And the word of the day is.....

India Journals #7

aprilrose — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 07:11:14 GMT

July 18 2008 This morning I woke up before my alarm for 6am to the sounds of every bird in India chirping, accompanied by the passing of voices and laughter from the singing joking staff of the ashram. The villagers who work here, tending to the plants and cooking the food, seem to me some of the best people that I have met in India. Yesterday after my afternoon trip to the city proper of Udaipur I bought a box of beautiful fancy sweets for them all, in a simple attempt to show them my fondness and gratitude for their goodness. When I arrived on the property, after paying the city rickshaw driver who made the long trip up the mountain to the ashram, I reached into my bag, opened the box of sweets and gave him his pick. I could tell from his face that the gesture paled in comparison to an offering of extra cash, but none-the-less I was (perhaps selfishly) proud of myself for the generosity I had offered him and was about to offer to all my village friends. Upon seeing Dadiji and Dadaji I began to feel differently. At first I thought I had offended them somehow by bringing them sweets. Dadiji took the closed box from my hand and appeared to be scolding me. From what I understood of her Hindi, which always becomes less intelligible as it becomes more passionate, she was asking why I would spend money like this. I became worried that my ingenious gesture would be received by everyone as the foolish decadence of a young privileged American girl who does not understand the value of the rupee or the work it takes to earn it. As I explained that these sweets were for them and the workers my new Indian grandparents shook their heads and pushed me inside their cottage. On the table was a plate of fresh papita and a glass of lemonghass chai (the papaya and lemongrass all from their organic garden). Perhaps they saw the worry on my face as I reluctantly ate so Dadaji relieved me in English: “Larkii! You are our guest we should be giving this to you!” Now I understood that this show of displeasure was all a part if the delicate act that is performed when offering and accepting generosity in India. Since living with my host family I have become very good at this game so, in a very Indian fashion, I opened the box of colorful sweets and insisted that they take some. After the appropriately placed pause from them I fervently insisted one more time, suggesting that if they didn’t take a burfy or luddoo my feelings would be devastated. They tilted their heads and dove right in. Hira Lal then entered the cottage with our dinner plates in his always timely manner. I offered him the open box and with little persuasion needed from me he took a bright yellow pineapple burfy, gave a little head tilt, and went on his busy way. His acceptance was so matter-of-fact and included none of the proper antics. I am very fond of Hira Lal. He has the comfort and confidence of a man twice his age but the spunk and humor of a 22 year old boy. He carries himself like he has a right to be on this earth and can be appealed to if anyone has any curiosities or special requests. At dinner, as I refused more helpings and snuck my 3rd chapati back in the bread basket, I endured the expected comments from Dada and Dadiji that I “eat very less.” I am always surprised how at every meal they tell me how little I eat all the while my belly is full of all the extra food I ate in order to bring our disagreement to a compromise. Well-fed and happy I left the cottage with my box of sweets and eagerly made my way to the kitchen where I walked straight through the back door labeled “NO ENTRY.” I knew by the cook’s smiling faces that the bar did not apply to their new Hindi speaking guest at that moment. I held out the box to each of the five men in the hot steam filled kitchen and told them in Hindi that I bought these sweets for them in the city. They happily obliged my offer and my questions about which ones were their favorites. I told them the dense crumbly milk cake was my favorite and that I had no idea what the brown flaky balls were with the cashew plopped on top. I told them all sorts of things they already knew as a child does when she is eager for connection and praise. When Ramesh, who was sitting on the floor rolling chapati dough, took a soft white disk with green flecks I pointed and said “Pista! Bahut Acchaa!” He knew the candy was pistachio flavor and that, yes, it is very good. But the distraction from their work brought them all a smile and I was satisfied. Thismorning when I left my room at 6:30 to do yoga and write in my journal on the cliff overlooking the mountainous village all the staff humbly greeted me as I passed—our silent connection appearing to have grown a little deeper after yesterday’s sweets. As I sit here writing, watching the tiny dots in the hills that are brightly colored saris and a line of herded cows and goats, one of the staff has brought me chai. The young boy stayed to talk to me for a moment longer. After I made comments on the strong breeze and asked him if he thought it might rain today he became aware that I did not understand his lengthy response and left with a smile. Perhaps what makes me love these people so much is my experience in their village yesterday morning. Dadaji and Dadiji took me with them on their weekly trip into the neighboring village. With their kind hearts, generous Jain principles, and full wallets they go to the village where their employees live to give food and sometimes medicine. Yesterday we gave bags and bags of grain and potatoes, loaves of white bread (an Indian favorite) and some of their organic vegetables. As they handed off bags of grain to the women, who then perched them on their heads to carry away from the schoolhouse, I sat with the young girls. At first they were very distant and shy. They giggled at my questions, covered their mouths with their saris and looked to each other for communal approval of this new stranger. I relinquished my perhaps too eager and forward questioning and just sat with them in silence. It appeared that, to them, the space between the words was more powerful because after a short time, one-by-one they all came to sit near me. Having seen the old foot pump sewing machines that sat inside the schoolhouse (which had been gifted to them by Dadaji a few months ago) I told them that I sew clothes too. This caused more giggles from the shy girls and invited the brave ones to start asking me questions. We exchanged praises of each other’s piercings and clothes. While I admired the little girls big garnet-gold nose studs, the gold hoops that lined their ears, and the shiny bangles that stood out against their dark skin, they surveyed my strange lip peircing and henna-ed hands. They remarked with confidence that they could do Mhendi much mor beautifully than the design Dadiji had given me. I am certain that it is true but I love my crudely done henna that was applied with a thick twig by a sweet old lady with bad eyes. It is a mark of love and approval that came from homegrown organic mhendi shrubs on the ashram. (Plus, it brings me laughter every time I look down at my arm and see my name spelled in English with a backwards P). I sat with the colorfully dressed girls outside their one-room, all-ages schoolhouse as Dadiji demonstrated embroidery and candle making. Before I could control myself I heard my voice yell out “Gulab!” in response to her questions about which color the pink thread was. My excitement made the girls laugh. Sometimes I even saw the more serious ones crack a smile. A few of the youngest girls had the hardest to crack grave expressions. But at one time or another they all laughed and smiled in their colorful dresses. It was beautiful to share in a light hearted moment with them because their day-to-day lives are so busy and hard. When they are not in school they are sewing, traveling long distances for food and fuel, cooking dinner, and taking care of younger siblings. There is little opportunity for them outside of finding happiness with their families in the village. Their lives are a stark contrast from my life at this ashram. I rise just after sunrise to do yoga and roam around the plants. I eat breakfast from a beautiful supply of homegrown fruit (papaya, mangoes, custard apples, bananas) with hot porridge made from home grown wheat. Then I sit outside and read my book in between moments of sky-gazing and journal writing. I practice my Hindi with the staff as they tend to the garden and stand around. Not just here, but everywhere in India there are at least five people for every one-man job. I can’t tell you how many times I have had to sort out the voices of 10 people giving me directions at once or had my single bag carried by three bellhops in a hotel. It is amusing and charming and totally inefficient. There are four men behind the small counter of the little icecream shop where I sometimes study after school in Jaipur. Maybe one family comes in to order something every hour. Mostly they just sit in silence, comment to each other about the TV, and adjust the volume of the music up and down indiscriminately. And here is no exception. So when I told them I wanted to weave a basket for Dada and Dadiji one of the men began cutting down bamboo while the security guard helped me strip the stalks of their leaves. Seeing that some of the branches were too thick for my task two other farm workers began to split them in half with their pick axes. Three other workers simply sat near me and watched. I think they were mostly amused by such an absurd thing for an American to do and were waiting for me to endearingly fail miserably. After some hours of sitting in the afternoon sun while I wove and they planted, to their amazement, I finished a beautiful tokrii made of bamboo and the vine of some Ayurvedic medicinal plant. By the time I finished we had discussed, in full, my saddhu hair and my marital status: two conversations I have repeatedly in India. Their curiosity about my dread locks was much less intimidating than the sneers and accusations I experienced at the engagement party of my host family’s son in Jaipur. That time I found myself sitting in a chair surrounded by a full, closed circle of standing, Sari-clad old women. They spoke in rapid Hindi that I didn’t understand as they stared down at me. One woman was asking me repeatedly if I wanted to marry and insisting that I could never marry with my hair like this while she grabbed and pulled my hair at its roots. An Uncleji I had befriended earlier in the party came to save me from the hair pulling and accusations by explaining that “no this is the international hair style.” At which point the yelling turned into jest and laughter. The same mean old woman grabbed her son and began insisting that I marry him, “Don’t you want to marry him? He is a very good boy.” I pretended not to understand to save myself from having to say yes or no—neither of which are the right answer. This time in the field the conversation about my hair was only to pass time and provoked little response from the quiet, kind villagers who were engaged in their own tasks. It did however lead to another marriage proposal in jest to a boy named Bunsii. After Bunsii picked me a rose this morning I started to catch on that he may have a crush on me. It became clear when he woke me up from my afternoon nap by making conversation with me outside my open bedroom window. He boasted that tonight he would be cooking dinner while he shyly displayed a rose in each hand but did not offer them to me. Instead he smelled each one and meandered off. I guess I have to be more chaste when I offer sweets to strangers, so as not to win the hearts of young Indian boys. That is why I love these people so much. Because, with the exception of Bunsii’s unthreatening silent flirtations, they regard me as a passing stranger, an endearing amusement, as a daughter, or not at all. They don’t steal looks at me when my attention is diverted, sneakily take pictures of me on their cell phones, or try to push the boundaries which they think Westerners don’t have. I respect them in a way that I don’t respect any leering stranger I have met in the city and I love them in a way that I don’t even adore my own middle class host family. I wish I was here long enough to make tokriis for all of them.

India Journals 6

aprilrose — Sun, 20 Jul 2008 13:23:35 GMT

July 16 2008 Living at the Ashram I am sitting on the porch outside my room at an Ashram in the mountains just outside of Udaipur. This is how I am spending my midterm break: listening to the singing crickets, the distant voices of young Americans in the dining hall, and Dadiji yelling “Hira Lal!” into the night air. Hira Lal is the name of one of the workers here at the ashram who cooks, helps on the farm, escorts the two elderly owners to and from the neighboring village and city, does grocery shopping, and is the all around go-to guy. He is the one who picked me up from the railway station this morning. Hira Lal is only 22 years old and has already been married for 5 years with two sons. I spoke Hindi with him and the other villagers who work on the property this afternoon while Dadiji painted my palms with henna outside. There is a group of 25 American, high-school aged students staying here for a 4 week Leadership Conference (which I think is code for Christian mission). Anyway, neither I or the people who work here really see them because they are out during the day and playing silly campfire games in the evening in the far corner of the property where their rooms are situated. Thanks to their presence however, I have been placed in a beautiful one room cottage just adjacent to the owner’s one room cottage which they normally do not keep for guests. The owners of this property are Mr. and Mrs. Dr. RC Mehta, a kind Jain couple who, in one afternoon, have adopted me as their honorary granddaughter. So the wife has become my Dadiji and the husband Dadaji. Dadaji is an expert in Agriculture. He bought this land after he retired as dean of the University in Udaipur with a PhD in Botany and Horticulture. On this beautiful green oasis in the otherwise dry and barren mountains, there is every plant imaginable. Even olives (which apparently don’t grow in India but have been sent here by an Italian traveler named Franchesca who stayed here for 6 months last year). This morning when I arrived Dadiji fed me porridge and bananas (homegrown and organic). This is my favorite breakfast and I long for it every morning in Jaipur when instead I am served greasy fried aloo parantha or an omelet with white bread. Dadaji and Dadiji are Jain so they do not eat eggs. When I told them I don’t eat eggs either I saw their love for me start to grow. This is perhaps the only place in the world where, when I tell a 75 year old man that I am a Vegan, he smiles warmly, hugs me and showers me with praises for being such a good girl. This information delighted him, yet did not stop either of them from giving me milk chai with breakfast, a curd lassi at lunch, and Thundai after dinner. Although I am enjoying the dairy consumption here because all the milk comes from their few adorable cows who I have seen roaming around with their long eyelashes and well fed, non-emaciated bodies. After breakfast Dadaji took me all around the property to teach me about his vegetables, fruit, and Ayurvedic medicinal plants. With a small notebook of hand-made paper that I bought in Pushkar for 25 rupees (50 cents) I walked with him taking notes on the properties of trees and leaves. This old man is an amazing fountain of knowledge. He designed the irrigation system, a transplanting method for the plants, and is teaching all his techniques to the villagers who work here. He would tell me to pluck the leaf of a shrub and ask me to either taste or smell it and guess what it was. I did so unhesitatingly, which felt out of character because I have had to be so cautious about what fresh foods I eat in India. However I knew there would no stomach ailment caused by their unwashed plants because his farm is completely organic and pesticide/chemical free. Only twice did I rob Dadaji of the joy of telling me the name of the mystery plant when I recognized the taste of Stevia and the smell of Lemongrass. He told me the Latin botanical name for every plant and was so impressed by my ability to write down their common Hindi names. I have so long desired to have such knowledge of plants and their properties myself and I want him to teach me more than I was able to absorb in our two hour lesson. He has many varieties of each fruit: bananas, mangoes, papaya, custard apple and each vegetable: okra, bottle gourd, ridge gourd, eggplant. More fruits and vegetables than I can name. He also has every kind of lentil, a field of peanuts, plants that produce mustard oil, neem oil, castor oil, and a giant garden of red roses. I am certain that this is actually the garden of Eden. We walked through his vegetable garden where he quizzed me on the Hindi names of each one. He thinks I speak very good Hindi (even though my skills are limited) and he and Dadiji and all the workers speak to me in Hindi. Everyone here is so kind, even when I don’t understand. I can already tell that I am going to be sad when I have to leave. I want to come back and live here. I have eaten all my meals with my new grandparents today in their tiny cottage that has a bed and a kitchen all in one room. They told me that I am like their daughter and everything I do seems to please them to no end. They praise me for eating well, for doing yoga, and even when I am reading my book, or writing in my journal. Dadaji even wants to arrange for me to marry a nice Indian boy just as he found mates for his three sons (who are now around 50 and have children of their own). Part of me, enchanted by these people, this lifestyle, and this place makes me entertain the idea of agreeing. What if I did marry an Indian man and lived in this country, tending to my garden, doing yoga, cooking food, sewing clothes, taking freezing cold bucket showers, and speaking Hindi? But the idea of binding oneself to a near stranger for life is still bizarre to me. Although the couples in India seem happy enough; or at least as happy as the love-married couples I knew growing up in the States who ignored each other and slept in separate bedrooms. Dadaji and Dadiji didn’t even meet each other until they got married. I don’t know if one method is better than the other. But I do know that Dadaji called marriage a “surrender”. In India it is a dharmic responsibility that is nearly always fulfilled and never broken. As opposed to in America where it is nearly always broken. Is it that arranged couples in India are better at surrendering to the contract of marriage? The agreement that we will join our finances and our families, live our lives simultaneously in the same home, spawn our seed, and take care of each other when we are too old and decrepit to do it ourselves. Having never first been in love, maybe arranged couples do not have unrealistic expectations to preserve that love longer than its natural lifespan. Dadaji seems to think that the American divorce rate is higher because it is just the nature of Americans to never be satisfied and always want something more and someone better. But he is forgetting the extreme social pressure that keeps many couples together here in India. And how, if some Indians are locked into an arranged marriage at 17, like Hira Lal, do people deal with never having fallen in love? Is that why there is so much displaced desire, on westerners and in Bollywood films? Because we are trying to exercise and experience something that we were never permitted to taste? It seems that in either case marriage is still a surrender, whether you choose who you marry or not. Rather than turning it over in my head—the value of arranged marriages—I have to make peace with certain things that, since being in India, I realize I do not understand. Much of it having to do with the interaction between men and women. With regards to marriage, to strangers on the street (local and foreign), to their household roles, and to sexuality, piety, respect, morality, and denial of physiological functions such as the unspoken shame of menstruation. I can’t pretend to understand, so I am consciously withdrawing all tendency to judge and replacing it with quiet, unquestioning observation. One other aspect of Indian life I have to resign myself to is with regard to religion. I have been to a Sikh Gurudwara, two Hindi Temples, and a Muslim Dargah. In every holy place I was rushed from one end to the other by the massive crowd before I knew what had happened. Inside I tied a string around a post, was patted on the head by a man reciting some holy scripture then asked for 20 rupees. In every place I was given a prasad of puffed sugar rice and rose petals then asked for twenty rupees. In every temple it seemed that most people around me came to touch a goddess and be on their way. I realize that as a westerner who does not belong to any of these faiths I am experiencing something completely different than those around me, but I was still relieved to hear Dadaji’s opinion that spirituality is more important to religion and his comment of “closer to the temple, further from God.” This remark started a cute argument between the old couple who disagree on the importance of religious ritual. Yesterday, before I was welcomed into the embrace of this ashram, I was just barely staying afloat in Ajmer at Muslim Dargah/ Sufi Shrine. It was the burial sight of a Sufi Saint. I learned that in death, Sufis do not lose their power, so their burial sights are erected as places to seek strength and guidance. In the center of the crowded temple there was a small room that contained in its center the coffin memorial where the Saint was buried. I entered the room in a sea of people before I had any idea what I was doing or where I was going. I could tell from the hundreds of people around me going to the same place that something powerful was believed to reside here. Among mostly capped, bearded men dressed in all white and some fully veiled faceless women dressed in black I became part of the solid mass that was the crowd attempting to all enter through one doorway of a small room. Like a sardine in a moshpit I was fully sandwiched between an American student in front of me and one behind me. No part of anyone’s body was not touching another person as we circled the grave in the small room. I was so smushed by people pushing to give their plates of rose petals to the Mullahs at the grave in the center that I had no control of my pace or direction. I could have lifted my feet off of the floor. As I was pushed near a Mullah he waved a green cloth over my head, recited something, and then asked me for “money please.” I was saved from having to respond as I was carried away by the moving current of the crowd and drowned out by the shouting of the other Mullahs as they attempted to orchestrate the onslaught of offerings. As the sounds and bodies all melded together I went internal and surrendered to the fact that I had no control over the situation and would only be able to leave the hectic place when crowd had made it’s full circle. I began to be impressed that, despite the hectic pushing I never felt the looming cloud of impatience, anger, or violation, from any of the surrounding pilgrims. No matter the situation in India, people push. I have accepted that. Lines consist of crowds pushing past one another to get to the front. And in this crowd people are pushing more fervently because they feel a sense of urgency to be close to their God, perhaps to ease some suffering. Just as I neared the exit my optimism was thwarted. The energy became more hostile and desperate as the people making their exit competed with those entering the shrine through its only door. Right as I was almost out: out of breath and out of the room I felt a man’s large full hand press firmly against my breast. Because there were so many people, all touching one another, I didn’t even attempt to identify the culprit I just pushed his hand away with mine as I made my exit. Even more violating than his hand cupping my breast was the contact between my palm and his as I pushed it away. Our fingers perfectly lined up, and our palms, flat against one another, stayed touching for what felt like 5-10 seconds as I used him for leverage to push myself out of doors. In a way I feel like I gingerly rewarded him with the intimacy of our embraced palms. More than anything I felt extreme disappointment and confusion. All the people, all the fanaticism, all the sincere prayers mixed with hypocrisy was too much to absorb. People seemed to be ignoring the humanity that surrounded them, especially out the gates of the Dargah. On each side of the overcrowded street that lead to the Dargah was a line of mutilated beggars. Men laying on their backs amputated or atrophied limbs with blood-puss filled wounds shook metal coin collecting bowls in the faces of passers by. The sight of disfigured faces and open wounds were enough to make me want to cry and vomit but provoked nothing from me other than an empty gaze that signaled my inability to absorb the scene. I can not absorb, I can not categorize my experience anywhere in my brain or heart that makes any sense to me. So I resign myself to it. To the indescribable magic and terror that was there. But here, in this place of bliss and purity, I am at peace with my inability to understand.

India Journals 5

aprilrose — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 05:42:51 GMT

July 10, 2008 Near my house there is a tucked-away oasis of green grass and trees called Bhagat Singh Park. Each Tuesday and Thursday morning at 6:30 am some other Hindi students and I meet there for yoga. The 5 of us occupy one corner of the open grassy courtyard. When we arrive, the park is already active with people from our neighborhood. In the other corners of grass there are 2 or 3 circles of older men doing yoga as well. When we begin our class, one of the other groups is already laying on their woolen blankets in final relaxation. Another group is rallying their friends and energy by a chorus of clapping followed by kinesthetic exercises that I remember doing in PE as a kid. Another group of men are in mid-laugh: every morning they do laugh yoga during which they let out intentional belly-bellows in rounds. There are also scattered individuals sitting cross legged with arms outstretched and eyes closed. Lined with bushes and flowers, there is a paved perimeter, that encircles the grass. Along that path are sari-clad women walking laps at a brisk pace as people relaxing on benches sit back and watch it all happening. The park is full of life and color. It is a marked contrast from the busy street that connects it to my house, whose brown and grey tones accompany the sound of horns and smell of exhaust. I always feel so good after starting my day in the park, leading our yoga session. I have accidentally become resident-yoga-chick at the institute, thanks partially to the teachers who poked and prodded me to do it once they learned my mom’s profession. Which pleases me to no end, because having people to lead in yoga gives me the extra motivation I need to actually wake up and get myself to that park. But, I know, you are thinking, why in India would we not take yoga from one of the many master gurus? Besides that the nearest place is a pricey and time consuming rickshaw ride away, the classes offered at the Ashram near Rajasthan University are directed toward breathing and meditation. The other students and I are thirsting for physical exercise, because our lives are full of sitting. Sitting at school, sitting during tea, sitting at the nearest air conditioned ice-cream parlor while we do our daily load of homework. Even when traveling there are hours and hours spent sitting on trains and busses and in cars. Also sitting, are all the lentils and rice and bread in our bellies. Because of our sensitive immune systems we only ever eat overcooked food that’s often been submerged in a sizzling vat of oil and smothered in ghee. And while it tastes good, I sure could go for a raw spinach and arugula salad with fresh onions and tomatoes right about now (the endless supply of fresh mangoes and bananas however are a nice substitute). It has also been difficult for me to get used to eating dinner at 10pm. I’ve found that a pre-dinner nap is all that allows me to stay awake long enough to digest dinner before I fall asleep each night. And so, we have implemented a yoga class in the morning and are signing up for a Banghra/Bollywood dance class in the afternoon to try to balance the, moving to sitting-and-eating, ratio. I am so lucky to have a whole class of students to confide in and relate to while I am so far from home. Even without them, however, I feel quite at home here. My dry skin loves the thick air and I no longer have to wear bug spray and sunscreen every moment I am outside. I have a small wardrobe of Indian clothes. I’ve put up maps and an altar in my room and filled the shelves with books. In front of my desk there is a picture of me at the Taj Mahal. That part is a little too surreal and I keep chuckling that I look superimposed on the background of such a well known and beautiful monument. The picture brings back memories of my trip to Agra where, after we toured the Taj at sunrise we beat the monsoon to a cafe nearby. Just as we sat down to order, sheets and sheets of rain came pouring down outside the window into the streets. Instantly the streets became small septic rivers. And just as quickly as the streets flooded all the children in sight ripped off their clothes and began playing in the water that reached their knees. The rain here is received much differently than in the US. Even I have begun to look outside and daydream for rain. When it comes I get wet, but I feel quenched. And when it stops, the whole city is shining. The dusty roads, after becoming muddy streams, turn into something close to settled and solid. The clouds of dust in the air disappear, the mountains in the distance become clear and the houses look as if they have just been white washed. Everything seems fresh and calm, bright and satiated. It rained a lot yesterday and I was able to sleep without drenching my pillow in sweat. I even was able to put a thin sheet over my body, which usually is one too many layers to bear. And when it doesn’t rain for a few days there is a veil of tension all around, it seems that people grow anxious as the dryness and heat increases. In this way, the connection between earth and people is inextricably a part of daily life here. The temperature inside is always comparable to the temperature outside, trash and waste is unsightly but in-sight and pigs and people pick through it for treasure and food. The ceiling in the kitchen washroom of my house is made of a grate that lets all of the rain in. In general, there is much thinner insulation from the conditions of nature. And while it is sometimes unsanitary, and often inconvenient, it is also refreshing.

India Journals #4

aprilrose — Mon, 07 Jul 2008 12:29:55 GMT

India Journals #4 July 6 2008 I just returned this evening from Rishikesh and Haridwar, an 8 hour train ride and 6 hour bus ride away from Jaipur. So much of the time I spent during this pilgrimage was en-route that the strongest images I have floating around in my fresh memory take place in bus seats and sleeper class train cots. I want to relate to you the beauty of being in the Ganges up to my knees watching flowers and flames float downriver while priests held fire and flower petals showered over head to the sounds of a deep metal bell and massive chanting crowd. I want to share with you the generosity and kindness of a Hindu family who fed us dinner at their temple. I want to describe the gooey chocolate cake we ate at a German bakery on the extension bridge across from the Ashram where the Beatles stayed. I don’t want to tell you about the trials of travel or the dangers involved...because most of you are already worrying anyway. But I have to write about the bad stuff first and then next time I will dazzle you with the hospitality of everyone we met along the way and the adventures we had in the mountains. With 3 friends of mine, I arrived at the bus station from an always overpriced rickshaw, wearing only one backpack. The bus taking us to the train station in Delhi was a giant luxury Volvo with AC, reclining seats, and a bollywood-movie-playing TV screen. In that seat was the first time I have felt cold since I arrived in India. The 6 hours we spent on that bus were quite pleasant, and so were the following 6 hours on the 3AC overnight train ride. The train, which left Delhi at 11:55pm was full of upper middle class Indian men who only slept and paid us four white women no attention at all. In each car there are partitions in which 3 bunk-bed style cots are stacked on top of one another. It felt a little crowded but clean and cool. They gave us sheets, a pillow, and blanket. The bathroom was as nice as you can get in India and the ride was smooth and pleasant. Now, fast forward to the train ride back to Delhi: past our entire amazing weekend at the Ganges in the misty, lush-green mountains of Haridwar. On the train back, because there were no AC tickets available for our return trip, we rode sleeper class back to Delhi. Now, mind you the “AC” tag is one that carries with it more than just a cool temperature, it comes with guards, with nicer ammenities (like bedding and a clean bathroom), a faster train, and passengers who are well off enough to afford it. We had heard from some friends that sleeper wasn’t so bad and from others that the experience is not worth the slightly cheaper ticket. Never the less we were excited to experience all ends of the travel spectrum, and having been spoiled by our pleasant, safe incoming trip we imagined that whatever we were in for wouldn’t be so bad. From the start, our side of the platform looked a bit different than before. All inches of the cement floor were scattered with lone barefoot people sleeping on plastic tarps or families sitting and eating on layed out sheets. They appeared to be in for an entire night spent in the station. We too sat with our bags and waited for the train, quiet and tired from our long exciting weekend. As the tracks started to rumble the room began to erupt. From the moment our train came into the station everyone around us on the platform ran for the doors. They were shoving each other and screaming back to their friends and family to follow them into the crazy mob of people trying to fit into the doorway of the unreserved cars. The other people who had set up camp on the platform seemed not to be stirred by the mad dash at all. They just continued sleeping on their plastic tarps as they waited for their train to arrive. We popped up and found our car and our bunker. We pushed our ways inside to discover it filled past capacity with standing men trying to get a free ride. Before we had even found our seats Kari had to slap away one of the many hands for having groped her behind in the crowd. She was strong and unfazed, and mostly just excited for getting to slap someone. We all sat down side by side on the lower bunk while we scoped out our situation. As the train pulled out of the station a man smoking a cigarette by the open door was boring into us with his gaze. As I went to shoot him a strong look he pursed his lips in my direction, raised his eyebrows, and gravely licked the perimeter of his mouth repeatedly with his tongue. From that moment my friends and I knew we were in for a long 8 hours, that everything we did would be watched, and that it was us against every one in that car. Bathroom breaks would happen in pairs while the other two guarded our bags. We would sleep with our heads facing the wall, feet toward the aisle, no ear-phones in, and one eye open. What’s more: we discovered the bathroom was a hole in the ground in a room full of standing water that smelled like sewage. Since we were the first bunker, closest to the open door and bathroom, the stench of urine washed over us every time the train stopped. As we were setting in to the extreme discomfort, thankfully an Indian woman and another female traveler joined our car. So all 6 beds in our section were filled with women. As the conductor and guard came through to check everyone’s tickets I strategically yelled in the lip-licker’s direction so that the guards, too, could hear: “Mut Karo!” Meaning stop that right now. I saw that the conductor took notice and as he came to check my ticket and I told him in Hindi that that man in the white shirt by the door is very bad. He smiled sweetly under his grey mustache that that man and the others without tickets would be kicked off at the next stop. In less than a minute the train slowed and all standing passengers, including butt-grabber and kissy-creepo were shooed away by men in tan uniforms with rifles. I felt infinitely better, but still guarded...and skeptical of one man left standing by the doorway. He was well dressed in a yellow polo and slacks and seemed unthreatening as he listened to his i-pod and stole small glances in our direction (as all people in India do when we are around). So we set up our beds, closed the windows, and used our bags for pillows. Everyone else was asleep already and we were dozing off as well. Once all of us had fallen asleep for a couple hours we were groggily stirred by the man with the i-pod leaning in our section of bunks trying to have a conversation with Elizabeth about her book. She tried to tell him to leave but he just kept asking about her book, saying he had read it and I’m not sure what else because my Hindi is only so good. The Indian woman in our car ordered him to leave, told the man that Elizabeth did not want to talk to him and not to come back. He asked her what her problem was and moved closer. She raised her voice. I watched under a haze of just disturbed slumber; I hadn’t decided fully if this man was totally bad or not because he seemed to just be initiating conversation. But the older Indian woman was more quick-witted with stronger instincts and more experience on these trains. She got louder and protested again and he only got closer. She started rattling off the fastest, loudest, and most angry Hindi I have yet to hear. Despite her screaming and our broken Hindi reinforcing her commands he did not leave. All the men around us who were lying in their beds pretended to be sleeping and did nothing to help us. Not until the screaming woman said to an older man “Don’t you see what is happening?! Tell him to leave!” did anyone else speak up. I couldn’t believe that during all that commotion no one even looked in our direction. Finally the guards came. All they did was speak to him calmly and uninterestedly, then shooed him away. He did not leave the train, he only went to another car. Which confused me because he did not seem to have a ticket, just like all the others who were kicked off the train hours ago. Having thanked the woman, I went to walk Jocelyn to the bathroom. As I waited for her outside in the hall, I saw the same man in the yellow polo standing in the next car. I told the guard in Hindi that that man in the yellow shirt with the black bag was the one who was disturbing us. He sort of chuckled and smiled at the novelty of my Hindi and beckoned me closer with his hand. The whir of the train was loud so I moved closer to repeat what I had said. He then responded by asking me what my name was and trying to shake my hand. When Jocelyn came out of the bathroom we walked back, followed by the lingering guard and I told my friends under my breath that this guard was not to be trusted at all. He continued to stand there until we all said “Jao” to move him elsewhere. Even though I was able to express clearly what I wanted to tell the guard it didn’t matter because he was no better than anyone he was guarding us against, only he had a gun (and maybe a job to lose). When he was gone and al seemed calm, I closed my eyes and before I knew it, it was sunrise and all of us were reaching our stop in one piece, without anything too terrible happening to us. From that experience we all learned three very important things about protecting yourself while traveling: to make a very loud and public scene as soon as someone fishy approaches, to be skeptical of even those in uniform, and to never take a sleeper class train ever again. Now that I have relived all that excitement I am exhausted and ready for sleep. I will write happy news soon: about the Taj Mahal and the North. And to my family and Hindi teacher back home, don’t worry, I am ever cautious and aware, always with friends, and learning quickly.

India Journals #3

aprilrose — Tue, 24 Jun 2008 08:26:27 GMT

India Journals #3 Monday June 23, 2008 For the past three days we have been hearing about the arrival of a big procession through Raja Park (my neighborhood in Jaipur, Rajasthan). This year marks the 300th anniversary of the compilation of the Sikh holy book. Sikhs worship no guru or idol but they revere this text greatly. In celebration of three hundred years a parade has been making its way through Rajasthan. Tonight, it came through Raja Park at about 11:30 pm. My devout Sikh family took me and my roommates to see the procession. There were hoards of people in the street just near my school and home. At the front of the parade men on their scooters were waving orange flags and popping their engines. Some wielded long swords: an homage to one of the 5 important symbols in Sikhism. Everyone’s head, including mine, was covered: the men wore turbans, as they always do, and the women wore their dupathas/scarves, as they do in temple and at ceremonies. Fireworks lit up the sky and marigold petals showered the streets. Further down the parade a truck moving very slowly had kirtan playing over the loudspeaker. People took turns chanting into the microphone, playing drums, and clapping bells. Prasad offerings were being given out every few minutes. Women would come place Parle-G butter biscuits, sweet rice, or some other potent concoction in my hands as we followed the procession. At the heart of it all was a giant float with big golden towers and transparent walls. It held the holy book and a tower of sword-like weapons. Because I still only know a little about Sikhism I had the pleasure of observing the whole seen as a visual stimulus without much deeper understanding. When you have no personal attachment to most of the symbols and customs it becomes somewhat of a farce. Just like an outsider might be disgusted by the idea that Christians drink the blood of Christ and revere the image of his emaciated body on the cross, I found it strange that people were holding a parade for a tower of impressive metal weaponry while handing out the Indian equivalent of Ritz crackers. Other than this comical sideline in my head I was totally impressed and moved by the happy gathering of so many people for one purpose. Mostly I was fascinated by the lamp-lighters that bordered the procession. On each side of the street, between the parade and the sidewalk, there were men dressed in poorly fitting colonial style uniforms. They carried on their shoulders, or heads, big fancy lamps to light the parade. Each lamp was connected to the next by a power cord. When one man would fall behind, his cord would yank on the lamp held by the man in front of him and that man’s cord would pull on the man in front of him, in a domino-like fashion. The men were very thin and dark, they had yellow eyes and the expression of all the homeless people I see on the streets every day. I don’t even think they were Sikh because almost none of them had their head covered. While everyone in the parade and those watching it were singing and eating biscuits, these men were laboriously carrying the lamps that allowed it all to be seen. The unhappiness on their faces, the way they were attached by the lamp cords and the roundedness of their backs caused by their heaving loads made them look like slaves. It was such a paradox to me...and no one else seemed to even notice them. Earlier in the afternoon, after school, I went with a few friends to the Old City to shop for a Sitar. It was an adventure of back ally ways which led to tiny rooms with many impressive instruments. I watched my friend Justin tune and play each Sitar while another friend Miles played the Tablah. They sounded beautiful together.

India Journals #2

aprilrose — Sun, 22 Jun 2008 06:01:44 GMT

Friday June 20th I just did my first sun salutation since I disembarked for India ...on my black yoga mat which lies on the marble floor of my rooftop bedroom. The soundtrack was Erykah Badu, regularly interspersed with the breas of a cow outside my window. My dristi in front of me was a dry rack of clothes that I handwashed in a bucket this evening. The most colorful items on the rack are the pieces of my second, and thus far most prized, Salwaar Kamiz. It is made of black and white and deep red-orange fabric that I bought at a Sari fabric store in busy Jaipur. I just picked it up from the little tailor’s shop that I pass on my walk from home to school. It cost 160 rupees to have it made...that is roughly 4 dollars. My room is furnished with bare necessities: a cot, a dresser, a bookshelf and desk. In the corner is a giant cooler that I have yet to turn on because the fan above me and the evening rain outside keeps the room from overheating. Today it was very hot, very humid. I have never sweat so much in my life, all the while drinking hot tea. No matter the temperature in India , everyone drinks hot chai: all throughout the day. This morning when I went down for breakfast I could smell spices and hear Hindi chatter at the top of the steep spiral staircase that leads from the roof to the kitchen. Auntiji, my host mother, cooks us breakfast every morning. Yesterday it was homemade yogurt and aloo-paratha, a sort of potato-onion pancake, and today it was a ghi smothered omelet and toast. Needless to say, my vegan diet has become null here, I can’t imagine trying to make it in India without eating milk or butter nor can I imagine refusing a homemade omelet from Auntiji. The Kapoors, my host family, are so kind. I nearly cried when I first moved in and realized how fortunate I am to have been paired with this Sikh family of four. I approached the gate with my bags in hand and was welcomed into the heart of a kirtan ceremony where the whole local Sikh community had gathered. In the living room, 40 to 50 women, all dressed in their nicest Salwaars were seated before an altar, raising their voices in song. The altar, decorated with strands of marigolds, held a giant text from which an elder woman was leading the chant. My two roommates and I covered our heads with our dupathas, bowed our foreheads to the floor in front of the text, and sat down to join the women singing “Wahe Guru.” As I sat there chanting, listening to the harmonium I was overwhelmed with gratitude to the universe for bringing me into this home. Since that afternoon I have been trying to get to know my family. Though it is difficult because my Hindi skills at the moment only pertain to tidbits about myself and comments on the weather. In the last two days, however, I have already learned so much from my patient teachers and motivated peers. My health has been great, better than most others who have already fallen sick. I am exhausted each night, so I have been sleeping well and waking up early. The sunrise shines into my room and brings with it a warmth that pleasantly wakes me up. Though we take tea breaks often, school is tiring. The heat is tiring. The walk to and from school is tiring. It is tiring to combat the small but congested dirt roads which lack crosswalks or any notion of pedestrians at all. Yet, it is more draining to ignore the dark skinned, rough voiced, young and old women who follow us, pointing to their mouths and asking for money so that they can eat. I wish that I could explain to them that I am not heartless, just that I live here too now and I will be walking this road twice a day for the next three months. There are so many of them: I can’t stop to offer a rupee that probably won’t help anyway, because it is likely to unleash a string of people in need asking me for more. I try to avoid eye contact with everyone along the way since they are mostly male rickshaw drivers and street vendors or female beggars. I know most of them are watching the three American girls who seem out of place but I can not look at them to confirm that, without it being an invitation to bargain for something that I don’t need. So I walk with my face forward or down at the ground so as to avoid puddles and trash. This is not to cast every local person in a bad light or to say that my walk is one of grave seriousness. I have had many pleasant interactions with shopkeepers and tailors and my roommates and I chat and laugh as we walk. There is just a different way to interact here and until I really understand it, I am mostly withdrawing myself from it. Tomorrow we are going on a field trip, so even Saturday will be busy with school affairs. And Sunday is sure to be full of homework: which I have already received a hefty load of. Now I have to sleep so that I have energy for all of it. Goodnight for me...good afternoon to all of you

India Journals #1

aprilrose — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 08:14:10 GMT

Tuesday June 17, 2008 The Last Night in my Hotel Room in Jaipur Tomorrow I move in with my Indian host family. Tonight I am at a 5 star hotel in a busy part of Jaipur, Rajasthan. The accommodations here, which in the states I might find unnecessary, have been instrumental in helping me transition to living in India . A safe, air-conditioned room (where I am right now) is such refuge. I can still hear the horns of rickshaws, buses, motorcycles, and autos outside my window...but I can’t hear or see the homeless old women holding naked babies begging for change as they reach in through the car window holding empty palms. Their children smiling and saying “hello” in English. They never stop smiling, and they never stop. The streets are potholed and full of muddy standing water from the heavy monsoon rains that come intermittently throughout the day and night: fierce downpours that would sink a ship and that turn the roads into rivers. There are heaps of trash on every block that fill the surrounding air with a stench that must be surrendered to. It isn’t because the people don’t care, it is because there is no effective removal system. There is nowhere else for waste to go. So it goes into the bellies of emaciated cows that amble along the streets and perch on the roadsides as bicycles swerve around them. Next to a heap this afternoon I saw three pigs—one big, one medium, one small—all lying together, napping in the street. Their little pink butts all touching side-by-side in a row. Today a cow walked up to me. She was white and small, quite beautiful, and she bellowed a low tone; she too, was asking for alms to kill the pangs of hunger. Maybe the image you have in your head is wrong. I have said cows and pigs: animals that belong in the countryside. But this is all in the middle of a big, populated city, with people and cars and sari shops, cell phone stands, electronics stores, tobacco shops, street vendors, vegetable carts and lots and lots of traffic. The traffic in Jaipur is insane. The sound of honking horns is only ever briefly interrupted: it is otherwise a very steady stream of abrasive noise. Besides the fact that we drive on the left here, there are no lanes. There are no blinkers. There are no crosswalks or bike-lanes. The system is based on a shove-your-way-through method. Today I saw a man get off the bus in the middle of the street as it was still moving. A rickshaw nearly plowed into him---and neither he nor anyone else saw any danger. People here just live and do, they don’t ask for permission. My hotel is in the epicenter of all this, however, my Hindi school and homestay are about 30 min out, in a residential neighborhood. Many of the characters are the same but the backdrop is one of pale stucco houses with leaf-green terraces from which drying colorful saris flap in the breeze. It is a nice area of middle class homes and small market shops. I can walk 1 and a half kilometers to school from my house. It is sunny and quiet there. It is safe and it is beautiful. All of what I have seen of India is beautiful. My teachers at the American Institute of Indian studies are warm and kind. They speak a little English and they are very considerate. Each morning we take a break from class to have homemade chai and each afternoon we have lunch together. They cook lunch at the institute: homecooked roti, aloo-saag, lentils and rice served with milk curd and sliced cucumbers. It is hot and fresh, and tastes like it was made with love. There are 60 American students, in three different skill levels of Hindi. I have been getting to know the intermediate students well since our orientation in Washington DC and welcome in Delhi . They are all interesting and driven. Since we have been traveling in a large group on buses and staying in hotels, it has sort of felt like summer camp so far. That will change tomorrow morning when I move in with my family: the Kapoors. The house where I am living is beautiful, one of the best ones we toured and got to pick from. The house-choosing was quite stressful: we all drove around to every house and then were put in a room and told to work it out for ourselves. We decided on a lottery: which left us with our fondness of eachother and me with the best home. I will be living with a hospitable Sikh family, who have their own prayer room where I saw the grandmother sitting cross legged reading a giant text while I sipped the orange soda that their servant gave to us all. The family is a mother and father, both with degrees in physics and education, a 25 yr old son and a 21 yr old daughter. My room is one of three on the roof terrace. You reach it by a small, light-house-like, spiral staircase. It is quaint and open, with a bed and dresser, a wardrobe, and desk. In the morning I can do yoga on the terrace, eat breakfast with the family and walk to school with the two other students who live there. In the evenings I can speak Hindi with the family, eat dinner with them, and then have some solace in my room on the roof. So far I have one orange and yellow Salwaar Kamiz (traditional Indian dress), and material that I will take to a tailor tomorrow. I am so happy with my adventures so far and there is still so much to look forward to. Every night when I have been overwhelmed and tired, covered in layers of sunscreen and bug spray, I have felt such gratitude for my cold water, bucket shower and the opportunity to be where and who I am.

If you want me to e-mail you from India...

aprilrose — Thu, 05 Jun 2008 22:24:17 GMT

...then leave me your e-mail address

In im the LA Times!

aprilrose — Mon, 02 Jun 2008 17:46:16 GMT

Check out the Los Angeles Times review of the show I just finished working for. It is called Wet Spots: The Story Project, Tiny Dances About the Female Orgasm http://www.latimes.com/entertainment/news/arts/la-et-wet2-2008jun02,0,1839822.story

Tribal Caravan

aprilrose — Mon, 12 May 2008 05:21:20 GMT

The link below will take you to a video of The Nautch Project performing at Tribal Caravan 2008. It is my first ever group choreography.....eeek. Nautch is an experimental project I have been working on in LA while I am geographically separated from UNMATA. Thankyou Shelly for video taping the performance! The beautiful dancers (who are all named) are a group of women I teach classes to every week in LA. They are really awesome women and I am lucky they encouraged me to develop a peice during our class time that we could share with the community. http://youtube.com/watch?v=hwWhyQjHivc

An Experience of a Lifetime

aprilrose — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 05:57:05 GMT

I was graced with the most exciting news last week. Out of 6000 applicants I, and 500 other lucky people, recieved the scholarship of a lifetime. The grant covers a 2 and a half month stay in a foreign country while going to school to learn its language. The government is sending me, ALL expenses paid, to study Hindi in Jaipur, Rajhastan INDIA! I leave in one month: June 11th (with a short stay In Washington, DC and New Dheli). And stay until Aug 23rd. I'll be living with a host family, going to language school Mon-Fri 9am-3pm, and doing some exploring. I do not have to pay a dime. I am so excited and scared shitless.

I am 20 yrs old Today

aprilrose — Wed, 09 Apr 2008 17:05:34 GMT

I am 20 yrs old today. Thismorning I looked at myself in the mirror and transported back to my 12 year old self. So, this is what I look like when I’m 20….hmmmm. This is the person I am. Through that futuristic/montage-like lense, I felt something a little different than I usually do when I look at myself the morning-mirror: Happy with who I am. At that moment I felt Sattwic, content, fulfilled, blissful. I love my, dreadie, yogi, non made-up, dancer, traveler, university student, vegan, compassionate, unshaven, nontoxic, high achieving self! I am learning not to let small set backs (actions that I take not in alignment with who I perceive as my highest self) send me into a self-obsessed depression. Haha, I guess the drawback to being high achieving is suffering extreme disappointment at my not-completely-evolved-ness. After an intense, sweaty, strengthening, hip-opening, yoga practice yesterday morning --I cried. I cried both simultaneously about my imperfections and how far I have come at only 20 years old. I cried for my Tamasic-stagnant and Rajasic-“never stop moving” qualities. I cried because all I want is to reach that Sattwic state of mind where I am whole and fulfilled and primally happy in my pure nature. I cried because I know it is often my struggle to get there that holds me back. My self-deprecating self that sees the journey to my blissful pure nature as a goal that requires perfection and self control. When I am forgetting that it requires surrender and acceptance. I cried for Elias, and every young person who dies when they were such a light here on earth! And how I can be crying about being in this world that he no longer is physically a part of. Today, at 20 years old, I feel accepting of where I am on my journey and happy with who I am. I hope that every milestone birthday brings me the same retrospective joy and pleasure at my state of being. I surrender to wherever I go from here. And I have this feeling…. that this is my real true beginning.

True Story (part 1)

aprilrose — Sat, 06 Oct 2007 09:36:22 GMT

I had one of the most interesting experiences of my young yogic life this week. I went to a "meditation/drum circle/satsang" that turned out to be an intimate cult-like gathering lead by a man who all but claimed that he is divinity in the flesh and has the power to take us to Samadhi right now. The fast track to self realization. He cleverly gave himself a veneer of mysticism and celebrity godliness which had the other people I met there totally convinced! There are so many interesting details to the story that I have only retold the very beginnings of this bazaare experience. Read the first part and I will post the rest soon. A Satsang Gone Wrong, “Don’t Drink the Tea” Last night, my good friend, Ally, invited me along to a meditation and drum circle she had gone to the week before. I couldn’t think of a more legitimate reason to ditch my homework and leave campus for a night. Although I knew very little about where we were headed, I could feel that our talkative car ride there was just the beginning of a memorable adventure. When we arrived at the house (who’s house –I still don’t know, except that he goes by Jesse, and that he was not there) we took off our shoes and were welcomed into the kitchen. The smell of yellow curry and homemade chai on the stove, along with the modest pottery barn furniture and hanging tapestries, wrapped familiarity and warmth around my shoulders and lured me in with a smile. Two beautiful, young, fair-haired yoginis greeted us. Another beautiful yogi spirit, a grey haired young man with a beaming smile, greeted us on his way out. He was on his way to pick up the “Guru and his wife.” His white cotton shirt and white linen pants, carried with them the promise of a kundalini yoga experience—a practice whose singing, chanting, moving and breathing reminds me of home and makes me miss my yogini mother. I look at Ally with a beaming smile, and eyes that say “This is familiar, thankyou for bringing me. We are in for some transcendental fun.” The young man, who introduced himself as Morgan, continues on his way out and we four remaining girls file into the back living room to “chant and raise the vibrations.” Yes, chanting!—just as my assumptions promised. As we pass through the embrasure from kitchen to sacred space, Sarah (one of the fair-haired hostesses) flicked off the lights—leaving only the dim warmth of candlelight. “Baba is sensitive to light, he likes to have it dark.” This subtle remark was full of mystery: who is Baba? She said the name with such mysticism and reverence. I dismiss my curiosity and accept it as yet another observation to file away until I make sense of the unfolding experience. In the room, I choose a comfortable purple cushion and sit in half lotus on the floor. The rest follow and the four of us form a seated crescent of beautiful, bright, goddess energy. Before we begin our chant, Sarah explains the Mantra: Ohm Prema Ashim. My thin knowledge of Sanskrit confirmed that yes, it was something about the primordial sound of the universe and infinite love. Though, knowing the meaning of mantras has never been crucial for me: I just love to raise my voice with others—to feel the therapeutic vibrations that current through my body and the peaceful place they put my mind. As she put in the CD she explained that the mantra would help raise the vibrations of the room for Babaji, the fully self-realized being who would be gracing our presence tonight! Instantly, my internal dialogue shifted to incredulity: “What!? Fully self-realized? Doesn’t this chick know that it takes lifetimes to attain self realization? And if someone had reached it, he would be among the few reclusive monks who spend their earthly existence in meditation, having renounced the material world and all attachments therein: NOT in Santa Monica leading a satsang in the back room of someone named Jesse’s house?” But then my yogi training kicked in: “No judgement, be open, you do not know everything, wait and see, enjoy the mystery, enjoy the mantra.” As we chanted, my heart was singing. It felt so good to be in such a warm space with people chanting in earnest. I played with the harmonies and my highschool-choir-alto voice reared its forgotten head. After about 10 minutes I felt the presence of three more people enter the space. Out of curiosity, I open my eyes to meditative slants. I see Morgan lead “the guru and his wife” to the couch facing us; he joins our chanting crescent on the floor. The chant comes to a close and I get to see, in full view, who we had been expecting with such anticipation. To my surprise, the Guru resembled a Ken Doll in the flesh. Sitting cross legged on the red couch, his Hollywood tan skin and olive yoga tee and pants are a stark contrast to what I had imagined I saw through my slit eyelids. The guru’s full biceps and pecs are reminiscent of Swarcheneger’s and put considerable pressure on his clothes; his greased hair is perfectly in place. The strangest part of his physiognomy, though, is his dark pair of tortoise-shell sunglasses. I look around at the faces next to me, expecting to find some answer as to why this unusual guru was wearing shades inside, at 8:30 in the evening. No one seems to be stirred by it –so, once again I open my mind, with an internal chuckle, throw judgement aside and go with it. The man sitting before me introduces himself as Babaji. From my limited knowledge of Hindi I understood that Baba means father and ji as a sign of respect. It is also the name of the immortal avatar (the descent of divinity in the flesh) who revealed himself to Paramhansa Yogananda, the founder of the Church of Yogananda, sometime in the 1800’s. This new piece of the puzzle seemed to fit with the photograph above the fireplace of THE Babaji. I have practiced Ananda yoga a handful of times and been to a Yogananda church once before. The familiarity of that simultaneously reassures me and encourages my curiosity about where I am and what is going to happen. Guru Babaji begins the satsang by having the five of us introduce ourselves, describing a bit about our spiritual journey. I share first. Due to the residual bliss from chanting, my state of confusion, and my desire to observe before I fully participate, my introduction is less than articulate. I tell how I have been practicing yoga with my mom since adolescence, but do not relate well that I am familiar with Eastern philosophy. Sarah speaks next. She mentions her close relationship with her passed-over Grandmother and her excitement over some text called “The Initiation.” My friend Ally talks about her Christian upbringing and her summer in Tanzania. The next to share is Danielle, one of the women who had arrived before us and helped to welcome Ally and me. She describes her longing for spiritual meaning in her life since a young age and that her journey consisted of days spent at the Bodhi Tree reading books about Eastern religions. Morgan spoke about the religion courses he had taken in college and his conversions from atheist to Buddhism, to Hinduism (which he was drawn to because it is “much more colorful”). Altogether, no member of the ‘congregation’ around me seemed to have any prior concrete knowledge about Bhakti Yoga (a devotional path). I had gathered from a bit if conversation earlier in the evening that Morgan, Danielle, and Sarah, are all Bel-Air natives. We are altogether, a group of young, privaledged, impressionable minds, “longing for spiritual guidance” –a visually vulnerable position to be in. I keep quiet and remind myself to “observe, be open, enjoy, retain.” Babaji’s wife sits next to him, quietly, with an inviting smile on her face. I like her energy. She feels sincere and looks more human than her companion. Guru Babaji begins his lecture by asking us to close our eyes and visualize a scale on which we can measure our level of self-esteem. He invokes the memories of different spiritual leaders. The Buddha, and St, Theresa, he says, were able to excel on their spiritual path partly because of their high self esteem: “they loved themselves, they believed in themselves.” Thankfully my closed eyelids serve to shroud the incredulity in my eyes. “St. Theresa of Avila—loved herself! Thought highly of herself!? WRONG. I’ve read her diaries—she hated herself, and shamed herself for never being good enough for God. She beat herself, she starved herself, she –was a terrible example for him to use.” So now, this guy is losing me. But my yogi mind kicks in once more: “Wait, no—be open, you do not know everything. Just because he doesn’t know history doesn’t mean he won’t have something of value to offer. Be patient, enjoy.” Guru Babaji instructed us to visualize the scale and mentally bump up our self esteem to the next level. He says things that I really believe in. We should not be afraid of our beauty, our ability to succeed. He encourages us to break down the barricade that keeps down our self esteem. “We are the creators of our own reality. We manifest what we believe.” He enforced the power of positive thinking: “negative thoughts will fester into unhappy lives, positive thoughts will bring positivity in.” “Be love, let your love be seen and felt –let it extend outward to touch those around you, so that love can fill the world.” Yes, ok: this I can jive with—I am in the right place. I knew I liked these people sitting next to me. When we open our eyes, Babaji is sitting in a meditative silence: he sort of “checks out” and his wife takes over. I wonder to myself why this fully self-realized guru is leaning so leisurely against the back of the couch. He should know that if he is meditating in that position, he is impeding the flow of energy up his spine by not sitting fully erect. I again, put my ego in check for thinking that I know so much. Leela speaks with a smile and begins to tell the story of how her husband came to be sitting before us. She explained that one day they woke up in their hotel room after a publicity tour in Australia, where they had been promoting her book (she is the author of the NY Times Best Seller, Fit for Life) and their lives changed forever. Her husband looked at her that morning and said, “I have to go to India today.” “But, my love, you don’t have a ticket or a passport. We just returned from Australia, whatever do you mean?” “You don’t understand,” he said. “I have to go to India today.” She tells the story with such an intensity that I feel like a child being told a fairytale. “So, hurried arrangements were made for him to fly to NY that night and India the next morning. There were many tears. I was devastated: I didn’t know if I would ever see my husband again, but I understood he had to go. I felt so distraught…” The story continues in this romanticized, fable-like direction. She speaks softly, as if she is revealing a great secret to the privileged few. I sympathize with her, and grow to like her. But the way she trips over some minute details –editing them as she speaks, makes me skeptical. “We wiped our eyes as we took our passport photo—or no, his visa photo—or no just our last photo together.” As she is telling the story, Guru Babaji sits in stillness with his eyes closed (he had removed his sunglasses by now). She talks about him as if he is not in the room—furthering the mysticism that has been created around him since before he entered this humble abode. The story goes that After 10 days in India he called Leela, crying and inspired, because he had just met and connected with the Babaji. The immortal spirit, Babaji who was last reported as revealing himself to Paramhansa Yogananda lifetimes ago. Leela reminded us that no one sees Babaji. She then described his humor and youthful energy as if she had met him herself and the two of them were old friends. “As he walked across the sand of the beach, his feet barely grazed the sand, which danced up around him in little puffs.” At the conclusion of her story is the real kicker. Babaji had revealed himself to her husband and implored him to be his western ambassador to spread the path of yoga to the sweet souls in America, where there are “too many sex and beer vibrations” for him to appear there, personally. And so, the guru Babaji before us, is the Babaji in the flesh. Leela explains that her husband can channel the spirit and energy of immortalized Babaji, and therefore he calls himself and is Babaji. I am appalled at the audacity of the story, but say nothing. I keep smiling and wondering when the experience will seis to be evermore interesting and unbelievable. Guru Babaji opens his eyes and returns to the conversation. He explains that we will now prepare for a deep meditation. First, we stop for a water and bathroom break.

Lightning in a Bottle

aprilrose — Thu, 03 May 2007 04:15:11 GMT

I AM GOOOOOOING! I am so excited I just peed myself. green/art/dance/music festival in Santa Barbera lightninginabottle.org

Moral Dilemma

aprilrose — Wed, 02 May 2007 06:00:39 GMT

For my Global Environment Seminar I am to "build my own Gaia" (Gaia being a name for the earth as one self-sustaining entity). How do I do this? Create a closed terrarium (no air holes or anything) for an insect/arthropod/shrimp/snail in which the little creature/test-subject has everything needed to survive for 2 weeks. Soil, water, plants to make oxygen, sunlight. I can't interfere. AAAHHHH! What do I do? I feel guilty experimenting on a helpless invertebrate. On the one hand I can just shut up and do the damn simple experiment, try my hardest to keep a snail alive, then release him. She will have to have spent two whole weeks in a shoe box sized environment! And what if she dies (which, lets face it--I can't even keep all my fucking plants alive--it's very likely) ?? On the other hand I can object. I am hesitent because A) my lab proposal is due tomorrow, I should have said something sooner but I was avoiding confronting my guilt about it. B) because I am feeling out-of-character-ily shy (ok spineless) about objecting. C) I want an A in the class. Maybe I can think of a way to duplicate the concept without using a critter....just plants??? Does that constitute as the same experiment? I feel conflicted...and now emotionally guilty. Damn.

dumpster diving

aprilrose — Sun, 29 Apr 2007 08:09:20 GMT

I had the most amazing night I hung out with three new hippie friends of mine...art majors at UCLA we went dumpster diving behind whole foods and made out like kings then we cooked up a fat feast and sat around a table of yummy vegan food chatting and laughing ...basking in the niche of excess and waste whole foods puts boxes and crates of food out that are wrapped in plastic on wood slats...not even in a dumpster. We found 3 boxes of the best tasting almonds I've ever had (they don't expire until november! they were marked "mispick"--whatever that means) We found fresh coconuts and esparagus, 3 potted plants and two bouquets (they just need a little love) The best part: two boxes of vegan cookies! (expired yesterday) somehow it really made me feel alive.

new tattoo

aprilrose — Mon, 12 Mar 2007 07:48:31 GMT

FUN FUN!! it says EARTH not FART :) haha

Wind Child

aprilrose — Mon, 08 Jan 2007 09:53:07 GMT

“You’ve never seen a woman taken by the wind…” --Fleetwood Mac I remembered, today as I was walking through the brisk winds of the coastal LA hills, how I used to play with the wind as a child. A witchy little girl, I would intertwine myself with the humbling energy of the wind. I felt every gust as a surge of power from the earth that charged my body and my personal power. My skin cells and muscles would be saturated with elemental energy. Internally, I grew large; the intensity of my visualization taking me into a wind-sparked, self-catalyzed, possession. My young, verdant body would become a vehicle of the swirling current and my mind an imaginative slave to the wind’s squeeling commands. I would spin, run, leap, and dance—speaking in tongues that became lost in the wails of the wind or convulsing gracefully in silence: my eyelids shut over eyeballs that rolled into the back of my head. My trance traced the escalation of the wind-tides: increasing violently with its strength. When the wind died I would fall dramatically to the ground as if I had been pushed by a force 1,000 times stronger than me—imitating the fragile bodies of Hollywood damsels as they fall to the ground and muddy their full skirts. I would go from growling, masculine powerhouse of wind energy—invisible bolts shooting from my fingertips—to broken feminine fragility, dazed and drained: naively unaware of the earth magik that had just channeled through me. When the play was over and my catharsis obtained, I would skip away. I have reclaimed my connection with the wind and now, I am fully charged.

I need an old Verizon Phone

aprilrose — Mon, 18 Dec 2006 00:41:38 GMT

I lost my phone and I can't afford to buy a new one (because my contract isn't up I have to pay $150 for the standard phone new costumers usually get for free) So I'm asking everyone I know who has an old phone that says Verizon on it. If you do let me know :) We can work something out.

summer song

aprilrose — Wed, 13 Dec 2006 03:21:32 GMT

I listened to a song that I hadn't heard for a few months. It was one of my favorites this summer. It took me back to the feel/taste/smell of this past summer................ When all I had to worry about was packing for Burning Man and Making it to Rebbeca's in time for So You Think You Can Dance Wow, I wonder if I'll ever feel that carefree agian. AHHH ---I just got so high off those memories :)

I am a tasty cake, spoiled by a fly

aprilrose — Fri, 08 Dec 2006 00:31:12 GMT

Today during her office hours, my Linguistics TA, a young progressive Turkish woman, told me that I need to remove my body hair or no one will want me. Although this comment was uninvited and completely unrelated to my Ling paper. I welcomed the discussion because I rarely get to hear other people’s honest opinion about my hair and she was being civil. I asked her “You don’t think it balances out? I am young, smart, beautiful, and funny. Some girls are stupid, shallow, and unattractive. So I have hair—you don’t think people would prefer me to them?” Her response: “No.” Her analogy: It’s like having a beautiful looking piece of cake that tastes really yummy but then a fly comes and lands on it. You would rather eat another piece of cake that doesn’t taste or look as good because it doesn’t have something disgusting plopped on top of it. She explained that beauty is defined by a person’s culture and that I should just follow the social standard. I shouldn’t blame men for wanting the standard because it is just what they have been taught and what they expect. I listened to her view and honestly considered it but ultimately decided that I disagree. I don’t want a man who expects me to fit into the social definition of a woman. I want someone who is attracted to me for my vivacious personality, my funny quirks, my desire to love and to live fully, and yes for my beauty---but the beauty that is mine, not the one he thinks I should have. And I in-turn am consciously trying to broaden my definition of what makes a man. Because they have just as many social pressures: to be brave, muscular, unemotional, to have all the answers and a full head of hair. I too have been ingrained with the cultural definition of manhood, which I am trying to destroy and replace with the qualities that I value. It is a mutual journey in acceptance and in trying to see what really matters As for the men: If they don’t want me I’m sure some women might :) And for the cake: I would definitely NOT settle for an inferior slice, I would just pick off the fucking fly…it’s a fly, whatev. As for the TA: Eat me ;)

My Dorm

aprilrose — Thu, 23 Nov 2006 00:26:50 GMT

I filmed a little diddy of my dorm room (I think I was channelling Luna) and thought I would share it in case some of you were curious about my new abode :) My desk is the first one, and my bed is the top bunk w/ the black comforter. I love you guys! here it is! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NOAnfnfKFtU

Cutting Corners

aprilrose — Mon, 20 Nov 2006 05:20:15 GMT

People walk across the grassy corners between paved walkways propelled by some internal rebellion against whatever architect dared to determine the direction of their passage. They don’t realize that this simple defiance, amplified by many, does nothing more than degrade the beauty of the green and that there is a much larger rebellion to participate in; one that is not based on vandalizing indolence and cutting corners. The rebellion is against ignorance, over-consumption, and defacing of the natural. There must be a certain amount of follow the leader: of walking in line and doing the right thing in hopes that those behind you will follow your example. When we all start to print double-sided documents, start carrying around nalgenes, and stop trampling the hillside we send out compassionate energies that will return. Little abuses of the earth become add up with the incommensurable amount of people it now supports: as do little extra efforts in taking the longer path.

Habitual Tendencies

aprilrose — Tue, 19 Sep 2006 22:53:50 GMT

Category: Blogging After surfing people's myspace blogs I realized that it is really interesting to read about peoples lives from their perspective. The personal ones are much more interesting than the random controlled and unvulnerable ones I have been posting. Ofcourse I know the difference between my journal and the internet so I won't be exposing myself too much on this thing but I am going to let you people get to know me a little better. (Or that is the plan as of right now -I'm impulsive so who knows if it will continue). My mom took photos of me for my new business card today. It was grueling. I respect models. I hate the process and I usually hate the result. But whatev I'm much better at it now cuz I realize I just have to get over it. My red postcard (which many of you have, or did at one time) is a totally different person than who I am right now so I feel like it's false advertising or something. So I'm in the process of making one that is truer to who I am. Make-up is a funny mask. I usually don't wear it unless I'm perfoming (well except for mascara because I'm totally vain about my eyelashes which is weird because I also compulsively pull them out with my fingers. Maybe compulsive is a strong word but ...eh maybe it's true.) I do it to my eyebrows too. Ralph tells me it's a disorder. It's called trichotilomania or something that sounds a lot like that. But I don't think it's all that in my case because it's not out of stress or obsession -just the love for a temporary pain and the satisfaction of pulling out the ones that aren't rooted firmly enough to survive my mad plucking. Ok so I say that like it's normal but it's the same reason I like peircings. I love the process. Getting so high on adrenaline right before that the pain feels distant. After care is a bitch though. Anyway make-up is a funny mask. I think when it comes down to it make-up doesn't DO anything. Just because you look a little prettier doesn't make you anything more. Physical apprearance only matters for about the first five minutes you know someone. But I understand innocent vanity because I have some too. I think I keep a lot of it in my hair. I pride myslelf on my big mane which is why I want to one day shave my head. I will do it. Years from now. I'm gonna go Eryka Badu on you guys. HUH...."you guys" -a fundamental defect in the English language. Can we get a gender inclusive 2nd person plural!? I've done a pretty good job of training myself to say you girls instead. The next thing I will train myself to say is "Oh My Goddess" instead of oh my god. But I think I'll let myself throw in a few Hellas every once in a while cuz I have to represent my NorCal generation. We are infectious. Ooooh but the "likes" - they've GOT to go. While I'm picking on my nervous habits and loaded word choices (see I have a chronic obsession with self improvement) I wonder if I can stop my other annoying habit........the snort. You know what I'm talking about people! When you hear a gnarly pig snort resinate from my nostrils at regular intervals. If you've known me for a long time you know I've significnatly decreased the frequency of said snorts BUT they have not died. My defense is I have postnasal drip. Still it's annoying and maybe kinda gross -but indearing??? no? Alright I'll try my best.

Pastafarian

aprilrose — Mon, 18 Sep 2006 18:32:06 GMT

I edited my profile (notice, or if you love me -don't notice, the change of location). Why was one of the religion choices "Pastafarian"? HAHA funny typos make me happy.