A Vortex of Serendipity

Jaipur feels eerily small. A quick Wikipedia search will reveal that it has a population of about 2.5 million. But keep in mind, it’s very concentrated and within a day or two anyone with a decent sense of direction should be able to tell where they’re going. That’s important since rickshaw drivers regularly look for the opportunity to carry disoriented tourists on meandering rides to justify their inflated rates.

We met a cast of characters while here. Most of which would re-emerge as the weeks went on – reconnecting with us through a series of coincidences that would prove to be the norm during our stay.

There was the brown-toothed merchant who stopped my friend on day one. Asked her to write a love letter for him in English, then tried to get us back to his shop to “thank us properly”. (See pic of my friend Rachel courteously composing while I devise an exit plan that doesn’t involve a rape whistle).




Then there was Shek. The fluently English speaking rickshaw driver who rescued us from one of his colleagues – a colleague whose mastery of the English language got us stranded at City Palace instead of City Pulse (the mall next to our lesser known place of stay). Shek was a smooth talker, no doubt. But our relief at having someone local to converse with fluently made it easy to say “yes” when he suggested places to go.




He brought us to a fabric manufacturer, we intersected with a Texan we met in Delhi.

He brought us to “Guru Gi – the man who knows you better than you know yourself”, we see brown-toothed love letter guy from day one (fortunately, his memory was as bad as his dental hygiene and we managed to avoid an awkward reunion).

There was Rishi. The dreamy 20-something, well-schooled in western mannerisms. He rescued my friend Laura and I from an ill-planned visit to a seedy bar with a dangerously disproportionate amount of males (stupid on our part since after dark, the entire city is overwhelmingly male). Refreshingly aloof in a way that ogling locals are not, Rishi had us comfortably engaged in conversation in minutes. Only to find out – he not only knew one of our classmates, he was already dating her!



…the coincidences continue…

Remember Guru Gi? Guru Gi offers (questionable) personal readings in the back room of his family’s jewellery store. I was reluctant to have a consultation. But since my friends were presently distracted by genuine silver and other shiny things, I was circumstantially forced into going first. The reading was intense – I cried, he tried to sell me things. He ended our meeting by announcing that he would NOT see my friends. His energy was depleted and he was “tired of white skinned people”.

My friends were pissed. But this only increased Guru Gi’s intrigue making one friend in particular want a reading more than ever. When our last day came and an opportunity to revisit the guru still hadn’t emerged, she finally accepted that it would never happen.

But destiny intervened. When a last minute request for genuine rudraksha beads came in from a friend back home, I went on one final shopping trip. One thing led to another and now mr. bead seller was loading us on a rickshaw to see HIS guru. Low and behold, as the rickshaw drove out of the pink city’s walls and into the old city streets we had travelled once before, we found ourselves pulling up for the second time to Guru Gi’s shop. Surprised on one hand and not at all surprised on the other, serendipitous Jaipur struck once again and my friend finally got her reading.

The coincidences were so plentiful it became a running joke. By our final days I began placing orders with the universe personally. “Today I want a local who speaks fluent English, has resources he wants to share (money wasn’t necessary, but we were suckers for cold drinks and air conditioning by this point), isn’t creepy and has time to show us around.”

By the next morning we were sitting with our new friend in a restaurant opened early just for us, sipping on freshly squeezed mango juice (free) and chuckling over what we should ask for next.

Inadequate Synopsis #1

I can’t remember what I once considered India to be. But sitting here, I know it’s not what I expected. India to me is now a blur of rickshaw rides and horn honks. Of roadside piles of rubble, stray dogs and smoggy air. A series of dilapidated carts and merchant stalls flogging spices, fabrics, plastic toys and overseas phone calls. Whatever you have heard, read, watched or seen – you don’t know India until you come here.

Now, at this point I must refrain from trying to sound like an authority on India. I don’t presume that my one month here is enough to understand the vastness of this country or culture. In fact, day by day my perceptions fluctuate. What you’re reading is at best a case of stage 1 India understanding – MAYBE stage 2 since I’ve traveled elsewhere in the east before.

From what I can tell, India is fond of smacking visitors around. Of then waiting to see who’s left standing, and subsequently rewarding those resilient few by letting them in on her secrets.

I watched an intellectually precocious young man reduced to tears only a few days into our trip. Despite having theorized and written about the inaccuracy of the collective western perception of the mystical east at length, he was the first to be blindsided by India’s whirlwind of overstimulation.

This country graces the patient and open-minded with a glowing internal transformation – a new lens with which to view this world of ours through.

As for all the rest? Hope you packed your anxiety meds.

A Lesson in Symbolism

Long before Mr. Hitler re-assigned it as the nazi logo, the swastika belonged to the Hindus. The symbol is even more prominent in Jain practice and is seen as an auspicious sign in both traditions.

It might appear shocking to western eyes (especially when splattered in red paint), but swastikas are commonly applied to temple exteriors by hopeful devotees asking for their wishes to be fulfilled.

I found an adorable little boys shirt printed with these and elephants. While my first reaction was to pick it up as a gift for one of my nephews, I figured the elementary school yard might not be the best locale to make such a statement. His history teacher might be impressed. But his parents, less so.

In Jaipur

We finally made it to Jaipur! ...and so did the paparazzi.

Here we are on the cover of the Jaipur section of the India Times (one of the many papers we made it into). My agent is now on call to arrange bookings.

Pilgrimage

It’s tough when you’re a solitary person trying to acclimatize to an area of overpopulation. Personal space is a commodity that I can’t figure out how to buy. But it’s tougher still when you’re carted around like school children for 3 days with a group of 30 some fellow scholars. Stuffed into a bus for periods of 8 – 24 hours under the guise of a pilgrimage.

It’s not uncommon for pilgrimages to involve a certain amount of struggle and deprivation. After all, this collective minor suffering will only make your holy destination all the more divine. But we are not real pilgrims. We are not Jains. And we are not so pure of soul as not to detest each other at moments.

It is clear that the 24 Tirthankaras can’t answer prayers (see my 2nd post). Because I’ve been asking for some freedom and personal space for hours and I’m still stuck on this bus with someone’s feet in my back.

Regardless, we saw some pretty cool stuff en route:

A: A giant Jina (Tirthankara) in Mathura, just a few hours outside of Delhi.

B: Experiencing some serious vertigo at Gwalior. Home of several towering Tirthankaras carved right into the rockface. Miraculously, these thousands of years old figures survived the iconoclasm of Islamic Invaders.

C: Some inner temple archways at Sonagiri (Gold Mountain), our temporary home during the pilgrimage.

D: Sonagiri hillside. Home of 84 Jain temples all in one place.

Change Please

You hear about poverty in India, but no second hand account can compare to seeing it for yourself. I doubt that my own account will be any different, but I will try.

What gets you isn’t that desperate beggars are more prominent than streetlights. It’s not thinking about their perpetually hungry bellies, their parasite-ridden blood streams, their concrete, shelterless existences. The hardest part for me is watching death happen in front of our eyes. Watching another being linger in that liminal stage between life and death. Not just sickness—death. Watching them suffer through their remaining series of breaths knowing that the end is imminent and coming with anguished relief.

I watched an infant—a half naked, dirt covered infant—sobbing desperately as she tried to rouse her older sibling. Was the sibling dead or simply too far-gone in an illness to attend to his familial duties? What hope the baby had, who knows? It would appear that parents were a luxury they had long since forgotten.

I came upon an immobile man who knew one word in English. “Medicine,” he begged. His leg viciously rotting away from disease and infection. He had no choice but to patiently observe his own slow and sick deterioration one limb at a time.

I watched a dog lying down in the middle of Dilli Haat—an upscale outdoor Delhi market popular with tourists (see above). Each time we walked by, his already laboured breathing became shallower and shallower until nothing remained. He met mortality alone and unassisted (but for the flies that buzzed around him) while we sipped mango lassi and haggled with merchants.

Class Struggle

Unlike our guest rooms, our classrooms have turned out to be pretty modern. Frosty air conditioning, speaker systems and regular chai delivery makes it all quite civilized.

About 75% of our learning takes place in a classroom. The rest is considered observation or field work. Little did I know that, in many cases, the two would inadvertently take place at the same time. It would appear that those lectures that lack academic credibility end up serving as deeper anthropological lesson.

Time and time again we’ve watched our lectures deteriorate into propaganda. Did you know that non-vegetarianism breeds criminality, for example? (ps: I love that meat eating is called non-vegetarianism here by default.)

We’ve also watched as lecturer after lecturer refuses to give us a consistent stance on some controversial issues. Popular moot points include:

- The Jain emphasis on equality of souls but unequal treatment of women.
- Their emphasis on compassion but inconsistent view on social responsibility.
- Their emphasis on non-possession in spite of their statistical position atop India’s wealth calculations.

My current (if perhaps overly optimistic) hypothesis to explain all the contradictions is that what we might be observing is ANEKANTVAD in action. Anekantvad, or “many-sidedness” is one of the driving principles of the religion (along with Ahimsa which is non-violence and Aparigrah which is non-possessiveness). It encourages autonomous thought for individuals and respect for opposing viewpoints.

It’s a noble concept. But to effectively sell an idea, you have to focus your message. I fear that the religion’s popularity will continue to suffer if they can’t get their story straight.

Pervasive Spirituality

Being at home with Hindu iconography seriously helped me with the culture shock. With the abundance of god and goddess stickers in auto-rickshaws (as shown here), and the like, I always had something familiar to cast my gaze upon.

Meowism

I miss my cats. The skeletal frames of the local feral population serve as inadequate substitutes. Risking flea infestation for a momentary cuddle isn’t worth it. Plus it’s heart breaking to contemplate their pitiful existence in a country that can’t even ensure its human populace gets fed.

With my mind drenched in karma theory and the death/rebirth cycle I no longer see animals the same way. I don’t see a cat. I see a spectrum of lifetimes and a current feline manifestation. I can’t help but wonder what they’ve done to wind up in this form. Jains would say this body is penance for bad karma in previous lives. Regardless, their furry bellies, Egyptian features and resourceful nature beg for human adoration. I wonder about their level of consciousness – whether there’s any awareness (or even desire) to achieve a human form – which is the only means to reach enlightenment according to the Jains (they teach that not even a godly form can achieve liberation from samasara – the cycle of rebirth). I wonder if they have even a faint memory of resentment or sorrow, of desire or anticipation. I wonder if they are capable of gratitude. And finally, I wonder if they’ll eat this extra chapatti I’ve folded into my pocket.

The Living Conditions

We live in guest houses next to a Jain Temple in Delhi (see above pic). There’s a shopping mall nearby, peacocks in the courtyard and a lush green cricket pitch just behind us. But let’s not equate these digs with paradise too soon. Our rooms are humble; 2 rock hard beds, a light, a closet, and 2 plastic chairs make up the entirety of our furniture collection. The bed sheets are possibly as old as the religion and I count my blessings daily for having the forethought to bring my own silk sleeping bag on the trip.

A ceiling fan and an air cooler take the edge off of the heat (just barely) and our bathroom provides us with a sink, a western toilet (thank God…I mean, Ganesh) and space to bathe ourselves by cup and bucket. We have running water in each room (undrinkable) – it comes out of a tap with a double layered sac made out of cheese cloth that will filter most minute bugs from the flow – ensuring we don’t unknowingly harm the insects and accrue unnecessary karma (this tap sac is unique to Jains).

House guests include ant colonies, lizards, cockroaches (fortunately we only ever saw one…others had enough that they would play “roach hockey” trying to flick them down the drains from wence they came), pinworms in the bathroom, beetles and on one occasion, a pigeon.

Please don’t take my description as a complaint. My roommate and I have come to cherish our room. It serves as a necessary refuge in a city that requires psyche up sessions before stepping foot outside and frequent decompression breaks throughout the day. A barrage of horn honks, kamikaze drivers, putrid smells, gawking locals and insistent beggars make trans-city mobility laborsome at best.

Our living standards have been reduced considerably here, but perspective hits you hard when you get your first heavy dose of Indian poverty. Our tiny room feels palatial in comparison. And life back home? Disgustingly privileged.

Tic Talk

Time moves differently here. Bombardment of the senses and immensity of experience amount to hours that one is both hustled through and frozen within. Part of this, no doubt, can be attributed to jet lag and a broken routine. But truly, India has a pace that sweeps you up, weakens your defences and forces you to submit to a flow you have little say in.

It doesn’t help that we’re also political pawns. As we’re learning, religion has as much to do with strategic PR as it does with faith. As westerners showing interest in tradition vying for world religion status, we are viewed by our hosts as bait to lure the press and investors in their exchange program. And so, we find ourselves smack in the middle of frantic press conferences one minute then sitting through long speeches and lingering sacred ceremonies as so-called guests of honor (see pic above for just some of the ladies who shoved food in our mouth and snapped pictures of us in an inaugural ceremony just hours after we landed). As the sweat drips, the minutes tick and our legs beg to be relieved of their crossed position (certain postures are required in the presence of high level ascetics), I wonder who is performing more austerities at the moment…the strict monks or us? Deep breath.