It's the "All Items Are Egg Free" sign above the pastry case that sparks my curiousity.
"Are any of these without milk, ghee or cream?"
"With milk?"
"No. Without any milk."
"No, sir."
"So they all have some milk in them? Doodh?"
"Doodh. No, no. This and this have no doodh."
"No milk."
"Yes, no milk."
"No cream or ghee."
"No. No."
"So, yes, no milk, cream or ghee. One hundred percent pure veg double plus?"
"Yes, yes."
I am giddy, albeit suspicious, at having found vegan cake (one chocolate, no less) right next door to the IndiCorps offices. I immediately implement a three-slice-per-day programme and tip off John, the sole, active vegan in my fellowship. He joins in a similarly indulgent dietary regimen after drilling the cashier and bakers at Rasranjan for his own peace of mind (and piece of cake).
"No, no. No milk. No cream."
"Ghee?"
"No. No ghee."
"Butter?"
"No butter."
"Nothing that comes from a cow?" John mimes a milking motion.
"No. No."
A Gujarati speaker is recruited who follows a similar line of questioning. Again the devil's food cake and butterscotch cheesecake (talk about a misnomer!) come up dairy free. Sometimes I will get two slices at once pushing the boundaries of gluttony. It's okay to indulge, I reason, in compensation for all the comforts of home I have given up, and besides it's vegan--anything vegan can only be semi-indulgent by definition!
A few days later another bakery is found within the Indicorps building itself that also features a couple of vegan delicacies. To my delight they are even moister and richer than Rasranjan's offerings. On my visit the following day I meet the Cafe Upper Crust's owner, an erstwhile pastry chef for the Taj Mahal, India's most hallowed hotel that rises impressively opposite the India Gate in Mumbai. He is a DeSouza of the Goa-via-Portugal, now-in-Ahmedabad, Christian variety. He confirms that the two cakes that I have previously identified are indeed vegan. I ooze approval. He quizzes me on my dietary choice and I give him the usual three-pronged patter: health, environment and ethics. He is politely amused, but clearly not sold. Silly kid, veganism is for rabbits. John and our Gujurati-speaking insider independently verify my new find.
The next day John and I approaching Indicorps for our daily internet fix and pass by Cafe Upper Crust. "Do you want a piece of cake?" says I.
"Is it really that easy?" says he. Easy? Seconds pass before I realize I have gotten my just desserts for engaging in continuous word play. We enter the swank AC eatery and the owner is leaning against the pastry display counter. I am feeling bold and ask if there are any additional vegan items on the day's menu.
"Just this one. No, wait a minute, it has cream. So does this one."
"So just these two are vegan?" I ask, pointing to the previously confirmed dairy-free desserts.
"They too will be having cream."
"You mean just today?"
"No, no. They always have cream."
"But I thought you said they were dairy-free," I protest meekly.
"Yes, but they will always be having the cream."
John turns bitterly to the cook behind the counter. "You told me twice that these didn't have any butter or cream." The cook smiles and rocks his head back and forth.
"These will always be having the cream."
Dumbfounded, we leave to head back to Rasranjan. It may not be as savory but at least we know it's vegan--or do we? John's cow-sense is tingling and he decides to engage the bakers at Rasranjan anew.
"Can you point to any dessert that has no milk, butter, cream, eggs or anything coming from an animal either dead or alive?"
"No, no sir. They will all be having cream."
Our sweet vegan dream world has been hobbled and readied for the meat market. Retroactive bulimic tactics will do nothing for cake seven layers deep in the alimentary canal.
"Even the ones that you previously indicated have no cream will be having cream?" I enquire in a tone that drips with sarcastic self-pity.
"They too will be having the cream."
Having milked our options dry we herd out of Rasranjan utterly defeated and cowed into submission. Yet, tomorrow will bring a new day and we will surely vegan again in our search for a dairy-free nirvana.
Monday, April 25, 2005
Friday, April 22, 2005
Angels or Devils?
Gollum
"You're going to take care of me," he decrees thrusting a boney finger in my face. "I have special needs and you're going to take care of me."
I waggle my head in agreement and continue dishing out food from the oversized serving platters that are filled from the oversized vats, suspended above oversized fire pits in the oversized kitchen. The kitchen, in fact, is a portal into the bowels of Mordor from the Lord of the Rings. The role of the orcs is played admirably by two domineering kitchen bosses who gleefully grab arms and bark orders to the ashram staff and volunteers like myself. It is difficult to take any of it too seriously as the entire set up is borrowed entirely from the realm of fantasy. And now appears the diner that looks and acts the part of Gollum to a pitiful degree. He squints his eyes and rasps accusingly, "I need more. You aren't taking care of me."
His toes are finger-length and menacing. Stay clear of the toes. He sits hunched over between his knobby knees gargoyle-style and protects his mountainous helping with hands locked in a permanent accusatory posture. He jabs again in my direction. "Why aren't you taking care of me? You said you would take care of me and I need more." His eyes are bulging organs barely held in check by a thin and tightly veiled skull. Yet there is skin enough to form deep, fretting wrinkles and a permafrost frown. Something of his raw greed holds an ugly mirror up to my own super-selfish impulses and I am suddenly seized by thick, sick loathing. I spitefully pile an inordinate pile of rice to his already overflowing leaf plate. "More," he chortles as food tumbles to the floor. I want to dump the entire platter on his head and be done with it but new diners have entered and are waiting on me.
I catch my breath in the dungeon/kitchen and try to puzzle out the riddle of the ravenous oldster. I am confident, as one can only be confident in India, that he is not real. He is a symbol, a theme, a demon of some sort that needs to be solved or vanquished. Another wave of repulsion washes over me as I entertain the possibility that he is myself some forty or fifty years in the future. My platter is slopped full from a vat that dwarves me. Dwarves, elves and demons.
There is no way he is going to be able to eat even half of the food he has already been served I muse as I approach him for the second time. I am bearer of dahl now and Gollum points first between my eyes and then to rice mountain which he has formed a crater in. I fill the gaping hole, but he is unfazed and continues pointing to the target as his piercing eyes never leave mine. "More, more," he commands. The hot liquid is now rolling down the steep embankment of rice and forming pools on the floor. I am seized once more by the desire to fling the dwindling contents of my server in his face and run Charlie Brown style out of the dream. I catch the eyes of another diner looking on in horror and it is enough to break his spell. I serve the next six patrons with less than I have portioned out to the greedy gobbler. I pause to consider that this man is (at least theoretically) someone's son, perhaps brother, father, lover. What series of circumstances have led him to this place and space, depending on the good graces of a similarly greedy Westerner who is only pretending to serve? Fulfilling my low expectations he hunch-lurches from the dinning hall having bored only halfway through Mt. Chaaval. Still, even this is an accomplishment, considering its original hulk.
I tell John about my run-in that night and he listens in disbelief. Two days later John and I have just finished indulging in multiple sugar cane juices outside the confines of the ashram when I spot the demon diner making a hobbling path for us. "It's the guy from my dream. Can you see him too?" I ask John half in jest and half just not knowing for certain.
"I can see him," John answers in ominous solemnity. By now Gollum is upon us.
"You will help me. I need money." he announces. He crumples up his body to perch opposite of us at a decrepit concrete bus stand where John and I were hiding in the shade. He directs his perpetual scowl in my direction. Making a sweeping motion he says, "This that you are doing is no good. It is not real. Money can help, not your..." He makes the sweeping motion again. "I've seen what you do. It is nothing. The dirt will only come back. I have special needs and money is what matters."
John is in complete agreement now that the man is not real and suggests, in a way that makes me believe he has dealt with this sort of thing before, that it is a variety of demon administering a test. We discuss this openly in front of the apparition even though he apparently speaks English. When I ask him what he needs the money for he only frowns more deeply. When I go on to explain that I am willing instead to try to help him fulfill that need rather than simply give money he redirects his stare to John and waves a dismissive hand in my direction.
"I cannot understand him, you will talk to me." John and I consult as to the correct way to pass the test. We decide that we will try to find some work to hire him for. I suggest cleaning the bus stand we are in and John agrees. I locate a couple of discarded brooms and a basket to collect dirt just around the corner of the stand (what are they doing there?). "No, I won't do this," he hisses at our kneeling, sweeping forms as we demonstrate the work we are willing to pay for.
"Then we won't give you any money," John counters. John and I clean for a little while more and then stand to assess our performance in this test of wills. As we are talking my jaw drops and I motion for John to turn around. There stooped low to the ground with the hand broom I had laid down is Gollum--sweeping.
He continues for a few minutes and is rather effective before he looks up once more and declares, "I can do this. It is not hard. But I will need money for tea. With tea you will see. I can do all of this. You will give me money." John offers to run to a roadside stand and bring back some tea but Gollum resists. "You will give me money for tea." John is already down the road. Gollum sets his broom down and heads in the same direction.
"Wait," I implore, "He's coming back with your tea" Gollum ignores me and continues down the road. John whirls about and catches him in as he is about to pass in front of the stand and offers him piping-hot tea. Gollum sits. John purchases some Parle-G biscuits to go along with the tea before rejoining me at the bus stand.
"He says he will come back in five minutes," John reports. We talk for ten minutes. Gollum hasn't stirred from his position in front of a television presenting overly dramatic religious fare in Gujarati. "He's just kicking back and watching TV while we roast out here," John says, "If he doesn't come back in the next five minutes I'm not going to pay him anything. We had an agreement." In the meantime I suggest that we continue cleaning the bus stand as long as we've come this far. No sooner than we start back in and two local boys appear bearing better brooms and they help alongside for a few minutes.
The rest of our group makes their way up the road intent on finding liquid refreshment. They catch sight of John and I at a distance and note our efforts with some amusement. After a round of cold drinks they join us at the bus stand for cleaning and start on the neighboring stand as well. Within a half hour both stands, which had been caked with dirt and serving as de facto waste bins, are now as clean as old concrete can get. At one point our money-lusting acquaintance approaches and John points him out to Jayesh-bhai. Jayesh-bhai warmly greets him which causes him to do an about face and scurry off for an anonymous corner. Jayesh-bhai says that Gollum is embarrassed because he tried to take advantage of us and would have been exposed. John and I disagree and point out that through the challenge he posed to us two bus stands have now been cleaned that would otherwise have remained pristine in their filthy condition. Through the mirror of greed Gollum has exposed the fruits of selfishness to the afternoon light where their rotting forms could be swept away. No small sleight of hand. Was it Gollum or Gandalf that we encountered a mere stones throw from the slowly rolling waters of the Narmada.
WWF Monk
I am informed that a healer is coming over that has just cured the chronic ache in the neighbor's shoulder. Mayhaps this is the mysterious cure to my sciatica that Nipun had intuited I would find on the India trek. Moments later the front gate swings open and an impressive hulk of a man comes padding into Jayesh-bhai's compound. He is dark complected and the spitting image of George Foreman with only a slight hint of South Asian lineage. He quickly establishes his court on the porch with the rattan couch serving as his throne. His legs are spread far apart and one hand rests regally atop a cane polished by countless years of hand oil. Jayesh-bhai sits opposite him and listens with obvious amusement to the monk's decrees. In general it seems that the monk is a deadpanning jokester and doesn't take himself too seriously, even if he makes outrageous claims with regards to his past. He tenaciously holds the center of attention, keeping the audience enraptured, albeit skeptically. I am offered up as a guinea pig several times, but he will not deign to have his programme interrupted. The monk plays both roles of king and court jester with no apparent dis-ease. The neighbor makes a cameo appearance raising her arm high above her head to demonstrate the restored range of motion.
The third time I am presented for the monk's healing touch he scans me from head to toe as if sizing up an opponent for a wrestling match. A few of the skeptics in the audience ask if I am sure I want to avail myself to the monk who sports at least double my mass. I harbor doubts of my own, but figure nothing too egregious can transpire in the land of the magical protective bubble. He asks where it hurts and I indicate a line from my lower back extending to the hind side of my upper right leg. "Ah, sciatica," he concludes, causing a number of those gathered to coo their approval. He orders me to stand straight in front of him and again surveys me from top to bottom, giving me the uneasy impression of searching for my Achilles heel. He grabs me with both hands and twirls me about. The monk grunts disapproval concerning my tee-shirt and vinyl sweat pants and consequently they are removed. I feel doubly exposed having lost a good chunk of weight from an already thin frame in the two short months since leaving the US. He chortles with delight at the diminutive framework of his adversary and the bout begins.
The monk manipulates my flesh starting at my neck and working his way along to my shoulder until he finds a nexus of nerves and then he twists with reckless zeal. I flinch with pain and tears swell in my eyes. He repeats the exercise on the opposite side effectively doubling the hurt. He proceeds with a similar program of attack first on each of my arms and then each leg finding vulnerable spots behind each knee. It feels as if he is digging and twisting his fingers past the protective sheath known as my skin, directly into my anatomy and then plucking tendons and nerves like bow strings. Eric looks on with concern as I writhe in agony, while the remaining onlookers presume I am acting in jest and laugh at the spectacle. The monk slaps me hither and thither and then asks me how my back is. I respond in all honesty that I can feel pain almost everywhere now so I don't notice my sciatica as much. I hear Eric intone that this is a well known phenomena--get enough nerves buzzing and the source becomes diffuse.
The monk orders that I face away and sit in front of him. He renews his assualt along my trapezius applying pressure in a manner that at times is not so offensive, but alternates this with talon thrusts that break blood vessels and leaves my skin stinging with pain. He slaps my back satisfactorily and inquires once more as how the sciatica feels. I tell him is still hurts as do my shoulders and neck now too. He frowns and affects an exaggerated pout for the benefit of our small audience. He repositions me to stand facing him and he demonstrates a stretching exercise reaching above himself with both arms, hands pressed together and then slowly lowering his hands to the floor while bending at the waist. I attempt to do the same and find the usual tightness in the hamstrings is now doubly so and my right leg in particular feels as if it has been disassembled and the poorly put back together so that tendons rub directly across nerve lines. The monk motions for me to back away from him and then lifts his cane rifle-style and it recoils slightly as he fires between my eyes. I am not sure if I am supposed to drop to the ground and feign death so I just continue to stand and wait. The monk breaks into a Cheshire Cat smile and declares that his work is done. He informs me that for a complete cure I must follow an Ayurvedic regimen which he scrawls absent-mindedly on a scrap of yellow notebook paper.
The monk pats the cushion next to him and demands that I massage his arm. "Har-dahr," he barks, and then "Yeah-ess," when I apply as much pressure to his forearm as my sore muscles can muster. He removes his top garment revealing a buddha-like belly and directs me to work on his shoulders and then rolls up his dhoti so I can press his banyan stump thighs. "My chela," he declares slapping me smartly on my aching back. At some point the show is moved inside to the guest bedroom where the monk continues to instruct me to massage him. He gives me his cane and tells me that I must not let anyone else hold it. I fire a mock rifle-shot back at him and he shakes his head in disappointment. Been there, done that.
The monk presses Eric to donate money to him, but Eric is incredulous. "Why me? I don't have any money. I have a broken down car, lots of debt and not much else. You can have it all if you want it." The monk isn't convinced that Eric doesn't have a secret cache and indicates that he owes him a large amount from "before." Eric isn't persuaded so the monk offers to "show" him and positions Eric in front of a full length mirror next to the bed.
"Look only here until ten minutes," the monk says, himself lingering to peer at the mirror as if a show is about to begin. While Eric stands transfixed in front of the mirror the monk continues to entertain the handful remaining in the room. Viral offers to play timekeeper and periodically calls out the number of minutes left. Eric is asked what he sees and he offers cryptically that anyone is liable see all sorts of things if they stare in the same place long enough. When the ten minutes have expired Eric, formerly the voice of reason, calmly relates having seen himself in a variety of priestly vestments and warrior costumes. The monk assumes Eric's former position in front of the mirror and alternates flexing his pectoral muscles, Arnold style, before turning to admire his profile and slapping his stomach proudly. "I was top wrestler. Yeah-ess! Top wrestler!" He turns a hundred and eighty degrees to examine his left side which seems pretty identical to his right, "Yeah-ess!"
"You're going to take care of me," he decrees thrusting a boney finger in my face. "I have special needs and you're going to take care of me."
I waggle my head in agreement and continue dishing out food from the oversized serving platters that are filled from the oversized vats, suspended above oversized fire pits in the oversized kitchen. The kitchen, in fact, is a portal into the bowels of Mordor from the Lord of the Rings. The role of the orcs is played admirably by two domineering kitchen bosses who gleefully grab arms and bark orders to the ashram staff and volunteers like myself. It is difficult to take any of it too seriously as the entire set up is borrowed entirely from the realm of fantasy. And now appears the diner that looks and acts the part of Gollum to a pitiful degree. He squints his eyes and rasps accusingly, "I need more. You aren't taking care of me."
His toes are finger-length and menacing. Stay clear of the toes. He sits hunched over between his knobby knees gargoyle-style and protects his mountainous helping with hands locked in a permanent accusatory posture. He jabs again in my direction. "Why aren't you taking care of me? You said you would take care of me and I need more." His eyes are bulging organs barely held in check by a thin and tightly veiled skull. Yet there is skin enough to form deep, fretting wrinkles and a permafrost frown. Something of his raw greed holds an ugly mirror up to my own super-selfish impulses and I am suddenly seized by thick, sick loathing. I spitefully pile an inordinate pile of rice to his already overflowing leaf plate. "More," he chortles as food tumbles to the floor. I want to dump the entire platter on his head and be done with it but new diners have entered and are waiting on me.
I catch my breath in the dungeon/kitchen and try to puzzle out the riddle of the ravenous oldster. I am confident, as one can only be confident in India, that he is not real. He is a symbol, a theme, a demon of some sort that needs to be solved or vanquished. Another wave of repulsion washes over me as I entertain the possibility that he is myself some forty or fifty years in the future. My platter is slopped full from a vat that dwarves me. Dwarves, elves and demons.
There is no way he is going to be able to eat even half of the food he has already been served I muse as I approach him for the second time. I am bearer of dahl now and Gollum points first between my eyes and then to rice mountain which he has formed a crater in. I fill the gaping hole, but he is unfazed and continues pointing to the target as his piercing eyes never leave mine. "More, more," he commands. The hot liquid is now rolling down the steep embankment of rice and forming pools on the floor. I am seized once more by the desire to fling the dwindling contents of my server in his face and run Charlie Brown style out of the dream. I catch the eyes of another diner looking on in horror and it is enough to break his spell. I serve the next six patrons with less than I have portioned out to the greedy gobbler. I pause to consider that this man is (at least theoretically) someone's son, perhaps brother, father, lover. What series of circumstances have led him to this place and space, depending on the good graces of a similarly greedy Westerner who is only pretending to serve? Fulfilling my low expectations he hunch-lurches from the dinning hall having bored only halfway through Mt. Chaaval. Still, even this is an accomplishment, considering its original hulk.
I tell John about my run-in that night and he listens in disbelief. Two days later John and I have just finished indulging in multiple sugar cane juices outside the confines of the ashram when I spot the demon diner making a hobbling path for us. "It's the guy from my dream. Can you see him too?" I ask John half in jest and half just not knowing for certain.
"I can see him," John answers in ominous solemnity. By now Gollum is upon us.
"You will help me. I need money." he announces. He crumples up his body to perch opposite of us at a decrepit concrete bus stand where John and I were hiding in the shade. He directs his perpetual scowl in my direction. Making a sweeping motion he says, "This that you are doing is no good. It is not real. Money can help, not your..." He makes the sweeping motion again. "I've seen what you do. It is nothing. The dirt will only come back. I have special needs and money is what matters."
John is in complete agreement now that the man is not real and suggests, in a way that makes me believe he has dealt with this sort of thing before, that it is a variety of demon administering a test. We discuss this openly in front of the apparition even though he apparently speaks English. When I ask him what he needs the money for he only frowns more deeply. When I go on to explain that I am willing instead to try to help him fulfill that need rather than simply give money he redirects his stare to John and waves a dismissive hand in my direction.
"I cannot understand him, you will talk to me." John and I consult as to the correct way to pass the test. We decide that we will try to find some work to hire him for. I suggest cleaning the bus stand we are in and John agrees. I locate a couple of discarded brooms and a basket to collect dirt just around the corner of the stand (what are they doing there?). "No, I won't do this," he hisses at our kneeling, sweeping forms as we demonstrate the work we are willing to pay for.
"Then we won't give you any money," John counters. John and I clean for a little while more and then stand to assess our performance in this test of wills. As we are talking my jaw drops and I motion for John to turn around. There stooped low to the ground with the hand broom I had laid down is Gollum--sweeping.
He continues for a few minutes and is rather effective before he looks up once more and declares, "I can do this. It is not hard. But I will need money for tea. With tea you will see. I can do all of this. You will give me money." John offers to run to a roadside stand and bring back some tea but Gollum resists. "You will give me money for tea." John is already down the road. Gollum sets his broom down and heads in the same direction.
"Wait," I implore, "He's coming back with your tea" Gollum ignores me and continues down the road. John whirls about and catches him in as he is about to pass in front of the stand and offers him piping-hot tea. Gollum sits. John purchases some Parle-G biscuits to go along with the tea before rejoining me at the bus stand.
"He says he will come back in five minutes," John reports. We talk for ten minutes. Gollum hasn't stirred from his position in front of a television presenting overly dramatic religious fare in Gujarati. "He's just kicking back and watching TV while we roast out here," John says, "If he doesn't come back in the next five minutes I'm not going to pay him anything. We had an agreement." In the meantime I suggest that we continue cleaning the bus stand as long as we've come this far. No sooner than we start back in and two local boys appear bearing better brooms and they help alongside for a few minutes.
The rest of our group makes their way up the road intent on finding liquid refreshment. They catch sight of John and I at a distance and note our efforts with some amusement. After a round of cold drinks they join us at the bus stand for cleaning and start on the neighboring stand as well. Within a half hour both stands, which had been caked with dirt and serving as de facto waste bins, are now as clean as old concrete can get. At one point our money-lusting acquaintance approaches and John points him out to Jayesh-bhai. Jayesh-bhai warmly greets him which causes him to do an about face and scurry off for an anonymous corner. Jayesh-bhai says that Gollum is embarrassed because he tried to take advantage of us and would have been exposed. John and I disagree and point out that through the challenge he posed to us two bus stands have now been cleaned that would otherwise have remained pristine in their filthy condition. Through the mirror of greed Gollum has exposed the fruits of selfishness to the afternoon light where their rotting forms could be swept away. No small sleight of hand. Was it Gollum or Gandalf that we encountered a mere stones throw from the slowly rolling waters of the Narmada.
WWF Monk
I am informed that a healer is coming over that has just cured the chronic ache in the neighbor's shoulder. Mayhaps this is the mysterious cure to my sciatica that Nipun had intuited I would find on the India trek. Moments later the front gate swings open and an impressive hulk of a man comes padding into Jayesh-bhai's compound. He is dark complected and the spitting image of George Foreman with only a slight hint of South Asian lineage. He quickly establishes his court on the porch with the rattan couch serving as his throne. His legs are spread far apart and one hand rests regally atop a cane polished by countless years of hand oil. Jayesh-bhai sits opposite him and listens with obvious amusement to the monk's decrees. In general it seems that the monk is a deadpanning jokester and doesn't take himself too seriously, even if he makes outrageous claims with regards to his past. He tenaciously holds the center of attention, keeping the audience enraptured, albeit skeptically. I am offered up as a guinea pig several times, but he will not deign to have his programme interrupted. The monk plays both roles of king and court jester with no apparent dis-ease. The neighbor makes a cameo appearance raising her arm high above her head to demonstrate the restored range of motion.
The third time I am presented for the monk's healing touch he scans me from head to toe as if sizing up an opponent for a wrestling match. A few of the skeptics in the audience ask if I am sure I want to avail myself to the monk who sports at least double my mass. I harbor doubts of my own, but figure nothing too egregious can transpire in the land of the magical protective bubble. He asks where it hurts and I indicate a line from my lower back extending to the hind side of my upper right leg. "Ah, sciatica," he concludes, causing a number of those gathered to coo their approval. He orders me to stand straight in front of him and again surveys me from top to bottom, giving me the uneasy impression of searching for my Achilles heel. He grabs me with both hands and twirls me about. The monk grunts disapproval concerning my tee-shirt and vinyl sweat pants and consequently they are removed. I feel doubly exposed having lost a good chunk of weight from an already thin frame in the two short months since leaving the US. He chortles with delight at the diminutive framework of his adversary and the bout begins.
The monk manipulates my flesh starting at my neck and working his way along to my shoulder until he finds a nexus of nerves and then he twists with reckless zeal. I flinch with pain and tears swell in my eyes. He repeats the exercise on the opposite side effectively doubling the hurt. He proceeds with a similar program of attack first on each of my arms and then each leg finding vulnerable spots behind each knee. It feels as if he is digging and twisting his fingers past the protective sheath known as my skin, directly into my anatomy and then plucking tendons and nerves like bow strings. Eric looks on with concern as I writhe in agony, while the remaining onlookers presume I am acting in jest and laugh at the spectacle. The monk slaps me hither and thither and then asks me how my back is. I respond in all honesty that I can feel pain almost everywhere now so I don't notice my sciatica as much. I hear Eric intone that this is a well known phenomena--get enough nerves buzzing and the source becomes diffuse.
The monk orders that I face away and sit in front of him. He renews his assualt along my trapezius applying pressure in a manner that at times is not so offensive, but alternates this with talon thrusts that break blood vessels and leaves my skin stinging with pain. He slaps my back satisfactorily and inquires once more as how the sciatica feels. I tell him is still hurts as do my shoulders and neck now too. He frowns and affects an exaggerated pout for the benefit of our small audience. He repositions me to stand facing him and he demonstrates a stretching exercise reaching above himself with both arms, hands pressed together and then slowly lowering his hands to the floor while bending at the waist. I attempt to do the same and find the usual tightness in the hamstrings is now doubly so and my right leg in particular feels as if it has been disassembled and the poorly put back together so that tendons rub directly across nerve lines. The monk motions for me to back away from him and then lifts his cane rifle-style and it recoils slightly as he fires between my eyes. I am not sure if I am supposed to drop to the ground and feign death so I just continue to stand and wait. The monk breaks into a Cheshire Cat smile and declares that his work is done. He informs me that for a complete cure I must follow an Ayurvedic regimen which he scrawls absent-mindedly on a scrap of yellow notebook paper.
The monk pats the cushion next to him and demands that I massage his arm. "Har-dahr," he barks, and then "Yeah-ess," when I apply as much pressure to his forearm as my sore muscles can muster. He removes his top garment revealing a buddha-like belly and directs me to work on his shoulders and then rolls up his dhoti so I can press his banyan stump thighs. "My chela," he declares slapping me smartly on my aching back. At some point the show is moved inside to the guest bedroom where the monk continues to instruct me to massage him. He gives me his cane and tells me that I must not let anyone else hold it. I fire a mock rifle-shot back at him and he shakes his head in disappointment. Been there, done that.
The monk presses Eric to donate money to him, but Eric is incredulous. "Why me? I don't have any money. I have a broken down car, lots of debt and not much else. You can have it all if you want it." The monk isn't convinced that Eric doesn't have a secret cache and indicates that he owes him a large amount from "before." Eric isn't persuaded so the monk offers to "show" him and positions Eric in front of a full length mirror next to the bed.
"Look only here until ten minutes," the monk says, himself lingering to peer at the mirror as if a show is about to begin. While Eric stands transfixed in front of the mirror the monk continues to entertain the handful remaining in the room. Viral offers to play timekeeper and periodically calls out the number of minutes left. Eric is asked what he sees and he offers cryptically that anyone is liable see all sorts of things if they stare in the same place long enough. When the ten minutes have expired Eric, formerly the voice of reason, calmly relates having seen himself in a variety of priestly vestments and warrior costumes. The monk assumes Eric's former position in front of the mirror and alternates flexing his pectoral muscles, Arnold style, before turning to admire his profile and slapping his stomach proudly. "I was top wrestler. Yeah-ess! Top wrestler!" He turns a hundred and eighty degrees to examine his left side which seems pretty identical to his right, "Yeah-ess!"
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Dipika
We arrive in our first village after porting all of our luggage, recreational equipment, and kitchen implements (including gas tank), through heavily vegetated fields from the Kabir Wagh ashram. The sole, modest temple in the village is adjacent to a vast, dusty, approxiamately circular area that serves as the crossroads (times eight) and center of village life. We begin picking up litter, clearing brush and sweeping in its immediate vicinity while Jayesh-bhai contacts a prominent resident in the village. He is impressed by our enthusiasm and points us to a rundown hut that we may occupy for our stay. In the next hut over a thin girl of maybe ten years is busy with chores but looks up long enough to make fleeting eye contact and offer the slightest suggestion of a smile. Her focus on the tasks at hand is remarkable considering that the village, as we are to discover later, has never had any visitors. Period. And now some fifteen differently garbed, variously colored and odd sounding peoples are flying into a cleaning frenzy some ten feet away--so what to do? Clean another pot, sweep the goat droppings and tend to the baby.
Work is barely underway at our new digs before we are made an offer to stay in a larger hut down the path a ways. We settle into the new quarters before heading back to the temple to continue cleaning. I catch additional glimpses of the friendly-faced thin girl over the course of the afternoon. At one point I take a break in the shade just in front of her hut, where she is pulling a smallish rope to rock a baby suspended in a cradle-framed hammock. She smiles when I take over her duty and simply moves on to other work as if my visit is a daily unspoken ritual. The baby snoozes on in the hammock quite oblivious to the fact that the rocking is now administered by a ghostly-skinned, wild-haired demon from a far off land. When the mother appears on the scene she nervously negotiates around the stranger and from within the hut whispers questions to the thin girl. I rejoin the work crew in the intense afternoon heat which is made all the more unbearable due to the trash fires we have started. The thin girl glances over from feeding the bull that is tethered in their backyard.
In the evening I head back to the thin girl's hut armed with a frisbee. I peer in the doorless entryway and see her and her mother busy in the cooking area in the back. I clear my throat to make my presence known and she glances first to me and then nervously to her mother before flashing a smile. I motion Indian style for her to come out (palm down rather than palm up) and she emerges with an expression that says, "And...?" I reveal the frisbee and demonstrate how it is held before lofting it gently in her direction. She fumbles it and it drops in the sandy dirt that defines the ground everywhere in the village. I demonstrate with an invisible frisbee the basic throwing motion and she tosses the dusty disc back to me with a deft flick of the wrist. I waggle my head side to side and clap approval. She claps back at me exuberantly. A single, smart smack together of the hands with fingers spread wide accompanied by a face-consuming smile. With a few more iterations she is both catching and throwing with precision. A crowd of locals grows organically and within half an hour the frisbee is flying recklessly to and fro in the diminishing light. The thin girl shows newcomers the preferred grip and release with limited success and the frisbee, as often as not, careens sideways or upside down into the abundant thorny brush which acts as fence lines. The play is interrupted only briefly to allow goat herds, weary cart-pulling buffalo, and vessel-balancing women safe passage. Village elders gather and look on with approval from a hopelessly slanted stone bench next to the temple.
Over the ensuing days the thin girl and I work out a simple sign language system to communicate when we will next play frisbee. On one occasion we find the opportunity to take a spontaneous break from our respective cleaning tasks to toss a tennis ball back and forth in the shade. When I miss an errant toss she offers up her trademark single, satisfying clap of encouragement. Smack. Sometimes she will talk for a bit, even though she seems to understand something of my self-imposed period of silence (to mention nothing about having mastered nothing beyond the traditional greeting in Gujarati). After our break I venture into her yard to help her finish washing cooking vessels and to sweep the goat droppings that roll under the babies crib. She never takes my help as an occasion to rest, but moves fluidly to the next task and focuses like a laser beam.
One morning I cross the thorn brush into her backyard to continue collecting trash. She breaks from washing and joins in gathering the odd assortment of discarded plastic water pouches, tobacco packs and rags that have been ensnared in the thorns. When I exit her family's yard she stays in tow and continues plucking up the bits of litter that gleam everywhere against the dusty earth. When she has gathered a smallish bag full I circle behind her and lift her onto my shoulder which causes her to chuckle with delight. I march over to the trash pit that John has engineered some hundred yards away and we take turns tossing in our booty--the thin girl from her high perch. The spectacle is noted by other kids who join in the next round of trash collection. What a scene.
On the day I break my silence I can't wait to visit with the thin girl. She barely bats an eyelid hearing me speak for the first time and conveys the impression of having "heard" me all along. I learn her name is Dipika, and with Viral serving as translator, discover the woman I took to be her mother is actually an older sister. Their parents live in a far off village and sent Dipika to live with their eldest daughter only six months ago. She has a younger brother still living at home who will attend school, but Dipika and her sister have never been afforded the chance for any stretch of time. I tell Dipika that I would be interested in sponsoring her if she was interested in giving the academic life another go. She is pensive but offers no response. Through Viral I tell her how impressed I was with the friendliness she extended to total strangers and how effortlessly she mastered the frisbee. I admire her courage and relate how much it meant to me when she helped me collect trash. She blushes but says nothing. I make a plea for her to reconsider schooling and paint a picture of unlimited possibilities. School, I suggest, exposes you to things you didn't even know were there--sort of like having visitors come to your village. More chin-stroking thoughtfulness from Dipika. Her sister tells Viral that Dipika's hesitation is probably related to feeling awkward about going to school having missed so much. She says Dipika is worried about the other kids making fun of her. I express complete confidence in her ability to catch up and make friends. I propose she think it over during the coming 24 hours. Dipika's sister urges her to take up my offer and relates her own regret at never having gotten an education. It's never too late I suggest. Both sisters are pensive now. I offer the possibility that Dipika could come back regularly to the village and teach her older sister what she learns. Dipika finally weighs in. What did she say, what did she say? Viral says she wants to go.
We throw a picnic for the village children under a temple's banyan tree about a kilometer outside the village. The kid's really never have any organized outings and are thrilled to be getting so much attention and to be discovering new games to play. Our crew prepares lunch and serves the meal on banana leaves in the shade of a shed. Almost on cue the popsicle seller emerges from a nearby banana plantation with his styrofoam cooler brimming with premium frozen goodies. I buy a round for the children and they disperse around the temple grounds to savor their afternoon treat. The total cost of some fifty popsicles comes to just over two US dollars. Some nearby children working in the fields take a respite to peer over at the spectacle unfolding under the banyan tree. I purchase two more popsicles and run them over to the kids who don't know whether to run or wilt, but happily accept the "candy ice" when it is offered.
When some of us break for meditation one of the teenage girls joins us and sits motionless for close to half an hour. Two older boys, perhaps in their late teens, also accept my invitation to sit with us after we have finished playing a game of catch where we thread the ball through impossibly narrow gaps in the banyan tree's myriad branches.
Dipika happily hops on my back as we head back to the village under the impressively determined early summer sun. The other children try to usurp her throne, but I run ahead of the pack producing screams of protest and at least one of delight. Sweat uniformly soaks my shirt. Close to the village Dipika steers me to a mango tree that is full of unripe fruit. I promote her to my shoulders so she can pluck the otherwise out-of-reach bitter bounty for herself and the others who have since caught up. A bullock cart rolls astride and I transfer Dipika aboard and bid her and her happily snacking peers adieu.
That evening I join Dipika in shuttling water from the village well to her hut. Girls half of Dipika's size will routinely carry metal or earthenware vessels brimming with water atop broom-handle thin, but evidently steely, necks. More impressive yet are the girls of five to seven years who will carry a younger sibling on a jutting hip and balance a jug simultaneously. Dipika and the woman ahead of us in the queue chat about the odd whitey in their midst and get the giggles. I borrow a small piece of cloth which is first rolled lengthwise and then twirled into an overlapping circle to place upon my head as a receptacle for the metal container. Even lifting the full vessel into place takes some muscle power and I wonder at the skill involved to lift a second container into place. I opt to use one arm as a balancing prop, not wanting stain my gender with the reputation of a water spiller. I am worn out after a couple of runs while Dipika makes four jaunts with seemingly no effort.
Later in the night, at the behest of Dipika's older sister, I return to their hut with Anar-behin, Jayesh-bhai's wife, to work out details of possible schooling for Dipika. The family is fast asleep on two small contiguous cots some ten meters in front of the hut, hidden entirely by a couple of large soiled blankets. I am concerned about disturbing them, but Anar-behin assures me that it is perfectly okay. The organic mass stirs when prodded and differentiates into singular forms, one of which becomes recognizable in the pale moonlight as the ever smiling Dipika. The older sister's husband insists that we sit on the cots with them and in doing so I almost squish the baby who is still entirely occluded under bedding. Be careful. Anar-behin explains that Dipika will have to apply for school in April and then come to Ahmedabad in June when the new semester begins. Dipika is steadfast in her desire to come and the needed contact information is provided to her family. Other villagers emerge from the dusty night and sit with us on the cots. I explain to Dipika, through Anar-behin, that our group will be leaving very early the next morning and tell her I won't forget to come back for her. Her smile stretches from ear to ear.
Work is barely underway at our new digs before we are made an offer to stay in a larger hut down the path a ways. We settle into the new quarters before heading back to the temple to continue cleaning. I catch additional glimpses of the friendly-faced thin girl over the course of the afternoon. At one point I take a break in the shade just in front of her hut, where she is pulling a smallish rope to rock a baby suspended in a cradle-framed hammock. She smiles when I take over her duty and simply moves on to other work as if my visit is a daily unspoken ritual. The baby snoozes on in the hammock quite oblivious to the fact that the rocking is now administered by a ghostly-skinned, wild-haired demon from a far off land. When the mother appears on the scene she nervously negotiates around the stranger and from within the hut whispers questions to the thin girl. I rejoin the work crew in the intense afternoon heat which is made all the more unbearable due to the trash fires we have started. The thin girl glances over from feeding the bull that is tethered in their backyard.
In the evening I head back to the thin girl's hut armed with a frisbee. I peer in the doorless entryway and see her and her mother busy in the cooking area in the back. I clear my throat to make my presence known and she glances first to me and then nervously to her mother before flashing a smile. I motion Indian style for her to come out (palm down rather than palm up) and she emerges with an expression that says, "And...?" I reveal the frisbee and demonstrate how it is held before lofting it gently in her direction. She fumbles it and it drops in the sandy dirt that defines the ground everywhere in the village. I demonstrate with an invisible frisbee the basic throwing motion and she tosses the dusty disc back to me with a deft flick of the wrist. I waggle my head side to side and clap approval. She claps back at me exuberantly. A single, smart smack together of the hands with fingers spread wide accompanied by a face-consuming smile. With a few more iterations she is both catching and throwing with precision. A crowd of locals grows organically and within half an hour the frisbee is flying recklessly to and fro in the diminishing light. The thin girl shows newcomers the preferred grip and release with limited success and the frisbee, as often as not, careens sideways or upside down into the abundant thorny brush which acts as fence lines. The play is interrupted only briefly to allow goat herds, weary cart-pulling buffalo, and vessel-balancing women safe passage. Village elders gather and look on with approval from a hopelessly slanted stone bench next to the temple.
Over the ensuing days the thin girl and I work out a simple sign language system to communicate when we will next play frisbee. On one occasion we find the opportunity to take a spontaneous break from our respective cleaning tasks to toss a tennis ball back and forth in the shade. When I miss an errant toss she offers up her trademark single, satisfying clap of encouragement. Smack. Sometimes she will talk for a bit, even though she seems to understand something of my self-imposed period of silence (to mention nothing about having mastered nothing beyond the traditional greeting in Gujarati). After our break I venture into her yard to help her finish washing cooking vessels and to sweep the goat droppings that roll under the babies crib. She never takes my help as an occasion to rest, but moves fluidly to the next task and focuses like a laser beam.
One morning I cross the thorn brush into her backyard to continue collecting trash. She breaks from washing and joins in gathering the odd assortment of discarded plastic water pouches, tobacco packs and rags that have been ensnared in the thorns. When I exit her family's yard she stays in tow and continues plucking up the bits of litter that gleam everywhere against the dusty earth. When she has gathered a smallish bag full I circle behind her and lift her onto my shoulder which causes her to chuckle with delight. I march over to the trash pit that John has engineered some hundred yards away and we take turns tossing in our booty--the thin girl from her high perch. The spectacle is noted by other kids who join in the next round of trash collection. What a scene.
On the day I break my silence I can't wait to visit with the thin girl. She barely bats an eyelid hearing me speak for the first time and conveys the impression of having "heard" me all along. I learn her name is Dipika, and with Viral serving as translator, discover the woman I took to be her mother is actually an older sister. Their parents live in a far off village and sent Dipika to live with their eldest daughter only six months ago. She has a younger brother still living at home who will attend school, but Dipika and her sister have never been afforded the chance for any stretch of time. I tell Dipika that I would be interested in sponsoring her if she was interested in giving the academic life another go. She is pensive but offers no response. Through Viral I tell her how impressed I was with the friendliness she extended to total strangers and how effortlessly she mastered the frisbee. I admire her courage and relate how much it meant to me when she helped me collect trash. She blushes but says nothing. I make a plea for her to reconsider schooling and paint a picture of unlimited possibilities. School, I suggest, exposes you to things you didn't even know were there--sort of like having visitors come to your village. More chin-stroking thoughtfulness from Dipika. Her sister tells Viral that Dipika's hesitation is probably related to feeling awkward about going to school having missed so much. She says Dipika is worried about the other kids making fun of her. I express complete confidence in her ability to catch up and make friends. I propose she think it over during the coming 24 hours. Dipika's sister urges her to take up my offer and relates her own regret at never having gotten an education. It's never too late I suggest. Both sisters are pensive now. I offer the possibility that Dipika could come back regularly to the village and teach her older sister what she learns. Dipika finally weighs in. What did she say, what did she say? Viral says she wants to go.
We throw a picnic for the village children under a temple's banyan tree about a kilometer outside the village. The kid's really never have any organized outings and are thrilled to be getting so much attention and to be discovering new games to play. Our crew prepares lunch and serves the meal on banana leaves in the shade of a shed. Almost on cue the popsicle seller emerges from a nearby banana plantation with his styrofoam cooler brimming with premium frozen goodies. I buy a round for the children and they disperse around the temple grounds to savor their afternoon treat. The total cost of some fifty popsicles comes to just over two US dollars. Some nearby children working in the fields take a respite to peer over at the spectacle unfolding under the banyan tree. I purchase two more popsicles and run them over to the kids who don't know whether to run or wilt, but happily accept the "candy ice" when it is offered.
When some of us break for meditation one of the teenage girls joins us and sits motionless for close to half an hour. Two older boys, perhaps in their late teens, also accept my invitation to sit with us after we have finished playing a game of catch where we thread the ball through impossibly narrow gaps in the banyan tree's myriad branches.
Dipika happily hops on my back as we head back to the village under the impressively determined early summer sun. The other children try to usurp her throne, but I run ahead of the pack producing screams of protest and at least one of delight. Sweat uniformly soaks my shirt. Close to the village Dipika steers me to a mango tree that is full of unripe fruit. I promote her to my shoulders so she can pluck the otherwise out-of-reach bitter bounty for herself and the others who have since caught up. A bullock cart rolls astride and I transfer Dipika aboard and bid her and her happily snacking peers adieu.
That evening I join Dipika in shuttling water from the village well to her hut. Girls half of Dipika's size will routinely carry metal or earthenware vessels brimming with water atop broom-handle thin, but evidently steely, necks. More impressive yet are the girls of five to seven years who will carry a younger sibling on a jutting hip and balance a jug simultaneously. Dipika and the woman ahead of us in the queue chat about the odd whitey in their midst and get the giggles. I borrow a small piece of cloth which is first rolled lengthwise and then twirled into an overlapping circle to place upon my head as a receptacle for the metal container. Even lifting the full vessel into place takes some muscle power and I wonder at the skill involved to lift a second container into place. I opt to use one arm as a balancing prop, not wanting stain my gender with the reputation of a water spiller. I am worn out after a couple of runs while Dipika makes four jaunts with seemingly no effort.
Later in the night, at the behest of Dipika's older sister, I return to their hut with Anar-behin, Jayesh-bhai's wife, to work out details of possible schooling for Dipika. The family is fast asleep on two small contiguous cots some ten meters in front of the hut, hidden entirely by a couple of large soiled blankets. I am concerned about disturbing them, but Anar-behin assures me that it is perfectly okay. The organic mass stirs when prodded and differentiates into singular forms, one of which becomes recognizable in the pale moonlight as the ever smiling Dipika. The older sister's husband insists that we sit on the cots with them and in doing so I almost squish the baby who is still entirely occluded under bedding. Be careful. Anar-behin explains that Dipika will have to apply for school in April and then come to Ahmedabad in June when the new semester begins. Dipika is steadfast in her desire to come and the needed contact information is provided to her family. Other villagers emerge from the dusty night and sit with us on the cots. I explain to Dipika, through Anar-behin, that our group will be leaving very early the next morning and tell her I won't forget to come back for her. Her smile stretches from ear to ear.
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