An Unplanned Sabatical

Hello friends and family,

I am writing from a hot little internet shop in Goa, on the west coast of India. This is hippie beach life at its finest, and I love it. I have run into several old friends, enjoyed fresh seafood dinners, walked barefoot on the beach, slept in, sipped masala chai, and relaxed. I have also tried to do a bit of writing, but my computer has decided that that’s not going to happen right now. For some reason, it has begun making strange beeping sounds, refuses to type certain letters, types long streams of other letters without stopping, overheats, and is generally behaving badly. I don’t know if it is in its death throes, or if it is just throwing a tantrum, but until I find out, I won’t be posting any writing.

I have another week on the beach, then I’m up to Bombay for Christmas, and on December 26th, I will fly back to my beloved Thailand. I will immediately head up to the Buddhist monastery in the north, where I will spend another month in silent meditation. Obviously, there will be no writing there. So unless my computer perks up in the next day or so, it will be another five or six weeks before I am back to writing again, assuming my little computer is revived and responsive by then. If, somehow, it begins to work in the next few days, I will definitely put some writing up. I have lots of fun stories to share.

In the meantime, I will soak up some sun for you all, and enjoy my last days in India. CRAZY!!

~Sarah

Ta Ta…

Hola,

After a grueling week with dysentery, a long train ride south to Trivandrum, missing my stop in Trivandrum and having to return, by packed, steaming, B.O.-laden bus to Trivandrum, and then finally making my way to Neyyar Dam, I have arrived, and am at the ashram where I will spend the next five weeks. Hooray!

I am here to study and practice yoga intensely, so that at the end of these five weeks, I will be certified to teach yoga! Yay! I got here today, thinking that I would have a week to read, write, and lounge before the program started, but it turns out that if you stay here, you follow the schedule- up at 5:30, lots of yoga and meditation, and lights out by 10:00. So, no writing, no reading, no fun… But that’s okay- I’ll be in better shape once the real program starts in a week.

Wish me luck! This is going to be a pretty intense month, and I don’t think I’ll be in contact much. I certainly won’t be writing… I’ve already checked my computer in My tentative plans are to finish this course and then head straight to Thailand, so there may not be any writing for about six weeks. Check in again towards the end of December, as I imagine I’ll have plenty of stories by then.

Lots of love…

Sarah

A Word On Cutting

Indians are the worst cutters I’ve ever seen.

Well, that’s actually not true. Since the notion of a “line” doesn’t seem to apply in India, I suppose it’s unfair to label all Indians “cutters.” But I’m going to anyway. A few examples should suffice.

1) One is waiting at the post office, heavy parcel in hand. One has been waiting patiently for some time now, as the Indians ahead of her are arguing, shouting, and gesticulating wildly at the counter. Finally one Indian breaks away from where he has been verbally abusing the postal clerk, and storms out, muttering in angry Hindi under his breath. As he passes, a large wave of B.O. follows him (this is also common in India). One begins to step forward, eager to set down her package and proceed. And suddenly… not one, not two, but THREE Indians storm ahead of her, coming from God Knows Where, and descending on the counter like buzzing, chattering locusts. They don’t even give her a second look! She is forced to wait longer, now on edge and prepared to sprint for the desk, but it is to no avail. After waiting for nearly an hour, the clerks put ‘Closed’ signs in their little windows and shut the whole office down for lunch.

2) One is, say, at a ten day meditation retreat. As is the fashion at such retreats, everyone waits in line to be served lunch (although this is India, in such meditation retreats, strange, un-Indian rules tend to be observed). However. Certain Indian women apparently didn’t get the memo, because after once again waiting patiently for the line to wind down, one is shocked and annoyed to discover a pack of Indian ladies zip to the front, and begin to load up their plates with food. They shoot a quick, cursory glance at all of the patient, rule-abiding women they have just cut in front of, and such a glance seems to imply that they do indeed know they have just broken the rules. And yet, they do it anyway. Unbelievable. Blatant cutting. At the post office… perhaps. But when a line is being observed, and it is clear that a line is being observed, cutting should just not be permissible. Nonetheless, Indians seem wholly unconcerned with polite conventions, and will slide right to the front of a line whenever the chance presents itself.

3) Say one has a fever. One has to go to the doctor for medicine. One is astounded at the lack of privacy afforded patients at the clinic. The door to the doctor’s office remains wide open, and is packed to the limit with curious Indians peering in at the patient being examined. They strain and push to watch an old woman having her heartbeat checked. They stand on tip-toes to ogle a little boy as he says “Ahhh.” They crowd and fight one another for a peek at the youth with the broken foot. One watches this in amazement, as Western medical proceedings are so different! Although one has been given a “ticket,” with a “number” on it, it soon becomes clear that one will have to push and fight her way forward, joining the thronged masses and impinging on other patient’s privacy, in order to be seen by the doctor. “Numbers” mean nothing here. They are a mere formality. Five hours after arriving, one leaves, the last person to be seen by the doctor. Despite one’s decision to repress her distaste at crowding and fighting her way into the office, thus joining the Indians in the free-for-all, one has still been unsuccessful at making her way to the front. Perhaps one has to grow up in India in order to understand the subtle art of throwing old ladies out of one’s way, and stepping on young children to get to the front of the “line.”

***Hey peeps, if you want to see some cool pictures of Varanasi and Bodhgaya, check them out at…

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=120909

…and…

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=120913

Shadow Dancing

I am sitting on a low stone wall
Centuries of life have left it bleached by the sun
Which is rising again, burning orange, behind my back
A girl walks up the steps, passes by, and disappears
I continue to watch the papery purple flowers
Sunlight piercing their petals and leaves

Suddenly a shadow is dancing upon them
Lifting, opening, gathering, scattering
Lifting, opening, gathering, scattering
Busy, dancing shadows
That contrast with the glowing petals still touched by light
A play of shadow and sunlight staged on these innocent flowers

I watch and I know
Without ever turning around
That the girl has sat down behind me
And is braiding her hair

Thug Life

The Indian state of Bihar is largely famous for two things:

1) Being the poorest state in India, and…

2) Being the home of Bodhgaya, the place where the Buddha was enlightened 2,500 years ago.

However, when I was in Bihar, I noticed something that none of the guidebooks mention: Everyone looks like Tupac! Those big round eyes, the flared nostrils, the gleaming white teeth, the nose ring! I saw Tupac in the faces of everyone I looked at: Beggar women holding babies on their hips, shop owners watching fuzzy T.V.’s with their feet kicked up, smirking little kids trying to rip off tourists. Tupac was everywhere!

I am reading a book called ‘Jesus Lived In India.’ It is a wildly scandalous, speculative investigation into the possibility that Jesus survived the crucifixion and went on to live and teach in India. It poses all sorts of interesting questions: Did Jesus really die on the cross? Was he actually smuggled out of the burial cave and taken away to Galilee? Did Jesus live in India?! But I think that the truly pressing question here is one that is much closer to home. Who gives a shit if Jesus lived in India? I think we can all agree that the real question is this: Was Tupac actually an Indian?

I Don’t Get It

Dear Indian Drivers,

Why do you accelerate to breakneck speed when an object appears directly in your path (i.e. a small child, a cow, a rickshaw, a mangy dog, a large truck, a limping invalid), only to slam on the brakes moments later?

Why not just… gradually apply the brakes?

Just curious.

-A Frequently Whiplashed Passenger

Dog Food

All over Asia, hungry dogs abound. They rifle through stinking garbage piles looking for food. They follow you with raised ears and hopeful eyes if you exude any sort of kindness. Their fur is usually matted and sparse, and their bones stick up through their skin. They never have enough to eat, and when they’re not sleeping in a curled up ball, they are searching for food. Here a dog, there a dog, everywhere a hungry dog.

In most places I go, I end up adopting a few dogs. Nothing makes me happier than feeding a hungry dog. The joy I feel when they are finally full and they fall on their sides with their tongues out and happy dog-smiles on their faces is paralleled only by the joy I feel when I splurge on a room with a clean bathroom and a hot-water shower, or perhaps the sight of my clean laundry drying in the sun on a day with a warm, steady breeze.

Whenever I find hungry dogs, I feed them whatever I can get my hands on- milk-soaked crackers, spontaneous omelets from roadside dhabas, and when I’m really lucky, genuine dog food. They go crazy over wet food- chicken and gravy Purina, or the beef and rice variety. They settle for dry dog food- they don’t seem to know what it is. They sniff at it and circle it, and eventually get down to eating.

The other day, I was walking down the road, distributing handfuls of dog food to the hungry dogs I saw. As I got to the last of the bag, I spotted a skinny, frightened-looking dog sniffing around in an alley. I made soft clucking sounds to him, and he came over. I poured the remainder of the dry food on a relatively “clean” patch of the filthy road, and walked on. A moment later, I looked back.

A man had appeared. I thought at first that he was being mean and had deliberately scared the dog off. I went back to rectify the situation. However as I got closer, I noticed him putting something in his mouth. Dog food. He chewed it thoughtfully, and then popped another piece in his mouth. He didn’t look particularly down and out. He was a healthy weight, and had decent clothes on. He held a burning cigarette in his hand. I figured that if he could afford money for cigarettes, he could buy food if he really needed it. I turned around and started walking away.

As I walked, I had a flashback to being five years old. Two of my older cousins had taken me to the basement of their house. They locked the door behind us, and wouldn’t let me out until I had eaten the handful of dog food they proffered me. I was angry and disgusted, although I think it was the idea of eating dog food that bothered me more than the taste of the dog food itself.

As I remembered this, I couldn’t help but feel like something wasn’t right with the situation at hand. That man may have had cigarettes, but he was eating dog food off the street. I turned around, unsure of what I was going to do, but he was gone, and the hungry dog was wolfing down the rest of the food himself.

Pagoda Butterflies

In the patch of land that encircles the small, golden pagoda, tall grass and wildflowers grow. I sit at the edge of this miniature playground, and watch the butterflies flutter by. This is their land. This is where tiny, winged miracles happen. They bring the dancing landscape to life, whirring by in the hot afternoon sun, landing on the choicest flowers and sampling the delicate pollens. Their wings flutter in every imaginable shade- dull gold, soft lavender, flitting yellow, burnt orange. Some butterflies even look like flying zebras, their wings striped black and white. Others look like ruby jewels as their wings slowly open and close while they hypnotically sip the pollen. Have you ever heard the sound of a butterflies wings? It is only possible on a very quiet day, when the wind doesn’t blow, and silence reigns. Fluttering butterfly wings make a sound like papery purring. A tiny, dry vibration, a rolling of invisible proportions. It makes you feel very special to hear it, like you are the only person in the world they have conferred that honor upon.

I sit and I watch the butterfly field, and I suddenly wish I wasn’t so tall. I wish that a magical cake would appear labeled “Eat Me,” and like Alice in Wonderland, I would take every last bite and shrink down to the size of the butterflies. I would skip out across the clovers and bounce and twirl, a new species for them to contend with. I would pinch their wings together, then let them go. I would peer into flowers, and taste the pollen myself. I would have very special, silent conversations with the butterflies, and not have my feelings hurt when they so unexpectedly flitted away. Because butterflies always flit away unexpectedly. But alas, I am large, and I am human, and if I tried to play in the butterfly meadow, my big feet would tromp down the grass and crush the delicate flowers. So I content myself with being an adult-child instead, and I watch the happiness and the transience and the shifting colors, and tuck my knees to my chest, quiet.

(More writing at: http://hubpages.com/profile/sarahtrudeau)

Bodhgaya

(For Drew)

Rising sun like molten lava
Sky the shade of sliced young guava

Delicate spiders weaving webs
Lifting, pulling silken threads

Dragonflies on clotheslines
Pagoda flashing in the sky

Golden spires, tinkling bells
Meditators sit in quiet cells

Malati nestled in the leaves
Like tiny pinwheels in the trees

Fuschia flowers, paper petals
Tomcat crouching in the nettles

Plump ants like ripe blackberries
Cluster together, antennas touching

Crickets hop down sun-bleached paths
And chipmunks rustle in the grass

Purple clematis, winding vines
Like sea anemones, opened wide

Setting sun, a fierce blood orange
Paints the heavens as it burns

A Sunny Day

Baby blue walls
Soft pink
Mosquito net
White paint curling and peeling
Off an old wooden shutter