Ghost Busters, Room Dusters

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

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

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

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

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

Breath Out. Quiet.

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

Breath Out. Quiet.

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

Breath Out. Quiet.

Breath In: Quiet.

Breath Out: Om. Shanti. Shanti. Shanti.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jayeshbhai Gets an Idea

Five of us start our walk in silence from Jayeshbhai's house shortly before noon. Destination: an award-winning octogenarian sculptor. We stop early on to sit with residents of a relatively new slum growing haphazardly along the side of a busy road. Jayeshbhai's idea is to collect kids from the area later in the day and give them baths and snacks at the ashram. A small crowd gathers. I play peek-a-boo with little Sonal around her grandmother's skirt. Jayeshbhai gets the parents to buy into Operation Clean Kid and lets them know we will be back in the afternoon. We head out and a few of the kids tag along until harkened back by their mothers.

Just up the road I pause to help a girl put the chain back on the sprockets of her bike. It's not going on easily and almost immediately I manage to get it more wedged and kinked than I found it. I can feel the heat of doubting, curious eyes on my back. Focus. A minute passes and the others are fading from view as they momentarily forget about their over-sized white appendage. Did I error in stopping? I mentally commit to getting the chain on now even if it means losing my traveling companions. Another twenty seconds of greasy prying doesn't pay dividends. Push the bike forward and pull up hard on the chain. The owner is reclaiming control of the bike from me. Somehow its been fixed?! I run to catch up with the others and a minute later am passed by the bike running smoothly up Ring Road.

Past tents of red hot chili pepper sorters and cricket bat makers. Another brief stop where women are painting a watermelon cart's wheels and allow me a few strokes with the brush. Grapes are offered in response to our groups friendly efforts. Down the road Guri and I reinstall a metal cage around a sapling on the median. Crossing streets is a 360 degree scanning affair with no hesitations allowed. Find a crease and commit. Past three-packs of uniformed school girls that look on with amusement at our entourage. Hard left turn just past a cavernous concrete school building ringing with the cacophony of squealing children. To the right an impossibly quiet chiku orchard throws dappled shadows down on grazing peacocks. The sun catches a brilliant tail feather here and there. The sculptor's pad and studio sits at the backside of the orchard. He opens the door to reveal a warehouse lobby of larger-than-life marble and plaster likenesses of larger-than-life personalities. An almost twenty-foot Sardar Patel lords over the assorted Gandhis, Anadamoyi Mas and Ramakhrishnas. The sculptor answers matter-of-factly that he has been plying his trade for many incarnations now.

He is more a twinkling, mischievous, white-haired wisp of a man discovered at the end of a children's fantasy book than the world-renowned, corporate-courted artist that refuses to work under pressure of deadline. He sits with us on mismatched lawn chairs stained with bird droppings and explains that planning is an exercise in futility. What is the source of time he posits. Nipun: maya? Me: mind? He swings his head from side to side and ever so briefly his face registers a look suggesting that us silly boys have much to learn. Moments. Moments are strung together to give the impression of time. Planning is fruitless because we can only act in any given moment in response to what is before us. More time-won wisdom is interspersed with stories of walking with Gandhi and Vinoba back in the day. Nipun is inspired and wants to work up a feature story on the sculptor who seems predictably ambivalent about the ambition for further meetings. Before heading back home we sit in the orchard on an impossibly serene wood and cloth swing that hangs from a buoyant tree branch. The orchard is remarkably reminiscent of the one next to the Carmelite monastery in Santa Clara half-way round the globe. One peacock at the fringe of the orchard limps noticeably--a victim of the kite flying celebration that yearly claims countless bird lives on glass-coated strings. Other outside influences have attempted to penetrate the sculptor's magic garden, including plans for a road through his property that were diverted only by last-second string pulling.

We catch a auto rickshaw back to Jayesh-bhai's house and the driver is invited inside for tea. He is wary of the offer, but few are those able to resist the Goodfather's insistent charm. Jayesh and family keep their house open year round to young and old, rich and poor. Jayesh threatens to fast until the driver gives up smoking, but the driver explains he gets the shakes without his beloved bidis. Jayesh takes pity on him and simply encourages him to slowly give up his deadly smoking habit and offers him a place to stay if he desires.

After lunch I head out with Sunil from Manav Sadhna and Ellen, a young volunteer from the States, to recruit children for baths. An hour later we head to the ashram with our Sumo packed door to door, bumper to bumper with apprehensive children and their parents. Lots of sitting and nervous waiting at the ashram before shampoo, soap and pails are readied. I am paired with a young boy who shivers as the water covers his body, but he stoically bears repeated soaping and shampoo in the eyes with real grace. Next is perhaps his older brother who is hesitant to disrobe and clearly doesn't even want to remove his filthy weather-worn cap. Underneath, his head is shaved save a small tuft of hair. He ties his shirt round his waist over his pants before "dropping trou" to avoid being naked in front of the assorted volunteers and Manav Sadhna children that are helping with the baths. We find a free bathroom for privacy where he completely disrobes and I help scrub him clean. After the washing he puts back on the same clothes he came in before I discover "new" used threads are being doled out. He reluctantly accepts the clothes and tries them on while I shield him from curious eyes.

A drum establishes a frenetic beat and an impromptu dance competition ensues. I throw down a wild leg spinning move which tears the lungi I am wearing (no worries as I have shorts on underneath). Nipun counters with his patented punjabi-influenced, arm-thrusting hopping which cause the children gathered behind him to explode into a frenzy. The slum kids are slow to join in the wild-eyed fun and stay on the periphery, save for two of the youngest who dance without reservation. Kids clamber on my back, two or three at a time and in the process my kurta is ripped. It seems that despite Jayesh-bhai's better efforts I am a hopeless project for fashion suavity.

Snacks are distributed which all enjoy. Before leaving some of the parents express disappointment that no makeover was offered to them and Jayesh makes mental note of this and somewhere amidst his finely-tuned neurons plots a more ambitious sequel. Stay tuned.

Love is Blind

The forty or so blind children at the school in Gandhinagar don't get to go on field trips very often, perhaps once a year, if they are lucky enough to find a sponsor. I was told that they were so amped up in anticipation of our trip to Ajwa's Water World, that they had risen as one an hour in advance the six AM departure time. 

The school — founded some years back by two buddies, one muslim, one hindu, both blind — resides in a characterless erstwhile apartment complex of hard-grey concrete at the end of a peaceful street featuring, almost in succession, a mandir, masjid and church.

It was a buzzing, jostling, sometimes stumbling crew that was ushered onto the bus in the still dark and unseasonably cool morning. The kids called out names of friends to sit with and by the time the bus finally grumbled and lurched its way onto the road, it was filled to capacity. Almost immediately a harmonium appeared and the school's resident Stevie Wonder expertly massaged religious and bollywood standards from the smallish, rocking keyboard. The rest of the kids lent their voices or smiled and swayed in appreciation.

I was apprehensive about finding a line of communication with the kids. Not speaking a grain of Gujarati and only sub-standard Hindi, language would likely be an issue in many (if not a majority) of the settings I would find myself in over the course of the coming year. I had already discovered this barrier could largely be overcome with physical humor, ad-hoc gesturing, or with illustrations scratched in the sandy earth — but none of these approaches would be of much use with the blind children.

Our first stop was at a major temple where the children formed a shuffling line, hands to shoulders of the one in front. We were allowed to circumvent the queue and pass right to the front of the shrine viewing area (I wondered to myself why the blind kids would appreciate this). After circumnavigating the shrine the children gathered in a small patch of sunlight that had found its way to the temple floor. They belted out a holy song at maximum volume, garnering attention beyond the usual pitying stares of strangers.

On the return walk to the bus I was paired with Asha, a mute girl of maybe seven or eight years of age with mild mental retardation. Her greasy, disheveled hair was bunched under a woven, maroon-colored cap which partially matched her dirty, well-worn, button-up sweater. I operated as her eyes as we slalomed past all manner of vehicle and street debris, including the occasional large or sharp rock. Despite the variety of dangers posed to toes and soles, a large number of the kids walked barefoot.

A simple joy permeated the act of scanning the ground on Asha's behalf and my worries about connecting with the children were scattered like the faint plumes of dust which billowed forth with each step from her ill-fitting chappels (Indian flip-flops). Over the course of the day, she would come to discover that she could avoid walking altogether by slumping back into me and standing atop my feet.

Waiting to reboard the bus I squatted and formed a chair with my thighs for Asha to sit upon. I bounced her horse-riding style and then spread my legs to let her fall to the ground. Instantly captivated, she pressed me for additional rides. She delighted as I varied the routine by thrusting her skyward with one leg or the other to produce a super-jump.

We ate lunch at a nearby ashram where I broke the previous day's fast with Viren-bhai's homemade pasta (saved from the night before on my behalf). Food is triply satisfying when prepared and eaten with real intention.

Out next stop was a relatively clean flowing river where the boys disrobed to varying degrees and splashed about like banshees. A rather plumpish, bare-chested brahmin got royally soaked and held up his hands in protest to no avail. Meanwhile a curious goat kept the girls occupied where they waded in the shallow water. 

Back to the bus for the last leg of the journey to Ajwa's Water World. At Ajwa's — a glorified carnival sans wheels — I was paired again with Asha, who took advantage of the situation to have me carry her for the greater part of our stay. One high-flying, twirling ride, in particular, was truly thrilling (as in life-and-death thrilling) as Asha began to slip off her seat and under the protective bar. She clung to me for life, and vice versa. I got a first-rate abdominal workout being tensed for the entire spin cycle. She delighted in the park's single water ride as well, a creaking roller coaster that ascended slowly to afford a view of the surrounding plains before plummeting into a trough of water. We got entirely drenched, but none of the kids seemed to mind, even in the increasingly cool evening air.

At snack time, Asha camped out between my legs, using me as a de-facto lawn chair as she happily munched away. We were heading out to take more rides, when one of the volunteers warned me about getting too close to any of the kids, as it is too tough on them emotionally – or so the theory goes.

Begrudgingly, I parted ways with Asha and headed with five boys to the bumper cars. As two of the sighted staff members struggled to get their car in motion, the blind drivers were already speeding about with unfettered glee and relishing each new collision.

Dinner was sponsored by a young local couple who had been moved by the tsunami to look for ways to share their material well-being. The wife explained that she felt wrong about attending lavish New Year's Eve parties when so many were suffering. She started to talk about tsunami relief with friends and they had decided to look for local service projects – hence their sponsorship of dinner for the blind school's big day out. She, her husband, and friends personally served each plate of food.

Our meal concluded at well past 10 o'clock, with a profusion of stars sparkling overhead. On the bus ride home we took the newly-minted American-style highway (or "dream track" according to official signage).

One by one, necks and knees went limp as kids collapsed on one another in contented exhaustion. At the front of the bus, Nipun and I chatted in the dark about the day's events, and pending adventures. After a few minutes, Asha, seated toward the back of the bus, rose from the dead and began to work her way methodically toward the front, pausing at each row of seats to feel the legs of our fellow passengers. I wondered what she was looking for.

When Asha finally advanced to where Nipun and I were seated, she briefly took his extended hand, then continued to reach out. He guided her hand to mine, which she explored for a moment before dropping her hand to my leg. Her hand slid to the side of my track pants which sported three raised stripes along their length. Her shoulders relaxed and she clambored onto my lap where she quickly fell asleep after relocating my hand.

We spent the duration of trip this way. Hand in hand. In love. Although my buttocks screamed with pain from my inflamed sciatic nerve, it could not compel me to shift in the slightest... I wasn't going to miss the rare honor of providing Asha with a comfortable nest somewhere on the dream track back to Gandhinagar.

A-bad Goodies

John and I rolled in to the A-bad train station after a sleep-deprived stretch in Singapore and Mumbai. With a swarm of competing, cursing rickshaw drivers in tow, we finally were identified and rescued by Anand from IndiCorps. Jubilant reunions with Nipun, Guri and Viral followed apace. We took two Sumos to the Gandhi Ashram where we were greeted by a gauntlet of five or six dozen brightly smiling kids. Recognizing an opportunity to hog the glory I sprinted down the two lines administering semi-high fives to the utter delight of the children. Nipun and the others saw their brief window of fame shutting and rapidly followed suit, producing new waves of laughter from the children (but not as loud, almost forced).

At the head of the lines we were garlanded with homespun khadi and given bindis by Lakshmi--a radiant youngster with 10 kilowatt eyes. She is an exemplar of the amazing work that is done by Manav Sadhna at the ashram. Survivor of an abusive past she is flourishing under the loving care of the volunteers and staff at the ashram. I was lost in the swirling admixture of empathy, joy, remorse and compassion when she proudly showed our group her neatly organized locker with toiletries and school items. We were given a tour of the Mahatma's quarters including the privelage of meditating in his simple room which featured a mattress and spinning wheel. Gandhi's quotes adorned the structure throughout and you could almost hear his original utterances faintly echoing off the walls still today. Certainly his spirit is kept alive by the amazing work done at the site.

Later we had dinner with the kids and I, along with Nipun, had the unique honor of serving them a circular bread biscuit that is made in-house. The bolder children quizzed us repeatedly, "What is your name?" With a couple of attempts they eventually were able to nail the pronunciation, while I myself struggled with their often unfamiliar-sounding names. After dinner we hung out with the kids and I removed my thumb multiple times before astonished eyes. "Again, again," they insisted, but I was firm about not re-enacting the drama of the disappearing digit until the following day. Too much "paining" in the thumb!