India, My Love

It was my first time in India! Feeling jet-lagged after a long, trans-continental flight, I was tired, nervous, and excited.

Let me take you with me.

When the plane began its descent to land at Mumbai International Airport, I looked out the window and saw clusters of brown patches next to the runway. They looked like oversized cardboard boxes that had been randomly tossed out.

It seemed strange, and I wondered whether it was garbage. When the plane touched the ground, these brown cardboard patches came into focus; they were hutches where the caste of the untouchables, the Dalits, made their home.

Bam! Take that as an introduction, Western traveler.

When I got off the plane, the air smelled like a toilet. The stench was overwhelming, and the heat was thick and humid.

Getting my luggage was an adventure. Immediately after landing, swarms of porters surrounded me and competed with each other to carry my suitcase. I had yet to learn what this was about.

The thought of letting a porter carry my luggage seemed arrogant. I felt embarrassed, and it reminded me of the British Empire governing India. I was also worried that they might take off with my bags. I tried to convince the men that I could carry my luggage alone.

Eventually, I gave in, trying not to lose sight of my bags and the guys holding them. They were fast, and I felt lost. There were so many people. Everybody seemed rushed, and people pushed each other. Chaos!

Little did I understand then that my attempt to carry my luggage meant that the guy who tried to pry it from me would lose a day’s income to feed his family. I learned this later.

The next step was haggling for a taxi. Each porter seemed to have a close cousin or uncle who owned a cab with the best rates in town. They were yelling and arguing with each other. I was sweating profusely and nauseous from fatigue and the smells and noise while trying to orient myself in the ocean of people. The volume was ON.

I don’t know how I managed to hail a cab, but eventually, I did, after dramatic negotiations about the rates. Ha! That was my introduction to bargaining in the Indian style. A dangerously bumpy ride with lots of honking ensued, and near-death collisions seemed inevitable. I’m kidding, but I held my breath for most of the ride.

Well, I lived so that I can tell you about it. The next stop was Mumbai railway station, where I boarded a train to a town a few hours south to spend time in an ashram to study meditation.

I was told, “Only first class, ma’am, only first class, take the ladies’ compartment.“

Clusters of people were hanging out of the train. Livestock was in the second-class compartments alongside people. The train was CROWDED.

At each stop, someone walked through the train with a massive tray of fruit on their head, yelling “ Mango! Papaya! Bananas! ” and selling ice-cold sodas such as “Thumbs Up,” the Indian version of Coca-Cola.

After a five-hour train ride, I arrived at my destination, where I took another taxi—don’t ask me how I did it—I had not slept for thirty-six hours—and went to a hotel. Phew!

The hot water was not working, and the water pipes were not grounded, so I got electric shocks each time I turned on the faucets, but I did not care; I was wiped out and wide awake at the same time.

All night long, there was a cacophony of sounds: an orchestra of humming — people sleeping on the streets, beggars calling out, night vendors, dogs barking, temple cymbals, the imams calling the worshippers in the mosque, cows, honking rickshaws — all night long! It was a gigantic symphony, a rhythm, a heartbeat that never stopped.

The longer I lived in India, the more the humming became my music, my pulse.

After my arrival, I looked for a flat near the ashram and got rupees at the black market money exchange — a guy who knew a guy behind the storefront of a cloth merchant. Psst! It was a well-kept secret.

Soon after, I was hounded by women competing to be my Ayah, my housekeeper. And yes, I suddenly had a maid.

I spent most days at the ashram and many days in silent meditation. There were Westerners and Indian people. It was easy to meditate and participate in devotional chants and ecstatic dance. I was in a Buddha field, walking on sacred ground.

I began to blossom.

If you grow in love, meditation will happen like a shadow. Love and meditation are two aspects of the same coin; if you have gained control of one aspect, the other follows. If you meditate, love will follow; if you love, meditation will follow. You have to choose. Meditation is more effortless, but love is difficult. Unless you want to move into the difficult unnecessarily — that is for you to decide; otherwise, with meditation, love comes automatically.

When I left the premises at night, vendors outside the gate sold incense, fruit, and bouquets of red roses. I loved the roses.

I learned how to ride my bike on the left side of the street, bargain at the market, buy bottled water to brush my teeth (the drinking water was too contaminated), get Chandrika Sandalwood soap, and live in a flat with an ungrounded shower faucet, but I had hot water. I wore Panjabi suits, abstained from meat, and avoided all electronic media.

I also learned about death being part of life — not just in meditation.

My flat was near a river with burning ghats for nightly cremations. Some of the burning bodies floated down the river, a Hindu tradition, and I could smell them from my bedroom.

Near my apartment building was a cemetery with shallow graves, and the stray dogs and pigs would dig up the skulls, and the street kids would prop them into the nearest tree.

Each night, there were processions from Idol worshippers, usually a small group of people with makeshift rattles and drums who marched through the neighborhood making a lot of noise.

Incense and holy statues were everywhere, even in the poorest street corners, and there were so many beggars.

I would go to faraway bazaars to look for Raat Rani, the Queen of the Night, a rare essential oil I love. I still have it and found sources to buy it in the West.

India became my heartbeat. My heart began to merge with the pulse of the country, its chaos, beauty, poverty, wisdom, colors, smells, and incense — a people I grew to love deeply.

India is not just geography or history. It is not only a nation, a country, a mere piece of land. It is something more: it is a metaphor, poetry, something invisible but very tangible. It vibrates with certain energy fields, which no other country can claim.

Context:

I spent long periods in India in the early nineties. It was life-changing.

It was the dawn of the technology boom and the surge of the middle class. The majority of the population was either dirt poor or extremely wealthy.