgrims and sightseers. Even more remarkably, it contains an amusement-park of temples and monasteries, different Buddhist lineages each seemingly competing to build more ornate, more peaceful, more hospitable complexes to represent their home countries (Tibet, Sri Lanka, Thailand, Vietnam, China, Japan, Bhutan, etc).

This is a picture at the Tergar monastery, belonging to the Karmapa Tibetan Buddhist lineage.

(see this link for an entertaining essay I wrote about my time in Bodhgaya, and the days right after I left there)




Me and some li'l lamas




At the Tibetan "Karma Temple"




Christine, a pretty German girl whose looks reminded me of my ex Courtney, came along to see the temples with me




The big statue is said to be hollow and hold thousands of little brass Buddha statues inside of it








The Japanese Indosan-lineage "Nippon-Ji" temple was my favorite, with a large shaded lawn, and a spacious tranquil Japanese-aesthetic temple. Christine and I sat in the sanctum for perhaps an hour, talking some about Buddhist teachings but more sitting in silence.




Me under the "Bo Tree" (The Tree of Awakening), at the Mahabodhi (Great Awakening) Temple, which purportedly sits on the spot where Siddhartha Gautama Shakyamuni actually awakened and became The Buddha. I felt strong emotion being there - tears in my eyes at the sincerity of masses of people from all over Asia and the World, there to pay homage, and at the beauty of the impact on history that The Buddha's awakening had.




There is apparently a classic Buddhist pilgrimage circuit. The four main destinations are, Lumbini (where The Buddha was born), Bodhgaya (where he was enlightened), Saranath (the main place he taught), and Kushinagara (where he passed into non-bodily Nirvana (i.e. died)). There are also secondary pilgrimage sites, in the same general area as the big four.

I was super moved to visit the Bo Tree in Bodhgaya, and also was glad that I visited the ruined monastery in Saranath. And I considered visiting some other sites, but, for whatever reason, I didn't feel like being a completist about the Buddhist circuit. Yeah, I love me some Siddhartha Gautama, respect and gratitude both for who he was, and the tradition he founded.

But I also sometimes think that maybe other luminaries in the lineage of "Buddhism", and maybe even some of the other Vedic reformers at the time of Gautama Buddha, had deeper enlightenment and teachings than he did, but just lacked his princely charisma and privileged feeling of the importance of his message. It is similar to how I think that the biggest reason why we remember Yeshua ben Yusef (Jesus of Nazareth) as the Messiah, rather than the scores of other holy men wandering around Israel at the time also claiming to be the Messiah, was because Jesus managed to get a brilliant Roman General with a talent for inspiration and leadership (St. Paul) on his team, and the other guys didn't.

Speaking of Western monotheistic religions, while in Bodhgaya, I felt sick in my stomach every time I was and heard the muezzin calling Muslims to prayer. I mean, I love the poems of Rumi and Hafiz, I adore the teachings of Ali Hameed Almaas, I have had a spiritually expansive time doing Sufi zikar dancing, and I love the Alhambra in Spain... but, all that said, the more I learn about the history and impact of Islam in India, the lower my already low opinion of mainstream Islam becomes. I read about wars and massacres invading Arabic and Persian soldiers did seven hundred years ago, all the Hindu and Buddhist temples destroyed and priests, monks, and nuns executed, and how the invaders forced Indians to convert.

The nice thing about Islam in India of course are the temples and other places that Muslims are still blowing up these days. Examples: I read that some of the places I personally went to in holy Hindu city of Varanasi apparently suffered lethal Muslim bomb attacks in 2006. During my first week in India, the hippy-hangout German Bakery near the Osho ashram in Pune was bombed by Muslim terrorists, with ten westerner spiritual-backpackers, just like me, dying bloody deaths. Also, someone told me that there is a minor Muslim bomb attack somewhere in India about once a week. Wait, did I say, the "nice" thing about Islam in India? I meant, the continuingly shitty thing. Also - Indians that I saw that were clearly devout Muslim (traditional white baggy outfits, beards with no moustache, little head cap) often had this hard-ass brows-furrowed at-war scowl on their face, and seemed to have declared a jihad on being polite.

I started to think of Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, and Indians who are Muslims as being like Patti Hurst - how she was abducted, beaten, and raped, but fell in love with her captors, and eventually was willing to do violent crimes for them. I suspect that the Taj Mahal would have been just as beautiful if it had been created by a Hindu maharaj as by a Muslim moghul. My own admittedly subjective opinion: Islam does not belong in the Indian subcontinent, it is a foreign and bad-energy invader, and this part of the world was meant in a healthy way to be Hindu (and Sikh, Buddhist, and Jain). Wikipedia says that there are about 500 million Muslims in India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, and Nepal, out of a total Subcontinental population of about 1,600 million - I consider that third of the population to be traitors to the Subcontinental people as a whole, loyal to foreign masters while in conflict with their own people.

Of course, there is a lot I don't know about the situation, yes I am probably simplifying the situation to create a simple "good guys vs bad guys" scenario, and, yes, Indian Muslims are just people, most of them good people (yes, I met many wonderful Indian Muslims).

Also, to be fair: I talked for a while once with a man who had had a long career in the Indian army. He said that, after "Operation Blue Star" in June of 1984 (where Indira Gandhi ordered government troops to assault the most holy temple of the Sikh religion so as to dislodge Sikh rebels), this officer doubted the loyalty of many of the Sikhs in the armed forces (his concerns, of course, proved accurate, when many Sikhs resigned, and then when Indira's Sikh bodyguards gunned her down five months after Blue Star). But, this man said, he always completely trusted the loyalty to Mother India of every single Indian Muslim that he served with - even, he said, in the eventuality of an all-out war with Islamic Pakistan.

Oh, who am I kidding with all this attempt at even-handedness: I am right about everything, and, bottom line, I did simply feel like Islam should not be in Bodhgaya, the place of the Buddha's enlightenment and the pilgrimage site to the world's Buddhists, and where Muslims invaders in the eleventh century destroyed the historical Buddhist temple - hearing the muezzin's prayer calls felt to me like a rapist loitering around in his victim's bed room.




A view I had many times - traveling down an Indian street in the back seat of an auto-rikshaw (three-wheeled taxi, built around a motorcycle engine)




After Bodhgaya, I took a long train journey South, eventually arriving at Tiruvannamalai, Tamil Nadu state. From what the guidebook said, I expected Tiruvannamalai to be a village in a jungle, but, no, once I got there, it turned out to be another crowded Indian city, filled, like every where else, with oh so many Indians, so so many, all with their saris and their moustaches. Carrying maybe seventy pounds of bags, I walked and sweated in the hot sun as I walked up and down the dusty crowded broken-concrete streets, looking for an internet place (this picture doesn't show how sunny, hot, and crowded it was when I arrived).




I went to Tiruvannamalai so that I could spend two weeks in the Ramanashram. This center was founded by the devotees of Sri Ramana Maharshi in 1925, once they coaxed him down from the caves of holy Mount Arunachala, which overlooks Tiruvannamalai. Sri Ramana then lived at the ashram for his final twenty-five years.

Sri Ramana was an Indian saint of the first half of the twentieth century. He was considered the most clear and enlightened being of modern history by the philosopher Ken Wilber. Sri Ramana also seems to be revered by many modern Indian people (one thing I loved about India was that there is a background cultural understanding, even among the most secular people, of spiritual practice and liberation). Anyway, Sri Ramana was seen as ethically pure, never a hint of scandal about him (unlike so many other gurus). The cat was : Stone Cold.

I found the ashram to be exactly what I came to India looking to find. It is lovely and peaceful, with people meditating, chanting, and doing puja (Hindu spiritual ceremony) all day in the public spaces, or walking in the peaceful gardens, or reading in the library. I felt the grace of Ramana Maharshi as I walked around his ashram, even sixty years after his passing. There are pictures of him everywhere, and I felt peaceful as his gentle, patient, mysteriously cosmic smile looked down on me. I felt motivated to do good things, to be a good person, to make the best use of my time at his ashram, to open the li'l shiny disco ball of my heart, and to not do any of my bad habits while visiting his joint.

The picture is of the ashram parking lot and entry walkway.




Peacocks




My favorite regular daily puja was right before dinner (pictured), when a big group of men on one side of the room would sing-intone one line of Sanskrit-language scripture, and the women on the other would respond with beautiful melodic lilt - back and forth, back and forth, their words floating up to the vaulted marble ceiling - honoring their community, honoring the mystery of masculine and feminine, honoring The Divine.




Often, during the day, the ashram's main shrine room was comparatively empty, and was available for quiet contemplation, prayer, and circumambulation of Sri Ramana's samadhi (burial place).




This was the small and simple room where Sri Ramana sat or lay on a couch and recieved seekers, pilgrims, and other visitors for a couple decades. The room is now used for meditation. I felt it comparatively easy to get into a deep state of concentration and relaxation while meditating in this room.




Lining up for breakfast. The man in white on the stairs was a relative of Sri Ramana's, an ashram official, and a sweet guy.




The ashram offered guests three great meals a day, which were abundant and some of the best food I ate while in Asia. We ate with our hands, sitting on the ground, using palm-tree leaves as plates (as is apparently traditional in South India). I felt gratitude for the serving guys, shirtless in their dotis and Hindu face paints, rushing up and down the rows of seated diners and ladling out the big dollops of rice, curry, chutney, sweet buttermilk, etc. A friend told me that all of the food is prepared with fresh healthy local ingredients, chanting, and extra conscious love. And, she explained, after the ashram guests finish their meal and leave, the huge serving room is filled with a second meal shift, this one of poor people that the ashram feeds.




Life at the Ramanashram was usually calm and simple. While I was there, however, they did a ceremony to reconsecrate the altars of the ashram - to, metaphorically, charge back up their holy batteries. Apparently, they do this once a year. During the two days of this ritual, there were all sorts of colorful decorations and chanting, ceremony, and general "hubbub".




The heart of the reconsecration ceremony was a squadron of shirtless Brahmin priests giving offerings to a fire. They threw twenty loaves of bread onto the fire, then a basket of bananas, then pitchers of nuts, as well as many other foods. Then, they threw one radiant beautiful silk cloth after another onto the fire, and then a bunch of nice household items. It was disturbing for me to watch.

While they burned all that, they were simultaneously doing repetition of verses from the Vedas (ancient Hindu scriptures) - chanting verses, simultaneously, at breakneck speed, in Sanskrit, first forward then backward. It was impressive to me, as a feat of memorization and skill. But it was also gross, because the priests seemed to be trying to out-do each other in who could chant the best, and they would interrupt the ceremony to argue with and correct each other.








The priests did their super-fast Sanskrit chant-y thing in the main shrine room, also




At the Ramanashram, my friend Gita introduced me to a long-time friend of hers named Michael, a bright friendly guy who had started his spiritual quest as a Catholic Benedictine monk in Texas. Michael has lived at the Ramanashram for ten years now, though, currently heading up the publications department. He laughed when I told him of some of my India travel craziness, and told me, "Yeah, India's a good place to find a place that you're comfortable with - a deep place - and just stay there, doing your sadhana [spiritual practice]. Yeah, India's not a good country to travel around in, and try to see a whole lot all at once - that's just a grind, man, just a grind."




While at the Ramanashram, I went into town for a massive festival at the Saivite (devoted to Shiva) Annamalaiyar Temple, one of the biggest and most famous temples in India. It is huge, spread over twenty-four acres (or about five city blocks), and with gopurams (towers) that rise over two hundred feet (about fifteen stories). I imagine that there were tens of thousands of people, possibly over a hundred thousand, the night that I went.

For the festival, many areas in the temple were filled with thousands of glowing candles, set out in huge intricate patterns. Each candle was a semi-sphere about the size of half the peel of an orange, filled with oil and a burning rope wick. I was captivated by a most beautiful scene: a rectangular pool of water, about the size of a city block, with terraced steps leading down, with rows and rows of thousands of candles in ornate patterns on each descending step. Even in the fading evening sunlight, the glow of the candles was welcoming, calming, loving. I felt gratitude for all the locals who must have spent hours, days, maybe weeks preparing such a beautiful experience.




Mount Arunchala towers up behind Ramanashram. Scriptures indicate that this hill has been considered holy to Indians for at least 3,500 years.




One afternoon, I went walking up Mount Arunachala with my friend Gita Gayatree. Gita and I know each other from the San Francisco Zen Center. I did not know that she would be at the ashram at the same time as me, and I was delighted to see her. She grew up in South India, speaks the various local languages, and explained many local customs to me.

She and I walked up to the two caves where Ramana lived before the ashram was built. It felt good to climb the steep steps, and feel the blood pumping in my legs and my heart with the exertion. I was surprised to see that many solicitous Indians sat along the otherwise peaceful nature path, hoping to sell their wares or their services as guides to those walking up. At one point, we stopped at a table covered with beautiful hand-carved stone statuettes, and I was impressed to learn that the man carved the ornate statues by hand as he waited for customers.




Once Gita and I got to a certain elevation, we were able to look out over the city, and see the immense Arunachaleswar Temple dominating our view. It's gardens and ornate towers seemed so serene, holy, and benevolent from that perspective, in contrast with the crazy night I had spent there a few nights earlier.




I went on a day-trip with Gita's friend Joseph, who I called "Indian Jesus", to Ponducherry, which was a lovely city and a fun day. On our bus ride back to Tiruvannamalai, our bus did a stop at a bus station that had, in the middle of the lane, a baby cow suckling from its mamma, while mamma cow wrapped her head protectively around baby. Baby kept head-butting mom's belly hard to get more access to the udder, "gimmie that milk".

I have a commitment to do yoga every day. So, some days, if I was traveling around, that meant doing my asanas (postures) in bus stations and on train platforms. It was funny the looks that I would get ... Indians seemed to know what I was doing, and why, but be fascinated by the strangeness of it nonetheless.




I spent a night outside Tiruvannamalai at Gita's friend Ajun's ashram/orphanage. Ajun was all spiritual, giving his all all day to take care of orphaned kids, but he was also a rock-star: charismatic attitude, motorcycle, Australian girlfriend.

The kids slept on the ground, but Ajun put me up in the room where the European girls who come to volunteer at the orphanage usually live (the current volunteer girls were on vacation while I was there). The room was regal - European quality, nice beds, modern toilet, hot-water shower, the works.




"Indian Jesus" Joseph and me. I appreciated his kindness in taking me around and explaining things to me, and I enjoyed talking to him. I almost always felt calm and open around him - except for when he started talking about all the weapons the USA apparently gives to Pakistan, then he would get momentarily angry, and I wouldn't know what to say.




After my visit to Ponducherry, Gita and I took a whole-day journey, mostly by buses, across state lines, from Tiruvannamalai to Bangalore/Bengaluru.

Along the highway were traffic signs that said things like:

* "Safe driving is like breathing - don't stop it"
* "Make it an accident free day"
* "Speed thrills but kills"
* "Reckless driving is a one way ticket to hell"
* "Safety first, speed next"

All day, I also enjoyed one of my favorite sights in India, the colorfully painted freight trucks.




Once in Bengalore, Gita and I headed for the Guru Kuhla Ashram, in the hills south of town. The ashram had been founded by students of a (deceased) guru that Gita, Joseph, and Ajun had all studied with. It was run by a sweet lady named Shakunthala Chaitanya (but she went, at least with me, by "Margaret").








Indian Jesus was there, too




Hugs not drugs








Many places in India have big batteries, where electricity stores up while the municipal power is on, and then discharges while the power is out. Anyway: here's a skinny kitty catnapping on the ashram battery.

The ashram had about four kittens, and they were all tough customers. I think that generally life for domesticated or household animals in India is a noticeably more rugged one than for those in the West.




Rajesh Devarajan was a friendly guy at the ashram. I enjoyed chatting with him, and he let me borrow his internet-on-cell-phone-signal account and receiver for a while. I was bummed that I didn't get a picture of me and him together before I left. He did, however, take a picture of me, meditating in the main shrine area of the ashram. He said that he was going to put this picture on the temple website.




One day, Indian Jesus and I rode the bus to Bengalore city together - it took about an hour to get there




Riding the bus into Bengalore, while simultaneously inventing a whole new branch of physics in my head

(That last part may or may not be true)




Bengalore cops are more "cowboy" than "Indian."

Also : cop (mustachioed the world over) times Indian (usually mustachioed) equals super-mustachioed




Bengalore is an exciting city, with lots of entrepreneurial sprit in the air and a super hip party district. In some ways, it reminded me of Silicon Valley, and, in other areas, of Las Vegas.




I spent a couple relaxing days with Gita and her partner in Wayanad, in the hills of Kerala state, housesitting her friends' guesthouse. It was a lovely location, in the moderate-temperature jungle above the town of Kalpetta.




Gita thinks of herself as a hard-ass, but I think she's a royal sweetheart




When Gita grew up Hindu, and, when she was younger, was married to, and had kids with, a Hindu army officer. She met her current partner, Shoukath, because they both had the same Guru, although Shoukath is Muslim. This religious mix, she says, creates all sorts of problems for them, with their family, friends, and strangers - up to and including death threats.








After parting ways with Gita and Shoukath, I did a five-day meditation retreat at the Bodhizendo, a Zen temple in West Tamil Nadu state. It felt wonderful to be there, relaxing and peaceful - it is, I think, one of the most tranquil and pleasant places I have been in my life - the temple and its many gardens were built on top of a cool-jungle hill, far from any towns.

The teacher at Bodhi Zendo, Father AMA Sammi, grew up Catholic, and, at a certain age, ordained a priest. He started reading the teachings of Sri Ramana Maharshi and other Aidvaita teachers, though, and eventually found himself in Japan studying Zen. So, he now teaches Zen, but we also stopped the sesshin (Zen meditation intensive) to perform Eucharist in a traditional Catholic manner.




I felt relaxed hanging out in the Zen garden in the middle of the main ashram compound




The day I departed the ashram was a sunny day




There were beautiful views of hills and valleys from the roof of the ashram








The ashram was surrounded by gardens








Pyry from Norway (who, it should be noted, did not star in The Lost Boys)




The fast trains from Kerala to Mumbai, the ones that shot North up along the coast, were all booked, even a month in advance. So, I took the forty-hour train that wandered all over the middle of India.

I generally enjoyed seeing India from out the windows of trains: jungle trees, farmers in their fields, mud-hut villages, cows and water buffaloes, craggily trees, piles of trash, hills and lakes, smokestacks in industrial towns, and crowded cities.

I had a funny experience when I went to buy tickets for this train ride. For various reasons, I was sitting in the crowded, sweltering hot Kalikut (Kerala state) station booking office all day, waiting to buy a whole bunch of tickets, slowly figuring out the most efficient way to work the system.

All the other people sitting in chairs or standing on the lines were, predictably, Indians. At one point in the afternoon, though, some sporty Nigerian dudes swaggered in to buy tickets. They give me knowing smile, and soon chatted with me like we were old friends - it seemed like the implicit understanding was, we were both far from home, in a strange country, in a room full of people who might judge us as outsiders.

Then, a few hours later, right before closing time, some young German girls came in, and seemed to have some trouble understanding the whole system. I felt compassion, so, I closed my computer, walked over to them, and asked if they were OK, did they need any help, did they have the purchasing system understood. They blew me off, and the subtext that I got from them was the Western equalitarian/anti-racist/one-planet idea that they considered it weird that I would come up to them - everyone in the room was as human as I was, why would they feel connection to me just because I was the only other white person in the room. OK, cool, fraulines, you rock on.

Soon, though, it became apparent that they really didn't understand the system, and also they weren't going to get their tickets (which they desperately needed) without a miracle. Then they came up to me with contrition - soon enough, they forked over some cash, and I used my queue number to buy the tickets they needed from the purchasing window - and, yup, it was if we were old friends, they seemed to appreciate our shared cultural understandings and backpacker experiences, and feel gratitude that I had more of a motivation to help them than most of the other people in the room did. "Where in the USA are you from ... Oh, I love it there ..."




During my forty hour journey, luckily, Chandran, a textiles businessman who shared my little seating area, was super-friendly and fun to chat with. And, once my computer power-chord died, chat was most of what I did, for the rest of the journey.

I think that, by the time we reached Mumbai, I had Chandran convinced that (1) I am a great spiritual guru, and (2) I could charm any woman on the train I wanted.




My favorite sight while in Mumbai was the beautiful, stately central train station. It was built in the nineteenth century by the British in their contemporary style, and named "Victoria Terminus." And, although Indian/Hindu/Maharashtran nationalists got the station officially renamed to "Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus" in 1996, most people still call it "VT" (or, alternatively, "CST"). The station serves large numbers of both inter-city trains as well as Mumbai commuter lines.




Years ago my (our) friend Damien wrote home that he reviewed the Landmark Forum while traveling in Asia. At the time. I thought to myself, man that's a dope idea. Inspired by that, I reviewed the Landmark Advanced Course in Mumbai/Bombay India.

The other participants besides me were one Estonian girl and 138 Indians. The weekend Landmark Courses that I took in the US years in the nineties were of course usually soul-blowing-open semi-miracles, but this particular course was for me a profound experience, in terms of being in that intimate space with people from a different nation/society - to personally experience their emotions, desires, fears, goals, stories, commitments, transformation, breakthroughs, etc. - to be a guest in the space of their taking themselves apart to reconstitute themselves as the best people they could be. After the course ended, I felt myself completely, totally, and hopelessly in love with the Indian people (yup, all 1.2 billion of 'em) for about a week.

In contrast with the impeccably clean corporate-ish environment that Landmark is held in in the States, this course was held in the auditorium of a dirty fashion and textile college, with the usual Indian peeling paint and mystery stains, with a hillside of shantytown-ish shacks out back. That said, the course was also a third the price of what it would be in the States.

It was inspiring to see how transformation is a trans-national human phenomenon, how the distinctions and practices of the course could be as liberating for people from such a different culture. That said, I think of Landmark as such an American way of looking at and talking about the human experience, and our course leader had been thoroughly trained in America - I can't think of an example, but there were times I busted up at the cross-cultural mash-up (while no one else laughed, not seeing what I was seeing).

When I took the Landmark Advanced Course for the first time fifteen years ago, I felt high, intuitively insightful, and super-powerful for about two weeks afterwards. I did not experience the same blown-open experience this time, and I think that it is because my life is, as a baseline, happier than it used to be. Compared with fifteen years ago, I am also more comfortable with and accomplished in the work of experiencing spaces of emptiness (from my time as a Zen monk) and constituting myself as a stand (from my time in the Wednesday Night Men's Circle).

The picture is of my support team, on our completion evening (Mahendra, Mitanshu, Shuhbam, me, and Ashwini).




At the completion evening, this M.D. guy who contributed great stuff to the course, told me several times that he wanted to keep in touch. I think that he was gay, and I suspect that I, as a not-overly-macho Westerner, represented an acceptance for who he really is that maybe is difficult for him to find in India.




Shubhum "Shoobz" Doshi, from my course small support group, put me up for a few nights at the office of his family business (designing floorplans for factories). Shoobz was easygoing and friendly, and plus he lived in London for four years, and that cross-cultural experience allowed for relatively easy communication between him and me.

He explained to me that, when he moved to the UK, it took him a little time to get used to stopping at red lights and laying off the car horn, but he eventually got used to it. When he moved back to India, though, his friends would yell at him to honk his horn more, and to "go" at red lights if no one was coming through the intersection. I think he explained that to me because he knew that I as a Westerner probably found Indian driving patterns to be a little crazy (and I do).




The two guys who did factory floorplan drafting at the Doshi office. Soma, on the left, slept on the floor of the computer area the nights that I was there, so that he could let me in the door when I came back late from dinner or a bar.

Like so many Indian men, both of these guys were crazy about the game of cricket. They were rabid fans of the Mumbai Indians of the IPL (Indian Premier League). I knew nothing about cricket before I got to India, but steadily learned more, the longer I was there.

I actually felt sad, learning that cricket is so similar to baseball. I love the vision of all the people in the former British Commonwealth who love and play cricket following and playing baseball instead, and baseball being a sport of true world-wide popularity.




"Hey Adam, why do Mumbai commuter trains have so many hand straps, and all of them jammed so close together? That train looks pretty empty there in that picture."
"Well, funny you should ask, imaginary interlocutor ..."




On a boat, going through Mumbai harbor, on my way to Elephanta Island




That's just how I roll




It was in 1989, watching a Joseph Campbell video on the power of myth, that I first heard of the giant three-headed Shiva statue on Elephanta Island. "I'm gonna go see that some day", I told myself back then, and ... it was worth the wait. I was immediately mesmerized by the power of the statue, and I stood there for a while, looking at it, staring at it, feeling it. I think that the ancient folks who carved this statue were channeling something profound.

It's hard to see in this picture, but, the statue has three faces. On the left is Shiva as destroyer, with snakes for hair and a diabolical grimace. On the right is Shiva as creator, with the face of a beautiful fertile young woman. In the middle is Shiva as God, with the cosmic face of a serene meditator.




A clear picture of the "Trimurti" Shiva that I found on the Net




My boat ride to Elephanta Island departed from and arrived back at the famous Gateway of India monument




Sweet Choi Eunkyoung from Pusan, Korea, who I started talking to on the train from Mumbai to Aurangabad. A couple days later, she went with me on a tour of the Ajanta caves.




The Ajanta caves are thirty huge caves that were carved into solid rock cliffside by Buddhist monks 2,200 to 1,400 years ago. Five of the caves served as temples just for ceremonies, and the rest were residences.

I am trying to think of a Sampson-and-Delilah-themed joke about Choi having cut off my hair while I slept, and now I'm trying to push down the temple pillars, but unfortunately for all of us the joke is just not gelling coherently.




Hangin in the B Boy stance




I don't know how to put this, but I'm kind of a big deal




While at the Ajanta caves, I kept wondering to myself how it must have been to live as a monk at there, in one of the little meditation cubicles that the vihara (residential) caves had so many of




From just inside one of the caves




The wall inside one of the chaitya caves (a temple cave for rituals, with no residential cells)




Another temple cave wall




The reclining Buddha statue in Ajanta cave 26




The painted ceiling of one of the caves




This is apparently a famous painting, and not just for being in comparatively intact condition. It pictures people celebrating the coronation of Mahajanaka (who was, in a later rebirth, to become The Buddha).




The caves that served as viharas usually had ornate hand-carved altars, which took my breath away to look at. I was impressed, thinking of how many man-years and how much technical skill it must have taken to carve them.




A Korean travel companion: it's the new black




A few days later, I visited the Ellora caves, which are about sixty miles south-west of the Ajanta Caves. The Ellora caves are more famous, consisting of thirty-four hand-carved caves in total - twelve Buddhist, seventeen Hindu, and five Jain.

The Hindu "Kailasa" temple was one of the most impressive things I have ever seen in my life, a massive, immense, ornate, beautiful system of holy temples, carved in single piece out of a mountain with just hammers and chisels. Wikipedia says, "It is estimated that about 200,000 tons of rocks was scooped out over hundreds of years to construct this monolithic structure."




The glory of the Kailasa Temple




Notice the people in the lower right hand corner of the picture, for an idea of the size of the temple








I also was blown away by the cave immediately to the South of the Kailasa temple, the Buddhist "Tin Tal" cave. It was the most impressive and elaborate out of all the Buddhist caves I saw at Ellora or Ajanta (they say it was built somewhat in response to the Kailasa temple). Here I am, looking a little lost at sea, on the top story out of three, in front of statues that represent some of "the seven Buddhas before Buddha."




The main altar of one of the Buddhist caves at Ellora




A chaitya (temple) cave at Ellora




Tourists at one of the Ellora caves.

On my way back from the Ellora caves to Aurangabad, I rode in a Land Rover share taxi packed with seventeen other adults and two children. I was amazed as we kept stopping so that the guy could squeeze more folks in, but none of the Indians seemed bothered by it. I was also amazed that the driver could successfully drive, with four other dudes squeezed into the front seat along with him, so crowded that his upper body was actually leaning out the window. He also was sometimes talking on his phone, as we rounded cliffside curves. Naturally, in such a situation ... I took a nap.

The taxi was relatively empty when I accepted the guy's invitation to jump in. I learned, past a certain point, though, that, in India, there is no such thing as "Cool, hey, I'm lucky this time, the bus/share taxi is relatively empty ... I can relax, stretch out, take up some extra space." In India, I found, buses and share taxis would wait and/or drive around until they are way past full, people jammed up against each other and/or people standing in the aisles, before actually departing.




I also visited the Aurangabad caves, which were almost within Aurangabad city (rather than a long bus/taxi ride away, like the Ajanta and Ellora caves). I think that the Aurangabad caves would have impressed me more than they did, if I hadn't just seen the glory of the other two cave systems.




I met an Indian Buddhist monk at the Aurangabad caves. He seemed sweet, strange, and normal (i.e. not very monkly, i.e. quite interested in my phone, etc.). I enjoyed talking to him, but he also didn't speak English, so communication was difficult.




Me, Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattva, and a monk wearing a tablecloth
Now that's what I call REAL ULTIMATE POWER




I think that each Buddhist temple in the USA need some busty fertility goddess statues




While in Aurangabad, I also visited the immense Daulatabad fortress. This fort was capital of North India for a few years about 700 years ago. It was a whole city within immense battlement walls, complete with fields to grow food in the event of a prolonged siege. The central citadel (the Mughal king's residence) was built on a plateau with steep cliff faces, and protected by a maze of traps, gates, and moats.

The thing was big - had I not taken breaks to explore temples along the way, it would have taken me well over an hour to climb from the main gate of the fortress to the top of the citadel. Here I am, on the way up, looking down on the fortress as it stretched to the North, and on the rest of the dry Maharashtran plain.




Let's take it a little higher




Climbing, climbing ...




See you at The Top








Next to the "Chand Minar" (Tower of the Moon), which is visible in the other pictures, and was built 300 years after the rest of the fortress. This structure is about twenty stories tall, and apparently served as (1) a lookout tower, (2) a minaret for Muslim prayer calls, and (3 ) a victory monument (and, I'm gonna say, as (4) a phallic power symbol).

While walking around the fort, just like at the caves, I kept bumping into big groups of young, rambunctious, wanna-be hip Indian dudes. As they approached me with grins on their face, I kept expecting them to make fun of me, the outsider. But, again and again, no, they treated me like I'm like a rock star - they wanted to practice speaking English, ask me about myself, shake hands, and have the apparent honor of having their pictures taken with me.




After Aurangabad, I went to Agra, and visited the ... the ... damn, what's that thing called again?




















The Earth is tilting ...




One of the side buildings, off the main Taj building. The people who took this picture for me were from Arkansas, and were in India to help supervise the opening of new Wal-Mart stores.

Seeing Indian people curled up asleep inside the hallways of the Taj Mahal, with hordes of tourists walking right next to them, made me wish I had taken pictures of some of the other funny/sad places I saw poor Indian people sleeping - on top of the hoods of cars in Mumbai, underneath trucks on the side of the freeway, inside big concrete tubes in construction projects, on the counters of food vending kiosks after they closed for the night ...








From the opposite side of the Yamuna river.

There was a soldier with a gun watching an American travel-writer dude I met take this picture of me. In fact, most Indian historical sites - as well as government buildings, big Hindu temples, and anything remotely Jewish - had a military presence, given the ever present threat of terrorism.




People swimming with water buffalo in the Yamuna river




I found Agra city to be dirty, ugly, rip-off-y, superficial, and generally unpleasant. But there sure were a lot of cool things to see there.

Here I am at the "Itimad-Ud-Daulah", nicknamed "The Baby Taj." It was built as a tomb for a Persian nobleman who was the grandfather of Mumtaz Mahal (the woman for whom the Taj Mahal was built as a tomb), and I think that it was the inspiration for the Taj.




As with many Indians, these kids seemed excited to get their picture taken with a "farengi" (foreigner)e




As the Spanish say: "amigos nuevos". And, as Japanese-who-are-taking-Spanish-lessons say: "amigos nuevos".












These li'l kids scampering around on the wall were, as you can see, cute. But then, after I took the picture, they were not-so-cute, as they pestered me until I crumpled a ten-rupee note up into a ball, and threw it up to them.




The Taj actually didn't impress me that much. Maybe it's because I've seen too many pictures of it my whole life. I did, however, more enjoy the palaces inside 400-year-old Agra Fort, a few miles upriver. Here is a picture of the entranceway.




A second gateway, after the first, protected by battlements












Me, diggin the scene








Like the Taj Mahal and the Baby Taj, the Agra Fort palaces featured walls inlaid with ornate designs of semi-precious stones
























While in Agra, I also took a day trip to the Fatehpur Sikri palace/fortress, which was twenty-five miles to the West. Fatehput Sikri was apparently the capital of North India for fourteen years in the late sixteenth century, until the Mughal nobles realized that there was not enough water in that dry dusty part of India to support a big city.

This is the Jami Masjid, the entrance gateway to the palace complex.




This is me in front of the "Panch Mahal" pavilion, which is apparently famous.




Another view of the Panch Mahal




And still another view of the Panch Mahal




Inside the fortress treasury room




This is the Diwan-I-Khas, a pavilion from which the king would give public audiences




The Diwan-I-Khas, from a distance




After Agra, I went to the "holy yoga city" of Rishikesh. I generally found being on the Rishikesh streets to blow harder than Pam Anderson on a boat - it was dirty, pushy, vulgar, and stressful. It probably didn't help that I had three bad food-poisoning episodes during my time there, or that I visited immediately after the completion of the massive Kumbh Mela religious festival, down the road in Haridwar. The yearly Kumb Mela is called "the largest gathering of people in the world", and this particular one had been attended by tens of millions of pilgrims (many of whom then made their way to Rishikesh, before heading off to pilgrimage sites further up in the Himalayas).

In normal circumstances, Rishikesh features two iron suspension bridges over the Ganges, both narrow and ostensibly pedestrian-only. This is the Lakshman Jhula bridge, which was next to the guest house I stayed in. You can't see it from this picture, but, while I was in town, the bridge was often insanely pushy-crowded. It didn't help that asshole macho hair-gelled motorcycle taxi drivers would go across too, honking as they went. A friend that I made in Rishikesh told me that every time he went out, he felt an urge to punch at least one motorcycle taxi guy off of his bike - "Yup", I thought.




About to step onto the (comparatively empty) bridge




During my first ten days in Rishikesh, a highlight of many of my days were hanging out with a couple from Galway, Ireland, consisting of an Irishman named Noel, and an Italian lady named Silvana. I felt like I could talk about anything and everything with them, and it would always get a smile. I also appreciated their honesty about their own lives, and the way they would make me laugh.

I thought it was funny how Silvana pronounced certain English words ("oog-lee" for ugly, "teh-TOO" for tattoo). Past a certain point, she and I would sometimes address each other as "Hey, oog-lee teh-TOO!".




One day, Noel, Silvana, and I went white-water rafting on the Ganges. It was a day of lotsa smiles n laffs.












The Indian man in the blue shirt on our boat, I forget his name, kept awkwardly trying to be my buddy. I was just silently trying to feel and be with the trees, the hills, the sky, and the holy river, as we row row rowed our boat gently down the stream. Finally, at one point, while we were all in the water in our life vests, coasting through one of the mild rapids, he swam up to me and angrily accused me of disliking him. I laughed and said, no, he was a fine person, my head was just elsewhere.

Also, right as the journey ended, our macho prick of a river guide repeatedly asked Silvana for her number and for her to join him for dinner, right in front of Noel, and after not having talked to Silvana the whole journey. You can see the look on Noel face in the picture ... it was rude of the guide, but kind of typical of the way many hair-gelled, gold-chain, shirt-opened young men in Rishakesh (and India) acted. Indian women (outside of Delhi or Mumbai) typically don't have premarital sex with Indian men, but tourist women sometimes will, so: some Indian try for it in sometimes outrageously forward ways. The heavy exposure many Indian men have to porn from America and Europe also doesn't help the situation.

Anyway, the next night, I told the company owner, who was a friendly Westernized guy, that the episode was offensive to us. He stared off into space in reply.




There are lots of ashrams in Rishakesh. Some are traditional, a few are more experimental. Some are places for sincere spiritual striving (yoga asana, puja/worship, scriptural study), many are just guesthouses with a picture of Shiva on the wall. I found it all confusing and uninviting - I never did figure the scene out too well, and never did get too into it, during my time there.

In India, a saddhu is a wandering holy man who has supposedly dedicated his life to spiritual practice, to purity, and to God. The archetype of the saddhu is a guy in orange robes, with long thick matted hair and beard, few possessions, and a twinkle of eternity in his eye. Some saddhus I saw in Rishakesh did, indeed, have a graceful air of holiness about them. I also learned, though, that there is a fine line between a saddhu and an insane freak, and that there is a fine line between a saddhu and a hustler/con man/tourist-girl-molester.




One afternoon, I climbed the thirteen floors of the Trayambakeshwar Temple (or, as I called it, "The Wedding Cake"). I paid respect at the many altars to Shiva, Ganesh, Kali, Krishna, and Durga, rang the spiritual bells, got a (Hindu-devotional-style) dab of paint across my forehead, and ignored the army of shop-keepers calling to me from their stalls on the various floors of the temple as I walked by.

There was a beautiful view of the town, river, and woods from the top floors of the temple.

My bare feet were filthy by the time I got back down to the shoe-storage area.




One afternoon, Silvana took me to the abandoned ashram of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. She and Noel had toured it a few days earlier. This ashram helped Rishikesh to become internationally famous after The Beatles, Donovan, Mia Farrow, and others visited there seeking enlightenment in the sixties.




Visiting the abandoned ashram is apparently something many tourists do. The complex is huge and contained many wonders - I am surprised no one took over the ashram when Maharesh Yoga was forced from power in 1982. It was trippy to imagine what life had been at the ashram during its heyday.

The buildings and grounds are in terrible shape now, though: collapsed ceilings, shards of broken glass on the floors, overgrown jungle vegetation, and graffiti-covered walls (some of it the usual "look at me" theme, but much of it also about love, spirituality, and John Lennon).




One day, the barber called out to me, and gestured to his chin. "Of course not", I thought to myself. "I don't want hepatitis."

But then I thought to myself : "Hey, I've had all my shots, my beard does have a pretty gristly full weeks worth of growth, and his rate is only about 60¢ ..."

I thought that I'd just do it once, but it was such a good experience that I went back a bunch of times. OK, I'll admit it: it was pampering.




I took a seven-day yoga, meditation, and chanting retreat at an ashram named Phool Chatti. It was a few miles upriver from Rishakesh, in the peaceful woods along the Ganges.

I was glad I went, but I wouldn't especially recommend the place to friends. In fact, my experience at Phool Chatti was similar to my experience at two other Lonely-Planet-Recommended, high-volume, introductory-level, popular "Eastern Religious Experiences" (Suan Mokh monastery in Thailand, and Tushita Tibetan Buddhist Center in Dharamsala): in all three places, the food was great, the instructors were sincere, and I greatly enjoyed the young people who were there to explore Eastern Religion for the first time - I felt so much respect for their spiritual sincerity and openness to learn.

But, in all three places, I felt a grief and upset at the amateurish, somewhat shitty level of instruction that I felt like the students were getting; it felt like a lost opportunity for people who were open to learn to actually get the most deep, useful instruction in the real value, benefit, and relevance of meditation, Buddhism, Hinduism, and yoga.

At Pool Chatti we spent most of our days indoors, but we also had a daily "walking meditation" that inevitably eventually involved some swimming. Here we are, walking along the Ganges.




If you said jump in the river, I would, cuz it would probably be a good idea




See the steeple pine / The hills as old as time / Soon to be put to the test / To be whipped by the winds of the west




We were supposed to be in holy mounas [silence] at Phool Chatti - serious spiritual ashram. Practically, though, when we weren't in yoga class or meditation, it was often like summer camp. Here, I'm chatting with a couple Israeli friends.




We had a traditional Hindu fire ceremony to close the retreat, which felt good to do




Group photo, completion afternoon at the Pool Chatti ashram.

About ten of the women in our group were Estonians who didn't speak English.




The last night of the retreat, people sang a song from their home country. The Estonian women sang a hauntingly beautiful song with multi-part harmonies. Rizelle from Los Angeles and I couldn't decide on an American song, so we read the Oriah Mountain Dreamer poem "The Invitation", trading lines back and forth. It felt good to read.

(And yes yoga teacher friends I know that my right hip should be stacked directly vertically over my left to do a virabhadrasana three correctly)




I met Rami from Israel at Phool Chatti. He has been the person I've met traveling in Asia who I have had the best connection with - the person I have the easiest time talking with, the person I understand the best, the person I feel understand me the best, the person who seems to have the most respect for what I am up to in life, the person I have the most respect for what he's up to in life, the person I feel like is on the most same wavelength as me. I've had some great chats with him about all sorts of things - yoga, enlightenment, psychology, politics, sex, religion, people we met, etc.




Turns out, twenty-three years old with recent Israeli army experience defeats forty-one years old with kickboxing training. But not by that much.




Acrobatics
SERIOUS BUSINESS




Rizelle joins the cavorting




Alexander from Sweden was another new friend I met at Phool Chatti. He is a serious yogi, with an intense daily practice of ashtanga yoga, pranayam, purification practices, study. I came to value his friendship - to enjoy his sweet heart, his honesty, and other aspects of his company - and to generally respect his sincerity on his spiritual path.








The immense Great Stupa at the Tibetan Buddhist Mindrolling complex, in Clement Town, just South of Dehra Dun in Utttar Pradesh, was among my favorite sights that I saw in India. The inside consisted of five floors of dazzlingly ornate shrine rooms.

I was leaving Rishakesh for Dharamsala, and just barely missed the inter-state bus leaving from Dehra Dun. The reasons why I was late were manifold, but my favorite one is that my share taxi pulled over to a roadside shack so that one old guy (one out of ten passengers) could take fifteen minutes to examine various axes before eventually buying one.

After it was certain to me that that the bus that I wanted had indeed just left, I just lay there on the mangy lawn of the bus station and relaxed. Eventually, I got up, called the Buddhist center where I was going to to tell them that I would be a day late, then stowed my main travel bag in the luggage room, booked a ticket for the more luxurious bus for next day, and caught an autorickshaw down to the to the Tibetan colony. A man kindly helped me find manager of guest house that was on the monastery grounds, who hung out with me while I ate first ever Tibetan food dinner (yum). A couple hours later, I fell asleep in an huge, luxurious, pleasant, and clean room in the middle of a breath-takingly beautiful and calming monastery.




No eating peanuts, though




After leaving Rishakesh, I went to Dharamsala, which is the home of the Tibetan government in exile, most notably His Holiness the Dalai Lama. The town was apparently not much of anything before the Tibetans arrived in 1959, but now it is full of opportunities to learn Tibetan Buddhism, yoga, and other spiritual disciplines.

The first thing I did upon arriving was take a ten-day "Introduction to Buddhism" course at the famous Tushita Center, a Gekuk Tibetan Vajrayana Buddhist school. I had applied to take one of their more advanced programs, but even after looking over my background in Buddhism, they still asked me to take their beginner course first, since "different schools of Buddhism use words in different ways", and they wanted to make sure that I understood their method of teaching. I ended up feeling annoyed by this, since it turned out that I already was well familiar with every single thing that they taught in the introductory course. I generally had a good time being there anyway.

On the plus side, our teacher Glen Svensson knew his shit - it was awesome seeing him explain some complicated Buddhist topics (like karma, emptiness, and rebirth) to beginners in a way that was clear and accessible to them. In general, I love being around Buddhist theories being taught, and Tushita did a great job of it. Also, the food was great at Tushita, which was one example of how the folks there knew what they were doing, they did a good job, in running a retreat.

On the other hand, this class affirmed for me yet again why I am not drawn to Tibetan Buddhism. As I've noticed before, they don't really seem to meditate that much - what they seem to call "meditation" is more would what I call "visualization" or "cultivation", and I find it comparatively uninteresting. Also, it is also my impression that the heart of Tibetan Buddhism is all these complex philosophical ideas that they read about, write about, memorize, debate, and try to understand perfectly. It's great stuff, but my Zen sensibility is that Buddhist philosophy is fine, but in addition to a lot of focus and insight meditation, not instead of it.

At one point, when Glen was enumerating one of the Tibetans' long lists of things that they think a person needs to make sure to study and do before they can be enlightened. My friend Rami raised his hand and asked him, "Well, what about Sri Ramana Maharshi, wasn't he enlightened, just from a spontaneous experience when he was a teenager?" Glen replied, "Well, there are many things in the world that might look like enlightenment, but you have to be sure not to mistake them for true enlightenment." I was completely turned off by this answer - my thought was, if all your theories from books bump into real living breathing enlightenment, and they don't match up, well then I'd recommend being loyal to actual enlightenment, rather than your ideas about it.




Most of what we did at Tushita was sit and listen to philosophy lectures. We also did three meditations a day, although only the first was meditation in the sense of mindfulness of what was happening - the other two were visualizations of celestial bodhisattvas, meditations on compassion, impermanence, letting go of anger, etc.

When I teach meditation, I trust that people will eventually discover impermanence, compassion, interconnection, the permeability of self, etc., if I teach them how to sit with and encounter reality as it deeply really is - it is my impression that I don't need to tell them to specifically look for those things. But hey I'm also open to the idea that the Tibetans are on to something good, intentionally working to generate those things directly.




I was generally happy during my ten days at Tushita, but, from the looks of it, I may have been in a sour mood on the day the course ended




We had a big feast outdoors for our last lunch at Tushita




At our outdoor picnic lunch, people asked me a bunch of questions about Buddhism, which felt great. Here, I am talking to Tal from Israel, a supersweet girl I had met in Varanasi four months earlier, but developed a friendship with at Tushita.

She was like a few other girls I met in Asia - there was a relatively superficial connection between us, until there was a conflict or other emotional issue. When, in the midst of the intense emotion, I was present, clear, and uncollapsed, using Nonviolent Communication to reflect back what it is they were saying to me, all of a sudden, these girls liked me a whole lot more.




After the Tushita course ended, I settled into life in Dharamkot for ten weeks. Dharamkot is a peaceful little village in the set into the side of the hill in the woods above Bagsu, which is a hang-out town above McCleod Ganj, which is the main tourist area above Dharamsala.




The view from the main window in the room I stayed in for three months




There were monkeys all over India. There seemed however to be an especially concentrated number of them in the Dharamkot-McCleod Ganj area. Black-faced langur monkeys seemed typically sweet, good-natured, and shy, but the pink-faced rhesus monkeys (shown here) were bad news. They would steal food, gang up to bully dogs, and bare teeth and hiss at any humans that stood up to them.




While in Dharamkot, I did some yoga courses, and mostly spent my days working on projects - making edits and updates to my meditation course, making (reeeaaaally slow) progress on the book that I've been working the last eleven years, cleaning up and organizing some important life-organizing documents that have been long over-grown with weeds, and, well, writing these words I'm writing right now. Many of my travel friends were doing spiritual retreats (Vipassana meditation, Tibetan Buddhist philosophy, yoga, tantra, trekking in the mountains), and I got pangs of wanting to join them. But I kept my eye on the ball, doing what I need to so that I can successfully change careers when I get home.

I also spent a lot of time hanging out in restaurants and cafes with new friends. Here I am with, left to right, Hannah and David from the USA, who I met at Tushita, and Anouck and Marguerite from Holland, who I met by sitting down at their dinner table and starting a conversation (I assume my reasons for choosing them to talk to are obvious from the picture).




David sneaks up on Hannah




Kickin it like Chuck Norris




I found Anouck and Marguerite to be open and easy to talk to. One afternoon, I held a meditation class, and they were among the people who attended - it felt good to share the information with them. (no, "meditation class" is not what is happening in this picture)




Marguerite had a sweet smile




Rami makes his point. Also pictured is beautiful Blaire, a Canadian friend Rami met in yoga class. I found her easy and fun to talk to. But, no, I am not sure what her finger gesture here is supposed to mean either.

[UPDATE: Blaire emailed and clarified that her hand signal was meant to signify "peace, maaaan" and possibly also "someone give me a cigarette." It was not meant to indicate "fuck you" in United Kingdom-ish, the number two, Winston Churchill's "Victory" sign, or the, umm, suggestive gesture drunk American high school girls sometimes do when being photographed with their girlfriends).




I attended classes ar the Himalayan Iyengar Yoga Center for a while. The consensus seemed to be that the teacher, Sharat Arora, was needlessly asshole-y in his dealings with folks, but he was worth it, because he is a first-class genius of a yoga teacher.

I felt an openness, lightness, freedom, and positive alignment in my body on the days that I took Sharat's three-to-four hour classes.

This picture is from the center's web site. It shows Sharat teaching in the studio that I took classes in.




Hanging out at my favorite Dharamkot restaurant, Trek and Dine, with some of the regular crew of yogis from the Himalayan Iyengar Yoga Center: friendly Maureen from Canada, America-hating Marcos from Brazil, and world-traveling Lara from England.

Marcos was amused to explain some of the rules of soccer to me (like "offsides"), as we watched some World Cup games. "I've never had to explain the rules of football to anyone before," he laughed. Brazilians are born knowing that shit, I guess.




Intense, hypercompitent David from Israel joins the picture




Maureen




The main street in Dharamkot, out in front of Trek and Dine. Trek and Dine (or, as I called it, "Tee En Dee") was my favorite Dharamkot hang out spot - I went there pretty much every day for almost three months.




The balcony-lounge area at Trek and Dine, looking all bright and cleaned up




A typical Trek and Dine meal - falafel and humus, finely chopped vegetable salad, and home-made french fries ("chips")




The food at Trek and Dine was good, but two biggest reasons that I kept going back were Sky and Sunny, two the waiters. They were always silly, friendly fun, and open honest conversation, and I grew to have comfort with and affection for them both.




They told me that they only earned about twenty dollars a day for working all day, every day, which seems like a small amount for how hard they worked. But Sunny also told me that he owned three cows and about a hundred goats - that's a lot more mammals than I own.




During my three months staying in Dharamasala, chatting and joking around with Sky was the social highlight of many of my days. He managed the restaurant with competence, but he was also usually open, friendly, welcoming, interested, insightful, engaging, and fun.








Sky hooking Israeli David up like a tow truck with some delicious food.

(I am guessing that David has a garment on top of his head so that his pale bald scalp wouldn't burn in the sun)




The regular chill out scene at Trek n Dine. Every day, the regulars would sit around, playing games, chatting, eating, and smoking. I walked by pretty 'em much every day, but was rarely tempted to sit down and join in.




Some of the gents of the regular hang-out scene.

The guy in the blue-colored shirt in the front was "Spike", the local tattoo/piercing provider who creeped me out. Sky told me that Spike made his living by doing about two tattoos a month - so, mostly, Spike would come to Trek and Dine and hang out. He spoke fluent Israeli, and at any given time seemed to be working on some of the pretty young Israeli girls that made up a significant portion of the Dharamkot tourist population.




Some of the ladies from the Trek n Dine hang-out scene. All four were dating Indian dudes.




A street scene from McCleod Ganj. You can see a framed picture of the Dalai Lama for sale in the center of the picture.




Fruit for sale. The guidebook said, for health reasons, while in India, only eat produce with a thick rind - so I skipped the apples and pears, and stuck with bananas, tangerines, and leechees.




McCleod Ganj featured a number of relaxing restaurants and cafes with nice views of the street below




One day I went hiking up the mountain above Dharamkot to a lookout spot called Triund. Here is a view as I hiked up, looking back down on Dharamkot




A little refreshments stand, on the side of the path up the mountain




NONE DARE CALL IT BREATHTAKINGLY ALPINE








Going with me was a Canadian woman named Sarah, who I had met on the street in Rishakesh




Moments before the red alien snake-creature strangled her to death




On the way up, we bumped into Alexander from Germany, who had been in my white-water rafting boat in Rishakesh




The views at the top were everything you've heard they are








Indian girls trying to sneak past Sarah ("Hey! Looks like she's distracted by that cute white boy, and doesn't even notice us.")




The local Indians threw a big party at Triund the day I went. They made a big feast, including a stew made from a goat that they had just slaughtered. Sarah and I ate some of the food, but skipped the goat. We felt vindicated when, on the hike down, we saw a big herd of goats. "We're on your side, li'l buddies!"




There was a dance party, courtesy of some drums and bagpipes (!). There was a squadron of Canadians there who were in Dharamsala to study Buddhism and Hinduism, and some of the Canadian girls danced it up with the little Indian boys.

Oh, and also, someone apparently threw me an invisible ball.




Reprisentin to the fullest




This was maybe more impressive in person than it looks in the picture. It was apparently carved by one man, and is apparently an example of the dying traditional Tibetan art of furniture wood carving. This cabinet is housed in the museum at the Library of Tibetan Works and Archives, in Dharamsala.

(and you know in movies, how sometimes there will be a scene of government officials discussing the contents of an intelligence dossier, and one guy will get all serious and say, "Well, our spy who got us this information PAID WITH HIS LIFE for it - so, yes, Jack, we'd damn well better take some action!!" Well, I hope you enjoy this picture, because in order to get it I endured an extended tongue-lashing (in Tibetan) from the Tibetan monk running the museum - I hadn't noticed that my ticket stub said "No Pictures.")




The Dalai Lama was in Dharamasala a few times while I was there (giving lecture, giving blessings, and having a birthday party). He doesn't matter that much to me, though, as much as I feel perhaps he should - so, I was never motivated to go and see him in person. Some of my friends did, however, get up early, ride buses, and stand on line to join the big crowds.

For my part, though, a number of times I did visit the Tsuglagkhang, which is a temple complex that contains the Photang (the Dalai Lama's official residence), as well as a whole bunch of sub-temples and sub-monasteries, a museum, bookstores and cafes, and more. It is, in total, the largest Tibetan-lineage temple outside of Tibet.

I went once with Adam Gordon to see a German nun teach a Tibetan Buddhist philosophy class (her lecture was complex and arcane beyond my interest level). Another day I went to visit the shrines. This picture is of the Kalachakra shrine, which contained large painting of the historical Buddha Shakyamuni surrounded by all 722 deities of the Kalachakra (Wheel of Time) Mandala. The Dalai Lama apparently uses this room when he teaches monks.




And this picture from next door to the Kalachakra, at the main Tsuglagkhang shrine. It's the central altar of the central shrine of the central temple of the Tibetan religion in exile.




I went to the Tsuglagkhang a couple times to walk the Kora, which is a half-hour ritual pilgrimage path that circumambulates clockwise around the perimeter of the temple complex. About a third of the path winds through a primeval forest glen, mostly empty of people but filled with prayer flags and mantras carved into stone. It felt peaceful and magical to walk along this part.




The final third of the Kora travels along a wall at the back of some large buildings. The middle third, however, is an amusement park of prayer wheels, ecclesiastically significant bells, shrines, stupas, memorial plaques, and small monastic residences.




This big drum had a dowel attached to the top, so that it would ring a bell every time it was spun. I am guessing that that was supposed to indicade the good karma we were accumulating for our good deed of sending the holy syllables painted on the drum spinning on out into the universe.




Kora Tibetan Buddhist pavilion




It was fun to walk along the walls of prayer wheels, and spin one after another.




At one time I was walking along the Kora as evening began to fall, and I captured this misty, magical image of the opposite hillside.




Hanging out at Trek and Dine. The dude is Justin, a strong-hearted wild man from Australia who liked riding motorcycles and getting tattoos, and who does lighting for rock shows for a living (and will soon be working on the set of the new Mad Max remake). The chica is Eleanor from Baltimore, who went to college at age fifteen, started her own business in Costa Rica at age seventeen, and, when I met her, was starting an NGO at age twenty. I had an open, comfortable, and cuddly relationship with her. They were both fun to talk to, and I met both of them at Tushita.




Sweet Nicola, from York England, at Trek and Dine. She had just finished a one-month yoga teacher training the day this picture was taken, and was ready to kick some asana.




Sujata, from Jammu state. She was studying to be a lawyer, and was part of a big group of young Indians who were doing an internship in Tibetan Buddhism and human rights. She laughed and giggled all the time, which was pleasant.




Adam Gordon, a friend from back home in San Francisco. We had many great connections while he was in Dharamkot. I was proud of him, too - he did an Iyengar yoga intensive and a ten-day vipassana retreat while in town, both of which I think were challenging but fulfilling for him.

The picture was taken at an internet cafe I spent a couple hours a day in, doing email and Facebook, checking baseball scores, reading blogs. Eleanor from Baltimore joked that I "lived there." Ha ha ha, Eleanor.




Back at Trek and Dine (the universe is filled with an almost infinite number of Adams)




Me and Swedish Alex, with master Ashtanga yoga teach Vijay. Every morning he was in town, Alex did Vijay's demanding three-hour class. I enjoyed walking with Alex down the mountain into town on the mornings I also went to ashtanga class.




In the decades before he became a yoga teacher, Vijay purportedly worked as a simple farmer, doing yoga on his own each day. So, I guess it made sense that he didn't do the best job of explaining the poses, but he did a graceful and impressive job of demonstrating them.




Me and Alex, with his sweet friend Andrea, from San Diego. Like so many Western women in Dharamsala, Andrea was helping out with Tibetan refugee kids.

(I keep saying that women in these pictures are "sweet." Well, ummm ... they were. And, if a woman wasn't sweet, i.e. open-hearted, I probably didn't so much want my picture taken with her).








Me n Alex, down on the street, where the faces shine




Naptime, just off of a stairway in Dharamkot




Indian men from Mumbai and Delhi seemed to be excited about the new freedom to break from tradition that they had, so they often wore T shirts that said stupid things in English like "Date Me If You Can" or "Find Them, Use Them, Forget Them" (words printed over the silhouette of a hottie). That notwithstanding, though, most Indian men, no matter how poor, usually wore Western-style collared shirts and either Western-style slacks or (in some places in the South) a traditional skirt-like garment called a dhoti.

Before I got to India, I expected that Indian women would also dress like women in the West - pants, jeans, dresses and skirts, etc. I imagined that traditional saris were just something women wore to like weddings or something like that.

And yeah, it turns out that many women in the big cities dress somewhat like Western women, and pre-pubescent girls do indeed dress Western - short dresses with bare legs, etc. In most of India, though, all adult women dress conservatively and traditionally. After a couple weeks, I came to love the colorful femininity of both the saris (a single piece of fabric wrapped around to make a long dress), and the salwar-kameezes (which are like a baggy shirt and baggy pants combo).

In this picture, wearing salwar-kameezes, are Nitun and Anju, the two sisters, who, with their parents, ran the peaceful guesthouse I stayed in for two months. There were also two older sisters, but they were married and lived elsewhere, and a brother, but he was usually guiding trekking trips through the mountains.

Sometimes Nitun and Anju were friendly and chatty, and sometimes they weren't. I wondered if some of their relative closedness had to do with their father, who would periodically get drunk, and yell and rave all night. Anju told me, "I do not like my father."

Anju kept asking why I wasn't married, and if I had an Indian girlfriend. She was twenty-three years old, and said that she had never kissed a boy, and that no boy had ever made her heart go "boom-boom-boom." She said that she was fine with waiting until an arranged marriage for all of it. She said that two men had randomly proposed to her, an Indian dude on the street and an older English man who had stayed at the guest house, but both episodes seem to have grossed her out.

[Update: some man who Anju barely knew asked for her hand, and she accepted. So, apparently, after an one-year engagement (during which they will barely see each other, and, at that, I think, only when others are present), she will move to Mumbai to his place]

It seemed to me that sexual self-expression and identity is heavily regulated for Indians - which means that most people seem to had the sexual maturity of fourteen-year old Americans, and that few people looked or acted sexually fulfilled. The good side of all the rules, though, was that the Indians seemed to suffer from less of sexual-impulse based pain than Westerners do - divorce, infidelity, and out-of-control sluttiness.




Vasavi is a woman I enjoyed time with during my last week in Dharamkot. She's from Delhi, a thirty-nine year old divorced mother of two. She has been a school teacher, but has been on a quest of inner growth for a couple years, sitting or assisting at maybe fifteen ten-day meditation retreats, as well as meditating on her own typically two to eight hours a day.

I had seen her around yoga class and the meditation hall for a while, but we didn't spend much time together until my last week. It felt great to meditate and chill with her, to enjoy the warmth of her sweet, poetic, and honest heart.












After I left Dharamsala/Daramkot, I met up with my Bay Area friend Amy Ehrlich in Amritsar, in the Punjab, for a few days. My main intention in going to Amritsar was to see and visit the Golden Temple, or the "Harimandir Sahib", the holiest site of the Sikh religion. I first saw pictures of the temple when I was fifteen, reading about Operation Blue Star in the New York Times. I said to myself, "That place looks so exotic, so interesting - I'm gonna visit there some day." It felt peaceful, spiritual, magical, and, yes, exotic to be there - exactly what I came to India for.

The Sikh religion is native to the Punjab region of the Indian-Pakistani border. It shares many similarities with Hinduism, but is also influenced by Sufism (the mystical strand of Islam). It is considered the fifth most popular organized religion in the world, with adherents located all over the globe, but a majority of them in the Punjab.

There were large crowds of people at the temple while I was there, mostly Sikhs on pilgrimage. Sikh men and boys wore turbans, but the women and girls looked indistinguishable from garden-variety Indian Hindu females (except for the few women who, like the men, carried the ceremonial Sikh dagger). Besides the Sikhs, here were plenty of Hindu and Muslim Indians and foreigner tourists visiting the temple, too. People inside the temple, Sikhs and tourists both, were generally more friendly than I imagined they would be out on the street.

A tall, turbaned, spear-carrying guard (one of many guarding the complex) warned me and Amy about thieves, but we didn't see any characters that looked too suspicious. In the middle of a crowd of people, she and I discussed who might look shady - in Spanish. It was a pleasure, after nine months in Asia, to finally be able to talk at full volume candidly, but in a language that the people around us probably couldn't understand (I occasionally felt envious throughout my journey through Asia when, at a mixed-group dinner table where the general conversation was in English, some people were able to make private comments amongst themselves in their native language).

The Golden Temple proper was surprisingly small, and was situated on an "island" in the middle a tank of water, connected by a causeway to the palatial complex of buildings that surrounded it. The interior of the temple building contained finely-detailed, ornate stonework and devotional paintings. On the ground floor were a band of priests, playing and singing beautiful floaty devotional songs that were amplified throughout the complex (and that were, I would guess, also broadcast out to the faithful all over the world). Shuffling along alongside the priest-musicians' enclosure were crowds of pilgrims, many in a sort of ecstatic trance. Outside, pilgrims were taking dips in the water pool, even drinking it (behavior that resembled Hindus at India's various holy rivers).

The walls of the surrounding buildings were covered in memorial plaques - many of them apparently purchased by commanding officers to commemorate their companies and regiments. There was an immense meeting hall (which apparently was usually more like a nap hall), guest houses, a museum, and a garden-park. There were also a few immense dining rooms, where one could sit down for a meal of delicious rice and dahl any time of the day or night, served with curry and condiments at mealtimes, all served free as a religious offering from the Sikhs. They had a Zambroni-looking vehicle that would constantly be driving around the dining hall, wiping the floors clean as people finished eating in that section and got up to leave, and before new crowds were brought in to be seated.

The temple was open to visitors twenty-four hours a day. At night, though, after an elaborate ceremony to put away the holiest book in the religion (which was written in person by their first guru, Nanek Dev of the fifteenth century), the temple was filled with squads of people busily scrubbing and polishing. Outside, on the walkways surrounding the water tank, hundred of people (mostly men) slept, sprawled out or curled up on the hard marble.

So: here I am at the Harimandir Sahib. I had a kerchief on my head because, at the Golden Temple, if ya ain't rockin a turban, ya gots to rock a symbolic turban. Also: I think that I'm grimacing in this picture because (1) the marble I was standing on was like seventeen hundred thousand degrees, and (2) I often grimace in pictures.




Amy




It was easier to take pictures in the shade, where the marble was cooler




"One snap, missus! Missus! One snap, please!"




While in Amritsar, Amy and I made a run for the border. Apparently, the border crossing gate that is a half-hour drive West of Amritsar is one of the most popular crossing points on the India-Pakistan border, since it sits on the line between Delhi and the Punjab on the one side, and Lahore and Islamabad on the other. And, apparently, the late afternoon border closing ceremony at the gate has evolved into a popular entertainment spectacle - with blaring music, fervent nationalistic chanting, and the border guards performing elaborately choreographed pageantry.

The day we went, it rained torrentially in the hour before the ceremony started. In this picture, you can see the massive crowd of soaked but patriotic Indians, the rains having failed to diminish their enthusiasm to drown out the Pakistanis' chants with their own shouts of "HINDUSTAN ZINDABAD!!!"




White/East Asian tourists were given VIP seats near the front (as well as some Indians who I would guess were affluent and/or connected). After some patriotic guys ran down the street with Indian flags (accompanied by great cheers from the Indian crowds), the flag men carried the orange-and-green to the top of our section, and waved around them from there.




After the flags, the authorities played Indian pop music, with ground-rattling bass, one song after another. The music was fun, and it was enjoyable to watch little kids dancing with their moms. It was strange however to be in a huge crowd that seemed so familiar with songs I'd never heard before. Also, the music and dancing went on for too long - I eventually got bored, and wanted the next thing, whatever it was.




You can't really see it from the picture, but also dancing was a little squad of tough-looking hijras, transsexuals. I have been told that hijras often make money either through sex work, or by crashing weddings and causing a scene until they are paid to go away. So, hijras are apparently none too popular in India, but the crowd at the border seemed to give a big cheer for every tits-jiggle this squad was doing.




Amy and I were joined by Keren from Australia and Roberta from Italy, two attractive and friendly girls who rode the same tour-company jitney out from Amritsar with us. It took us a while to deduce that the reason why Keren's hands and legs were turning green in the rain was because her cheap Indian-made skirt was leaked dye.




I think that maybe the point of the fans on the heads was that you could immediately tell that the guards were looking straight ahead with martial discipline




This is the part where the flags get hauled down for the night. It seemed to me like, as the flags came down, both sets of guards were taking care not to let their flag come down faster than or dip down too far beneath the other one.

I got this picture from the net - perhaps you can tell that it was taken from the Pakistani side, and on a sunnier day than when I went.




The ceremony involved about twenty minutes of high kicking, saluting, running, sudden turns, and shouts




The border guards were some of the tallest, lankiest Indians that I had seen. Here are Amy and Keren giving one of them some unrequited love.




This sign is about fifty yards back from the border. I took the "DEMOCRACY" part to saying, "Hah-hah, Pakistanis, hope you're enjoying your autocratic government."




I went with Amy while she tried on (and got fitted) for some salwar-kameezes.

From what people told me, a hundred years ago women in Indian mostly wore saris. But salwar-kameezes are more comfortable and allow for greater ease of movement. So, what started as a Punjabi regional style has since spread throughout India, and become as popular as saris, if not more. Still, given their origins, salwar-kameezes are sometimes alternatively known as "punjabi suits."

Especially, apparently, among the sales guys at the store we went to. They would say to Amy, "You try on blue, punjabi suit ... very good value for you, punjabi suits ... top quality. punjabi suits." Sometimes they'd just say "punjabi suit" by itself, or, literally, back and forth to each other. I found myself wondering if, after we left, they said to each other, "Hey, Amardeep, you wanna grab lunch, punjabi suits?" "Just a sec, Gurpreet; punjabi suits." "OK, cool. Punjabi suits."




Amy and I both loved the way she looked in her new, ummm, punjabi suit




Me and Amy (wearing her new punjabi suit) in a park that memorializes the site of the Jallianwala Bagh massacre, where in 1919 Indian soldiers under British command opened fire on Indian protestors, killing 379. Purportedly, that event was what convinced Gandhi and others that nothing except full self-rule would satisfy them.

There was a big emotional display of some bullet holes still visible in a brick wall in the park. But I got the feeling that most people visited the park not for history, but because, outside of the Golden Temple, the park was one of the most clean, well-kept, and relaxing places in the dirty old part of Amritsar.




The Wikitravel website says, "Mata Temple in Amritsar is a labyrinth-like Hindu cave temple dedicated to the female saint Lal Devi. Traditionally, women wishing to become pregnant come here to pray. The roundabout path to the main temple passes through low tunnels, caves full of ankle-deep water, inclined walkways, brightly colored statues and murals, bells, mirrored hallways, and assorted games, that make the experience seem more like a Shiva/Durga/Krishna-themed fun house than a place of worship."




More Mata Temple




It was joyful for me to go through the Mata Temple, so much fun




An altar in the Mata Temple




Amy poses with the manager of the hotel we stayed at, who had a solicitous manner and a booming resonant voice




One afternoon, there was a big rally of Sikhs down on the street. Apparently, they are still upset about Blue Star and its aftermath.




After Amritsar, I took an overnight train to Delhi. Half awake, first thing in the morning, I did some hard negotiating with the autorikshaw drivers at the train station (for example, at one point, I got out of one rikshaw, whose driver said he'd drive me but was off trying to get a second passnger, to climb into another, who was ready to leave immediately).




As I walked along a Delhi street, I came upon this little platoon of sewer rats. Thankfully, they displayed a healthy fear of humans, and scampered away whenever anyone got too close.




While I was there, much of central Delhi was getting infrastructure upgrades in preparation for hosting the 2010 Commonwealth Games. Many places I went, sidewalks were being re-bricked, the road were ripped up to lay new sewer lines, and new freeway overpasses were being built. I read an article saying that folks in Mumbai felt resentful, thinking that the Indian national government spends more on Delhi than its fair share, for the obvious reason that the government lives and works in Delhi.

Anyway, while I was there, the officials were widening the main street in Paharganj, the cheap hotel/backpacker neighborhood that I stayed in. I imagine that they did so because this road leads directly West from the main New Delhi train station. Regardless, they had ripped out the front of every building on the road. Amazingly (or amusingly), most of the hotels and shops were still open for business as reconstruction went on.








Many Indian construction labor crews have spindly ladies in saris working along with the spindly dudes in dress shirts and slacks. I imagine that it's husband-wife situations.




Anubhuti is a beautiful college student I met in yoga class in Dharamkot. We also met for lunch while I was in Delhi - she took me to a traditional Gajarati restaurant where the servers come along just about once a minute and offer you more pakoras, raita, curry, papadam - twenty or so different sub-dishes.

Anubhuti startled and delighted me again and again with her quickness, sharpness, awareness, articulation, and intelligence. She was also often super-sweet, although she sometimes hid it under sarcasm. It was great to get her perspective on growing up an educated, internationally aware, insightful, relatively affluent urban kid in the new India, and to enjoy her curiosity about my life (especially my history with Buddhism).












One Indian man refused to take a picture of Anubhuti and me together. She told me, yes, that was probably because I am white and she is Indian.




I took a bus tour of some of the sites Delhi. Apparently, it is traditional for the Indian prime minister to address the nation from Delhi's famous Red Fort on Indian independence day, so unfortunately I did not see the sights of Old Delhi. I did, however, at one point surprise myself by growing so large that I was able to pick up the world's tallest minaret, the 238-foot tall, 800-year old Qutub Minar.




Vasavi joined me on the tour, which was a delight




Jokes aside, the minar was actually quite large




Another scene from the Qutub Minar complex ruins




A close-up of the Qutub Minar, with verses of the Koran inscribed




Vasavi contemplates Alai Darwaza gate, which is an entrance to an ancient mosque called the Quwwat-ul-Islam, next to the Qutub Minar




More of the Qutub Minar complex




















Our city tour bus drove past the Indian Parliament building




Our tour also visited the apparently famous Baha'i Lotus Temple. I had an intuition to skip seeing this up close, and instead rest on the bus. My underwhelming experience of getting out and joining the crowds lining up in the hot sun proved the wisdom of my intuition.




The Lotus Temple was, as designed to be, pretty and peaceful, however




Paying my respects at the site where Gandhi was assassinated




Vasavi, too




After the city bus tour, Vasavi took me to a big mall in the Eastern suburbs, near her parent's house (which is where she lives). We ate some food, did some shopping, did some hanging out, and then ate some more food. I had a great time chatting and enjoying Vasavi's sweet company. And I bought some high-quality hiking/walking shoes to replace my shoes that had been stolen a few months earlier - it felt good to wear closed-toe shoes again.

The mall felt shocking familiar - it felt just like, well, what I would expect from an upscale mall. There were even women in (gasp) skirts above the knees and bare legs (scandal).

What felt unusual to me about this mall, compared with malls in the USA, was (1) the food court consisted mostly of different options in Indian food, (2) it was packed crowded full, like solidly full, like difficult-to-walk full, (3) just about everyone there was Indian, and (4) the mall had a big disco on the top floor.




Vasavi "is a vegetarian", but she kept sneaking chunks of lamb out of my curry tray




Getting my chomp on








A picture of the dance club on the top floor of the mall. I could hear the thumping bass reverberating through the walls.

The presence of this club is why, I think, I saw a few young women in the mall dressed to show more skin than is usual in India. The clientele of the club was of course a majority young folks, but I also saw plenty of middle-aged couples entering and exiting too.




"Club Reverb, situated inside the most buzzing & the swankiest hangout zone of NOIDA, The Great Indian Place Mall, is the latest room of entertainment & musical ingenious of sundry DJs, touring and local bands. Acclaimed for hosting some of the country's very first & finest International Electronic Music acts."




CLUB RULES
* Entry for couples only
* Traditional outfits on national festivals and special events only
* Kindly refrain from dropping names/references at reverb as all are equal [this, after saying the access to entry depends on the right clothes and the right "profile"]
* All the above rules are accepted over night clubs internationally





The giant namaste hands at Indira Gandhi Delhi Airport had greeted me when I arrived in India, and then they bid me goodbye six months later as I left

---

Questions That Indian People Regularly Ask Me

[these questions are taken from Indians I meet randomly in public, not from the Indians who have invited me into their houses and become my friends.]

The Usual Questions:
* "You are coming from?" (i.e. "Where are you from?")
* "Your good name is?" (i.e. first name)
* "Your first time in India?"
* "How long you are in India?"
* "You have seen what in India?"
* "You like India / Indian people / Indian food?" (usually said with intense interest as to my reply)
* "Indian food is too hot for you?"
* "What is your employment?" / "What is your salary?"
* "You are traveling alone?" / "You are alone?" / "Just one?" / "You do not have family?" (sometimes said with shock, disdain, and compassion)
* "You are Christian?"
* "U.S.A. ... very powerful country, yes?" / "Barrack Obama, good man, yes?"
* "Have you spent much time in [American city or state]? That's where my [brother/sister/ son/daughter/cousin/friend] is [working / living]."
* "You write me email, OK?"
* "When will you come back to Mumbai?"
* "You would like to share our [drinking water / food]?"
* "Do you require assistance?"
* "Taxi? Taxi?"
* "Yes, Sir, Yes? Hello! Yes?" (leaning out door of their store, gesturing inside)
* (Put hand to mouth, looking forlorn)
* "Hash? Hash? Hashish?"

A Few Unusual Questions:
* "You come to India for The Landmark?" (asked by a couple people in the Landmark Education course I took)
* "Why does your country give so many guns to Pakistan?" (said with strong emotion)
* "WHAT? You have had *how many* girlfriends in your life?"
* "Did you write shell scripts to submit your code there, or did you submit from the command prompt?" (and various other tech-y geekery)
* "You like bananas?" (late night, in ghats in Varanasi, by a fey boy that I am guessing was hooking)
* "Why the *fuck* would you want to visit India?" (asked by cynical teen computer hacker I shared a taxi with)
* "Em Are Pee this?" (shoe salesman, pointing at my American shoes, wanting to know how much they cost (i.e. their "maximum rupee price"))
* "You have your own version of cricket, yes? You call it ... 'American Cricket'? You Americans always have to do it your way." (he was asking about baseball)
* "PICKLE-PICKLE!? ... PICKLE-PICKLE!?" (asked by food-serving people, asking me if I want a spoonful of a spicy something on the plate next to the rest of my food)

---

FUNNY SIGNS




If you are a tourist in Rishakesh, and you want information on, say, a dirty empty kiosk, well, my friend, you've come to the right place




And, if you wanna look shahNAZy, well, I can tell you where to go for that, too




Open 24 hours! Never closes! Come on down, for all your ATM needs! 24 hour ATM!




Ladies: take note




"Damn, honey, I left my syphilis in my other pants - any idea where I can pick some up before we go to the party? And - please - none of that imported syphilis - local only."




OUR DUTY
YOUR RESPONSIBILITY




Inconvenience caused ... regretted
:.(




Should I somehow give in to impulse, and pull the chain "without reasonable and sufficient cause", I think that the potential of twelve months in Indian prison would worry me more than a potential twenty-three dollar fine




I have no idea of what a "fistula" is. But, hey, sign on Mumbai commuter train, thank you for making me wonder about it, first thing in the morning while I am half awake.




* Extra Item shall be charged
* Please do not argue with employees of the restaurant
* Foods once served shall not be taken back
* Please do not make any nuisance and / or disturb the other Customers.
* Please do not sit for a long time
* Please do not wash hands in plate
* Any person misbehaving, with customer or staff shall be handed over to police





Don't even bother asking for a menu, Booze Hound




Drugs. Let us fight the drugs ... together




BEWARE OF MONKEYS DO NOT TEASE THEM, THEY MAY ATTACK YOU & HARM YOU




The "HOMOEO CENTRE" - where homeopathic cures are delivered by strapping young shirtless lads in tight latex shorts




Do you need some ugly fear in your life? Well, welcome home, friend, welcome home.




Because nothing uncaps a bold and beautiful script like some shitty Indian whisky




Next time I need to do a blatant self promotion, I'm hiring an elephant




BURNING THE SKIN IS NOT A CURE
FOR MENTALLY RETARDED PERSONS WITH EPILEPSY.
GET MEDICAL HELP.





Anubhuti sent me this one




All over India, one sees "Maxican" when they mean "Mexican." I have a theory that one person somewhere made an error, and it just went from there.




"You will love it at the Himichal Institute of Engineering and Technology. With our expansive, lovely, tree-lined, colonial-style campus ..."




The fight is on!

(as for me: I chose DIRT!)




Well, it's good to know that they still have a few fans ...




From an India Tourism Board ad




As I've said, one thing I loved about India was that Indians made many things (trucks and buses, women's clothes, buildings) delightfully colorful. Many "goods carrier" trucks were painted a spray of pleasing colors of designs. And many also said this on the back: "I LOVE MY INDIA". It warmed my heart each time I saw it. Me too, truck, me too.