Ghost Busters, Room Dusters

We hold the Wednesday night meditation in the "kakra" building where the women workers have seen a ghost earlier in the week and are on edge. Gaurav pops out from behind doors and mockingly "boos" people to keep the mood light. I jump in to help the kitchen staff crush baked rolls that are then ground into a floury substance and eventually made in to a vapid round bread known as kakra. Recap: make a crusty bread (dough, knead, roll, bake), pulverize it with a giant-sized pistil, grind it up in a machine, use the dust to make a sort of cracker-bread (dough, knead, roll, bake) and voila!

The mosquitos are thick during the sit (the popular shorthand for meditating while seated), but I vow not to sweep them away with a careless hand.

Breath In. As I go deeper I am acutely sensitized to the fragile legs of mosquitos alighting hither and thither on my exposed flesh. I become aware of their anguished lot in life--creating pain with every meal they seek. For a few moments the empathy is intense and I wish to remove any barriers to their simple meal of blood. The skin is soft and the dining is good. I imagine the diet of the host may make the meal even less weighty in the karmic sense and am happy for the little buzzing patrons of Le Chez Mark. Breath Out. Quiet ripples of serenity.

Breath Out. Another nose plunges in and joins the feast. I am still putting up barriers to their unfettered gastronomic gala and it is felt as "pain." More accurately is feels like a taut string, or pressing. When I align with the mosquitos struggle to find nourishment the way is less problematic. The larder is full and the diners are small in stature. Come one and come all. Let go.

Breath In. Mosquitos are still imbibing but less attention is there. Blackness. Yet another impromptu blood well is established just north of my right wrist. Slight pulsing sensations are felt at previous entry points.

Breath Out. Quiet.

Breath In. Motion next to me as someone joins late in the meditation circle.

Breath Out. Quiet.

Breath In. If a ghostly presence is indeed inhabiting the building I can only imagine at the depth of pain, anguish, guilt or longing that would prevent its clean break with the material world. What keeps us "non-ghosts" entrapped in this particular embodiment? What are we clinging to? Release the bonds before death to make the passage truly seamless. Let go. Let go.

Breath Out. Quiet.

Breath In: Quiet.

Breath Out: Om. Shanti. Shanti. Shanti.

During the discussion following meditation those gathered describe the value it has for them. It is made known that recent-arrival Sheetal has offered the 30,000 rupees that are needed to prevent the eviction of a family from their flat. The issue had come up earlier in the day within his earshot and coincided with his discovering he was going to get a refund from school fees of the same size. Problem solved.

A few offer that they had never seen any value in sitting before the last few weeks, but are beginning to discover something of interest in it even if they are yet unable to identify what.

Sherrill is a sixty-plus, gray haired Massachusettler, that has come to brave the unsettling, discomforts of Indian travel for the 75th anniversary re-creation of the Gandhi's Dandi March. For her meditation is the key to removing the filter of self that distorts the reality of the external world. Nipun's two minute Gujarati translation of her thirty second answer stretches credibility and he apologizes for embellishing.

With some sleight of hand con some of the kitchen staff out of their plates after dinner and delight in splashing and scrubbing them clean in the dish pit. People are joking about in the kitchen and Nipun organizes an exploratory party to descend into the dark and foreboding room where the ghost sighting occurred. Three of the staff are brave enough to form a wobbly, hand-holding chain with Nipun, Sheetal and myself. Nipun suggests some chanting of "Om" to purify the space. The six of us form a tight circle in the heavily cobwebbed darkness. Anxious faces, backlit by the kitchen light, stare forth from the doorway at the top of the stairs. The women's voices are noticeably shaky. Suddenly the woman to my right screams and faints dead away. I try to cushion her fall as best I can and protect her head. The others want to move her immediately and slap her face to revive her. She faints a couple more times in the process of being extracted from the room (slowly, slowly I implore) and shrieks at those around her to leave her alone. I am hesitant to bequeath control to her compatriots as they don't seem to recognize the very "this-worldly" danger of her cracking her skull on the stone steps or floor.

There are tears in the eyes of the kitchen staff and it becomes apparent that many of them are concerned that their friend has become possessed. Over the next hour she gradually calms down, but by then the women have become equally worried that others could find out about the incident and use it to defame her character. Nipun is regretting his spontaneous move to exercise the room of its ghostly dimension and I too wonder about my involvement. What seems to have started out as such a promising evening has quickly spiraled out of control.

Nipun is determined to make good. We resolve to try to make a positive from the negative (which was, after all, our original intent). I suggest we paint the room, add lighting and perhaps a shrine. The following day we head back to begin remodeling. The daylight reveals an extremely dirty room about 10 x 15 feet sporting a very high ceiling. We start by hauling dirt-caked lumber and unidentifiable metal apparatuses to another storeroom–my moving experience seems to come in handy no matter where I go. Nipun and I mop and scrape up dust layered upon dirt for the next few hours. It is likely the room hasn't been cleaned since its construction as one of the original buildings at the Gandhi Ashram. Buckets of filth are shuttled out and dumped behind the building. The thick airborne dust gives form to shafts of light projecting through gaps in the lathe work. Ever so slowly the space is transformed from a slightly ominous forgotten corner to a slightly curious but innocuous storeroom. Locals and day workers gather outside amused and mystified in equal parts by the our manmade dust storm. By the time we call it a day we have added a few years worth of grime and grit to our actively protesting bronchi.

A contractor is contacted that will break up the steep brick stairs that lead down into the room leaving only an outside entrance at ground level. He also will whitewash the room to further brighten its prospects. Later in the week we receive word that the makeover has had its intended effect and the workers are convinced the apparition has moved on to brighter pastures. Another ghost safely tucked safely into bed.