Read The Adventures of Bindi Girl: (2012) Online
Authors: Erin Reese
The Adventures of Bindi Girl: (2012) (4 page)
The luminous goddess Saraswati is the consort of Lord Brahma. Maa Saraswati rides a swan and has four to eight arms, depending on the depiction. She holds a stringed instrument called a
veena
on her lap, and several sacred scriptures known as the
Vedas
in her hands. Saraswati is the goddess of learning, teaching, music, knowledge, and all related areas.
Lord Krishna and his lovely consort Radha are all about the love. Krishna seduced a group of milkmaids (
gopis
), of which Radha was the most enticing, albeit (gasp!) married—but that didn’t stop them from joining together in a divine play (
lila
); Radha was drunk with divine love (
bhakti
) and couldn’t help herself. They both play flutes and the flamboyant, blue-skinned, peacock plume-wearing Krishna is the most gorgeous of all gods. Hare Krishna—it’s the real thing!
14
th
of December, Rishikesh
Here in this holy pilgrimage destination, I feel lucky and blessed to have found a little bungalow directly on the bank of the Ganges, considered an actual, living goddess (“Ganga Maa,” as she is called—the Great Mother).
My little nook at the riverside guest house costs a whopping 100 Rupees per night (US$2.00). No hot shower, but 24-hour bucket hot water, and even a Western standard, sit-down toilet (although it doesn’t take long to get your thigh strength and proper stance down for the squat toilets—necessity is the mother of invention). My walls are painted a sweet robin-egg blue. And directly across from my cozy bed, I can look out the window to gaze upon the turquoise blue river goddess Herself.
My favorite times of the day in Rishikesh are early morning, just before the crack of dawn, and in the late evening, for two reasons, both auditory: The first is that lovely, power-haunting howl the wind makes as it gusts through the river valley at dawn and late at night. This is especially delightful since the wind stops practically on the dot at noon each day, and the weather warms up nicely to clear blue skies and welcome sunshine.
The second reason is that, at these two times of day, the omnipresent, piercing sound of amplified Hindi music disappears.
Ahhhh
… my brain gives a sigh of relief. Maybe in another life I will learn the secret as to why Indians seem to need ALL music turned up to the point of distortion. Another secret to be revealed, in a following life, will be the answer to why they feel the need to play the same song over and over and over again, every day, until the tape is eaten by the machine itself.
Or—
tsk-tsk
—a sneaky American girl puts a monkey-wrench into the machinery and snips a wire or two, putting an end to the relentless, deafening squeal of Bollywood blockbuster soundtracks screeching throughout the village.
Vinod, the 22-year-old manager of my guest house, likens himself to a Bollywood film star, complete with Casanova persona and a young Gregory Peck smile. Vinod does a pretty good job of holding down the fort for his foreign visitors. The first night, as we chatted on the terrace, he revealed to me that his one dream—his ONLY dream in life—is getting to America. Personally, I think he should get himself to Bombay instead and land himself a part in one of those Bollywood movies!
Vinod has kindly offered to teach me Hindi—at least enough to feel comfortable and less ignorant during my half-year stay in India. As of today, I am now able to properly count to ten (that took a full week to learn!). I can also say please, thank you, how are you, I’m fine, HOW MUCH? (I am finally learning to bargain), GO AWAY, sugar, cow, camel, monkey, dog, cat, and “My name is Erin.”
First on my list for this week is “Where is the loo, please?”
Vinod is of the Brahmin caste of Indians. Brahmins, traditionally the priests or scholars, are considered the “highest” caste in India. The caste system may be frowned upon in politically correct discussions, but is actually still alive and well. Of all the things that have yanked at my heartstrings in India, it is this underlying system of social class and respect (or lack thereof, rather) that has done me in most. There is a little boy who works here at the guest house, Ajay, from Bihar (the poorest state in India). Ajay is on duty 24 hours a day. From what I can tell, he owns one shirt, one pair of trousers, one hat, one pair of flip flops with about a millimeter of tread left in them, and one jacket. His family lives three days away by train; he is probably working to simply earn a roof over his head and two meals a day. We communicate through sign language and smiles.
I am confused by the “servant” (or is that
slave
?) treatment of Ajay. It hurts to see him ordered around like a piece of nothingness. I wanted to lend him my Walkman to play with, but the manager won’t allow him to use it. I want to give him a tiny bit of money, but something tells me not to—that there are things about India, and class structure, and servant “systems” that I simply don’t understand. The best I can do is observe, learn, send love his way, and treat him with respect and smiles.
But even “lower” than the Bihari servant boy is the caste of “Untouchables,” the Harijans, to which Gandhi applied the name “Children of God.” The Harijans are the only ones that are allowed to clean toilets. I have to let the guest house know one day before I want my bathroom cleaned in order for them to find “the sweeper”—the Harijan boy. I, of course, took offense to this and immediately spouted off to Vinod that I certainly clean my very own toilet in America. When the sweeper-boy, with impossibly-thin frame and huge eyes bulging out of a skeletal face, came by to clean my toilet, I wanted to cry, hug him, and tell him that he is worthy, lovable, and most certainly
touchable
.
Is it karma? Madness? What is madder than our own insanities and hidden class systems in the West? Can we compare? I don’t think so. India and the U.S. have their respective personal sorrows, their joys, their ways of dealing with the human condition. Is one better than the other? More civilized? Certainly these questions are part of the reason I am here, and I’m not sure there is an answer, let alone a correct one.
As Rilke said, we must live the questions:
“I would like to beg you dear Sir, as well as I can, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.” (Rainer Maria Rilke, 1903,
Letters to a Young Poet
)
15
th
of December, Rishikesh
It is said that by taking three full dips in the holy River Ganga, all of your sins are washed away. Can’t beat that ritual; I’ll definitely be partaking. Cold as that mountain stream water may be this December, it’s clean and clear here in Rishikesh, near the Ganges’ headwaters—much more enticing than downstream Varanasi, home of the cremation grounds, burning ghats and Shiva-knows-what floating down the river. I read in the paper that they have introduced a charred-flesh-eating fish species into the Ganges near Varanasi, to act as a vacuum cleaner for all the corpse remnants. As ghoulish as all this sounds, it’s another example of the fascination of Mother India in that She doesn’t try to hide Her life, death, suffering, and joy. It’s all out there for one to see, smell, and taste.
Right now, I’m focusing on other sensory immersions. Here in Lakshman Jhula, the village where I’m staying, I’ve found an Iyengar-style yoga teacher I like by the name of Anil. Every day I attend an hour-and-a-half asana class (asana means posture) in the morning, and sometimes, again in the late afternoon. Since it’s off-season, I’m usually the only student attending the afternoon class, which gives me both stage fright and the opportunity to get plenty of individual attention.
Iyengar yoga, founded by the infamous yogi and guru B.K.S. Iyengar, is a hatha yoga derivative known for its strict focus on alignment. The emphasis is not on rapid succession of postures; rather, one holds positions for several seconds or even minutes. My main reason for learning asanas while I’m here is the obvious—to improve my health and vitality. Plus, this intensive practice will give me the opportunity to create a “body memory” so that I can practice a yoga routine on my own, anytime, anywhere.
I have three mini-goals for yoga before I leave Rishikesh. First, though I’ve experimented with yoga off and on for about ten years, due to a strange lack of coordination or lack of commitment, or both, I’ve never been able to memorize the Surya Namaskar (Sun Salutation) sequence. (Yoga buffs scoff, “Easy as pie!”) My first goal is accomplished: I have finally memorized the Sun Salutation asanas, along with synchronized inhales and exhales, which are very important for me, as I am too lazy to do
pranayama
, the breathing exercises that are central to yoga practice.
My other mini-goals are to be able to push myself into a full backbend (
chakra-asana
), and then put myself into (and stay in!) a full headstand (
shirshasana
). Both of these require more strength and balance than I currently have; plus, I need to get past the psychological blocks of turning myself upside-down. I’m sure it’s easier than I think. And, these goals are just incidental. The journey is the destination, especially with yoga.
After two weeks of intensive practice, I can already feel myself “lightening up” physically, as well as mentally and spiritually. Upon leaving Dharamsala a couple weeks ago, I was feeling quite blocked, physically stiff and a little emotionally stuck. I had to remind myself: Yes, Erin, it takes TIME to integrate into a new place. Coming to Rishikesh was like coming to a new country altogether—new “vibes,” and new water, food, smells, bacteria (oh yeah!), and new culture all the way around.
Speaking of our little internal traveling companion, I experienced my first little bout of bacterial fun last week. It started with a crazy little fever that lasted about five hours. I think I nipped the worst part in the bud by eating a ton of acidophilus and taking a fabulous homeopathic remedy meant to assist with mental or physical duress. When the fever ended, though, I had one mild day of the infamous “Delhi Belly”—the Indian subcontinent’s answer to “Montezuma’s Revenge.” Suffice it to say, I was much luckier than some travelers I’ve seen around here—three days of stomach problems can turn anyone into a walking skeleton.
That
would be the time to break out the real meds.
16
th
of December, Rishikesh
I’ve sussed out my favorite find in Rishikesh: the old, abandoned Marahishi Maresh Yogi compound, otherwise touted as “The Beatles’ Ashram.” What a place. Tucked away just south of the hustle and bustle of the main tourist settlement of Ram Jhula, the Marahishi ashram reminds me of a location straight out of
Lord of the Rings
. It’s Middle Earth. There are dozens and dozens of individual meditation huts—pod-like structures resembling Hobbit houses hidden among the hillside foliage. There are gardens and pathways and meditation shrines set against the backdrop of the jungle. (Yes, it is a jungle. I barely managed to avoid the excessive elephant droppings.)
I could only dream of what it was like to be cavorting around this once-splendid ashram during the late 1960’s with the likes of John, Paul, George, and Ringo. It must have been a crazy, wild, beautiful scene, and this definitely would have been where I hung out! Upon my own discovery of it, I felt a sense of sadness that it was all over, abandoned. It’s almost as if it were too good to be true.
I was told that most of the
White Album
was composed here. One can see the old “Number Nine” room where the Beatles apparently stayed, and the song “Dear Prudence” was apparently written for Mia Farrow’s sister, who was holed up in meditation all day. The Fab Four were doing their best to beckon dear Prudence away from her relentless internal quest. “Won’t you come out to play?”
If one listens closely to the sounds of India, it’s easy to understand the land’s influence on the Beatles’ music. I recall the odd background sounds and psychedelic samples, especially on
Sergeant Pepper’s
. It’s India! It’s the strange and beautiful concoction of the call of the chai wallah, the incessant bicycle and motorbike horns, the ashram chants over loudspeakers across the river, the clanging Shiva temple bells, the blaring “Bollywood” background music, and so on. Nowhere else on earth is there such an assortment of sounds that actually has a taste, a smell, and a visceral feel—a veritable rock ashram.
Who could blame the Beatles for being so enchanted?
2
nd
of January, Rishikesh
It’s happened. I have dropped off the spiritual deep end of India.
For two weeks now, I’ve tried to leave for south India and escape the cold, to no avail. After several thwarted attempts (power outages, rainstorms, missed connections) to buy a rail ticket, I finally surrendered to the fact that—for now—Rishikesh is my home, and I’m not supposed to leave. A yogi friend of mine, Max from the UK, calls this common phenomenon found among folks who get pulled into the vortex, “The Rishikesh Effect.”
It’s been exactly one month since my arrival in Rishikesh. I seem to have crossed a real milestone. I now feel such a connection to this place, to the locals, and to the rare remaining foreign “pilgrims” inclined to muscle through the cold weather, staying beyond the tourist high season.
In this holy village, I am having experiences that are seemingly cliché or perhaps simply par for the India journey. Seems as if I’m having a spiritual tune-up of sorts, in spite of my rational mind. In hindsight, I can see that the first few weeks here were really about resistance. I didn’t want to admit to things I was feeling in my body and my heart. I have now determined that my normal mental faculties are useless in India! As the rational mind seems to have turned itself OFF, my real guides are the heart and intuition.