At 7:00 the children start to trickle in the courtyard at the Air Force School just off of Lodi Road in Delhi. Dark-blue pants for the boys, skirts for the girls and azure-colored button-up shirts for all. Organic clusters of two to twenty form, fall apart and reform. From my vantage point on a neighboring roof it has the appearance of delicately flagellating pond life under the microscope. An imposing ten foot wall forms the front of the stage and is breached in four places by stairs leading up to the school or down to the courtyard depending on which way one is headed. Just before 7:30 the headmaster, dressed in freshly-pressed khaki pants and starched white oxford with blood-red tie, approaches the microphone for a sound check. "Yes? Yes? Okay? Yes? Hello? Hello?" Levels are adjusted until his voice is suitably imposing and then he starts barking orders. "Form up! Get into your lines! Hurry up, there! Hurry up! Into your lines! Hurry up!" The blue globules of students get drawn into wavy strings before tightening with parallel precision. A group of thirty uniformed girls take up position behind the headmaster who moves to the threshold of the stage to inspect his charges. This neatly arrayed chorus leads the other students in a patriotic number before the headmaster ominously retakes his position at the microphone.
"One of your classmates was feeling very smart and decided to violate school policy. He will not be joining you today. He will not be coming to classes tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, or next week. Those of you are feeling his fun was commendable will be advised that he has been expelled forever from the school. I want all of you to think about that long and hard. Your actions reflect on the good name of the school and we will allow our reputation to be tarnished by the foolish acts of a few. I want all of you to think about that today."
A synthesizer is brought onto the stage and set to straddle two impressive loud speakers. A senior male student approaches the keyboard with the solemn comportment of a concert pianist. I am expecting to hear another patriotic tune, but am flabbergasted to recognize the opening strains of the Final Countdown. Midway through the song the musician punches a button to activate a pulsating percussive accompaniment. He plays the song in its entirety with the passion of a robot while his classmates must remain frozen in formation. The comic effect is nonpareil.
After the song is complete the students are channeled into four lines of equal length and fed into the staircases leading to the school. The headmaster continues to harangue the rank and file with punctuated severity. "Stay in your assigned order. Keep your lines. Keep your lines! Heads up! You keep in mind what happens to rule breakers. Single file! Eyes forward!" In the gaps between his commands the clip-clop of thick-heeled shoes echo throughout the courtyard.
No more than five minutes elapses before a mop-topped man attired from head to toe in bleached-white prep wear sashays onto center stage with a portable cassette deck in hand. As he endeavors to connect his stereo to the amplifiers a trickle, then stream of pre-teens refill the courtyard, shepherded by three sari-clad staffers. Bright-white shorts for the boys, bright-white pleated skirts for the girls and black belts and white polo shirts for all. The children are redistributed between columns until all are of equal length and perfectly spaced at arm's length. Three consecutive lines are anchored by identically obese Sikh boys in blue turbans. Shorts pulled high over the waistline, they bear the telltale hallmark of the worldwide fraternity of nerds. Two girls ascend the steps to the stage and take up positions to either side of the instructor. I am prepared to watch a regimented drill in physical education befitting of a hard-nosed military school.
With Broadway-like flair, the instructor whirls away from his cassette deck to face the students and flicks his collar up a la Richard Simmons. The tape begins with an infectious maraca setting the rhythm to light raps on the snare drum. The beat is immediately familiar, but I am unable to place it. The instructor stands with one arm akimbo and the other raised skyward to snap out the beat as he bounces on the toes of his shoes. When the taped vocals start all present launch into choreographed routine. Simultaneously some three hundred students jump, twist, turn and gyrate to The Ketchup Song by Las Ketchup.
(To come anywhere close to appreciating the remainder of this narrative as much as I did in watching it unfold, you are encouraged to download The Ketchup Song mp3 from Limewire or a similar peer-to-peer file sharing system.)
Friday night it's party time
Feeling ready looking fine,
Viene diego rumbeando,
With the magic in his eyes
Checking every girl in sight,
Grooving like he does the mambo
The Sikh boys perform their steps one to two beats behind the rest of the group. They watch those in front and ape their moves with sluggish imprecision. As the body copies one body posture the eyes and brain are already registering another and the result is stumbling mayhem. The instructor himself executes the moves with a precious banality that is completely devoid of soul.
He's the man alli en la disco,
Playing sexy felling hotter,
He's the king bailando et ritmo ragatanga,
And the dj that he knows well,
On the spot always around twelve,
Plays the mix that diego mezcla con la salsa,
Y la baila and he dances y la canta
In stark contrast a comely girl in the second row is singular in her movements. How is it that one in three hundred identically dressed children can stand out like a turtledove among house pigeons? Most of us emerge from the womb kicking and flailing with bodies slightly tight around the hips or pinching at the shoulders. Others are fairly comfortable in their skin and may go on to excel in athletics or live to be one hundred three. But it is only one in three hundred thousand whose clay is cast so perfectly that her movements manifest something of the heavens in corporeality.
Asereje ja de je de jebe tu de jebere seibiunouva,
Majavi an de bugui an de buididipi,
Asereje ja de je de jebe tu de jebere seibiunouva,
Majavi an de bugui an de buididipi
I cast my gaze hither and thither among the students, but it is drawn back to the dancing prodigy time and time again. She has taken the ridiculous, vaguely calisthenic movements of the routine and woven them into effortless grace and seamless beauty. There are none of the slight hesitations that would betray self-consciousness – she has crossed the line where the dancer becomes the Dance. She dances for no one, but for the pleasure of the Universe herself.
Many think its brujeria,
How he comes and disappears,
Every move will hypnotize you,
Some will call it chuleria,
Others say that its the real,
Rastafari afrogitano
I am twelve again and hopelessly infatuated with the vision of physical perfection that is the eleven-year old boogie queen. She was born to dance and is as free as a bird on the wing.
Asereje ja de je de jebe tu de jebere seibiunouva,
Majavi an de bugui an de buididipi,
Asereje ja de je de jebe tu de jebere seibiunouva,
Majavi an de bugui an de buididipi
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Monday, November 28, 2005
Dream of the Net Head Ball Bouncer
John and I stare out from the departure rampway at the mushrooming super cloud that dominates the Southern sky. Its location makes it appear that Ahmedabad has been bombed into oblivion – a draconian governmental program to give the newly proclaimed mega-city a fresh start.
Mere sketches of the robustly thin duo that arrived in Mumbai seven months prior, John and I fantasize about the varied vegan cuisine available in the States. John fixates on the chai with soy milk that he prepares with clockwork regularity back in the Bay Area. He is an tea-drinking aficionado and replays the steps in preparing the perfect cup with the exacting detail of a true addict. My mind has set another repast: a steaming Smart Dog topped with Veganrella cheese, relish and thick spaghetti sauce on a toasted bagel. A pint of Chocolate Cookie Crunch Tofutti awaits in the freezer of my fantasy.
For weeks now I have been battling with diarrhea, odd bouts of flu, and a lack of appetite for any of the Gujarati foodstuffs. The mere mention of double-thick roti makes my stomach turn. If I stand just right in the sunlight my bellybutton can be seen from the backside. Acquaintences don't hesitate to tell me how really bad I am looking, man. "You're looking really bad, man. What happened?" What can I say? India happened. John, too, has now fallen victim to the "skinnies" and sports a similarly prominent backbone ridge sans shirt. Withered wisps of once well-padded Westerners are we.
John and I talk about rekindling the dreamlike quality that makes India so enchanting. Returning to Delhi for meetings with prominent people seems about as exciting as going to a large city for meetings with prominent people. The letters to Pakistan project seems sufficiently significant to bear the banality of the pending powwows, but our bodies are hell-bent on an alimentary succour that is not forthcoming. We stand outside the terminal in a sluggish, semi-daze after learning our Delhi flight was for 3:30 AM and not 3:30 PM. We will have to return to Ahmedabad for the night.
A pair of men approach our position and I overhear the bigger of the two say, "Gujarati?" to his friend as he looks at John. The comment is totally improbable, so I take it as a harbinger of the dream returning to potency and motion them over. We stand on opposite sides of the rampway railing. I point to John.
"Ek dam Gujarati," I claim, "From Surat. Family of diamond merchants." The men look at John with amazement.
"Gujarati," John confirms, pointing to himself. The larger of the pair asks John some questions in Gujarati and John nods enthusiastically, but is unable to respond to the man's satisfaction. We steer the conversation to English and the men introduce themselves as Amit and Ashok. We learn Amit has a brother in Chicago in the computer software business. I've been claiming to be "from near Chicago" for the past six months – an exaggeration precipitated only by the familiarity of the city to Gujaratis. Many of them hear it as "New Chicago" and marvel at their lack of knowledge of such a place. Awkwardness follows when the stranger is too familiar with the Windy City and inquires where exactly I live. I am forced to explain, somewhat dubiously, that I am some 250 miles down the road, but America is quite big so it still counts for near. John excuses himself to go to the bathroom and I seize upon his absense to coach the more fluent of the two, Amit, in a dream role.
"Actually, John's from America, but his wife is Punjabi," I explain, "I've got an idea, but I need your help. When John comes back look at him for a long time while slowly stroking your chin." Amit readily agrees almost too readily and mimics my motion. "No, not now. Wait for John to return and then do it. Then point to his eyes and say you can tell from them that there is something interesting about his wife. Yes, something unusual. She is not from the Americas or even Europe. No, you sense she is from somewhere else. Ask to look directly into his eyes and pretend to concentrate." The man is smiling broadly now and seems to get where I am going with the set up. "Then say she herself is from somewhere not too distant. Not Ahmedabad. Somewhere further. Yes, somewhere to the north. Say you are getting an image of turbans and beards and are hearing music. Yes, bhangra. Is she Punjabi?" Amit laughs and rubs his hands together like a cartoon villain in anticipation. "Take your time, but you absolutely have to do it," I tell him, "It will be a treat for John. He'll love it."
"Yes, yes," Amit cackles with giddy mirth.
"Her name is Loveleen, so also say something about her name being filled with great heart."
"Lovely," says Amit.
"No, Loveleen. But, yes it is lovely."
Almost on cue John emerges for the airport terminal and rejoins us. Amit loudly proclaims, "You don't look like your from Punjab!" I am dumbfounded. John looks confused, but doesn't seem to have registered that I have had a hand in this odd observation. "Where is your wife from?" Amit practically shouts. My dream-weaving fun is being destroyed with hard-to-comprehend zeal. I move slightly behind John and frantically motion to Amit to go slow, hoping there may be some chance to salvage the charade. I point to John's eyes and stroke my chin hoping to remind Amit of the fortune telling routine, but he only stares at me dumbly. I decide instead to distract John before he can answer Amit's question and buy some time.
"This guy is absolutely amazing," I lie, "He can just stare into your eyes and intuit your deepest secrets. When you were in the terminal he told me that I was single, but that you must be married and he said that he could even determine where your wife is from just from looking at your eyes. He totally confirms that the dream is still alive and well here."
John looks impressed. "Really?" he says with wonder, before turning back to Amit who is looking completely lost.
"Look into his eyes," I tell Amit, "Can you tell us anything about John's wife?" He briefly glances at John then back to me and shrugs his shoulders. "Re - mem - ber? You know something about John's wife, right?" Amit shakes his head no.
"You are married?" Amit asks John. I grab my hair and pull skyward.
"Yes, he's married! Can you tell us where...his...wife...is...from? Is she also from America?" Amit stares at me as if I am speaking Greek. "Maybe she is from Europe? From Greece?"
"Your wife is from Greece?" he asks John. At this point John looks just as befuddled as Amit. I've lost all hope of pulling the scam off.
"I spent the whole time you were in the terminal coaching him on how to read you mind," I explain to John. Amit looks on, now smiling, and vigorously confirms my confession by nodding his head. I turn to him. "What happened to you?" I say, "I thought we had it all worked out, but you didn't say anything about his wife! You acted like you didn't know anything."
Amit gives me a look like he has landed on Pluto without his headgear. Then slowly a grin forms and he snaps his fingers smartly, "I get it! It's a joke! But my English is not good." I heave a sigh of one utterly defeated, before we all share in a good laugh.
A rusted bucket of a rickshaw rolls by with a completely incongruous neon-green cable running from the meter to the axle. Maybe the dream is coming back. I point the discrepancy out to John and he ends up noticing the IndiCorps vehicle just beyond the rickshaw in the parking lot. It isn't lost on me that the same vehicle picked us up at the beginning of our fantastical odyssey in Ahmedabad. It stands either as the perfect midway bookmark of our trip or a taunting symbol of how little we have really accomplished – it's as if seven months have elapsed and the car is still there waiting to take us into the city. We haul our luggage over to the IndiCorps Sumo and look expectantly back to the terminal for Anand to appear. We figure he must have come to drop off or pick up one of the IndiCorps fellows. Minutes pass, but no Anand.
Two boys selling net-wrapped balloon balls approach to hawk their wares. John takes pity on one and selects a red ball. I encourage him to discard the ball and keep only the flimsy net-bag that it came in. He tosses the ball aside and hands the net to me which I put over my head. The perverse humor is lost on the boys who run to reclaim the ball. Two girls selling the same balloon-ball novelties have seen the transaction take place and run over in the hopes of unloading more of the toys (or the nets that hold them). Instead, I snatch the ball from the boys and set up an impromptu game of volleyball in an effort to distract their minds from work. The ruse is successful and the fun transmutes into a soccer game with the girls on my side and boys on John's. Yet another vendor girl catches sight of our frolic in the parking lot and works her way into the game which has now turned into a hoop-less variation on basketball. The play is vigorous and a child will periodically be sent sprawling onto the concrete, but no matter. Dust yourself off, dab up the blood, and jump back in. My incessantly diarrhea-racked body, which has been bed bound for the past couple weeks, is in no shape to be moving at all, but somehow the sheer enthusiasm of the children keeps it animated. My heart is racing like in the movies just before the slow-motion sequence where the protagonist crumples to the ground clutching his chest.
Families form tea-time circles at various locations of the parking lot and look on approvingly at our break-neck antics. I ask our playmates if they would like to take a meal break (I want to die on a full stomach). The idea is received enthusiastically by all and we make a move for the airport employee's canteen some hundred meters to the side of the terminal. Midway our progress is halted by a security guard who indicates the children cannot pass. I am indignant. "This is my family. She is my little sister, these two are my little brothers and these two are also sisters. We're hungry and we're going to have dinner together." The guard is sufficiently flummoxed that we are able to proceed without further incident. At the door to the canteen the eldest of the girls suddenly gets cold feet about entering, and, in spite of my exhortations, she opts to return to the parking lot with the poles of balloon balls instead. The restaurant is a dirty single room with one corner forming the kitchen and counter. The employees help John and I move a marry tables together and arrange plastic chairs to accommodate our dinner party. Two scruffy boys appear from nowhere and take places at the table. My initial reaction is to exclude them from our dinner party, but ultimately I decide this has to be an open door affair. I insist that everyone wash hands and say a brief prayer before snatching up the samosas and fried triangles of unknown content. The canteen staff is unable to contain their curiosity about our gathering.
(In Hindi)
"Where are you from?"
"The USA. America."
"Why are you with these kids?"
"What kids?"
(Laughing) "These kids."
"They aren't kids. They're just family."
"Yes, sir. Very Good!"
"Not sir, just brother."
I inquire about the girl who has stayed back and one of her friends promises to set aside some snacks for her. The greatest kick is to see my adopted siblings in the unusual role of being able to order their preferences. Tomorrow they will bake anew in the airport parking lot and the security guards will hound them with their batons, but tonight we dine together.
Mere sketches of the robustly thin duo that arrived in Mumbai seven months prior, John and I fantasize about the varied vegan cuisine available in the States. John fixates on the chai with soy milk that he prepares with clockwork regularity back in the Bay Area. He is an tea-drinking aficionado and replays the steps in preparing the perfect cup with the exacting detail of a true addict. My mind has set another repast: a steaming Smart Dog topped with Veganrella cheese, relish and thick spaghetti sauce on a toasted bagel. A pint of Chocolate Cookie Crunch Tofutti awaits in the freezer of my fantasy.
For weeks now I have been battling with diarrhea, odd bouts of flu, and a lack of appetite for any of the Gujarati foodstuffs. The mere mention of double-thick roti makes my stomach turn. If I stand just right in the sunlight my bellybutton can be seen from the backside. Acquaintences don't hesitate to tell me how really bad I am looking, man. "You're looking really bad, man. What happened?" What can I say? India happened. John, too, has now fallen victim to the "skinnies" and sports a similarly prominent backbone ridge sans shirt. Withered wisps of once well-padded Westerners are we.
John and I talk about rekindling the dreamlike quality that makes India so enchanting. Returning to Delhi for meetings with prominent people seems about as exciting as going to a large city for meetings with prominent people. The letters to Pakistan project seems sufficiently significant to bear the banality of the pending powwows, but our bodies are hell-bent on an alimentary succour that is not forthcoming. We stand outside the terminal in a sluggish, semi-daze after learning our Delhi flight was for 3:30 AM and not 3:30 PM. We will have to return to Ahmedabad for the night.
A pair of men approach our position and I overhear the bigger of the two say, "Gujarati?" to his friend as he looks at John. The comment is totally improbable, so I take it as a harbinger of the dream returning to potency and motion them over. We stand on opposite sides of the rampway railing. I point to John.
"Ek dam Gujarati," I claim, "From Surat. Family of diamond merchants." The men look at John with amazement.
"Gujarati," John confirms, pointing to himself. The larger of the pair asks John some questions in Gujarati and John nods enthusiastically, but is unable to respond to the man's satisfaction. We steer the conversation to English and the men introduce themselves as Amit and Ashok. We learn Amit has a brother in Chicago in the computer software business. I've been claiming to be "from near Chicago" for the past six months – an exaggeration precipitated only by the familiarity of the city to Gujaratis. Many of them hear it as "New Chicago" and marvel at their lack of knowledge of such a place. Awkwardness follows when the stranger is too familiar with the Windy City and inquires where exactly I live. I am forced to explain, somewhat dubiously, that I am some 250 miles down the road, but America is quite big so it still counts for near. John excuses himself to go to the bathroom and I seize upon his absense to coach the more fluent of the two, Amit, in a dream role.
"Actually, John's from America, but his wife is Punjabi," I explain, "I've got an idea, but I need your help. When John comes back look at him for a long time while slowly stroking your chin." Amit readily agrees almost too readily and mimics my motion. "No, not now. Wait for John to return and then do it. Then point to his eyes and say you can tell from them that there is something interesting about his wife. Yes, something unusual. She is not from the Americas or even Europe. No, you sense she is from somewhere else. Ask to look directly into his eyes and pretend to concentrate." The man is smiling broadly now and seems to get where I am going with the set up. "Then say she herself is from somewhere not too distant. Not Ahmedabad. Somewhere further. Yes, somewhere to the north. Say you are getting an image of turbans and beards and are hearing music. Yes, bhangra. Is she Punjabi?" Amit laughs and rubs his hands together like a cartoon villain in anticipation. "Take your time, but you absolutely have to do it," I tell him, "It will be a treat for John. He'll love it."
"Yes, yes," Amit cackles with giddy mirth.
"Her name is Loveleen, so also say something about her name being filled with great heart."
"Lovely," says Amit.
"No, Loveleen. But, yes it is lovely."
Almost on cue John emerges for the airport terminal and rejoins us. Amit loudly proclaims, "You don't look like your from Punjab!" I am dumbfounded. John looks confused, but doesn't seem to have registered that I have had a hand in this odd observation. "Where is your wife from?" Amit practically shouts. My dream-weaving fun is being destroyed with hard-to-comprehend zeal. I move slightly behind John and frantically motion to Amit to go slow, hoping there may be some chance to salvage the charade. I point to John's eyes and stroke my chin hoping to remind Amit of the fortune telling routine, but he only stares at me dumbly. I decide instead to distract John before he can answer Amit's question and buy some time.
"This guy is absolutely amazing," I lie, "He can just stare into your eyes and intuit your deepest secrets. When you were in the terminal he told me that I was single, but that you must be married and he said that he could even determine where your wife is from just from looking at your eyes. He totally confirms that the dream is still alive and well here."
John looks impressed. "Really?" he says with wonder, before turning back to Amit who is looking completely lost.
"Look into his eyes," I tell Amit, "Can you tell us anything about John's wife?" He briefly glances at John then back to me and shrugs his shoulders. "Re - mem - ber? You know something about John's wife, right?" Amit shakes his head no.
"You are married?" Amit asks John. I grab my hair and pull skyward.
"Yes, he's married! Can you tell us where...his...wife...is...from? Is she also from America?" Amit stares at me as if I am speaking Greek. "Maybe she is from Europe? From Greece?"
"Your wife is from Greece?" he asks John. At this point John looks just as befuddled as Amit. I've lost all hope of pulling the scam off.
"I spent the whole time you were in the terminal coaching him on how to read you mind," I explain to John. Amit looks on, now smiling, and vigorously confirms my confession by nodding his head. I turn to him. "What happened to you?" I say, "I thought we had it all worked out, but you didn't say anything about his wife! You acted like you didn't know anything."
Amit gives me a look like he has landed on Pluto without his headgear. Then slowly a grin forms and he snaps his fingers smartly, "I get it! It's a joke! But my English is not good." I heave a sigh of one utterly defeated, before we all share in a good laugh.
A rusted bucket of a rickshaw rolls by with a completely incongruous neon-green cable running from the meter to the axle. Maybe the dream is coming back. I point the discrepancy out to John and he ends up noticing the IndiCorps vehicle just beyond the rickshaw in the parking lot. It isn't lost on me that the same vehicle picked us up at the beginning of our fantastical odyssey in Ahmedabad. It stands either as the perfect midway bookmark of our trip or a taunting symbol of how little we have really accomplished – it's as if seven months have elapsed and the car is still there waiting to take us into the city. We haul our luggage over to the IndiCorps Sumo and look expectantly back to the terminal for Anand to appear. We figure he must have come to drop off or pick up one of the IndiCorps fellows. Minutes pass, but no Anand.
Two boys selling net-wrapped balloon balls approach to hawk their wares. John takes pity on one and selects a red ball. I encourage him to discard the ball and keep only the flimsy net-bag that it came in. He tosses the ball aside and hands the net to me which I put over my head. The perverse humor is lost on the boys who run to reclaim the ball. Two girls selling the same balloon-ball novelties have seen the transaction take place and run over in the hopes of unloading more of the toys (or the nets that hold them). Instead, I snatch the ball from the boys and set up an impromptu game of volleyball in an effort to distract their minds from work. The ruse is successful and the fun transmutes into a soccer game with the girls on my side and boys on John's. Yet another vendor girl catches sight of our frolic in the parking lot and works her way into the game which has now turned into a hoop-less variation on basketball. The play is vigorous and a child will periodically be sent sprawling onto the concrete, but no matter. Dust yourself off, dab up the blood, and jump back in. My incessantly diarrhea-racked body, which has been bed bound for the past couple weeks, is in no shape to be moving at all, but somehow the sheer enthusiasm of the children keeps it animated. My heart is racing like in the movies just before the slow-motion sequence where the protagonist crumples to the ground clutching his chest.
Families form tea-time circles at various locations of the parking lot and look on approvingly at our break-neck antics. I ask our playmates if they would like to take a meal break (I want to die on a full stomach). The idea is received enthusiastically by all and we make a move for the airport employee's canteen some hundred meters to the side of the terminal. Midway our progress is halted by a security guard who indicates the children cannot pass. I am indignant. "This is my family. She is my little sister, these two are my little brothers and these two are also sisters. We're hungry and we're going to have dinner together." The guard is sufficiently flummoxed that we are able to proceed without further incident. At the door to the canteen the eldest of the girls suddenly gets cold feet about entering, and, in spite of my exhortations, she opts to return to the parking lot with the poles of balloon balls instead. The restaurant is a dirty single room with one corner forming the kitchen and counter. The employees help John and I move a marry tables together and arrange plastic chairs to accommodate our dinner party. Two scruffy boys appear from nowhere and take places at the table. My initial reaction is to exclude them from our dinner party, but ultimately I decide this has to be an open door affair. I insist that everyone wash hands and say a brief prayer before snatching up the samosas and fried triangles of unknown content. The canteen staff is unable to contain their curiosity about our gathering.
(In Hindi)
"Where are you from?"
"The USA. America."
"Why are you with these kids?"
"What kids?"
(Laughing) "These kids."
"They aren't kids. They're just family."
"Yes, sir. Very Good!"
"Not sir, just brother."
I inquire about the girl who has stayed back and one of her friends promises to set aside some snacks for her. The greatest kick is to see my adopted siblings in the unusual role of being able to order their preferences. Tomorrow they will bake anew in the airport parking lot and the security guards will hound them with their batons, but tonight we dine together.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Ducktor Quack-a-Doodle-Doo
Ashok is holding his left arm at half mast and looking bemused. He shows me a peanut-shaped lump that has developed in his armpit. "You're are going to die soon, brother," I deadpan. His smile disappears.
"But the doctor said it was just a rash."
"A rash? What doctor said that? You aren't going to die anytime soon, but you have a swollen lymph node which means you probably have some kind of infection. Did you really go to a doctor?"
"You are right," Ashok says nodding gravely, "It wasn't a doctor. It was just a..."
"M.B.B.S."
"Yes, how did you know?"
"No doctor would have told you that it is just a rash. Tomorrow you should go to a real doctor."
"Yes, you are right."
The following evening I come up to Ashok's room to check on him and he is in bed with a large green leaf in the crevice formed by the ailing armpit. An application of red powder is visible along the edges. Ashok pokes at the leaf with his finger and awkwardly tries to get a better look at himself by craning his neck down and forward and squinting one eye.
"So it finally sprouted," I say, startling him from his self-exam.
"Yes. My wife knows some cure from her village," Ashok explains, "It's ayurvedic." Every backwoods Indian cure is casually ascribed to the hoary body of healing knowledge.
"But it will be sad when you have to cut it down, hai na?"
"What, no. Oh, I get it, it's a leaf. Yes, it's funny, I know."
"Seriously, even if the leaf manages to reduce the swelling there is likely an infection in your body somewhere that has caused the lymph node to swell. You still should see a doctor just to be safe."
"Yes, you are right," Ashok says. His signature cliché is repeated with such precision that my ego is seduced into a slight self-satisfactory throb. Playing doctor has never been so easy.
We go down to the street where two medical clinics sit directly opposite one another. Dr. Rajinder Singh on one side and Dr. (Vaid) Baldev Dass on the other. Ashok heads toward Dr. Singh's clinic then at the last second veers to the other. "It is cheaper," he explains patting his pocketed wallet.
"The sign says so, but do you think there is a real doctor here?" I ask Ashok as we enter.
"I don't know. Maybe? We'll see anyway."
"Yes?" a voice inquires from behind a curtain at the back of the deep and narrow office. Long wooden benches flank the anterior of the room and are followed by glass cases brimming with brown-glass bottles and clear plastic containers copious with pills.
Ashok explains his bubbly armpit ailment to the disembodied inquisitor pausing midway to remove his shirt. Finally a fifty-something man, with thinning whitish hair, pokes his head out and glances first at Ashok's armpit and then to me before quickly retracting. I take him to be the clinic's namesake.
"Is there any test you guys can do to determine what's causing..." I start to ask.
"Boils!" (Vaid) interrupts.
"But his lymph nodes..."
(Vaid) pretends not to hear my protest and begins barking orders to a youngish, bespectacled assistant who fishes in a jar for differently colored pills. In spite of the signage I conclude that these be no properly sanctioned men of healing and tell Ashok I will check across the street to see what competing snake oil they have to offer. I whirl around to see two heads disappear behind a partition in the back of the opposing clinic. The offices are so perfectly aligned that one is given the impression of being in a single, impressively long room, broken only by a maddening torrent of interlopers in the midsection. Two shoe boxes with cutouts set in opposition.
After navigating the traffic-congested divide I discover the layout of Dr. Singh's clinic to be identical to the (Vaid)'s. I proceed to the back of the office where I find a distinguished looking older man and a young assistant seated at smallish desks behind the partition. They self-conscientiously occupy themselves with a melange of papers and files. "Are you Doctor Singh?" I ask.
"Yes, yes. But not now. They're looking," he says. I turn back curious to see to whom he is referring and see Ashok paying for his envelope of pills and the pill's dubiously-qualified prescriber leaning out from behind his curtain – peering past Ashok, through the confusion of the street and right to where I stand.
"Is Doctor Dass really a doctor or just a M.B.B.S.," I ask. In truth, I myself don't know the difference between the designations, but had overheard someone speaking derisively about an M.B.B.S. degree sometime earlier.
"He is not even an M.B.B.S. He passed only tenth standard," Dr. Singh avers.
"But the sign says Doctor Dass."
"You can write anything on a sign, isn't it?"
"Yes, but you are a real doctor?"
"Yes."
"Even though your sign says you are a doctor?" My perverse attempt at humor is lost on the doctor (self-professed at least) who is clearly distracted. "My friend has had a impressively swollen lymph node for the past couple of days and was wondering if you could determine the cause." Dr. Singh leans to look beyond me to (Vaid)'s clinic.
"I can have a look tomorrow. Now will not be good. It would look bad." Ashok enters and I turn to him. Over his shoulder I can see (Vaid) peeking at us again with one hand on the curtain. Our eyes meet and he releases his hold on the curtain to return to hiding.
"He can take a look at you tomorrow, but doesn't want to do anything now," I explain to Ashok, "He said the other doctor really isn't a doctor." Ashok smiles grimly and looks to Dr. Singh.
"You can't have a look now?"
"It would look bad. You were just at the other clinic isn't it? Come tomorrow morning before the other clinic is open."
As Ashok and I leave I look more closely at Dr. Singh's sign. Dr. Rajinder Singh M.B.B.S. (Pb) M.A.M.S. (Vienna) P.C.M.S. (Ex). His shingle is rich with acronyms, but his warning about fake claims rings on in my ears. I catch him, one last time, spying across the street at (Vaid)'s clinic and he grimaces slightly when our eyes meet. Obviously I have upset some delicate balance. I turn to look again at (Vaid)'s sign. Dr. (Vaid) Baldev Dass & Son R.M.P. Regd. Medical Practitioner. What (Vaid)'s appellative lacks in acronyms is made up for with the parenthetical 'good' name I muse. A new client stands in his clinic, but (Vaid) is again looking with considerable distress across the street into Dr. Singh's and then to Ashok and me.
The next day I find Ashok reclining shirtless on the third floor veranda. His armpit sports a large piece of cotton affixed with a strip of tape. "What happened," I ask, "Was it a cotton plant?"
"No, the doctor gave me some oil and put this bandage on."
"You mean Doctor Singh from across the street? Oil on the lymph node isn't going to do anything for the infection."
"Yes, it was Doctor Singh."
"He didn't say anything about what kind of infection you might have or give you any antibiotics?"
"No. Just oil in the armpit."
"I don't think he is a real doctor."
"Yes, you are right."
Postscript:
Many months back while still in the States I received a package from One Infinite Way. No other information as to the sender was given. A sucker for mysteries, I breathlessly I tore open the parcel to find a single bootleg DVD, Munna Bhai M.B.B.S., and a business card proclaiming "Smile. You're it!" To this day I have no clue (Nipun) who sent the mysterious parcel. That night, as I lay on my couch, I propped my laptop open on my chest and watched the nearly three hour Bollywood masterpiece in its entirety. I can safely recommend this movie to anyone wanting to idle away an evening and to be initiated into the healing secrets of jaado ki jaaphi.
"But the doctor said it was just a rash."
"A rash? What doctor said that? You aren't going to die anytime soon, but you have a swollen lymph node which means you probably have some kind of infection. Did you really go to a doctor?"
"You are right," Ashok says nodding gravely, "It wasn't a doctor. It was just a..."
"M.B.B.S."
"Yes, how did you know?"
"No doctor would have told you that it is just a rash. Tomorrow you should go to a real doctor."
"Yes, you are right."
The following evening I come up to Ashok's room to check on him and he is in bed with a large green leaf in the crevice formed by the ailing armpit. An application of red powder is visible along the edges. Ashok pokes at the leaf with his finger and awkwardly tries to get a better look at himself by craning his neck down and forward and squinting one eye.
"So it finally sprouted," I say, startling him from his self-exam.
"Yes. My wife knows some cure from her village," Ashok explains, "It's ayurvedic." Every backwoods Indian cure is casually ascribed to the hoary body of healing knowledge.
"But it will be sad when you have to cut it down, hai na?"
"What, no. Oh, I get it, it's a leaf. Yes, it's funny, I know."
"Seriously, even if the leaf manages to reduce the swelling there is likely an infection in your body somewhere that has caused the lymph node to swell. You still should see a doctor just to be safe."
"Yes, you are right," Ashok says. His signature cliché is repeated with such precision that my ego is seduced into a slight self-satisfactory throb. Playing doctor has never been so easy.
We go down to the street where two medical clinics sit directly opposite one another. Dr. Rajinder Singh on one side and Dr. (Vaid) Baldev Dass on the other. Ashok heads toward Dr. Singh's clinic then at the last second veers to the other. "It is cheaper," he explains patting his pocketed wallet.
"The sign says so, but do you think there is a real doctor here?" I ask Ashok as we enter.
"I don't know. Maybe? We'll see anyway."
"Yes?" a voice inquires from behind a curtain at the back of the deep and narrow office. Long wooden benches flank the anterior of the room and are followed by glass cases brimming with brown-glass bottles and clear plastic containers copious with pills.
Ashok explains his bubbly armpit ailment to the disembodied inquisitor pausing midway to remove his shirt. Finally a fifty-something man, with thinning whitish hair, pokes his head out and glances first at Ashok's armpit and then to me before quickly retracting. I take him to be the clinic's namesake.
"Is there any test you guys can do to determine what's causing..." I start to ask.
"Boils!" (Vaid) interrupts.
"But his lymph nodes..."
(Vaid) pretends not to hear my protest and begins barking orders to a youngish, bespectacled assistant who fishes in a jar for differently colored pills. In spite of the signage I conclude that these be no properly sanctioned men of healing and tell Ashok I will check across the street to see what competing snake oil they have to offer. I whirl around to see two heads disappear behind a partition in the back of the opposing clinic. The offices are so perfectly aligned that one is given the impression of being in a single, impressively long room, broken only by a maddening torrent of interlopers in the midsection. Two shoe boxes with cutouts set in opposition.
After navigating the traffic-congested divide I discover the layout of Dr. Singh's clinic to be identical to the (Vaid)'s. I proceed to the back of the office where I find a distinguished looking older man and a young assistant seated at smallish desks behind the partition. They self-conscientiously occupy themselves with a melange of papers and files. "Are you Doctor Singh?" I ask.
"Yes, yes. But not now. They're looking," he says. I turn back curious to see to whom he is referring and see Ashok paying for his envelope of pills and the pill's dubiously-qualified prescriber leaning out from behind his curtain – peering past Ashok, through the confusion of the street and right to where I stand.
"Is Doctor Dass really a doctor or just a M.B.B.S.," I ask. In truth, I myself don't know the difference between the designations, but had overheard someone speaking derisively about an M.B.B.S. degree sometime earlier.
"He is not even an M.B.B.S. He passed only tenth standard," Dr. Singh avers.
"But the sign says Doctor Dass."
"You can write anything on a sign, isn't it?"
"Yes, but you are a real doctor?"
"Yes."
"Even though your sign says you are a doctor?" My perverse attempt at humor is lost on the doctor (self-professed at least) who is clearly distracted. "My friend has had a impressively swollen lymph node for the past couple of days and was wondering if you could determine the cause." Dr. Singh leans to look beyond me to (Vaid)'s clinic.
"I can have a look tomorrow. Now will not be good. It would look bad." Ashok enters and I turn to him. Over his shoulder I can see (Vaid) peeking at us again with one hand on the curtain. Our eyes meet and he releases his hold on the curtain to return to hiding.
"He can take a look at you tomorrow, but doesn't want to do anything now," I explain to Ashok, "He said the other doctor really isn't a doctor." Ashok smiles grimly and looks to Dr. Singh.
"You can't have a look now?"
"It would look bad. You were just at the other clinic isn't it? Come tomorrow morning before the other clinic is open."
As Ashok and I leave I look more closely at Dr. Singh's sign. Dr. Rajinder Singh M.B.B.S. (Pb) M.A.M.S. (Vienna) P.C.M.S. (Ex). His shingle is rich with acronyms, but his warning about fake claims rings on in my ears. I catch him, one last time, spying across the street at (Vaid)'s clinic and he grimaces slightly when our eyes meet. Obviously I have upset some delicate balance. I turn to look again at (Vaid)'s sign. Dr. (Vaid) Baldev Dass & Son R.M.P. Regd. Medical Practitioner. What (Vaid)'s appellative lacks in acronyms is made up for with the parenthetical 'good' name I muse. A new client stands in his clinic, but (Vaid) is again looking with considerable distress across the street into Dr. Singh's and then to Ashok and me.
The next day I find Ashok reclining shirtless on the third floor veranda. His armpit sports a large piece of cotton affixed with a strip of tape. "What happened," I ask, "Was it a cotton plant?"
"No, the doctor gave me some oil and put this bandage on."
"You mean Doctor Singh from across the street? Oil on the lymph node isn't going to do anything for the infection."
"Yes, it was Doctor Singh."
"He didn't say anything about what kind of infection you might have or give you any antibiotics?"
"No. Just oil in the armpit."
"I don't think he is a real doctor."
"Yes, you are right."
Postscript:
Many months back while still in the States I received a package from One Infinite Way. No other information as to the sender was given. A sucker for mysteries, I breathlessly I tore open the parcel to find a single bootleg DVD, Munna Bhai M.B.B.S., and a business card proclaiming "Smile. You're it!" To this day I have no clue (Nipun) who sent the mysterious parcel. That night, as I lay on my couch, I propped my laptop open on my chest and watched the nearly three hour Bollywood masterpiece in its entirety. I can safely recommend this movie to anyone wanting to idle away an evening and to be initiated into the healing secrets of jaado ki jaaphi.
Monday, November 07, 2005
The Comedy of Airs (In Four Farts)
>>> Environmental Sanitation Institute
>>> Sughad, Gujarat
>>> September 12, 3:45 PM
John gives the IndiCorps fellows our standard disclaimer that we have been battling one or an other sickness for weeks and aren't normally so singularly skeletal in appearance. He then launches into a heartfelt explanation of the connection between spirituality and service. The stark honesty and vulnerability of his presentation creates a reverent silence at its conclusion.
An ascending, rusted-muffler fart rends the quietude. One of the IndiCorps fellows is a compact, nervous Britisher bearing an uncanny resemblance to Michael Myer's fictional Austin Powers character. In complete sincerity he takes full responsibility for the eruption. "All right, then. That was me and I'm quite sorry for it. Quite loud, really." Everyone is seized by wild laughter with the exception of the perpetrator who darts questioning looks about the room and is slightly befuddled by the sudden frivolity.
>>> Humayun Road
>>> Pandara Park, Delhi
>>> October 2, 3:45 PM
Migrant workers have set up a temporary encampment along the road a stone's throw from Khan market. I make eye contact and exchange smiles with a button-nosed tiny tot. Emboldened by her mother's prodding she approaches me for begging.
"Tumhara naam kyaa hai?"
"Preeti," she says shyly lifting her hand for alms. I foment to distract Preeti from her mission with my patented hand variety show and swing my computer bag behind me in preparation. I dramatically line my thumb up for removal. "Dekho, dekho," I command her. I am overcome by an irrepressible and sudden surge of gas through my colon and my sphincter resonates in absolute tandem with the thumb slide.
"Chee, chee, chee," Preeti scolds in retreat with nose wrinkled. I sulk away feeling badly that she probably thinks the fart was intended as part of my short-lived routine. I look back a single time to see Preeti relating my foul play to her mother, but at least she is smiling. Later when meditating the scene comes to mind and my tranquility is shattered by a sudden sharp guffaw and waves of mirth.
>>> Green Guest House
>>> Pahar Ganj, Delhi
>>> November 6, 10:45 AM
Mama is feeling particularly affectionate toward me after I administered an impromptu arm massage earlier in the morning and calls me over to sit next to her. The Nigerian brothers, still buzzing from the previous night's intoxicants, are in their room laughing off their highs. The larger of the brothers had been pacing the courtyard for an hour at dawn, and, interspersed with privately enjoyed chuckles, wishing all comers and the walls a very good morning.
"Jitay raho," Mama blesses me with a hand placed atop my head. She tells me to pull up a chair, but I decline explaining the floor is more comfortable due to the chronic pain engendered by my sciatica. "Mark you really like good son," she proclaims, "I feel as like your mother." Then ever so slowly Mama shifts her weight away from me and issues forth a sonorous fart of over five seconds duration. The poisoned wind breaks directly across my face. The cackling Nigerians crescendo with wild hooting as if privy to the comic opera playing outside their room. Mama offers no commentary on the indecorous assault. I stare gravely at the opposite wall marshaling all my resources not to lose it.
>>> Nav Jeevan Home for the Aged and Orphaned Children
>>> Tirunelveli, Tamil Nadu
>>> February 26, 10:17 AM
Shakar, the driver, explains in broken English that my octogenarian roomie isn't able to understand Hindi.
"He speak only Telugu. If you want speak Hindi, then other old man speak Hindi. Full Hindi." Shakar points to the neighboring room. A nearly subsonic rumble reverberates from behind the closed door. The sound is akin to that produced by the subwoofers on a tricked-out low rider. It culminates in a pizzicato whine and terminates, inexplicably, with a pop.
"Did you say full Hindi, or full windy?" I ask. Gales of laughter buffet the plastered walls of our hostel.
>>> Sughad, Gujarat
>>> September 12, 3:45 PM
John gives the IndiCorps fellows our standard disclaimer that we have been battling one or an other sickness for weeks and aren't normally so singularly skeletal in appearance. He then launches into a heartfelt explanation of the connection between spirituality and service. The stark honesty and vulnerability of his presentation creates a reverent silence at its conclusion.
An ascending, rusted-muffler fart rends the quietude. One of the IndiCorps fellows is a compact, nervous Britisher bearing an uncanny resemblance to Michael Myer's fictional Austin Powers character. In complete sincerity he takes full responsibility for the eruption. "All right, then. That was me and I'm quite sorry for it. Quite loud, really." Everyone is seized by wild laughter with the exception of the perpetrator who darts questioning looks about the room and is slightly befuddled by the sudden frivolity.
>>> Humayun Road
>>> Pandara Park, Delhi
>>> October 2, 3:45 PM
Migrant workers have set up a temporary encampment along the road a stone's throw from Khan market. I make eye contact and exchange smiles with a button-nosed tiny tot. Emboldened by her mother's prodding she approaches me for begging.
"Tumhara naam kyaa hai?"
"Preeti," she says shyly lifting her hand for alms. I foment to distract Preeti from her mission with my patented hand variety show and swing my computer bag behind me in preparation. I dramatically line my thumb up for removal. "Dekho, dekho," I command her. I am overcome by an irrepressible and sudden surge of gas through my colon and my sphincter resonates in absolute tandem with the thumb slide.
"Chee, chee, chee," Preeti scolds in retreat with nose wrinkled. I sulk away feeling badly that she probably thinks the fart was intended as part of my short-lived routine. I look back a single time to see Preeti relating my foul play to her mother, but at least she is smiling. Later when meditating the scene comes to mind and my tranquility is shattered by a sudden sharp guffaw and waves of mirth.
>>> Green Guest House
>>> Pahar Ganj, Delhi
>>> November 6, 10:45 AM
Mama is feeling particularly affectionate toward me after I administered an impromptu arm massage earlier in the morning and calls me over to sit next to her. The Nigerian brothers, still buzzing from the previous night's intoxicants, are in their room laughing off their highs. The larger of the brothers had been pacing the courtyard for an hour at dawn, and, interspersed with privately enjoyed chuckles, wishing all comers and the walls a very good morning.
"Jitay raho," Mama blesses me with a hand placed atop my head. She tells me to pull up a chair, but I decline explaining the floor is more comfortable due to the chronic pain engendered by my sciatica. "Mark you really like good son," she proclaims, "I feel as like your mother." Then ever so slowly Mama shifts her weight away from me and issues forth a sonorous fart of over five seconds duration. The poisoned wind breaks directly across my face. The cackling Nigerians crescendo with wild hooting as if privy to the comic opera playing outside their room. Mama offers no commentary on the indecorous assault. I stare gravely at the opposite wall marshaling all my resources not to lose it.
>>> Nav Jeevan Home for the Aged and Orphaned Children
>>> Tirunelveli, Tamil Nadu
>>> February 26, 10:17 AM
Shakar, the driver, explains in broken English that my octogenarian roomie isn't able to understand Hindi.
"He speak only Telugu. If you want speak Hindi, then other old man speak Hindi. Full Hindi." Shakar points to the neighboring room. A nearly subsonic rumble reverberates from behind the closed door. The sound is akin to that produced by the subwoofers on a tricked-out low rider. It culminates in a pizzicato whine and terminates, inexplicably, with a pop.
"Did you say full Hindi, or full windy?" I ask. Gales of laughter buffet the plastered walls of our hostel.
Saturday, November 05, 2005
The Great American Essay
"Be great!" he commanded finger thrust in the general direction of my solar plexus. "BE GREAT!" What simple advice I marvel some nine months and nine hundred kilometers separating my person from the guru's kingly injunction. He, himself, had been clad gaudily in the garb of kings of yore – ridiculous satin robes, bejeweled necklaces, and a fluffy, animal-skin brimmed hat – and held court as the most royal of royals do, allowing his subjects to prostrate before him. I sit on the edge of my too-hard bed and eat three-hour-old chow mein noodles from a borrowed plastic tub with a borrowed and bent spoon. A mouse comes to scavenge for edibles from the refuse heap I have created in one corner of the room. Daily visits have emboldened him to the point of being flinch-free when I toss him a bit of bread with a dab of jam made from blackberries, which, according to the label, were collected by children of Himachal Pradesh.
Earlier in the evening I had gone to the rooftop of the Cheapest and Best Evergreen Guest House mock-zombie style followed by the son of the hired hand whom Dipti loaned three hundred rupees to get a bicycle rickshaw on loan, but he spent on whiskey and girls instead according to Mama. We ascend the stairs under which is tucked the former servant, who returns now to ail away the hours on donated medicines prescribed to treat the swelling of organs brought on by years of smoking hashish, opium and too many other drugs the names of which I could not catch. I twirl the boy around and around and launch him star-ward (we counted three together) with lunar leaps before reducing him to a mass of tickles on the wet bedding he and his father share. Two days earlier I had sat for meditation in this same place and heard someone approach, or so I thought, and only after maybe five minutes of uncanny silence I had peaked to find the normally hyperactive, pleading and whining boy sitting in half-lotus posture not ten inches in front of me. Not a peep.
Yesterday, I had just returned from the Pahar Ganj's main bazaar where I had been trying to purchase a ticket online for Pakistan to beat my Indian visa deadline and assist with earthquake relief, when an explosion reverberates from the street. I assume is just one more of the fire works being set off in anticipation of Diwali which is only two days off and I am theoretically destined to miss because I have to leave the country. Ashok, the young Rajastani that has been trying to ghee me up for a loan to purchase a motor rickshaw appears in the second-floor courtyard of the guest house looking shaken and says there was a bomb blast on the street and body parts are scattered hither and yon with one person's face half blown off and it is bad. He assures me there is nothing I can do to be of help as police have cordoned off the area and later Papa is glued to the television and informs us that three bombs, then five bombs, then, no, three again, were set off in the city – two of which are on my daily route. The number of dead ascends late into the night and when the former child soldier from Nigeria comes home drunk he gets into an argument with Papa about who is stronger and stumbles into the fuse box killing power to the house.
The next day, which is today, I grab a rickshaw to head to Defense Colony for the first official meeting of the NGO for street and slum children that I am co-founding with the charmingly imperious Dr. Manjula Krippendorf. Past a Panicker's Travels bus, past a Society for the Eradication of Cruelty to Animals van, past the red-bordered rectangles on the wall where urinating is prohibited and into the tony neighborhood of the Doctor's bungalow. Five minutes early. The policeman, the Times of India model and the owner of the restaurant at Khan Market all arrive by noon, but the Doctor, who is four for four in being late to meetings, is not destined to show up for another hour when she arrives breathlessly apologizing and complaining about the traffic in the market saying that it takes so much time to get things done during the festival season, no?
After the meeting I ride with the policeman in an ambassador-style police car with a giant-sized cologne bottle secured with plastic brackets on the front dash board where one would normally expect to find a shrine to Sai Baba of Shirdi or the multi-armed Durga astride a tiger. At an intersection a street child approaches the car and holds up copies of The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari, Steven Covey's Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, and Chicken Soup for the Soul, but we don't know what to say to him because we haven't gotten that far in the planning of the NGO. The policeman is on 24-hours call due to the bomb investigation (the three bombings were most likely coordinated?!?) and when we arrive at his house I am repeatedly offered sweets by his wife whom he repeatedly reminds that I am fasting and all the while I still have to get back to the Pahar Ganj to look at other Web sites to check on tickets for Pakistan or risk becoming a fugitive on the run from the visa goon squad once again. The police complains that his son isn't aiming high enough and seems lazy and wonders if I can't give him a second pep talk and what I think of him, but his son is in the next room and so I defer judgment other than to say that he seemed like a 'cool' kid. 'Cool' clearly doesn't satisfy dad who excuses himself from the room without comment.
An animated Sikh doctor comes calling and gives me a vigorous massage/beating for my sciatica while we share notes about the salutary nature of the vegan diet to which he has been a twenty-five year adherent and though he is fifty four he looks to be in his twenties. He tells me that his daughter is staying in Maryland, but she doesn't like it there and that Americans are all iron with no hearts and that they make great men, but poor humans. "To be great you must not just have this," he begins shaking a clenched fist, "but this too," he finishes punching the hand to his chest in a fashion that leaves no doubt as to his Panjabi pedigree. The policeman's wife asks the turbaned doc what she should do about this and that ailment and he tells her she is of ten heads and has to become of just one mind, not thinking about tomorrow or yesterday, or later today or earlier today, or the next hour or the last hour, or even the next minute or the last minute, but just now and now and now and then the pains will take care of themselves, because they are not primary in nature. She nods absentmindedly and insists that he have some more sweets.
I take the 480 bus, or the 520 back toward the Pahar Ganj where police vehicles and armed patrols are sprinkled among the Diwali shoppers to give the appearance of security to an audience that is largely indifferent. I weave my way through the hoards to the Yogoda Satsanga Society and bask briefly in the stillness of the meditation room before acquiring ten heads of my own over visa issues, air tickets, where to store the pile of student letters, the street-child NGO, where to find food to break my fast that lasts till midnight, the ache in my left knee, disease-carrying mosquitoes, diwali, bombs, and how cold it must be up in the mountains at this time of year. The subsequent visit to the internet cafe confirms that it won't be possible to purchase tickets for Pakistan online and so I am destined to slip into non-compliance with the visa requirements the following day and do the bureaucratic shuffle once more.
Late that night, which is tonight, I slide in the DVD that was supposed to include a four-pack of bootlegged Hindi films and discover Alexander the Great instead with an option for Korean or Russian sub-titles. Alexander works his way east to India cutting down barbarians on his black steed that used to be afraid of its shadow and his mom keeps reminding him in flashbacks that he is destined to be great and there it is again. Be great. Alexander and I struggle with what that means. Be great. Oliver Stone tries to make the movie itself great by casting Anthony Hopkins in the role of a former compatriot of Alexander's now living in Alexandria and waxing reminiscent about Alexander's exploits. After ballyhooing his accomplishments for the first ninety nine hundredths of the movie, Hopkins' character ultimately is torn as to whether Alexander was all that great really.
Alexander is inclined to measure his greatness against the myths of old, those in particular of Achilles and Hercules, which Alexander pronounces, "HERA - cuh - lease" in a faux-Macedonian accent which sounds vaguely British. For him it is also tied in with the concept of fearlessness, especially overcoming the fear of death which is the greatest fear of all and in doing so become immortal in a way. Alexander's male lover is inclined to find him great because of the way he cocks his head ever so regally while sharing his dreams of joining the world's peoples under one banner. Alexander's large-breasted barbarian wife finds him great because of the way he fights back in bed and hisses at her. My own take is that greatness lies, at least partly, in forsaking the measuring stick of success provided by the society at large and superseding the confines of egoic ambition to the point that we die while still alive and can fearlessly pen a life story of ever-increasing connectivity and creativity without regard to gain or loss. Peace Pilgrim would be an exemplar. To give up a worldly inheritance for an unbounded and unknown universe may seem irrational, but it is essential as breath (is breath essential?) to those too great to be satisfied by the mundane. Greatness, in this context, is born of necessity – the phoenix ascending from the ashes of a self-lit funeral pyre.
At 12:01 a.m. I seize upon the noodles that I bought on the street at 9:01 p.m. and find them a tad slimy, but I am famished so I don't really mind, though I can't manage to stomach the second bag and decide instead to give it to Mama who fries it for the hired hand who took the 300 rupees from Dipti and the former hired hand who sleeps all day under the stairs and is thankful for the fruit I sometimes bring and is always needing more medicine.
Farmer fellow,
Pits stained yellow;
Hired hand,
Pituitary gland.
Just great.
Earlier in the evening I had gone to the rooftop of the Cheapest and Best Evergreen Guest House mock-zombie style followed by the son of the hired hand whom Dipti loaned three hundred rupees to get a bicycle rickshaw on loan, but he spent on whiskey and girls instead according to Mama. We ascend the stairs under which is tucked the former servant, who returns now to ail away the hours on donated medicines prescribed to treat the swelling of organs brought on by years of smoking hashish, opium and too many other drugs the names of which I could not catch. I twirl the boy around and around and launch him star-ward (we counted three together) with lunar leaps before reducing him to a mass of tickles on the wet bedding he and his father share. Two days earlier I had sat for meditation in this same place and heard someone approach, or so I thought, and only after maybe five minutes of uncanny silence I had peaked to find the normally hyperactive, pleading and whining boy sitting in half-lotus posture not ten inches in front of me. Not a peep.
Yesterday, I had just returned from the Pahar Ganj's main bazaar where I had been trying to purchase a ticket online for Pakistan to beat my Indian visa deadline and assist with earthquake relief, when an explosion reverberates from the street. I assume is just one more of the fire works being set off in anticipation of Diwali which is only two days off and I am theoretically destined to miss because I have to leave the country. Ashok, the young Rajastani that has been trying to ghee me up for a loan to purchase a motor rickshaw appears in the second-floor courtyard of the guest house looking shaken and says there was a bomb blast on the street and body parts are scattered hither and yon with one person's face half blown off and it is bad. He assures me there is nothing I can do to be of help as police have cordoned off the area and later Papa is glued to the television and informs us that three bombs, then five bombs, then, no, three again, were set off in the city – two of which are on my daily route. The number of dead ascends late into the night and when the former child soldier from Nigeria comes home drunk he gets into an argument with Papa about who is stronger and stumbles into the fuse box killing power to the house.
The next day, which is today, I grab a rickshaw to head to Defense Colony for the first official meeting of the NGO for street and slum children that I am co-founding with the charmingly imperious Dr. Manjula Krippendorf. Past a Panicker's Travels bus, past a Society for the Eradication of Cruelty to Animals van, past the red-bordered rectangles on the wall where urinating is prohibited and into the tony neighborhood of the Doctor's bungalow. Five minutes early. The policeman, the Times of India model and the owner of the restaurant at Khan Market all arrive by noon, but the Doctor, who is four for four in being late to meetings, is not destined to show up for another hour when she arrives breathlessly apologizing and complaining about the traffic in the market saying that it takes so much time to get things done during the festival season, no?
After the meeting I ride with the policeman in an ambassador-style police car with a giant-sized cologne bottle secured with plastic brackets on the front dash board where one would normally expect to find a shrine to Sai Baba of Shirdi or the multi-armed Durga astride a tiger. At an intersection a street child approaches the car and holds up copies of The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari, Steven Covey's Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, and Chicken Soup for the Soul, but we don't know what to say to him because we haven't gotten that far in the planning of the NGO. The policeman is on 24-hours call due to the bomb investigation (the three bombings were most likely coordinated?!?) and when we arrive at his house I am repeatedly offered sweets by his wife whom he repeatedly reminds that I am fasting and all the while I still have to get back to the Pahar Ganj to look at other Web sites to check on tickets for Pakistan or risk becoming a fugitive on the run from the visa goon squad once again. The police complains that his son isn't aiming high enough and seems lazy and wonders if I can't give him a second pep talk and what I think of him, but his son is in the next room and so I defer judgment other than to say that he seemed like a 'cool' kid. 'Cool' clearly doesn't satisfy dad who excuses himself from the room without comment.
An animated Sikh doctor comes calling and gives me a vigorous massage/beating for my sciatica while we share notes about the salutary nature of the vegan diet to which he has been a twenty-five year adherent and though he is fifty four he looks to be in his twenties. He tells me that his daughter is staying in Maryland, but she doesn't like it there and that Americans are all iron with no hearts and that they make great men, but poor humans. "To be great you must not just have this," he begins shaking a clenched fist, "but this too," he finishes punching the hand to his chest in a fashion that leaves no doubt as to his Panjabi pedigree. The policeman's wife asks the turbaned doc what she should do about this and that ailment and he tells her she is of ten heads and has to become of just one mind, not thinking about tomorrow or yesterday, or later today or earlier today, or the next hour or the last hour, or even the next minute or the last minute, but just now and now and now and then the pains will take care of themselves, because they are not primary in nature. She nods absentmindedly and insists that he have some more sweets.
I take the 480 bus, or the 520 back toward the Pahar Ganj where police vehicles and armed patrols are sprinkled among the Diwali shoppers to give the appearance of security to an audience that is largely indifferent. I weave my way through the hoards to the Yogoda Satsanga Society and bask briefly in the stillness of the meditation room before acquiring ten heads of my own over visa issues, air tickets, where to store the pile of student letters, the street-child NGO, where to find food to break my fast that lasts till midnight, the ache in my left knee, disease-carrying mosquitoes, diwali, bombs, and how cold it must be up in the mountains at this time of year. The subsequent visit to the internet cafe confirms that it won't be possible to purchase tickets for Pakistan online and so I am destined to slip into non-compliance with the visa requirements the following day and do the bureaucratic shuffle once more.
Late that night, which is tonight, I slide in the DVD that was supposed to include a four-pack of bootlegged Hindi films and discover Alexander the Great instead with an option for Korean or Russian sub-titles. Alexander works his way east to India cutting down barbarians on his black steed that used to be afraid of its shadow and his mom keeps reminding him in flashbacks that he is destined to be great and there it is again. Be great. Alexander and I struggle with what that means. Be great. Oliver Stone tries to make the movie itself great by casting Anthony Hopkins in the role of a former compatriot of Alexander's now living in Alexandria and waxing reminiscent about Alexander's exploits. After ballyhooing his accomplishments for the first ninety nine hundredths of the movie, Hopkins' character ultimately is torn as to whether Alexander was all that great really.
Alexander is inclined to measure his greatness against the myths of old, those in particular of Achilles and Hercules, which Alexander pronounces, "HERA - cuh - lease" in a faux-Macedonian accent which sounds vaguely British. For him it is also tied in with the concept of fearlessness, especially overcoming the fear of death which is the greatest fear of all and in doing so become immortal in a way. Alexander's male lover is inclined to find him great because of the way he cocks his head ever so regally while sharing his dreams of joining the world's peoples under one banner. Alexander's large-breasted barbarian wife finds him great because of the way he fights back in bed and hisses at her. My own take is that greatness lies, at least partly, in forsaking the measuring stick of success provided by the society at large and superseding the confines of egoic ambition to the point that we die while still alive and can fearlessly pen a life story of ever-increasing connectivity and creativity without regard to gain or loss. Peace Pilgrim would be an exemplar. To give up a worldly inheritance for an unbounded and unknown universe may seem irrational, but it is essential as breath (is breath essential?) to those too great to be satisfied by the mundane. Greatness, in this context, is born of necessity – the phoenix ascending from the ashes of a self-lit funeral pyre.
At 12:01 a.m. I seize upon the noodles that I bought on the street at 9:01 p.m. and find them a tad slimy, but I am famished so I don't really mind, though I can't manage to stomach the second bag and decide instead to give it to Mama who fries it for the hired hand who took the 300 rupees from Dipti and the former hired hand who sleeps all day under the stairs and is thankful for the fruit I sometimes bring and is always needing more medicine.
Farmer fellow,
Pits stained yellow;
Hired hand,
Pituitary gland.
Just great.
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