In Bodhgaya the main interrupter to a full night of deep sleep was claustrophobic respiratory channels. Cotton fibers tickling my inner nostrils. My breath capacity exhausted of the decreased oxygen flow my lungs could pull through a make-shift mosquito net - a green tinted, rainbow scarf covering any exposed skin on my face. This may seem drastic for a few pesky flyers but I need to protect my sweet, juicy eyelids and comfort my malaria ruptured thoughts from the mosquitoes buzzing around my auditory zone.
Last night, Saltang and I made our way to the Lotus Lake in the Mahhabohdi Temple complex. To reach the view of the golden Buddha statue sitting at the center of the polluted, murky pond we stormed through an 8 foot cloud of squeeters. My cotton rainbow protector came to the rescue again, swatting away the wildly flying pests from the holes in my milky face. A regal red robe protected his caramel complexion. We made it through. On the other side we found a quiet (but smelly) path for Saltang's monk instructions to proper Tibetan chanting - "OM, HA, UM" from a different location in the vocal pathway.
Bodhaya is a small town on the western end of the plains of Bihar. Its motionless holy lakes and sluggish irrigation water provide a perfect breeding ground for everyone's favorite pestering insect, the mosquito. The tricky little suckers, slyly make their presence known at dawn and dusk, taking full advantage of light camouflage. Evolutionary development at its best.
Bihar is India's poorest and most heavily militarized state. Out the train windows, its fields of hay all the way through. Generations of sun-scorched, dark bodies squat in the fields chopping, tying and stacking this commodity that is only gold in color. Gangs of hogs led by mohawked-males treasure hunt through endless piles of trash. Enrolled children wear blue school uniform shirts buttoned to the top and tucked into their aged pleated skirts. They proudly walk down dirt streets sporting tiny backpacks and feet bare to the surprises of the ground.
An unimpressive scene. What attracts so many souls from around the globe to this oasis in the plains? It all started with a stubborn man, taking advantage of some shade while pursuing ultimate truth.
Twenty-six centuries ago, Prince Siddartha Gautama sat down with a goal. After 29 years of a royal, luxurious life, followed by six years living in near death simplicity, he decided to sit under one tree until he understood the way out of suffering. Into deep meditation he went. The demons of his head - attachment, pride, anger, ignorance, jealousy - appeared in their most tempting forms. He fought hard, eventually eradicating them. He emerged empty of non-virtuous thoughts/emotions. He opened his eyes, stood up, and The Enlightened One walked off to share what he'd discovered, how to end suffering for all beings.
It is here in Bodhgaya that one man, a prince, transformed into the Buddha under the Bodhi tree.
The original Bodhi tree was murdered centuries ago. Not to fear, thanks to the daughter of Ashoka (one of India's prized Buddhist rulers), the grand-daughter of the famed flora provides shade for the millions of mediators today. Around the 5th century Sanghamitta snagged a sapling off the original tree and planted in Sri Lanka. As some point, still many moons back, a cutting from the sub continental island descendant was brought north and planted on Vajrason, "the diamond throne", the exact spot of Buddha's enlightenment. The sacred life force returned to its home soil. Energy back into the familiar underground veins and atmospheric arteries. The pulse restored.
The area's sacredness has been augmented by many Buddhism centered constructions. A day spent visiting the dozens of Buddhist monasteries in town is like traveling to 6 or 7 countries in a afternoon. China, Japan, Tibet, Bhutan, they've all put their own spin on the bun bearing, big bellied guide. An 80-meter marble sculpture of Buddha appears to grow out of the ground on the South end town. The grandest site, the Mahabodhi Temple, sits snug next to the holy tree. The highlight of the building is a sparkling gold Buddha encased in 50 meter pyramidal spire.
Everyday I walk onto the temple grounds and feel the compilation of ages and ages of sacred practice, positive thought, and expelling compassion. I don't know if it is the hundreds of people surrounding the temple with their wooden boards completing 100,000 humbling prostrations. Or the old monks at the entrance to the temple building mandalas - a simple structure with their hands and a complex, perfect world with their mind's eye. Also 100,000 times a piece. Then there are the old Tibetans with long grey hairs intermixed into black braids, dreadlocked white women, monk's red robes parachuting in the breeze, tourist camera lens flickering, fingers passing over prayer bead and lips mumbling mantras walking the same marble path around the temple.
The energy weaves into the ground and is exhaled into the air. Centuries of prayer, faith and practice are stock-piled here. With every light offering, with every water bowl visualized as a gift of nectar to the world the spiritual meter rises.
My meditation teacher said, "when I come to Bodhgaya it's like I'm sitting in the Buddha's lap". With every step the energy permeates through callused-soled feet, slowly, slowly building up to the heart. With every breath, spiritualized oxygen particles embed into each alveolus of the lungs. Before you know it, you close your eyes and you are sitting in Buddha's 20 meter wide marble hands. You may have to encounter a mosquito or two, but if that's the price we pay to lie in the lap of a spiritual breeding ground, I’ll sacrifice a few REM cycles and my left eyelid.
My time in Peshok, in the West Bengal Hills, came to an end and I've barely shared a word about my days tucked into the Himalayan foothills. As I walked back down that steep Darjeeling hill to catch the jeep that would carry me back onto the plains, the backpack of my heart was overflowing with experiences from the past month. Although, the weight was far heavier descending than it was on the travel up, a full heart is my favorite kind of baggage to carry.
It started with field day in the village. Right before the classes closed for Diwali Holidays, all the schools in Peshok met at the High School for marching, sports, games, and dancing. Then there was Diwali with my new family - cow offerings, grinding rice flour for sweets, stringing marigold garlands, and a night filled with young girls singing for rupees. While the school was on break, I headed up to Sikkim for a short monastic trek from village to village through stripped rice fields and primary colored, long prayer flags. Back from the long walk, I started teaching in the tiny shotgun style school, one long building of old wood planks, divided into classrooms by thin pieces of plywood. Little Paradise Academy (ozguidinghands.org) is an English primary school, with about 60 students from nursery to class IV. I taught math, science, conversation, computer out of book, and any other non-Nepali subjects in dark classrooms to eager students with torn uniforms lined up on old benches. Time in the schools was cut and pasted by political tensions in the area, a family trip to Kalimpong, and celebrating Sai Baba's birthday (83 this year).
Life in the village (outside of political troubles) is as simple and sweet as one would imagine. Days start with early morning chanting, then there are chores, school, eating lots of rice with variations of vegetables grown in the yard, caring for pigs and chickens, drinking tea with friends, singing, playing with kids that wonder into the house, making cheese and butter to sell in town. The people are happy, really happy. They laugh from the gut, never from the top of the lungs. They go about their daily routines with whispers of songs in their breaths. They know about the outside world, and know their life is simple. They like that they wash their clothes with a wooden club, no need for a silly machine. They haven't forgotten the ability to rejoice in the little moments, to smile at the chicks running through the yard, catch the scent of golden mums, and gather in the kitchen for hours to slowly, deliberately cook a basic meal.
School closing for winter vacation, the region preparing to vote on the 6th settlement, and the cold eagerly jumping into the wind was a the sign that my time in Peshok, in the West Bengal Hills, was coming to close, at least this time around.
Step after step, down the paved Darjeeling road, my heart smiled on the month past, smiled on the school that opened its doors, the family who sheltered and cared for me, the rolling fields carpeted in tea bushes, the children who listened to my words in the classroom, the teachers that invited me to their house for tea, the grandmother who squeezed my cheeks with one hand and held a rooster in the other, the young girl who taught me to make real popcorn in a dark shack, the baby boy who danced with me on strike days, the weeds I pulled from gardens of meter high mustard greens, the chants that still play in my head at 5:30 in the morning, the hard cultural lessons I learned, the clothes I pounded clean, the Nepali words I'd learned, amazing meal after amazing meal...it goes on into eternity. How much we can pack into one little month, into one little heart taking the long walk down the hill.
At the beginning of November I packed up my bag once again, wished my Delhi life farewell once again, promised to return to Women and Children’s (my first home in India) with tear glossed eyes, closed out business with my upper class host family, and eagerly jumped on board the train that would carry me into the next block in my India journey.
Another station to navigate. Find the front. Exit. Look past the hustlers awaiting you at the bottom of the stairs. A jeep is what you need. Identify a secret guide, someone that may be going to the same place as you and looks authoritative. Mine, a female monk. Female features, 1/2 inch hair evenly growing out of a rounded skull and a bodice warmed by Buddha’s sacred colors summed to striking grace and ease. My thought was people don't take advantage of what looks religious, it is like spitting on God. Trailing closely behind my chosen guide, I found my way through the aggressive voices, mothers with a baby in one arm and the other tugging at my sleeve begging for money, into the front seat of a Darjeeling bound jeep (military style, no Cherokee). Snug between my guide and the driver, I enjoyed the first class view up the mountainside, my sweat converting to chills as we exited the lowlands and, cruised around the striped rice fields, into the famous tea fields that conquered the region's name with a prized product.
Small houses line the road. Mountain cabins in pastel. Sea foam green wood panels. Marigold plants in black garbage bags resting on white railings. Glass windows swung open, inviting crisp air to sweep in and out. Thin men and women walk up and down the inclines, their backs weighted by towering baskets of greenery hanging on a strip of canvas that lies across the hairline. Their calves barely exist. Sweat sits softly on their foreheads. One slow step. Then another. Making it into town. Just like yesterday. Just like tomorrow.
Our jeep lines up with the rest at the entrance to the tourist town. All the vehicles swell in together, the magic of a bottleneck. In the middle of town, we stop. Everyone dismounts. Up a steep hill with all my belongings on my back to Hotel Long Island, to Bidhya, the face behind the phone voice, to the navigator for my next month.
Step after step. I wonder - should I have supported the local economy and paid the middle-aged women who offered to be my porter? Would this be easier if the weight of my bag was lying across my hairline? Would it feel like a reverse headstand? Around the road's bend. Up the final flight. Short of breath, I walk into the hotels restaurant/kitchen/library/reception area to find Bidhya, who promptly offers me some water and a cup of tea.
I spend the next two nights in a cozy bedroom with a mountain view taking the deepest breathes I've treated myself to in ages. I've escaped the pollution. I've escaped the city chaos. By 8:15PM I collapsed under two levels of wool, zipped into down. Clear headed, no interest in Indian literature or American lyrics. Lost in the warm, soft, pillowy thoughts and chocolate chip cookies. A half stack completed, I close my eyes, drifting off to the other place, the one my subconscious controls for me, until the sun rays pull me out, reminding me that there is a world outside of my head.
Those first couple Darjeeling days I had lunch with Amit (my Indian friend from the jeep ride into town), walked the tight bazaar paths hunting the shawl/blanket that would act as my partner - my shield on cold lonely nights, and tried not to prepare too much, because I knew I could not construct an accurate image of days spent teaching in a village school and living in as part of a local household.
The ride to Peshok is down out of the high altitude clouds into an eternity of hills carpeted in evenly spaced tea bushes and a tropical montane ecosystem, equipped with bright pink hibiscus and flourishing ferns. An hour and a half into the ride, abruptly, Bidhya asks the driver to stop. We hop down from the jeep and stroll into her family's house, into the next month of my life.
The rooster crows again and again in tempo, one cry after another. He changes his intervals, the vocal blasts a few seconds apart. Then quiet. Then a whole new beat.
The deviating musical wakes my eyes to a Darjeeling rarity, clear skies. A few bed cookies down the hatch for warmth and up to the roof to rake in the cleanest air and the next beginning.
The alchemist creeps over its nightly keeper, the other side of globe. Like most powerful forces of nature, it likes to play around with the mind of the beholder, telling us a long tale. It starts with pink, blue and purple. And so I ask - will the color of the world change today? What if the earth's spin has been put on pause? Shall I spend today in a new palate? But as soon as the questions are finished, my mind is drawn back. The arc perches on the mountain, the gold we dream in the chill of night released.
It always touches the important parts first. Sprays of cirrus clouds transform into jeweled cotton candy. The mountain's ice and snow are gifted a fiery halo, for they stand night and day as one of the world's true angels. Glory, perfection, and unmatched strength awarded for existing without raising their powerful arm to the face of another. A body whose pride is fully satisfied in its stature alone. No legacy to create. Nothing to conquer. The mountains never attack the rivers or the clouds. They touch from time to time, reminding each other of the beauty in physical contact.
Now the sun hits my paper and too my words float in a pool of gold hue. With an exhale through rounded lips, I find a cloud of cool breath also gold.
This is how everyday can start, with little blessings from the most powerful God we've known since the beginning of time. Good morning.
Last Thursday I sat down for a late dinner with my host family. I was exhausted. It took me 2 hours to get home from an afternoon out in the city. The regular 45 minute ride was prolonged by an auto-rickshaw breakdown and unfathamable choatic traffic. The road leading to my house is wide enough for two lanes of cars to drive comfortably - logically, one in each direction. With no lines marking lanes, few traffic lights and apparently no road rules, 4 to 5 rows of vehicles (buses, trucks, cars, rickshaws, motorcycles/scooters, bicycles) cram into the width of the road. The way to drive here is to move into any open space, likes rocks filling a jar, the small ones slidding between the bigger ones until the jar is compact. The variety of vehicle size and maneuverability paired with no lane distinctions produced three lanes in one direction with one lane squeezing past in the other. Within a hundred meters it will morph into the opposite. Thus is the mutability of Neb Sarai Road. As the thick, molasses minutes passed, I sat in the back of the rickshaw wishing I had some cookies to chomp on, wrapped up in a shawl, trying to laugh at the absurdity and unfortunateness of a 1 Kilometer ride taking 40 minutes.
Home at last with the remnants of a honking musical performance in my ears and the street's dust lining my scalp, I relaxed over a plate of homemade curd, heavily spiced potatoes, and hot chapattis.
In standard inter-family/Amanda communication style, my host father abruptly stated, "Tomorrow we leave at 7. It is holiday. My sister has a party for a new house". Followed by an Indian side-to-side head nod, indicating "yes" or "you see" or that he was finished talking. After ten minutes of questioning and elaborating the previous statement, a vague plan was constructed. At 7 in the morning they would leave for puja at the new house and I would go to his other sister's house for breakfast. We would meet back at his house after my day at Sahara and all go to the party together. Fine.
A long day ahead of me, I tried to get a good night's sleep. At 7 am, I'm ready to go, drinking a cup of tea and reading an article in the Hindustan Times about the first all women's mosque being opened in Delhi. My host mom emerges from her room displaying in an electric blue sari with huge gems around her neck and matching bangles halfway up her forearm. Shocked by the early morning glamour, I was am glad to be sitting down. As a hint of what laid ahead in the evening, I take a deep breath to calm myself. One thing is certain, I have nothing close to comparable in my meager backpacker's closet.
I arrive at the sister's house and sit in the drawing room, satisfied by the quiet morning and the comfort of Barabara Kingsolver's "Pigs in Heaven". As the hardback cover starts snuggling into my lap and my mind wanders off in the landscape of the Southwest, a young woman appears and before I know it I havw a friend for the next 2 hours. After spending three years in Russia with her husband, Urvashi returned to India with Canish, her 3 year old son, to set him up for a good education. At age 27, with 4 years of marriage under her belt, this young woman moved into her inlaws house as is typical for Hindu families.
Over a cup of instant coffee, heavy on the milk and sugar, and the
preparation of a curried breakfast sandwich, she spoke with me
about being single and working in a call center, her frustration with
the India’s non-existant nanny culture, plans to go back to school, and
learning to drive so she can leave the house without a male escort
- opening my eyes to life as a married young woman in an upper middle
class family.
I finish my glass of water and just about to step out the door, I voiced my concerns about lack of appropriate attire for the house warming party. Immediately she pulls me into her room, unlocks a door and opens a cabinet disclosing a rainbow of saris. "Pick one," she says. This girl doesn't quite know what to do with herself. There are bright pinks and purples, deep reds and greens lined in gold threading, elaborate floral patterns, heavy silks, light silks, cottons, sequins and jewels. Urvashi helps me pick a light, not too busy silk print, that I "should be able to carry". With a huge grin on my face, we agree she'll bring it to the party and help me dress there. I say goodbye, close the gate behind me, and lightly skip off to another day at Women and Children's.
By the end of my volunteer day, I've made two of the women laugh, twirled at least half of the crèche kids in the air, reached "T is for Telephone" with the kindergarten class of the Non-Formal School, and held a racy discussion with a Danish volunteer about the similarities and differences of our country's political systems. Walking home, I am hot and tired. I wonder if the sari will fall through the communication cracks, or if is there, and I do wear it, what will my host mom say.
That aside, I quickly bath and put on the nicest outfit I've got (a Patagonia travel skirt and heady silk top). Sheepishly I enter the house's common room to find what I feared, my host in an even finer sari. This time she's all wrapped up in papaya and has enough topaz and gold around her neck that her collars bones must be working overtime. I try not to think about what I am wearing and just get in the car.
The three story, white house is wrapped like a present in the falls
of Christmas lights. Across the street is a huge orange tent with a DJ,
dance floor, dinner buffet, and enough space for the 200 guests.
Automatically, I feel SO out of place. I meet the family, standing in
the back timidly. A few minutes later, my host mother brings me into
the house to give me a show around. All the walls are white and the
floors marble. Strangely there is no furniture, even though they
already live there (hmmmm).
I find Urvashi and this morning's sari-pick laying out on the bed waiting for me. In the bathroom, she helps me into the corta (the top) and the underskirt. Back in the open room, she starts to wrap the lengths of purple fabric around me. The power goes. We stand in blackness; her hands continue working, guided by years of experience. She makes complicated front folds and tucks them in at my belly button. The rumbling of the generator begins, and the light returns she throws the end piece over my shoulder and pins everything into place. She brings me to the mirror to see myself. In the darkness, I've transformed.
A bindi is placed on my third eye. Nervously, I walk out of the
bedroom. My host mother and the sisters greet me with approving faces
and head nods. I finally remember to breathe. I've done it right, thank
God.
The party starts to build over mini samosas and coffee. The puzzle
pieces of the dance floor are put together and the music starts a
playin'. Ornate sari-ed women overcast plainly dressed men. Children
and teenage boys occupy the dance floor. At one point there is search
for a blue bindi, all the women checking their purse for the perfect
match. My host mother reaches into her shoulder bag and pulls one out,
with the commonality of a bobby pin, to complete the women's outfit.
Many people, amused by a foreigner in their traditional dress, asked
me how it felt to where the sari. Imagine being enveloped in yards of
beautiful fabric. It enunciates the elegance and grace in each of your
movements. Clichéd female sexuality like breasts and legs are
downplayed, while unexpected parts, the lower back and nap of the neck,
are given the opportunity to expose their intrinsic sensual
nature. Over your shoulder, down your back, falls the end of the
fabric. At any point you can pick it up and wrap it around your back,
choosing when you'd like to feel held, giving yourself a hug. I loved
it. For the first time I can recall, I was not the least bothered by my
stomach being revealed. The layout is truly flattering.
After eating cashew havalla and dancing to India disco pop (with a little Shakira mixed in) with what turned out to be 200 of their relatives, the blaring music quieted and the tent cleared until only the siblings and their immediate families remained. Two brothers and three sisters. Back into the house, I gathered my things and undressed, returning to my street clothes and inescapable Americaness. I climbed into the back seat of the car and continued to dream about my evening in Indian elegance...
Well, I guess it is 'bout time to start blogging. In a serious way. So here goes...
India is proving to be a grand adventure. Like most things in my life, this too is no straight line.
My first two weeks were spent getting acquainted with my new homeland and debating the validity of my internship. As is true for any new arrival, I had to get my feet in the mud and learn the ropes, starting with the simplest of tasks.
Transportation: Rickshaws - whether you take an auto (motorcycle-golf cart hybrid) or bike (cycles powered by the calf muscles of 80 pound is based on distance. How to get one? How to get a fair price, what is a fair price? Bottom Line: they are all out to scam you. After being overcharged many times, being taken to the wrong locality and getting in at least one fierce verbal battle, here's the trick: Be stern and confident from the beginning with a fixed rate. If you don't know the cost, have them agree to use the electronic meter that charges based on Km. Repeat "Meter, Meter, Meter" and they will either agree, you'll loose patience and overpay, or another will come.
Next, eating. This one seems easy. But warnings
of impending sickness, the looming threat of finding myself naked on a
bathroom floor plagued by unearthly stomach cramps and unable to release the
shackles chaining me to a squat toilet (luckily, this has NOT become a
reality) kept me cautious. Not to mention, it took time
to decipher when, where, what, even how Indians eat. It was a slow move
into 3+ steady daily meals. Have no fear, this "eating problem"
has become a distant memory. I LOVE the food. There'll be much to come
about my daily mini-feasts and special treats.
I think you get the point. Adjusting to life in a new culture takes some time, patience, humility, and a little hand holding. By the end of my first two weeks, I could get around hectic Delhi, find food at anytime of day and usually know what I was eating, there were a few folks I call friends, had formed an addictive relationship with the classic Indian chai, seen many of the capital's sights, perspired more than I knew possible and realized that this NGO was not the one for me.
So I said au revoir to the heat, NGO corruption, my first Indian home and boarded an overnight bus to find an old friend putting up in Dharamsala. The next morning, I sat up in my sleeper seat (a horizontal compartment above the regular push-back seats) and breathed in the freedom of the unknown and the familiarity of the mountains. Before I knew it, I was sitting next to a decade lost friend, Devorah, sipping lemon-ginger-honey tea, looking down a lush, misty valley, and initiating a heart-to-heart that would continue over the next two weeks.
This bumpy trek to the mountains took place about a month ago. Since, there was a week in Dharamsala relaxing, visiting, and reviving. Home to His Holiness the Dali Lama, this "little Tibet" was a perfect shelter from the city storm. Days started with a morning talk, our feet snuggled in wool socks and hands cupping hot drinks. When the time came, we'd leave our layers behind and head into the sun for a walk into the hills above our guest house or a date with our local friends before the afternoon rains trapped us inside a cozy cafe. Devorah had befriended Tashi Dhomo and Chi Mee before I arrived. Three years ago, these two women separately embarked on the rigorous 2 month walk from their Tibetan villages, through Nepal and into India. Now they live in McLoed Gang (a few Km north of Dharamsala), elated to be near His Holiness and saddened by the distance from their families. They wait for the freedom to be able to return home, even just for short visit. In the meantime, slowly they are adjusting to a new way of life. Living across the hall from each other, the two young women became fast friends. Tashi Dhomo would invite us over to her little dorm style room to churn butter tea and bake pallup bread. We'd fill the air with laughter about boys, prying questions into each other cultural rules, and stories about our mothers. Just like anywhere else.
With a week left in Devorah's India trip, we ventured south on the 27 hour bus trip to Pushkar, Rajistan. Rajistan is how I'd dreamed of India. Camels and elephants alongside the highway. Men with bulky, dangling gold earrings and multi-colored turbans contrasting their dark skin. Women in striking saris, nose rings large enough to circumference an entire check, and henna decorated hands and feet. Everyone pushing dust along as they move through the narrow streets. The only Rama temple in the entire world is located in Pushkar. Hindus from across India come to this tiny town to make puja (prayer) in the lake and visit their God's one home. Foreign tourists flock to the dusty destination for its surreal Rajistani scenery, manageable size, and laid back reputation. We spent a week absorbing the colors, melas (festivals), temples, rooftop cafes, and kind residents.
And now, I've been in Dehli for about three weeks volunteering with an NGO that works with the city's under-served population specifically on issues surrounding HIV/AIDS and intravenous drug use. Sahara House (www.saharahouse.org) has 39 projects running throughout India. I spend six days a week at Sahara's Women and Children's Home (WCH).
My days start when the sun breaks through the curtain and catches my eye around 6:30. I slip into my tennis shoes, climb up one flight of stairs for morning walk. Around and around the terrace, my mind wandering, emptying, and settling for the start of a new day. Then morning tea, a bucket bath (which is great fun), breakfast (usually parantha, nan stuffed with spinach, potatoes, cheese - so good!), a little reading or Hindi study and down the stairs out of the comforts of this Hindu family’s house and into the rest of the world.
The walk from my house to the WCH never takes more than five minutes. Down the dusty street, across a busy paved street, the Home is the last turn on the left. A big blue metal gate frames the shelter, school, day care, and rehabilitation complex. At first sight, you can catch the corner of a building, a barren school yard lined with dusty metal benches, and a few 2 foot tall humans running about.
Enough for now...If you've made it this far, I'm sure you're exhausted. Now that I've started, they'll be more to come.
My second day in Dehli I was just hit by a motor rickshaw. Luckily, the collision was minor - a straight handle bar to hip socket. It was clearly the fault of the end of an evening storm. What do you expect? The clouds dry up and the people hit the streets. The choas and furry of Dehli at its finest. Folks racing around for a glimpse of evening light on the roaming cows or more likely, finishing the standard daily errands.
At first I was sure India's smell was that of cigarettes and sweaty man. This hypothesis began with Lovesh, the techy/posh indian man sitting next to me on the plane. Over the couse of the 8 hour flight, he continually leaned over me, breathing India directly into my face. We landed in Dehli an hour early, a nice surprise at the end of my 26 hour journey. Walking out of the airport, the street was lined with dozens of young taxi cab drivers. The city breeze brushed the same scent of india across my face. And as I entered a guest house in south delhi (my residence for the evening), the hallway reeked of old man tabacco. Three time's the charm.
Well, I guess the truth is, this girl has been hit by India.
Wow, I wrote that a while ago. Since, things have changed. After two crazy city weeks, I have escaped to the mountains.
