Day 21: Monkey around

I turned on the TV when I woke up this morning. Most of the channels are in Hindi with the exception of two or three. As I was flipping the channels I noticed there was one story that dominated the news. There were old images of dead bodies, thousands of them and of women screaming in agony. I finally caught the story on an English language channel. It was about a massive gas leak in 1984. The “Bhopal gas tragedy” caused the sudden death of some 15,000 people, I think as they were sleeping. Sounds like a nightmare. The company responsible was American. Apparently no one has been convicted in this incident until today. Something like twenty five years later a conviction was finally issued to those responsible for the death of 15,000 people. The sentences were passed to 5 or 6 men who each got a maximum of two years in prison. 15,000 people’s lives gone, and the punishment to all those convicted barely adds up to 10 years.

Restlessness didn’t allow me to just bum around my room for too long. I spent most of the day in bed, online, watching TV but by 2pm I was ready to head out and do something despite how badly yesterday went. I had read about a “monkey temple” and I also wanted to get a massage so those were my two tasks for the afternoon, tough life, I know. The hill where the monkey temple is, as its name suggests, has hundreds of monkeys. There were also pigs, cows, goats, mule, dogs and people, all shitting. I had bought a bag of peanuts at the bottom of the hill to feed the monkeys but didn’t just yet, I didn’t want them to follow me all the way to the top then I would be stuck there surrounded by hundreds of hungry monkeys. The steep path zigzagging the hill was full of all kinds of animals and their excrement. I finally made it to the tiny temple. There is a good view of Jaipur which is not really impressive since it all looks the same anyway (concrete 2-3 level buildings completely undistinguishable one from another). I did like Jaipur as a city a bit more than other places I’ve been because it actually felt like there was a plan at some point in history. It had straight streets and a kind of grid. It also in parts had 4-5 level buildings that look like someone with some training actually designed them. Anyway, a family was living at the temple. The man approached me and “gave me a tour” including my very own bindi and a yellow and red string around my right wrist. He then demanded a donation but wasn’t too pushy. After I took in the view from the top of the hill I put my donation in the proper place. As I was leaving the wife yells “20 rupee!”, I said I already put some. “20 more!” in a demanding voice. I just kept walking. Monkeys waiting. As soon as I took out the bag of peanuts they ran towards me and called their aunts and uncles. I dumped the bag and ran off.

The massage place was recommended by lonely planet and was referred to as “swanky.” it sounded very promising but when I showed up I wondered if this was really the requested “swanky” spa. It was in a house with a couple of massage rooms. The rooms weren’t so bad, after all I didn’t really expect more but I definitely would not call it swanky. Lonely planet India, at least this edition, has been horrendous. I think it has something to do with its non-resident-Indian editor. She seems to have required all the writers to embellish everything and add words like “exquisite,” “swanky,” and “charming.” I would not use any of these words to describe anything a budget or midrange backpacker will have access to while traveling in India. As a British traveler I met would say “lonely liar is bollix.”

The massage itself was more of an oil rub. But regardless it was a soothing experience. First of all I demanded a male masseuse. I was hoping of course for a muscular handsome 20 something but it was actually a short sweet faced very dark south Indian man in his 30s. I didn’t expect this but I was asked to strip completely. “ok, this more exciting that I thought it would be.” he then put on my this useless thing that barely covers my groin, is tied around my waste with a thin strap. Incense burning, meditation music playing, “this is not so bad for 10 bucks.” I was hoping for a more aggressive massage, something along the line of what I could get in Chinatown. The massage was oddly sensual and kept asking myself if this was intention or if it was just in my head. It was just in my head. In any case the hour was up, I was massaged and stretched and half asleep.

At an internet place an American woman was skyping. She was talking about Varanasi and how she took a boat ride and saw people prepare the bodies for burning and how she watched a funeral procession. Her screechy voice didn’t bother me because I was interested to hear about Varanasi since I wanted to go but couldn’t. She then said “pray for those spreading the light of the gospel in Varanasi.” for god’s sake do people ever stop. I mean this woman is here in India, she sees the poverty, the lack of facilities, the lack of education, the shit, the cows, the sewer, the child labor, the malnutrition and all she has to offer to these people is the light of the fucking gospel? What difference does it make? Is replacing these people’s traditions and customs and changing their pantheon of Hindu gods with the pantheon of Caucasian looking Christian saints and the ubiquitous image of a blond Jesus staring back at them and saying “I am not here to colonize your heart and minds, I’m just here to save you” will make their lives any better. They will still kneel in front of a picture on the wall and pray for more money or better health or a baby boy. Instead of asking Shiva she thinks they should ask Jesus. How about building some hospitals and schools and teaching people how to not shit in the streets without expecting them to embrace your gods instead of theirs? Anyway, she clearly annoyed me.

I went back to my hotel and ordered some dinner. While waiting with my book a woman with a child and an Indian man walked in. she was a heavy set red-haired woman and the man was a bearded Indian man who seemed to be the father of the child. The little girl was making those noises toddlers make but that was fine. The mother on the other hand was extremely annoying. Making noises back to the toddler as if communicating. This is fine but the annoying part is that she keeps looking at me as if I am supposed to say “how cute!” I wasn’t entertained as I really wanted to focus on reading. Monsieur Marsault is on the beach after a fight with some Arabs who had beef with Raymond. It was in intense scene and I wanted to know what was going to happen next, not look at the fat woman act like a child. I asked for the food to be delivered to my room as I was unable to just sit there and listen to the soundtrack that was forced on me. She seemed annoyed by my nonparticipation. The book did get very interesting and dinner was good, eaten in my room as I was ready to call it a night. Despite loving the comfort of this room I had decided this is the last night in Jaipur. The woman with the child of course happen to be next door and I could hear her all night, the baby cries, the mom yells, the child bangs and throws objects against the wall. This is definitely the last night here, I am ready to move on.

Day 20: Give me all your money redux

I found a very nice affordable room in Jaipur. Air conditioning, nice bed, TV, nice bathroom, all for 600 rupees, what luxury. By this point in my trip I have given up home that going from one city to the next will reveal wondrous sites and experiences with locals and travelers. So, I decided that I don’t care to see anything in Jaipur and that I want to relax, sleep and eat. The first night when I arrived I stayed in the hotel until the middle of the next day. But I thought by then that I should at least see the couple of notable monuments in the city, this is the capital of Rajasthan after all and its palace must be splendid. It sucked. After fighting off the typical hassle (I’ve gotten better at it) I entered what seemed to be a late attempt by a maharajah to build a fancy palace for himself to host mostly European visitors and for him to relax after his polo games. The thing about buildings like this in India is that they look older than they are and many tourists never realize that “no ma’am this is not a medieval building this is actually about a century or two old.” not that older buildings are more valuable, I am the last person to make such an argument but this building and many that replicate it all over the state offer nothing new. They recycle by then standard European conceptions of “palace” and get rid of the expensive detail, add a few arches and paint some walls red, add a peacock and you got a Rajasthani palace. Anyhow, the building itself is not what bothered me, since we are not allowed into most of it because the royal family of Rajasthan still live there. What really bothered me was how evident it had become that his was essentially a state-sponsored tourist trap, a royal scam. Inside there are “galleries” with “the best craftsmen” in Rajasthan selling miniature paintings and other crafts from the region. Each seller offers exactly what the one next to him has, even though they each claim that they are the best. The prices are exuberant but tourists are to be comforted by the printed sign that reads “prices fixed” presumably by the tourism authority. Miniature paintings, which were the only thing that interested me, ranged form 1000 to 5000 rupees. That is $20-100. This seemed a bit expensive but I decided to buy one for myself, particularly that they had some painted on old sheets from the Jaipur court records. They must have destroyed their archive and given the papers away to craftsmen to paint on them. By showing that I am interested I have committed the biggest mistake a shopper can make in India. Instead of getting one I left the place with four and with a credit card charge that I had preferred not to sign. As soon as I stepped out of the building and into the sun I realized that I was scammed and that I have four instead of one. “I would never hang more than one anyway, that would be so tacky!” frustrated with my foolishness I walked grudgingly around the unremarkable palace and made an exit.

Next door is Jantar Mantar, a collection of astrological instruments built from brick and stone. This was a bit interesting and bizarrely inefficient. Most of the instruments work with shadow but it was an overcast day as it is the pre-monsoon season. Without shadow instruments useless.

I as I was leaving the whole area thinking to myself “I should have never left my hotel,” a bike rickshaw man convinces me to go with him on a ride around the city for 20 rupees an hour, terribly cheap and I should have known there is more to it. as usual the man was interested to learn what my religion is, I think it is because i look Indian but not quite that they feel the need to ask. He was wearing sunglasses hiding his right eye that appears to have the kind of disorder that makes it look milky. he was also wearing a Muslim hat and when he learned i was "Muslim" too he seemed to act as though we know each other. he insisted that he would not be bad like the other guys. He asked me what I bought, my bag with the paintings is showing, and I told him. He said “you should never buy in palace, I take you to my friend he has good price.” I said no thank you I already bought some. This was no use, I was held hostage by another rickshaw and I knew what was coming. We went to his friend’s house where he has his own makeshift shop in his living room, he showed me his work including some terribly painted erotic miniatures. I was pissed to learn that his prices were half of what I paid, although I didn’t see any that I would have bought. Still, with the expert Indian pressure and wanted to just get out of there ASAP, I was conned into buying even more. At this point I was thinking “India has made me hate travel all together.” I was then taken to a “gem stone” shop and a jeweler. I told all of them that I hate shopping and that the only reason I am in their shop is because the rickshaw guys wants his commission. The shopkeepers looked at me as if I am stating the obvious. As we were riding back we passed a group of rickshaw wallahs, and one of them knew my guy. He seemed worried for me and told me "be careful, he is bad man." I thought to myself "I know but its too late." The other wallah clearly hated mine, he said "he is bad man, if you take him to your house he will fuck your wife when you're not looking," as he made a gesture with his hands illustrating the "fuck" part of his statement. this was all funny but it was too late to receive the warning, i had already fallen victim.

Finally back in my hotel and relaxed. I was in no rush to leave again. It was nice to realize that I was on vacation and I really don’t need to be running around everyday looking for sites and experiences. There is nothing wrong with just sitting in my comfy clean room and watch a Bollywood movie or a cooking show, which is exactly what I did for the rest of the night.

Day 19: token picture

I woke up at 5:30 am to the sound of the metal roof of my room being peeled by the wind. It was a dust storm. By the time I got up and showered it had calmed down but the storm had left a thick layer of dust suspended in the air, it looked yellow outside with the clouds overcast. I had planned to see the Taj first thing in the morning before I take an 11:30 bus to Jaipur. Despite the fact that my hotel was next to the Taj, I had to walk a kilometer away from the building down the road to purchase my exuberant ticket. It makes sense to make a ticket window for a monument a kilometer away from the actual monument doesn’t it? I can already see that many others were up at such an early hour to see the building. I was a bit unmoved by the whole thing, I felt like a robot just performing a task: you are in India and you will walk this kilometer back and forth to get your ticket and see the Taj. Despite “looking” Indian, which has spared me some attention, I still get hassled so consistently walking back to the building with my ticket in hand. I started to get rude. Instead of thank you, no, no, which didn’t seem to work, it was so nice, too gentle for these people to understand “NO I don’t want to come to your shitty shop.” so I began to act in a way that they seemed to understand much better, wave coldly with my hand and make sounds like pssssshh! They seemed to understand with such cruel gestures that I was not interested. Why don’t these guys just have some dignity and understand from respectable no? at first I felt guilty for being rude then I realized it is the only way for someone like me to walk down the street here. It was condescending way of refusing what they had to offer but it was the only way they understood. Even at the Taj I was hassled by 4 guys telling me that they are guides, experts and that I need them to see the beauty of the Taj and its symmetry. “oh for God’s sake NO! I have eyes, thank you.” by the time I was inside the complex I was irritated and full of venom. This was perhaps India’s most exploited site. I understand that tourism always exploits sites but what you see here was excessive. It reminded me of how exploited Alhambra in Spain is. Both in Andalucia and in India, these buildings essentially make the state, financially, culturally, and in everyway. The buildings are stripped of their Islamic heritage and reduced to beautiful buildings, architectural achievments. Millions of tourists and pushed down a conveyer line to take a picture from the same spot that everyone else takes a picture from. Gullible tourists are happy to be part of this show. Everyone takes their turn to take the same picture that was probably taken by tens of thousands that day alone. Millions of the same photograph are probably floating out there in the universe but everyone has to take their own.

The Taj really is a beautiful building but it is also boring. Something about its absolute symmetry and all whiteness is underwhelming to the eye. I was much more interested in the little mosque to the left with its red stone and intricate arches. I found it difficult to take pictures of the Taj Mahal up close, there was really nothing to photograph. It is such an object building set on a platform and the only way to photograph it is from that same spot everyone else is lined up for. You know the picture with the Taj in the distance and the reflecting pool in front of it. That is it. Done.

I enjoyed being there for the people watching, since that seems to be India’s endless show for visitors, people. To walk on the main platform one has to take their shoes off. But that doesn’t stop rural Indians who only paid 20 rupees versus the 750 rupees visitors pay, that doesn’t stop them from going on with habits such as spitting and snotting on the ground. The fact that everyone is barefoot never seemed to ring a bell in their heads that oh maybe I shouldn’t lean forward and hold one nostril with a finger while I juice out a huge dangling blob of snot out the other. I am happy that everyone has equal access to the monument but do they even understand what it is? Some of the Hindus actually thought it was a Hindu temple, it was shocking to see people so gullible. They haven’t seen such monumental architecture since most of northern India Hindu temples are not remarkable and not grand in scale but how can people not really know what they are visiting?

Inside the central chamber people would scream like children to hear their echo back. A fat American woman dressed the role (little kaki shorts and a tank top) was leaning over the barrier around the two tombs inside. People shuffling their feet as they go around and make their way back out.

I got my bag and on to the bus stand. As I waited for my departure I remembered “George is dead.” I had finished rereading Christopher Esherwood’s A Single Man a few days before and George died of a sudden heart attack. Luckily I had another book to keep me company but I realized that too will be over too soon, I should have brought more books instead of that dreadful Bepto Bismol bottle. I started reading my new book and was in a good mood. When I got on the bus I looked out the window at the guy selling water and candy next to the bus. He was a nice looking bearded guy in his 20s. We looked at each other and exchanged a smile and I realized how refreshing it is to be smiled at by a stranger who doesn’t want anything from you, not to sell you anything, not to take from you anything, but only to give you a smile. Agra had visibly more Muslims than I have seen in other places, you can even hear the call to prayer in some parts. Culturally I can notice a difference. It is true that in India sometimes you can’t tell what a person is if they are Hindu or Muslim but most of the time you can. Lets just say they seem to have better costumer service. More smiling and less begging to buy their overpriced junk.

The bus to Jaipur was pleasant. I had two seats to myself and was reading, then listening to music and looking out the window. The landscape significantly changed as we entered Rajasthan. It was remarkably flat and arid for some time. It was yellow with a sprinkle of trees. Almost looked north African to me, like Egypt or Morocco. Hmm, actually no probably more like Egypt, it is too flat at this point to resemble Morocco. Being in India has made me so nostalgic for Morocco. Sure we got a little hassle once or twice but that was the exception not the rule. Blinded by the sunlight while on the bus I had a recollection of my last night in Marrakesh with Seth. We were in a beautiful old Moroccan house. The room was all white with a concrete platform with a mattress on top. There was a large black and white photograph, can’t remember what it was, maybe a desert scene or a medina scene. We were in bed in all white sheets and I was looking so close at his face that all I can see around is the white of the walls and the sheets. Almost like we were on a cloud. I took a picture of his face sleeping.

I remember waking up at 4:30 in the morning before dawn to take him to the airport. I had been so used to his company for three weeks that I couldn’t comprehend how I was to spend two weeks alone after that before I would return home. They were three very sweet weeks. He went into the gate and I waited outside the terminal for the first bus back to town. As I sat on a bench and as the first light began I saw for the first time the snowy peaks of the Atlas mountains. They were closer than I thought. We hadn’t seen them when we were in Marrakesh the entire time because it would be too hazy in the middle of the day to see the mountains. Seth was already gone but It was a nice moment to see the mountains so clearly and the dawn of a new day.

But I wasn’t in Morocco, I was still on the bus going through another dreary roadside settlement with piles of trash and pigs rolling in open sewer on my way to Jaipur.

Day 18: Agra hassle

Agra. City of the Taj Mahal. This is why people come to India. Agra was like Amritsar: A shit hole with a gem in the middle, in this case a marble wedding cake. I stayed near the eastern gate and thought why not get it out of the way and do the Taj first. It was Friday and the Taj was closed as the mosque inside the complex is used for Friday services. Great! So I have to wait until tomorrow to see the main attraction but that’s ok. I walk to Agra fort, about 2 km away and as soon as I was on the main road I was chased by rickshaw wallahs. It was a nightmare. “no thank you, no, no, NO!” I can see my destination in front of me, I don’t need a ride. I just want to walk, I like the exercise. They don’t understand. Since I’ve been to India I’ve actually walked very little because of this. It is almost impossible to be a foreigner and try to walk down the street without being attacked by people who are convinced that you absolutely need their services for exuberantly high prices of course. When I travel I like to walk, I always thought it was the best way to experience cities. Here I am forced to experience India from a rickshaw. So, having to choose between bad and worst I’d rather go for a bike rickshaw since it is slower, closer to the pace of walking. They fight over me and I finally take one of them to literally cross the street with me into the fort. He then proceeds to offer me a full tour that he will provide me after I am done at the fort for a few hundred rupees. I said no thank you and left. Another rickshaw guy approaches me and tells me he will be waiting for me, almost like a threat.

The fort in Agra was actually the nicest architectural site I have visited thus far. Architecturally speaking, India is disappointing. Cities are not distinct, they all look and feel the same but they vary in size. Monuments are few and grand architecture is not so grand. Religious architecture is not noteworthy. What are people talking about when they speak of the wondrous cities of India, have they even been here? Anyway, the fort was very nice. Beautiful courts and rooms, nice details and volumes. As I exit the fort where Shah Jahan was imprisoned by his own son and put in a room where he can look at the Taj Mahal from across the rover, I find the rickshaw wallah that threatened to wait for me.

He lures me in by giving me a very low price for a ride. He fights off a few others who are also trying to pick me up. All this is very exhausting. We finally move and we are followed by a motor rickshaw who tries to crash into us and picks a fight with my wallah. By this point I want to punch them all in the face and take the first plane back to JFK. They fight and I watch like I am supposed to proclaim a winner. I give the final verdict, I am staying on the bike, I hate the sound and vibration of the motors.

My wallah was a pleasant man, he understood and spoke enough English for us to carry a conversation. Our conversations were symbolic, meaning it was never really a personal one, but one built on our symbolic relationship. I am the stranger from another land here to spend my money and see some culture and he was the provider of a service I need. At times our conversation would get flirtatious. He asked me what my religion was, which to me is a very personal thing to ask but here everyone seems to ask. I would be asked what my religion was when I go buy a bottle of water. That and the question about marriage. Literally every man I have talked to seems to want to know these two things right off the bat. I told him my family is Muslim. He said he will take me to the Jama Masjid, a historic mosque, I said fine. The mosque is nice, reminded me of the mosque in Delhi. I was wrapped with a fabric to cover my exposed legs. Kids ran to me as soon as they saw my camera. All they wanted is their picture to be taken. So interesting to me why they would want that. Is it because they want to see themselves on my little camera screen? Is it because they want me to remember them? Is this their collective subconscious attempt at immortality? I have no idea but I snapped a few pictures of the kids rather than the mosque and they were happy. I was too. As I was leaving an old man, who wrapped me with the fabric, asked me for a donation. He said “here in India were are minority, Muslim, Sikh and Christian are persecuted.” I thought to myself “wow, I would have given a donation without that explanation,” I was impressed he referred to persecution, minorities and even listed others.

We went to a couple of unremarkable sites and ended up at a garden across the dried up river from the Taj Mahal. There it is, I’ve seen it, done. A part of me wanted to skip paying the exuberant 750 rupee entry fee to see the Taj having seen it clearly and taken a token picture already. My rickshaw wallah (I failed to remember his name) and I sat in the shade of a tree and looked across to the Taj. He was telling me this is a romantic spot where couples come and hide among the trees and bushes and play. “just kissing or more?” I asked, he said “the further away the more they do.” I frankly asked him if he wanted to go back there with me, continuing with our vague flirtation. He looked at me as if to see if I was serious. I was. Then he laughed and put his hand on my shoulder and said “you are funny, you joke.“ I wasn’t laughing. He asked me the ubiquitous question about whether or not I was married or have a girlfriend. “No.” “why not?” he asked. “I’m not interested.” he smiled at me and said he will be married by 25. He already had a plan. But I thought he was older, he looked at least 30. He was only 21 and when he learned my age he was surprised and almost looked at me like an old man. He was even more confused to learn that I was 28 and not interested in marriage. He said “here in India you have to marry young or else people will think you are an old man and not want to give you their daughters.” I said why do you want to get married? He seemed perplexed by the question, it was only a natural thing to do, getting married was as inevitable as loosing your first tooth, going through puberty, growing old and dying. He never answered and looked at the Taj.

“its amazing, this one building gives life to this entire city, everyone here needs the Taj to survive.” I said. He laughed and agreed with fervor. He said “without the Taj Mahal there would be no life in Agra, nothing.” he added, “Thank you Shah Jahan! Thank you Mumtaz!.” He was thanking her for dying unexpectedly, otherwise this monument would have never been built and the lives that depend on it today and for decades would have suffered more or may not have even existed. The death of one woman a few hundred years ago seems to have given livelihoods to millions since. But death is everywhere in India, people don’t really seem to think much of it. I’ve already seen two dead mules, a dead dog and a dead man, in the street. Life went on right around them, people would literally just pass a dead body, a man or animal, and go on. It is very public, there isn’t even an urgency to clean the scene even out of health concerns for the living. Is there value to life at all? Have people subconsciously accepted the fact there is surplus life in India and that if one is dead, maimed in motor bike crash or if a child gets sick from playing in open sewer that it doesn’t matter? This is not about being poor, this is not about not having resrouces, even the poorest person can know that rolling in your own shit can not be good, yet people seem to just go on doing it. I remember seeing some of the poorest people I’ve ever seen in Cambodia, yet they were pleasant, happy people and their makeshift shacks were spotless and swept. In India the living are slowly dying, waiting their death literally on the sides of the road. Families with little children live under the most minimal form of shelter on the sides of roads. All they have is a single makeshift bed, if at all, made of a simple wood frame and straps crisscrossing to make a surface to sleep on. They take turns and most sleep on the bare asphalt. Some even have a pot and a burner to prepare food. But they seem idle, not doing much, waiting. They were born to wait for their death and they seem to have completely accepted it. But why do they have children? To keep them company while they wait to die? I know that nothing is more inevitable than the fact that once we are born we will die some day and it doesn’t really matter when or how. But most people make some kind of use with their lives while it lasts, sometimes for better and sometimes for worst. Some would think of it as a distraction from the inevitable, I disagree. But these people, those miserable people literally looking at a dead mule while their children play in the dirt, the father sleeps helpless and the mother picks lice out of her child’s head, what are they doing? They too are distracted, with making it day to day, picking lice out their heads, and watching cars and rickshaws go by. You ask any of these people how they like India and they say “the best!” They don’t know that things could be better, that sewer could be covered that collective housing could be built, that education could be available. They completely buy into the government’s propaganda and the glossy fantasy images they see on TV and genuinely believe that living by the side of the road is completely acceptable since millions do it in India. A massive population pacified, made ignorant and left on the side of the road to rot and they don’t raise a finger to change that.

Anyway, I was thinking all this as we were on our way back to town. Traveling alone is nice because there is time to think of all these things and to notice things that otherwise one wouldn’t. when I’m traveling with someone, we look at each others faces most of the time, we talk, we rely on one another to capture our surroundings. Its ok not pay full attention to life around us because if one misses something he hopes that his companion will fill him in on what he missed. But sitting alone in the back of a rickshaw I can’t help but look at everything with a new eye. We turned to a relatively quiet street, a rare occurrence in India. And for once my mind was blank. Not really blank but I had the most random thoughts totally irrelevant to where I was. My random thoughts were “goats really do have demonic eyes.. I really like the way French people say money, Moonaaaaay… and I would love a burger right now, medium done with blue cheese and avocado on the side.” we turn back to the typical chaos and I snap back into high alert mode as my life could end any moment from the encroaching traffic.

Somehow I was enjoying myself but the heat started to bother me and humidity was suffocating. I wanted to go back to my hotel as I was done for the day. My rickshaw wallah had another plan. He had always intended to take me to a few shops so that he can make a commission. He even told me this thinking we are now friends. “if you come with me to these shops, you don’t have to buy, just look 10 minutes and I get 50 rupees.” I actually wanted to help despite how exhausted I was feeling so I agreed. I should not have but looking back I don’t think I had a choice. I was held hostage and taken from shop after shop selling the same waste of resources, paper weights, overpriced fabrics and knickknack, soap stone made to look like marble. “who needs a mini marble Taj or an elephant?” it was the most tiresome two hours in a long while. He still wanted to take me to more and I said that I was done and he must take me back now. I insisted and he seemed unhappy as if wasting two hours of my life for his cause wasn’t enough, and I was still going to pay him handsomely. Greed my friends, its ugly.

Day 17: hair cut

June 3. I kept waking and falling back to sleep from 5:30 to 7:30 am, I didn’t sleep much but I couldn’t stay in bed any more. Couldn’t figure out the water heater and my shower had to be cold. Maybe it is what a needed, a cold shower, it was brief. It was surprisingly cool in the morning, I guess that’s what you call mountain air, but that too didn’t last long. I had planned to be the first at the train reservation office when it opens at 9 to get a ticket to Varanasi. I was there waiting and waiting, then went in on time. There were already two people inside. I realized that I may not have enough money to buy two tickets, one into and one of Varanasi, I wouldn’t want to be stuck there. So I stupidly run back to my room to get more money, up and down steep hills, my leg muscles haven’t worked this hard in a while. I am back, same people are still there. Its my turn. “is there anyway to get to Varanasi, from anywhere on any class?” the clerk checks all options and looks at me with half closed eyes and says “not possible.” ok this is it, I am leaving and going back to Dehra Dun, I had seen the day before that there is an AC bus that leaves at night for Agra, sounds like a good option.

I pack my things and get out, get a parantha for breakfast and off to the bus stand. Chaos can take place anywhere anytime here. Something as simple as getting on the bus can be the most confusing ordeal with people literally pushing you out of their way to cut you off. Yelling and screaming, bags being passed above me to make it inside before I even get a chance. Once I am in, I am told that I must first get a ticket at the ticket window. “ok, I guess there is a system here, lets go to the ticket window.” the room is empty and a little opening to the side is the ticket window. I lean down to speak into the opening, I only see a woman’s mouth and a piece of her sari. She tells me I must wait until the next bus gets here before she can sell me a ticket. Fine. I wait thinking I will be first. A few people come and ask and are also told to wait. I get up and ask again then I am told to wait. This is getting frustrating, the room is getting fuller and there is no telling who was there first. Then a group of men and women storm the room and form a lopsided line, sometimes there are two or three people together, its hard to make out the line. I rush off my seat and try to get in, convinced I was there first. I get passed from one hand to the next like a volley ball in a match, you can’t hold on to it for too long and you must pass it on to someone else. I end up at the end of the line. Everyone smiles under their big mustaches as if nothing happened. I am oddly calm inside yet my face probably showed that I was very annoyed. It was an ordeal to get the damn ticket, a tiny piece of paper with the bus number and seat number. This is the illusion of a system, there really isn’t one. Each person in line is buying tickets for others who had given him money. I guess this is what they call organized chaos. Even armed with a ticket getting on the bus was a battle. Shoving and yelling and arguing about which seat is which number. I finally sit and big man is next to me. As the bus takes off he holds with both hands the bar in front of us attached to the backs of the seats. He has a grin on his face like a child. His armpit is cupping my shoulder, I can feel his sweat seeping into my thin cotton shirt. I am annoyed but keeping calm. With every twist of the road the man pushes closer into me, occupying his seat and one third of mine. Still grinning and holding on to the bar in front as if he is on a roller coaster. Regrettably I think of the orientalist stereotype, feeling guilty I thought of it at all, but this man was a child. He hardly grew beyond adolescence. I am sure he is a good family man, I mean he took his wife and three kids to vacation in Mussoorie! But he is a child, not in the “oh you are so youthful how nice and refreshing” kind of way but rather in the “you are so fucking annoying grow up” kind of way. His wife on the other hand, like most women here, seems to be more in control, more aware, and with a more advanced mental faculty.

The girl behind me hurls, affected by the motion of the bus. I offered her some of my baby wipes, hoping she would take them all so that I get rid of them without feeling guilty for throwing them out. She only takes one or two. We are now on flat roads again and almost there.

While in Dehra Dun I decided to check out the supposedly world’s tallest stupa and a Buddhist complex. I sit on a table in the heat of the day, partially shaded facing the stupa and I catch up with my writing. “I think this is a day to get a hair cut, new beginnings new hair cut.” I realized how light I feel, like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I had been so distracted all day but sitting here watching the prayer flags flutter in the wind and the bells coming from the top of the stupa gently sounded off reminded me, ‘this is the first day of a new chapter in my life.” and it feels good.

I had I walked out of the Buddhist complex and walked towards the main road looking for a barber. I found one shop, it was midday and the heat was a bit suffocating. The barber was sleeping and stood up promptly when I entered and pointed me to the seat. I had my backpack which I sat against the back wall. I was dripping with sweat. I realized after he put the apron on that the power was out. The ceiling fan wasn’t working. He didn’t understand English so I had to explain how I like my hair without words. I think he understood that I like the sides short and to just take a little off the top. He proceeded to cut my hair using a not so savory looking comb and a pair of scissors. He did it all manually, even the sides. I haven’t had my hair cut without using a clipper in probably 20 years. No lights, no fan, sweat covering my face and his. It was strangely nostalgic. I always liked going to the barber. I always thought it was an intimate experience. A man grooming another man. Standing closely. Almost always my elbows rub against the barber’s groin, not on purpose but just because of the way I sit, with my arms folded and my fingers clasped. There is one barber that I will always dislike. The man that used to cut my hair when I was a kid in Alexandria. I never really liked him, he was the first barber I can actually remember. His shop was opposite our apartment and we went there every three Fridays. Barbers and hairdressers in Egypt are notorious for gossip. One time he told my father mid-haircut that he saw me kiss another boy in the stairwell of an apartment building. My father stormed off, I don’t think because he was actually angered by what he learned but because that was the reaction expected from him. He had to act like a good father and go home to confront me. I told him that I did. I don’t remember what he said back but I remember looking at him barely yelling as if the volume was muted. It was over and I think he returned to finish his haircut. We never talked about it after.

Back here in Dehra Dun, my barber seemed frustrated or annoyed that he had to do it manually and he was huffing and puffing. He was turning my head in the direction he needs rather aggressively. Hair would get stuck to my face because of the sweat. He was done fairly quickly and I was pleased I didn’t look like a total mess. He asked if I wanted him to clean the edges with a blade and I said yes. “new blade! New blade!” I don’t think he understood what I said but I watched closely to make sure he used a new blade. Once done cutting he wet my hair with a spray bottle and started massaging my head, that was probably the best part. I never hear my neck crack so loudly. He then showed me a cream and asked if I wanted it, I thought it was a hair product so I said sure. I had apparently agreed to a facial.

He put my head back and dabbed my face with cream. I regret agreeing since I don’t know what he is about to do. He put some kind of oil in his hands and proceeded to rub my face. It felt like baby oil and cream being rubbed into my face. This didn’t seem like a good idea but with my eyes closed it didn’t matter what he was putting on my face, I imagined I was at a spa. He then sprayed my face with water and wiped it off with a towel. I have no idea what just happened but I felt like I had some kind of make over, new haircut and an Indian facial.

I was still done hours before my 8:30 pm bus. I sat at the bus station reading my book and watching people. The bus to Agra had seats on the bottom and sleepers on top, it was a bit strange. It was an AC bus and at first the temperature was just barely enough to keep the skin from breaking a sweat. A couple of hours later I was freezing, it was so cold I couldn’t sleep. I woke up in the morning with a wool blanket on me. I am not sure how it got there. I vaguely remember waking up in the middle of the night and seeing the blanket sitting on an empty chair and taking it. The person who must have had it was still there in the morning. Regardless I slept and in the morning I was in Agra.

Day 16: nothing really changed

I knew one thing today, I am leaving Santosh Puri Ashram. The contents of my bag were all over the floor near the corner of the room. For once I looked at them again all at once. “how ridiculous am I, look at this stuff: huge bottle of aloe, huge bottle of sanitizer to refill my little bottle of sanitizer, huge bottle of Bepto Bismol, huge container of Tums, anti-diarrhea pills, anti-acid pills, anti-Malaria pills, and the usual toiletries, three packs of baby wipes, face wash, face scrub…” all this stuff, for a moment I am inclined to throw half of it out. You know, renunciation man, get rid of that stuff, you don’t need all that bepto bismol! But I manage to pack it all so neatly into my bag. Room empty again. I eat some lunch before I leave. there is only myself and an Indian girl that arrived the night before. She Identifies as Dutch. She lives in Holland. There was also a cute little boy who eargerly serves us food almost everyday, today he was sitting waiting to be served. He smiles and giggles. I was smiling back. I said, "he is so cute!" "yes he is, very playful, do you want your own kids one day?" she asked. I responded quickly and swiftly, "NO!." She pulled back a bit and seemed surprised or disappointed with my response, she couldn't understand why I would be so sure. "why not?" I told her that I think people are so selfish to eagerly reproduce themselves and try to give their life purpose by creating another one to take care of. I went on, "plus there are so many kids out there who need a home, maybe people should stop having babies for a few months and only adopt those already born." All this came out of my mouth very fast as I was really eager to eat my lunch. She seemed almost disgusted. I failed to realize that her asking the question probably comes from her own desire to have a child. It was quiet and we both started eating our bland under-salted barley lunch.

I approach Mataji, sitting in her chair in the shade with the newspaper. I have to give my donation in a way that doesn’t seem too patronizing. It is then that I have my first and only real one on one conversation with her. Like her class it was very soft yet very rich. No distractions this time, but my mental capacity fails me to remember enough quotes to capture the conversation, I should say her monologue since I was mostly a listener interrupting her speech only occasionally with “yes, yes” or “exactly.” it was wonderful but like all good things momentary and difficult to capture. I snapped out of my day dream when she said “people should go back to their countries, like in Germany there are so many Turkish, they should learn from the west and go home to develop their countries.” I wanted to respond and bring her attention to the fact that she came from Germany fifty years ago and made India her home, she never went back to spread what she learned. But I thought it would be rude to even say anything. I nodded my head and faintly smiled as if I am I agreeing but I don’t think my hesitant nod of approval was convincing. I thought to myself “shame, no one is perfect.”

There are two gates to the Ashram. As I exited from the inner gate, I see the boy "in the pink shirt" shirtless, sitting by the outer gate by the guard house. He turned around waved his hand and smiled. He just kept smiling with his big white teeth as it to let me know that he's seen me look at him and that he approves. He winked and said "bye." I was holding the outer gate, I smiled back and said "bye." I was wishing I had stayed longer, It was too late.

It was so nice to be out of the walls of the ashram, to have a Pepsi and a bottle of cold water. I was still feeling very positive. Nothing seemed to bother me as they did before. Go on beep your fucking horns, I don’t care! After a long detour I ended up in Dehra Dun and took the bus to Mussoorie dubbed “the queen of hill stations.”

The ride up was a little horrifying, this huge behemoth of a bus swings left and right as it tries to wrap around tight turns on the twisted road to the top, 2000 meter above sea level. Along the way are remnants of accidents, a bus crashed into the side of the hill, the exact same spot as the one I am sitting in is smashed into the rock side. A motorcycle accident. An SUV with the side smashed. Trying to focus on my book and not give way to those nightmares of falling off a cliff.

We arrive. I take a steep flight of stairs to the main street. It is a very hazy day, difficult to see. What is the use of being so high up if you can’t see down. I take a rickshaw to the other side of town, where the Hotel Broadway, a small budget hotel “in a quiet part” is located. I have to walk part of the way still as the rickshaw is not allowed any further. The streets are so steep they make you wish you never had a cigarette in your life. I finally find the place and get my little room with a view of a valley and hills. Nice.

The town, despite being bigger and busier than Mcleodganj, was more relaxed. This was a true Indian holiday town, it had that feel. It was like the jersey shore boardwalk strung on top of a hill and full of Indians instead of guidos. It was refreshing that the main stretch of road “the mall” was mainly pedestrian as well as bike rickshaws which have the much gentler sound of bike rings rather than the intrusive and polluting horns of motorbikes and cars. There is a carnival feel with rides and shops selling kids toys and other unnecessary things. No one is from here, everyone is a tourist. The women are fatter, exposing their full bellies between the sari partially covering their bodies. Their husbands are well fed too, big bellies hang over their tight belts. Each couple is holding two, three and four children, all pulling and screaming and demanding toys. This is a different India that I haven’t seem much of yet. As a tourist you always get to see how the lower half lives but here you can see both. The other half is still there, on the sides of the road grilling corn and selling things to the rich visitors from below. I enjoyed walking the street and watching the people.

It felt particularly lonely here since everyone was with their family or lover. I began to rethink things, the false sense of security that I created for myself the night before was already dying out, fast. I went to a call center and dialed that number that I now know by heart. No answer. Again and again. I walk a bit and every time I see a phone I stare at it like it will ring and it will be for me. I try again but no answer. I search and find the one internet place in town. I have decided that I must take things into my own hands and make the decision that must be made. I sent a message that was meant to make things better. To end a relationship without ending a friendship.

On my walk back to my hotel I see another phone and try again. Answer. After five minutes we had decided that it was the right thing to do. As I was in the phone booth a fight broke out outside the store. I didn’t know what was happening but one man was slapped across the face by another. A small group gathered. The man that was slapped didn’t retaliate, he just stood there. Another man slapped him again, this time on the other side. It was so tense, on the phone and outside. Tears came to my eyes. It was as if the happenings outside were an visual illustration of the phone conversation. I was now single. I walked quickly to my hotel failing to control tears, unlocked my room, lights off still, fell to my bed and cried. It was only for a moment then I realized everything will be OK. In a way, everything was the same.

Day 15: another day

I had intended to only stay at the ashram for three nights, but due to unforeseeable circumstances I was not in the right mood to be on the road again. So I stayed another day. I didn’t sleep very well. There is a picture of a guru, Mataji’s deceased partner hanging in my room. He is seated in meditation pose with his eyes closed. Laying in my bed, my eyes a little wet, at night, and looking at the photograph on the wall made me think that his eyes kept blinking. I was blinking to confirm what I am seeing. I fell asleep with my headphones on and when I woke in the morning the battery of my ipod was almost out as it was running all night. I was up at 6:30, earlier than usual since I arrived in the ashram. I went to the yoga room, class is at 7 and laid on the ground. My mind blank. Staring at the ceiling. One by one four of the women at the ashram quietly come into the room as well as Mandakini, Mataji’s daughter, who was to lead morning yoga today. It was exactly what I needed this morning. Class was about two hours and combined elements of hatha and vasana, breathing exercises and meditation. I felt very good after.

I realized I have tons to laundry so I put my dirty clothes in a bucket, add water and some fair trade organic soap. Sitting outside by the hammock, washing. Then comes out the american guy topless wearing a little white wrap around his waste covering only his groin and thighs. He never talks, never makes eye contact, so enigmatic yet boring, im actually not curious to hear his story having convinced myself it is probably mundane and uninteresting. Despite having lived here for a year, in relative isolation sleeping or doing whatever all day in his room and only having one meal a day, despite all that he doesn’t feel transformed to me. He still exudes an aggressive almost annoyed vibe just by having someone like me in his sphere. The cows! Something is happening with the cows and he starts making these primitive noises waving his stick, like father time. Then runs down and controls the heard yelling gibberish. It was so comedic for me, I am just not buying this guy, nope. It was so nice to wash clothes by hand wring them and put them on the line. It reminded me of helping my mom hang our laundry in my balcony in Alexandria. The middle of the day was not memorable, which is probably a good thing, there is no reason to always do something here, you can just be.

The bell rang around 4pm. I thought it was food, I was hungry. When I arrived I realized that it was class time. Mataji was about to give a talk on the Chakras. I am such a novice that I will not even try to relay what she was talking about. It was very soothing. Yet I was so much more aware of my restless legs, my sore back. Sitting on the ground, on a cochin with legs crossed. My left leg below the knee was so numb it didn’t feel like it was part of my body anymore. I went in and out of listening to Mataji. She sat opposite us, with an open notebook sitting on a carved wooden book stand. Her eyes closed the entire time. She spoke in a continuous flow with no interruptions. Her voice so soft and subtle that you had to pay attention. Only the spinning fan above was making its own subtle noise and I had to listen to that too. At times I felt as though she was talking directly to me. It is hard not to personalize and apply the little bits and pieces that my ear catches of her speech. I felt as though she filled the room with words and I was only able to capture some here and there and try to make sense of them. She talked about the illusion that we create that is life. She talked about the spirit and its independence from the body. I can’t give it justice, if I try to remember what she said it will sound trivial and simplified so I would rather not. As she was talking about not being totally devoted to bodily pleasures I catch a glance of that boy again. Wearing that pink shirt again. He is working out in the garden and I can see him through the bamboo shades. My attention kept going back and forth between the lesson and the object of desire. I am a bad student.

After the lesson I was calm, my walk was light, like I was just touching the ground enough to move forward. I was surprisingly in a good mood. My stomach growled, protesting that fact that I haven’t given it something to breakdown and consume.

Being in such a good mood and before dinner, I made one last call to peace. Sending an email and making a call offering a hand, I am willing to accept anything. Alas, no response, no answer, voice mail.