In Emptiness there is still Longing

Delhi took more out of me than I thought I had to give. I have always disillusioned myself into thinking that I didn't want to grovel back to God at a time of despair; grasping for his blood-stained feet like the mere woman that I know I am. When I gave up my facade of self-reliance and asked for his hand back, I wanted it to be at a time when I was doing well, my life was in order and I had maintained, after having found; peace. I felt that then, he wouldn't be able to hold my return over my head; guilting me into pleasing him as so many have before.

And then, as my head hung over the window of a bus, puking till there was no more and then, again...I decided spirituality cannot be found in this place. How can it be? The smooth talking shop owner, sidles beside me, persistent to find me entering his shop. "Would you like a scarf, madam? I have excellent handbags..." My inner self screams, "NO, leave me be for 2 minutes to make it to a bathroom!" While I let him read my mask that is answering with a cool, "No, thanks". No spirituality in the striving....

My rickshaw weaves, in and out, sputtering towards the next intersection where I am sure we will never make it through. Our driver shoots his browned arm out the open side to stop the bullet-like approach of a similarly hurried rickshaw, driven my a similarly harried rickshaw driver; his browned arm expressively gesturing to his own on-coming bullets. I see no God in the frenzied hurry for some arrival.

The smell of India assaults like nothing I can compare. One moment I am smelling incense from a temple and the next, a man with no seeming dignity is peeing in a long stream to my left and then it is his unwanted emissions I am indignantly made to smell. Smell - it doesn't seem the appropriate sense because I can feel the sticky, sick of the city permeating through my skin; coloring my skin as the sun. My eyes burn and sting, reacting to the pollutions no one is fighting to gain control of. Another man coughs, spits and pulls out his prick for another round with indignity. In humility, where there appears to be no amount of restraint, where is a god that gives dignity to it's people?

Many come to India to find spirituality. They sit for hours in a lotus pose at an ashram, eyes closed, looking for enlightenment. Thousands travel to the footsteps of the Dalia Lama's exiled home and plead for peace. But, my trip to Delhi left me wondering if it were at all possible for me to have a similar spiritual experience. How could I find God when no part of my being seemed to be at quiet enough to hear him?

My body told me how as I knelt, retching into a dirty hostel toilet...Oh, God, please help me. Make it stop. Send some light. Send some peace. I'm sorry I have to beg you now, instead of coming to you with some grace left. But, please...if you're still into hearing from me...please make the void go away...

And then, the sickness slowed a little and I made it to our train; followed by a chorus of men trying to take us to the airport when it was clear we wanted the train station and just like my crackers evaporated into the beggar child's mouth, so go's my resolve to rely on the someone who held my hair back to mop up my sweat as I lay, feverish. "Why can't you back off and leave your scamming lies to someone who will know better the first time?!" Where are you now God? Are you in the pushing and the striving and the battling for one more grasping step? I can't see you..I'm about to snap - oh, wait, I think I just have only I can't be sure because the sound of my own voice has been drowned out...

The words of my friends ring in my head. Once I finally made in online to regain contact with a world that feels sane (but only maybe in perspective) right now, I hear them beg me to make sure their friend comes back to them in one piece. I think, maybe, I will be in many new pieces. Not all of them bad.

One piece will be the one that finally gained a measure of peace, lying on the hard floor for hours on end; Jars of Clay pumping it's inspired lyrics into my head, my heart, and my soul, last of all.

One new piece will believe the words of Isaiah's when he writes Israel's words that have sounded so much like my own: "'My way is hidden from the Lord; my cause is disregarded by my God"...Do you not know? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow weary and his understanding no on can fathom. He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak.'

One more piece of me will want to fathom....

Many more pieces...an ocean of possibility.

And one last piece that I can fit right now will be singing with Jars...

My soul was restless for redemption
My feet were lookin' for a place to stand
Well, I ain't got no life
And you no I ain't got no money
Just the faith of an empty hand
Amazing grace, I feel you coming up slowly now
Like the sun is rising, heat on my face
Oh the love that keeps on shining, don't let the shadows come
Ya know I've gotta feel your healing rays

Maybe, a piece of God, a piece of spirituality, and a piece of me have been found in India yet...

Faluda Adventures

I have been here more than three months now and I haven't really gotten to the point where I crave food that I can't have. I don't wake up, mouth watering, after a dream about a steak. I don't walk past the Mc'D's in Surat and feel the lure of the arches. I like Indian food for the most part and denying my cravings and succeeding is sort of thrilling in a weird way. But..some days you just need ice-cream. There is a ice cream treat here called faluda and last night, we were craving it. Not knowing where to look for it in our village, we called our helpful friend, Kaushik-bhai. Lyndi called and I could hear the deep disappointment in her voice when he said that you couldn't get it in our town. All 4 of us groaned in unison. Her face perked up though, when he asked her to call back in 5 minutes. Ten minutes later, he is in front of our house with his car and we are piling in. We have no idea where we are going but, we have our wallets just in case (even though, we would never have had to pay for it). Next thing we knew, we were pulling in to their driveway and his wife is pulling out the ingredients to make us homemade faluda! Vermicelli, ice cream, milk, crumbled cookie pieces, large glasses.

How did we go from asking for directions to eating what it was we were looking for in a friend's home?...that's India.

Ganpati Pappa! Moria!

Ganpati Festival ended today all over India. After one last night of dancing Garba at the local Mundir (temple), I went to bed exhausted, feet aching, the smell of incense clinging to my clothes; happy. Resurgence; the act of parading the Ganpati (et la; Ganesha, in English) through the village before putting him into the river, was to being any time after 1 pm so, all schools in the area had early classes. I walked into my classes to find more than half of my students missing and I can't say I blamed them. It was rainy and dreary and the anticipation of the coming events was much too distracting. Fun Miss Kitty just couldn't compete with what was about to happen.

The dancing began with the beat of drums. Everyone in the community I was spending the day at in Madhi ran for the street and the tractor that was pulling Ganpati down to the river. Immediately, I heard children shouting, "Kitty Teacher!". These shouts were quickly followed by me being covered in pink powder. I had asked why the pink powder being smeared by your neighbors all over your face and I was told it was so that you enjoy. The more pink on my skin, down my shirt, in my hair, the happier I became so, I guess whoever told me that was right. Next, my hands were being grabbed. Students from the school that I barely recognize out of their uniforms, town's women happy to be away from daily chores, and the occasional intoxicated Kaka (uncle) pull me into the springy two-step. Right hand pumped in the air. Left hand. Right! Left! Men alternate with boys playing the tabla to the music blaring from the speaker system coming from the float-like construct carrying Ganesha to his final resting place for 2009.

The river was a riot in a cloud of pink dust; music coming from too many different directions. By this time, I am covered - literally, covered in the pink stuff so that my hair looks like I've dyed it red and my camera is only taking fuzzy pictures due to all the dust in the lens. Walking at a slow "Indian pace" after being scolded several times by my new friends for walking too fast, I watch as the heads turn...I look behind myself, hoping to see another foreigner - anyone to make me less conspicuous. Alas, it's only me and the stares aren't going away as Ganesha is temporarily forgotten in my wake.

Luckily, this is a favourite festival to many and the cheers are growing louder with every step I take towards the river and the crowds that are carrying their Ganpati's down to the river on the shoulders of men. Slowly, reverently, Ganpati is places in the water along with the desires you have prayed to him for throughout the festival.

And then, before your eyes, Ganpati is gone. Not to be seen in this form again until this time next year.