Photos [courtesy of Philip Kaufmann]

Heather in the recording studio.


Indian wedding. Back-up singers. Heather in custom saree.


Indian Pop star Mika.


Mika's concert, John is visible beneath the neck of the bass guitar, sort of.



Daler Mehndi's family at his "farm house". Note "Dancing Daler" doll on mantle above fake fireplace.


John and Shamsher Mehndi practicing on the roof in Delhi.


John and Shamsher.


Shamsher's concert. John on drum kit and wedding chair. Fog machine. ?

Abecedarian of Noises

-Animals: all kinds. Cats fighting, dogs mating, cows bellowing.
-Birdsong from the mango tree.
-Cloven-hoofbeats--cows, goats, pigs exploring the garbage pile; herds of water buffalo headed to the river.
-Drums (marching band style) from the school across the street.
-Eagles trilling down from their nest in the mobile phone tower.
-Fire crackers. Sometimes deafening. Usually reserved for holidays.
-Generators rumbling when the power is out.
-Horns of buses and trucks in the distance.
-Insects humming in the evening hours.
-Jangling bells of bicycles.
-Kitchen clatterings: knife on stone, bowl in sink, etc.
-Leela sweeping, daily.
-Monkeys playing in the mango and on our balcony, reeking havoc on the vegetation.
-Neighbor coughing.
-Old drummer-beggar, playing at our gate for coins.
-Pidgeons cooing.
-Quarreling jackdaws along the electric wires.
-Rickshaws rattling down our flagstone street.
-Screech of the gate to our compound closing.
-Tabla.... John does practice four hours a day.
-Uulations in the wee hours of morning from the mosque.
-Venders, crying their wares: "falling god, chocolate!" or "aloo-ah-gobi-ah-tamatar-ah-methi-ah-palak-ah-matar...."
-Water-pump--it's high-pitched whine, filling the tank on the roof.
-eXcess water pouring off the roof, when the tank is overfull.
-Yawn-squeak of the petite cat who has adopted us. She feigns boredom; wants milk.
-Zealous brahmin monks, chanting in their monotone from the temple below.

Cycling to Sundarpur

I am trundling myself about town on a rented, ancient little bicycle with a single gear. I feel as though I've unlocked some key to this city that was hidden in plain sight--it used to be that I would feel on foot or in rickshaw that I was holding on for dear life. This feeling was constant until I discovered that the trundle of my creaking steed is the most natural motion of this city.

On my way home one day from Sundarpur, the sun was setting and I saw the most beautiful and crazy curve of a loadbearing brick column. Unmortared, lit from behind by a bare bulb.

"When in imitation Rome, imitate the imitation Romans" - Philip Kaufmann

- "There are only 7 of these cars in all of India and mine is custom-one-of-a-kind-individual! See, two-tone seats!" - Daler Mehndi while driving us around Delhi in his new VW Touareg.

- At my second Indian wedding performance in 4 days, I find myself standing next to the swimming pool with a jumbo prawn in one hand and a 12-year-old whiskey in the other thinking, "Alright, this isn't so bad."

- I leave in 2 hours for Rajasthan to do a couple of concerts with this guy.

- In the van on the way to the first wedding, the back-up singers (4 men in white turbans and tiger-striped shirts) ask Heather and Phil and I to sing a song but all we can come up with is part of "Like a Virgin." Then, when the van goes in reverse and the warning beep plays "Jingle Bells" we simultaneously break into song. Knitted eyebrows meet our hilarious laughter.

Tina, Baby

We wake under my makeshift mosquito net in Daler Mehndy's nephew's humble apartment and recording studio. John sings in a heartfelt falsetto, "Ya think you're good enough for me, boy? You're gonna have to wait and see, boy." I am laughter personified.

We allow ourselves ten minutes for serious composing. John's waking lines make the cut. So, here is what American Tina tells her Punjabi admirer:

Think you're good enough for me?
You're gonna have to wait and see.
You're tellin' me that I'm beautiful,
But what's that mean to me?
You're gonna have to make me want you,
If you wanna get close to me.
You're gonna have to make me need you,
If you know what I mean....

(I'm not sure that I know what she means.... and how do you like the rhymes: me, see, -ful, me, you, me, you, mean?)

So, after breakfast, Manprit arrives. We show him our composition, hum the melody (three notes, total--we add a fourth later on). I am wrinkling my nose. Manprit says "great, sounds good, let's do it." I must still be in denial that I said I would try to compose, sing and record a pop song. After all, my voice has just come back from laryngitis, I still have a sore throat, and green snot is clogging my sinuses all the way to my ears.

Nevertheless, we proceed. John is my coach. He has to keep reminding me that the melody only has four notes--why do I keep adding more? But how does a Spanish folk singer sing a digitized pop song? How not to quaver my voice? Manprit keeps telling me to stop tapping my foot. We pause the session for someone to turn off their car alarm in the parking lot below.

An hour goes by. I am sweating nervous sweat. Finally it is done--the songline, the harmony, both, even though my voice persists in cracking on the last note. "No problem," says Manprit. "I'll cut that part off."

He edits it. It manages to sound vaguely professional--enough that I raise my eyebrows. Manprit promises to send us a copy when the CD comes out.

But let this be my first and last foray into the world of pop music production.....

Bombs, Stars, Buffets

Sorry this has been sparse of late, but things are getting more and more strange.

I was to play drums for Shamsher Mehndi's band for a holiday concert (Dev Deepawali) on a huge floating stage in the Ganges river, but some law offices were bombed the same day (and Varanasi has a thick recent history of terrorist acts) so all public festivities were cancelled. But because of this we were able to have dinner at Daler Mehndi's house in Delhi.

Daler Mehndi is an Indian super star, the most successful and highest paid pop musician in Indian history. He also has the most, uh, outrageous music video I've ever seen. I promise you won't be sorry if you check it out: Tunak Tunak Tun.

Anyway, my Guruji introduced me to Shamsher Mehndi (Daler's older brother, and a pop star in his own right) who invited me to play drums at a high society wedding in Delhi since we weren't able to play together in Varanasi. Heather and Phil and I took the night train to Delhi where we were invited to dinner at Daler Mehndi's house. His house is astounding; the largest of any of the Bollywood stars', it has the requisite pool and gardens and gym and music studio and plenty of baffling Indian Kitsch (photos forthcoming). But it's also a self-sustaining compound with cows and water buffalos and chickens and 100% organic vegetable gardens. Armed guards? yes. Giant guard dogs? yes. Did I lounge around on his bed? yes. Daler was giving a concert in Mumbai so we just ate and sang and played music with his charming family. Hard to imagine an American family this wealthy being so functional!

Then last night I played drums for 700 people at an Indian wedding. So strange. So much food. Shamsher Mehndi wanted me to play rockmroll backbeats underneath his punjabi pop songs. There were 3 other drummers on stage so the pressure was pretty low. Oh and there was a fog machine. It was frustrating to have not touched a drum kit for 4 months and then have to play straight rock and roll for 2 hours. But of course the experience was great. Heather was stunning in a custom-made silk turquoise saree. Phil spent 2 sets of batteries on photos. No exaggeration, there was a food buffet 200 yards long.

We could write dozens of pages about all of this, and maybe we will... Check back soon for photos.

Kuch photos

Heather weaving:



Temple post bulldozer:



Night bugs:



Ganga View:

Tycoon

Heather's been offered a job as sole USA agent for a giant, established silk company. The Queen of Morocco, Scarlett Johanssen, and David Mulford, the US Ambassador to India, all shop there. Their website needs work but can give you an idea (check out the "About - Weaving" section for photos of the crazy looms). Mehta Silk

More to the point, on Tuesday, Heather begins teaching at least 5 Indians (maybe 7) French. They are paying her well. 3 hours per week provides enough to cover all living expenses. Why go home? Oh, yeah, beef jerky.

Allergies in India....

On Tuesday, I discovered that I really am allergic to nuts--

Walking along the ghats after a lovely meal, I start to feel weak. A tingling runs across my skin. My palms and forearms and face become an interesting blotchy red and white. Pounding and heat in my ears. My breathing is compromised. I break out in hives on my wrists, elbow pits, armpits, all pits. I pop two Benadryl and John and I head for the hospital.

In the hospital, a mild and large man informs me that I should keep calm--"one, two days of medicine, you will be okay." There is a sign on the wall in bold stating that all females patients must have complete breast and pelvic exams to be admitted. John and I make eye contact in a silent "my god, what are we in for, anyway?"

To make a long story short--I got to bypass the breast and pelvic exam, was shuttled to a lovely private room (just like a hotel room!), but I never did see a doctor. We were there for over an hour. I was vomiting in the bathroom by the time anyone began to fill out any paperwork. By then, I was feeling better--so we walked out, went down the street, bought a bottle of liquid antihistamines for 85 cents, and walked home. And I did not use my epi-pen, but--I will say that I am so glad that I have it.....

Practice

It's beginning to feel like my day-to-day life has become a strange dichotomy of either preparing for tabla practice (eating as much as possible while resting my arms) or tabla practice itself. And I'm only practicing a few hours per day. Honda, one of my fellow students or gurubhai (lit. guru-brother (you know I feel uncomfortable saying "disciple" with any seriousness)), is from Japan and is in his second year of study with Lacchuji. The first "year" he was only here for lessons for 2 months. So he's essentially in his 4th month of study now and Guruji has him practicing 7 hours per day. He lives in a guesthouse and so must put sound-stifling towels over his drums for the first few hours because his practice starts before dawn. 7 hours. He drinks a lot of coffee and smokes cigarettes. My body is in serious revolt after only 3 hours.

An example of a portion of my practice from last week: Play this 7-second phrase (my second kayada) repeatedly for 90 minutes. This ends up being more of a practice in meditation and focus than anything else. After that of course I'm thrilled to get to the second part of practice because the phrase I have to repeat for 90 minutes is more than 2 minutes long, aaah. See how they getcha!

More on Betel

Sarah asked:
"What's betelnut? Is that what stains the half mile strip of Devon Ave between Western and California [Chicago,IL]?"

Betel nut (Areca Catechu) provides a mildly euphoric stimulating effect. But don't get your hopes up, it's also classified as a human carcinogen, though studies seem to be of low quality and rarely focus only on the nut (it's usually consumed with tobacco, calcium paste to help extract the stimulating alkaloids, and a bunch of flavorings). Strangely, betel nut and the betel leaf it's wrapped in to make Paan are not at all botanically related. Criminy, almost all Indian males of every stripe from homeless richshaw wallas to university professors to court magistrates chew the stuff constantly. It seriously compromises the teeth and gums.

And, yes, as expectorant it stains the streets (walls, toilets, teeth, we've even seen one unlucky dog) an unappetizing shade of red. I had my first and only Paan Masala on Devon Avenue with Phil some years ago.

Scott asked:
"Do you guys know if you can you bring betelnut back to the States or is it verboten hier? Always been curious."

Wiki answered:
"In the United States, betel nut is not a controlled or specially taxed substance and may be found in some Asian grocery stores. However, importation of betel in a form other than whole or carved kernels of nuts can be stopped at the discretion of US Customs officers on the grounds of food, agricultural, or medicinal drug violations. Such actions by Customs are very rare."

Ganga Bath

[John and I have fought over whether to publish this post for a month now.... after small editing and his continued good health, he relents....]



"People do not understand the meaning of Guru Shishya Parampara. It is imperative to serve the Guru with all one's heart. I would sit and massage my guru's feet for hours and when he was happy, he would teach me a new composition." -Kishan Maharaj

We two are not spiritual people. The extents of my spirituality may be outlined by a mild form of superstition, a general and persistent awe of the world about me, and my curiosity in the still-incomprehensible branes of String Theory. John is of a reassuringly similar mind. But India demands recognition of, if not devotion to, its irrefutable spirituality. And if you choose to go deeper into the culture--for example, become a disciple according to old Indian tradition--your guru becomes your unquestionable spiritual adviser. "Do I pray first to my guru or first to my god?" mused Sushiri Mehta, rhetorically. "I pray first to my guru, because it was he who led me to my god." But how can we understand this? The best we can do is respect it as best we know how, and go deeper.

Still, when John's guruji commanded that he bathe in the Ganga River, I argued against it for days. Nevermind that it washes away your sins.

Tuesday we wake. On the roof of a neighboring house we spy perched one peacock and two peahens, sunning themselves. The day is already shimmering with heat. At 8:30AM we are walking, river and sun at our left. We see one incredible creature--it looks like the wild offspring of deer and horse. It is long necked, skittish, with a cropped crest of a mane running down its spine. A small child chased it down the bank and out of sight.

At nine we have reached the Southern-most ghat that we know, upstream from the miles of shit-strewn bank that defines the Eastern border of the city. 500 million people live in the Ganga River basin, and we are somewhere in the midst of these millions. We are downstream from hundreds and hundreds of miles of shit-strewn banks. Then add industrial waste to raw sewage, all of it flowing seaward. But--yes, I know--with one's guruji one mustn't argue; one mustn't lie.

I stand on the steps, five feet up from the water's edge. Sweat is already running down between my breasts and shoulder blades, making my forehead slick. The water is the color of clay and smells like the marsh in my Dad's backyard. John strips to his underwear and wades in. I am still arguing in my head. He wades in up to the neck in this opaque water, then climbs out and tells me that there were tiny fish nibbling at his shins--"if they live here, then I can visit for a minute." In and out, and in the end, he does not dissolve. We go home and John takes a real bath. A few days later, he develops a rather anti-climactic head cold.

I do not admonish guruji when I see him. There are people who drink the Ganga's grey waters every day.

Late at night, crowded street, six children with wooden, shoebox-sized battery packs strapped to their heads. Twin flourescent light tubes protrude 54" straight up from each of the battery packs. The children are walking single file through a festival crowd.

Outside the barbershop, 30 men gather around a 6" black&white TV to catch the cricket match.

Heather greets the baby water buffalo on our street every morning.

I went to the barber, finally. I was terrified, nearly nauseated, but I think he did a good job. Haircuts here end with an amazingly strenuous upper-body massage.

The water we specially ordered smelled terrible and had mosquito larva in it.

We live in a city of 1.2 million people, a city without a public library. The literacy rate here is about 60% at best (strikingly lower for women).

There's also no contemporary dance company in Varanasi, but I think I can do something about that.

Durga Puja (do not read if squeamish!)

On Sunday we were nearly trampled by a giant silver goddess Durga, radiating out silver doilies from her many bloodied palms, and carried on a litter of bamboo poles. Before her went two bicycle carts--one for a wall of speakers, and the other for the massive diesel generator needed to power the speakers and light the silver giantess appropriately. The speakers in turn powered crowds of throbbing teenage boys.

We walked to the river. Other gods set in plaster stood looking out over the water: Ganesh, Shiva, Kali. Men were preparing a way through the boats to the open river, into which the bloody-palmed, silver goddess would plunge.

We walked North to the burning ghat. One month here and I hadn't been there yet--we watched as two bodies were unwrapped of their plastic-golden fineries, reduced to bundles of white cotton. And then the wood was piled, one stack big and one small, both over bright embers left from the last cremations. The families lifted the dead, and placed each on its pyre--knees together hidden inside white cotton, they might have been as big around as my elbows together. That small bundle, she must have been a tiny little lady. More wood is laid on top, and then straw is pushed under; it touches the coals; fires smolder, sputter, take. The smell is woodsmoke, simple. The wind blew it straight into my shawl and mouth and eyes.

We left then, to gaze at the stars (Orion with its flickering-red Beteljuice, Caseopeia, the Seven Sisters) all cupped in an off-center circle of sky, ringed around by haze and light of our city. A temple listed quietly into the Ganga in a pool of flowered malas. In small clusters, men returned from the festivities and all descended to the water. We could hear splashes of them jumping in, swimming a few feet out to the boats, and coming back in, newly absolved of sin.

The bodies were burning when we walked South again to Manikarnika Ghat. The families had left, and the fire tenders were there alone, anonymous with rags wrapped about their heads with only a slit left for their eyes. Flora, narrating--"Oh, see how he is lifting the body--oh, they break the body! See how they break the body! But they must do it; they know how. Now we will see the head...." Flames came, and the cotton that had been untouched now burned, and there was a human head engulfed in flame. "It is our hell," said John. And you could pretend that the figure was wax. But the smell was of flesh, of burning flesh--and the sound was not the sound of wood burning. We stood and watched the shine of the man's face (calm) turn to black and the smell was too much and we wended our way back to the main street and caught rickshaws home to bed.

All Night

Two nights in a row of all-night classical Indian concerts. Some really tremendous music. Heather and I, for reasons neither of us can understand, are designated "Honored Guests" and so have access to the golden eating tent and the golden sleeping tent and the golden tent where my guruji sits surrounded by fawning disciples and bags of spent paan (the man eats betelnuts at an astounding rate).

Both nights the MC calls me up on stage and has me light a 5-part candle the religious significance of which I haven't a clue. The second night, they put a garland of marigolds around me neck and say, "We welcome our honored guest Mr. John. Mr. John is a famous drumist from America." In this case "famous" must mean you play free shows to your friends at little cafes. Cheers. The dying flowers kept my neck surprisingly cool for the entire night.

In Pursuit of a Loom

You may ask--and some of you have--what has Heather been doing while John practices tabla many hours a day?

It is a valid question. One month has gone out of Heather's life in this mad city. But--it is not an easy question to answer. Her days cannot be generalized into any sort of routine. Yesterday afternoon, for example, she spent approximately 30 minutes in three bicycle rickshaws, and somewhere in the range of 200 minutes in autorickshaws (which were stopped twice to allow parades pass--the first elephants and camels Heather has seen on this continent). She was going to meet a man at a silk weaving factory; she was in pursuit of a loom. The man did not, in fact, appear... but it was alright. Heather had tea with his father and brother, and surely she expected that the pursuit would take more than one day. (John is encouraging in this pursuit, to his credit, as a loom surely takes up more space than a drum kit and is far less moveable once in place.....)

(But what one day is here--when one day lasts as it does and you see a whole city in a matter of a few hours from the cramped seat, cramped window of an autorickshaw and you want to remember everything: the man crossing the busiest street with the serenity of a monk pulling hundreds of pounds of cement on his cart; the kela-wallah with his cart bending under two feet of green bananas, bicycle-wheel spokes made from rebar; elephants and camels carrying benevolent rounded men; a statue of the goddess Durga painted silver with bloodied hands.... There were more things. I can't remember anymore. Time lasted forever and after so much it just takes on the color grey.)

Ahem. So Heather is in pursuit of a loom for her home. During the past few weeks, she's been exploring the world of the Benares handloom--specifically, the Jaquard loom. She has visited weavers in the Cantoments, in Sunderpur, in Kojwa, downtown, in Bhadaini. She has sat in showrooms on cushions while men have enthusiastically thrust silk and silver sarees and yards of fine and raw silk at her until she is buried like someone might be buried at the beach in sand. She has been learning Hindi slowly, so that now at least she can read menus and tell small children to bug off. And she has, in pursuit of knowledge on the subject of Benarsi brocade, assembled a rather motley army of teachers about her--most of whom, to her disadvantage, speak Hindi and a very limited amount of English. More on them later.

And now she is going to go and search for a stool and a mop. Because try as she might, she cannot sew with her non-electric sewing machine while standing. And cutting on the clean floor is tricky when the dust settles again twenty minutes after the floor's been swept.

Aloo Alchemy

1. A frighteningly numerous troop of macaques (including many large, aggressive males) have been setting some things straight amongst themselves on our rooftop and balcony. Predawn today, one monkey smashed a large flowerpot on our balcony, a flowerpot which was home to a succulent edible plant of which I can't remember the name and am currently mourning. Our landlord has been shouting "Hi-Ya!" and waving bamboo poles and throwing bricks at these rowdy simians for the last two days. Today he decided he'd better escort his wife and teenage son to the street whenever they leave the house. Heather, sitting on the floor and crocheting plastic bags into tapestries just a few feet from a balcony lined with red-assed monkeys, says, "How does Guruji do it? He teases them! I'm just going to pretend they're not here." Never fear, having read Michael Crichton's "Congo" when I was 9, I'm confident I know how to deal with any primate aggressions. I am not afraid of them. I am not afraid of them. Nope.

2. I had a good dose of maddening Indian bureuacracy today when, in order to purchase a $27 mobile phone (no contract, even, just the phone and a calling card), the shop required a signed affidavit from my landlord, my passport, my Indian tourist visa, and a new passport-sized photo. On my 3rd visit to the shop in 24 hours, the salesman informs me that my signatures on the forms do not match the signature on my passport and so I'd have to go back down the street and have everything photocopied again. I, through taut jaws and pulling a little too hard on my beard, said, "The photos don't match either, sir, so should I hit the barber on my way back?!" And then I killed him. Our new phone number is available via personal email.

3. Heather made potatoes taste exactly like slow-smoked pulled pork. So freakin' good and patently impossible ...

Surprise Concert

I've been asking my Guruji to find me a drum kit (even the university here, one of the top 3 in India, does not have one) and yesterday he finally came through. Sort of. Not really.

A fellow disciple, nicknamed Sony, appeared after my lesson and led me to his apartment which also houses his computer repair business. Sony pulls out his "drum set" which turns out to be an old electronic Roland Octapad. Yeah, I'm very disappointed. I end up giving an hour-long solo concert on this piece of junk (using seriously warped drum sticks) to 15 computer technicians and the majority of the residents of the apartment building. Children dancing, teens filming me on their phones, housewives peering illicitly from behind scarves, fellow tabla students trying to instruct me, "No, no, do Dha Dha Tirikita Dha Dha Tu Na." They wouldn't let me leave, though they were not particularly interested in my jazz playing, "make the Western beats, man! Rock'm'roll!!" So I did a rock'm'roll duet with a guy playing guitar the likes of which I haven't experienced since, oh, my 6th grade talent show. He knew two-and-a-half chords. Maybe. But the crowd completely ate it up and everyone gave me hugs and I ended up laughing more than I have in a long time. But the search for a set of "American drums" continues.

Guesthouse to Studio...

Here transcribed are the directions from our original downtown guesthouse to John's guruji's studio, taken down on our second morning in Varanasi because we would have to get home that day on our own:

Go out of hotel, straight 15 paces, turn left, go 2 paces, turn right, go forty paces, right, 1 pace, left, 16 paces, left, 73 paces, right, 71 paces, left, 9 paces, right, 68 paces, left, 104 paces, right, 12 paces, left, 94 paces, cross main road, 38 paces, right, 42, left, 25, slight right, 6, slight left, 48 paces, left, 13 paces, right, 48, right, 2, turn right and go up the stairs.

Formidable Hopelessness of the Away

- A small girl gripping a goat by the horns and repeatedly and very seriously butting heads with it.

- In the market, someone stole our bottle of water from right beneath our noses. I was fuming for minutes. Had to repeat, "Let it go. Let it go. It's a cheap lesson." The girl [13 years old? Betel-rotten teeth.] who'd just sold us some tomatoes tried to contain her amusement.

- My newest syllabic rhythms compositions: "Followed by redundant Parvati-the-witch formidable hopelessness of the away, there's a rapper named Sticky Fingaz, means he's a thief."

- We're considering turning one wing of our flat into an art gallery with monthly openings by ex-pat artists. Imagine, if you visit us, you can have your own solo show.

- A cow (with dull, small horns, thankfully) rammed Heather today. She's completely fine. "It was like walking into a slow-moving brick wall." But why? I think it likes her.

Kedarnath Jossi Home

Heather/John
c/o Jossi
N. 1/225
Nagwa, Varanasi-221005
Uttar Pradesh, India

We've just moved into our flat. It is enormous for the two of us who have little more than the clothing on our backs, and are loathe to accumulate much before we have to abandon it and return to our homeland. It is owned by a jolly and strange professor of astrology. He had me flip a coin to decide whether we would pay a deposit for the flat: heads, we won. Last night, after I asked for a hammer and his son ran and found me a very imposing rock, he told me, "You have conical nose--it means you have good mind. Your nose like father or mother? Father? Accha... it means you take after your father." John is now scheming to become a professor of astrology as well.

We have spent two days cleaning the cobwebs and dust off of shelves, windowsills, door tops. I've stuffed metal screen in each of the holes in the wall, in hope that the rat droppings will stop accumulating inside of the kitchen cupboards. It's not the first time I've shared kitchen space with a rat. Not even the third time. But you don't get used to verminous circumstances--you just become acutely aware. No one wants even the faintest smell of rat poop hanging about their cooking.

I find comfort in the mango tree that shades our balcony, and in the papaya that dangles its green fruit just beyond arm's reach. This afternoon, we will take chai with our landlady and -lord, both more generous than I could have hoped. Already they have loaned us a stove, a sewing machine, a bed. They've offered a TV, a fridge, a table, a computer. Tonight we will cook our first meal here in Varanasi. Slowly-slowly, this space will become ours. This coming week I will start writing a lesson plan that incorporates my favorite arts with learning the English language. And I will start collecting fabric for my quilting-circle-to-be. And I will meet weavers, finally. And we will make this place our home.

Drums

My custom tabla have been built and delivered. They are beautiful and they sing richly and quickly and sweetly. Bonding with objects is something I'd forgotten about; I used to rub new pens in hopes that we would bond and I wouldn't lose them as quickly. But bonding with tabla is probably a matter of spending thousands of hours practicing...

I found a set of marching drums that I'm contemplating turning into a western-style drum kit. Giant bass drum and several snare drums of assorted sizes. They're ANCIENT and pretty janky, but they harbor serious warmth of tone and phenomenal character. The skins are all, well, real skins and the snares are made out of sinew. Mark Kaylor would go nuts. The problem is the guy wants 9,000 Rupees for the set ($225) which makes them like the most expensive things in all of India. He must have read the excitement on my face. I'm exploring some other channels to see if I can find an actual drum kit, but if not I'm hoping the marching drums are available for rent as the drumming jones are getting serious.

Oh, and we got a flat. It's big so come-on over. And bring a bass drum pedal and some quality chocolate while you're at it.

Blog Notices

- Note the list of links at the top/right. There are many more India photos under the Heather's Photos link.

- Send us the URL's for links you'd like added to our list. If they belong here, we'll add them. Thanks.

- I apologize to readers who have been unsuccessfully trying to post comments for the last couple of days. I have fixed the problem.

Varanasi, Benares, Banaras, Kashi--

Sitting of the banks of the Ganga on a cement bench, under a cement umbrella, the sun sets behind us. This crook of river flows North, before setting out East again. The water is high from rains in the mountains, and the water laps gently halfway up the walls of the bathrooms set into its banks.

The city stretches out North and South like the hollow of a crescent moon. It rises up behind us in sandstone and brick, pungent, earnest, seedy. Electric lines run in lazy droops from one nasty snarl to the next. There is a cockroach for every crevice, and a ficus for every shrine or temple. the alleyways traverse the city like some mad spider's web, barely wide enough for the cows, nevermind the pilgrims, bicycles, motorcycles and -scooters, beggars, hawkers, idle bystanders.

Swifts circle overhead. A devotee, shaved head, bathes in the river, standing on the steps and sumerging himself completely three times in each direction South, West, North, East. Muddy water. A smell wafts up from the water that smells of rot--I remember the bloated-blue body of a goat we saw, caught among the boat lines two days ago--but mostly I smell charcoal burning somewhere else.

The swifts careen helix-style in to roost. A man collects his laundry from where it was drying today, on the top of a neighboring cement umbrella and held in place with bricks. The swifts trill dominates the air.

Discipleship

You wouldn't believe my Guruji. I am only allowed to call him Guruji or else the relationship is over. I can only point my feet in certain directions in his room. I must be absolutely punctual in my visits and phone calls. He has monkey friends. He speaks with them, dances with them, feeds them chickpeas. He takes care of everything for us, what we eat, where we live, what I'm wearing on my back right now... Heather and I have spent many hours with him already, mostly in silence, in his incredible, dark, ancient room. A room that was once utterly luxurious and ornate but seems to have been mouldering for millenia, seems to have housed a great conflagration stoked by fragrant, sooty logs, epochs ago. He hums to himself constantly, hangs his head askew (as if listening to something speaking to him from within his clavicle), and frequently nods "mmmm"s and "um-hmmm"s to himself. Heather: "Do you think he's just constantly hearing and responding to music going on in his head?" Somehow, we both trust him, and like him, very much.

I have only touched the tabla once, the first day, after he said, "I must see your hands." I am waiting for my own drums to be built, under Guruji's supervision: "I feel, just 5-6 days, mmm?" He has appointed us a "boy", a sort of fixer or handler, who is a 45-year-old man named Gopal. Gopal's wife cooks for us and accepts no money. Gopal speaks almost no English but still insists we call his mobile every day. Gopal forces food on us with more vigor than my Ukrainian grandmother.

We were led to Guruji the first day by one of his servants. Guruji was perched, sitting lotus-position, in a neck-height niche in a wall along a ridiculously narrow alley. His mouth distended and redolent with Paan (betelnut), he was dressed in an amazing, skin-like silk kurta that awed Heather. He was surrounded by disciples. He has servants, admirers, disciples everywhere. He is like some wiry Indian Godfather. Every day, when I'm with him, I feel like it's hundreds of years ago. This teaching method, the intense Indian Guru/Disciple method, is nearly dead. Only the old masters still teach this way.


Oh, and on the menu at a restaurant last night: "Chili con Polio"

Persistance, Rationality, Logic

In Dehra Dun, we walk past a line of repairmen, all seated neatly one after the next along the sidewalk. One man is the umbrella repairman. He sits with a paintbucket full of salvaged umbrella parts, patiently working at the ribs of a frail umbrella--one that will break again next week. One that cost at most $1.50, new.

In Mussoorie, I am alone. The entrance to the Hotel Laxmi Palace is grand: marble floors and sparkle and high ceilings, and the whole thing juts off the edge of a cliff. My room is tiny, smudged. A constellation of cigarette burns decorates the wall. The four-inch gap between the bed and the wall is littered with cigarette butts, matts of hair, greasy plastic bags. I turn back the blanket to find a cockroach in its death throes. I fall asleep to the sound of the leaky faucet, tightly cocooned in the sheet I so thankfully brought with me to India. I am already missing John.

I came to Mussoorie to see the mountains--I emerge the next morning into cloud. A man helps me to find an ATM. He then decides that he was my friend, although he can't speak English worth a damn. He does not ask my name; I never ask his--so for simplicity's sake, I'll call him Stupid. Excerpts from our conversation:

"I am married!" I am brandishing my (faux) wedding ring.

"I married too." Pause. "You no married.... please, one coffee?"

"I am married! And no!"

"You no like coffee?"

"I like coffee! I don't like you!"

"No smoke, no coffee, no chai.... you are confused?"

"Not confused! I am angry!"

"You confused? I go back?"

"Not confused! Yes, you go back!"

He brightens. "Not confused? I go bus stand, then I go back."

"No! You go back now!" I stop walking, start gesticulating wildly in the direction I am not headed. I am drawing stares. "Go now! I don't like you!"

"You like me? I like you."

It is impossible.

Walking with fury I cover the mile and a half in record time. Stupid tails me. He boards the bus with me. I do not make room for him to sit next to me. Ridiculously, he buys my bus ticket. I am pleading with the conductor not to accept the money, but I am slower with my wallet, and the man is confused. I am nearly in tears. The man in the seat ahead of me, observing the drama, asks me if I know Stupid. I say no. He asks if I want help--I say yes. He says that if something happens more, he will help.

Calm comes slowly. I think to myself: I do not know my stalker; he does not know me. Better--Stupid does not exist. I do nothing more to acknowledge his existence.

Amazingly, Stupid stays on the bus. He will go to Dehra Dun--a direct, 1-hour bus ride from Mussoorie. By this new route, it will be 8 hours and 3 buses before he arrives. My protector sits in front of me. And I got a free bus ticket. Stupid is taking a dusty, 8-hour journey to be pressed into oblivion by a foreign woman whose name he has not bothered to ask.

We descend through the mountains, passing through white pine, hemlock, weeping willows, apple--rain and fog and dappled sunlight. We pass a construction sight where four men have taken refuge from the rain inside the mouth of a bulldozer.

I disembark alone into Rishikesh dusk. My spirits are high. Cars careen blaringly by. Om sweet Om, as they say.....

Character

Uffe, the Dane, is maybe 50 years old, over 2 meters tall, blonde and blue-eyed, as a good scandinavian should be.

Uffe: I got cut in Delhi and I ALWAYS ask for a new blade but that time, that ONE time, I didn't [points to scar at corner of mouth], so I'll have to be tested when I get home, I mean I could have The AIDS, you never know, the foremost buddhist in america, [he gives unintelligibly murmured name]-

Heather: Who?

Uffe: You know, [unintelligibly murmured name], died of The AIDS but not before infecting 30 of his disciples, 30 of his OWN disciples, like satan he knew he was going down and had to take everyone down with him!

John: I don't think the barber tried to give you The, er, AIDS. You shouldn't think like that about people.

Uffe: No, no, he didn't try to, but his ignorance, in India it's their ignorance, that did. It's like in Africa, millions of orphans, millions, because, you know, they, there they all ... in the huts together and what have you. But it's very much possible I am now sick. Oh, in Thailand and Vietnam the buddhist monks shaving their heads every day, sharing blades, a big problem there. I know about the transmission of these things, you know, my degree, I have a degree in, uh, in, um, well, you know, er, doesn't matter. Ok, I won't talk anymore. I never talk, not even to myself, ha, it's like an over-stuffed closet, you know, it's like a soup in my head sometimes.

Surendra (owner of the guest house): What? You are making a juice?

Uffe: No, not juice, SOUP! Soup, you know, we're all in this soup together, we've all got our finger in the pie...

Good Swim

We swam in the Ganges. We are still alive (and now, purportedly, without sin).

Tomorrow we head to the mindtrip that is Varanasi.

My Guru-to-be and The Monsoon Oven

The level of Heather's compulsion to create baked goods became clear to me when, last week, she built a solar oven (there are no standard ovens here). Hers is a delightful contraption of dark wool, yellow foam, glass, and mirror that I step upon and break sometimes.
Unfortunately, it is the monsoon season and hasn't been all that sunny as of late...

Lachchu (or Lachu, or Lachhu) Maharaj Ji (Right)
Last night, after a wonderful classical Indian music concert, I was talking to one of the amazing musicians and when I mentioned that I will study with Lachhu Maharaj in Varanasi he froze, said "whoa", and then said "Good luck, man."
My teacher for the next week here in Rishikesh is Pankaj Kumar. Pankaj studied with the famous master Kishan Maharaj until "falling in love" with Lachhu after seeing him perform. Pankaj is a magnificent person, a phenomenal musician, technician, and teacher and is known as Lachhu's best-ever student.
Lachhu, however, is 70 years old and, despite flying under the tabla-fame radar, is regarded as the finest tabla player of his generation. I asked Pankaj who else is of Lachhu's caliber and he said no-one. Then he said, "perhaps Zakir Hussain." I trust Pankaj's assessment because he's studied with the likes of Kishan and because I've seen video of Lachhu performing and was utterly undone by his musicianship, facility, and ENERGY. Furthermore, Gopal, our handler in Varanasi, said that when Zakir saw Lachhu play, he ritually degraded himself before Lachhu and addressed him as Guruji.

For Seth

An insect. Bigger than he looks right here. With a really lovely snout.

Coconut Chutney

Take 1/3 c. peanuts (or don't, if allergic... maybe sub in almonds?). If they are not already roasted, you can do so in a dry pan over medium heat. Stir every minute or so. They should begin to crackle, and you can turn the heat down to low--it should take about 15 minutes. Set them aside to cool, and once cool, you can remove the skins.

Roughly chop 1/2 of a fresh coconut (how do you open them in the States? here they just use a little wooden mallet, give the coconut a few sharp raps around the middle, and voi-la), 3 small (very hot!) green chilis, and 1 1/2 inches of ginger. Place peanuts/other nuts, coconut, chilis, and ginger in a blender or food processor. Add the juice of one lemon, 1/2 cup water, and about a teaspoon of salt. Blend. Add water to reach chutney consistency.

In a small small saucepan or large cooking spoon, heat 1 T. oil, 1 dried red chili, and 1 t. dark brown mustard seed. Roast until mustard seeds pop. Add to the chutney.

It will be very spicy, and very good.

Certain Qualities of Heather

The night sky around our house is thickly pointillated with lightning bugs. Trees seem to shimmer. One or two make it into our room each night and Heather finds she must converse with and then warn them: "Oh, hey, little lightning bug! Hi there, lightning bug! Don't get hit by the ceiling fan, little lightning bug. [with increasing intensity] Don't get hit by the fan, lightning bug! STAY AWAY FROM THE FAN, LIGHTNING BUG!!!"

This morning, Heather put every chess piece in the kitchen sink and washed them by hand [see previous post], even cleaning out the gaps in the heads of the, what are they, Bishops? with her thumbnail and then gingerly placed them all out in the sun to dry.

There's a filthy, tick-ridden dog (I actually killed one of its ticks yesterday) at the entrance of the ashram where we do yoga. Heather, pretty damn allergic to dogs, has completely befriended it, scratching his dirty head for minutes each day. "Right hand, I scratched him with my right hand, gotta remember," she says to herself for future handwashing reference.


Heather: [somewhat pained] Now I have to send gifts to EVERYONE!
John: Why?
Heather: Because they'll like it!


John: There's something on your back. Turn around.
Heather: [panicked] Shit. Is it a tick?!! Aaaauuuuggggrrrrhhh! Is it a TICK??!!! Oooooohhhh!!
John: No, it's a piece of wheat germ. It's funny, I'm not that scared of ticks.
Heather: Me neither.


Heather: There are lots of people with more interesting lives than ours.
John: For example?
Heather: Well, say, a janitor...

Fragments

- Our house has two chess sets. Upon opening the first, we found every piece absolutely hairy with mold. The board of the second set is warped to such an extent that rooks topple right over. It is ridiculously humid here. Even the TV has mold on it, honest.

- I've been studying at my new tabla teacher's place for 4 to 6 hours per day. My legs are a bushel of ache. Progress is slow, but I'm being hooked up with tabla master Lachchu Maharaj for study in Varanasi (some of you have, eh hem, seen the video of him playing). To say he's my first choice is putting it mildly. It's probably the equivalent of a novice cellist studying with Yo yo. But such things are possible here. The dollar lubricates all. I'm intimidated, but stoked.

- There is a yoga class conducted every evening at dusk on a rooftop here in Rishikesh. The teachers are 10 years old. The students are between 8 and 10 years old. No body puts them up to this.

- Seems that there is not a single door in all of India that shuts properly.

- The clothing stores have the least flattering mannequins I could ever imagine. They're terrifying and I want to break them.

- We smoosh a few roaches per day and no longer worry about cleaning them up. There are legions of tiny-tiny blonde ants (they remind me too much of head lice) that carry away with remarkable efficiency anything that is dead.

- Private yoga lessons every morning is a luxury I never want to do without. The increase in my flexibility is astounding.

Second Impressions

"Caste, sactioned by the [Bhagavad] Gita with almost propagandist fervour, might be seen as part of the older Indian pragmatism, the 'life' of classical India. It has decayed and ossified with the society, and its corollary, function, has become all: the sweeper's inefficiency and the merchant's short-sighted ruthlessness are inevitable. It is not easy to get candidates for a recently instituted award for brave children. Children do not wish their parents to know that they have risked their lives to save others. It isn't that Indians are especially cowardly or have no admiration for courage. It is that bravery, the willingness to risk one's life, is the function of the soldier and no one else. Indians have been known to go on picnicking on a river bank while a stranger drowned. Every man is an island; each man to his function, his private contract with God. This is the realization of the Gita's selfless action. This is caste. In the beginning a no doubt useful division of labour in a rural society, it has now divorced function from social obligation, position from duties. It is inefficient and destructive; it has created a psychology which will frustrate all improving plans. It has led to the Indian passion for speech-making, for gestures and for symbolic action.

"Symbolic action: tree-planting week (seventy per cent of the trees planted die from lack of attention after the speeches), smallpox eradication week (one central minister is reported to have refused to be vaccinated for religious reasons, and vaccination certificates can be bought for a few shillings from various medical men), anti-fly week (declared in one state before the flies came), children's day (a correct speech by Mr Nehru about children on the front page of the newspaper and on the back page a report that free milk intended for poor chilren had found its way to the Calcutta open market), malaria eradication week (HELP ERADICATE MALARIA daubed, in English, on the walls of illiterate Hindi-speaking villages)."

-p. 79-80, An Area of Darkness, V.S.Naipaul

I joked with John when we first arrived in Delhi that this was the futures. It reminded me of the set of Children of Men. Narrow cars, motorcycles, bicycles, speeding en masse through the streets. Hordes of people everywhere. Gutters filling up with plastic waste because there is no where else to put it. Cement buildings rising up into smog. Rushing, rushing, going nowhere, salesmen in your face, billboards in three languages--

But India is also the past. When walking a few days ago, I saw a small boy, naked, shitting in a river just before it joined the Ganges. Right on a rock, in plain sight. Water will wash the excrement away. Downstream in Haridwar, nightly, pilgrims drink this water by the cupful, water from the Mother Ganges, water that is clean because they cannot imagine it dirty. Because it is sacred. They see the small boy shitting. They see grown men and women shitting straight into the water every day. Still they bathe in its water (Hinduism requires a daily bath), they wash their laundry in it, they drink it, they protest that it is clean.

A Medley

Tabla and weaving have something in common. Both are bound by some meter that is sensed but not quite apparent. Both set my mind spinning and turn me quite speechless.

John playing tabla:




Me in a salwar kamiz, with the homeowners, at the house that we are "borrowing" while they are absent:


And now, Sambhar soup, to eat with the Dosa:
In a medium saucepan, combine:
1 c. arahar dal (yellow lentils), rinsed
1/2 c. chopped pumpkin/winter squash
1 small (Thai) eggplant, chopped roughly
1 carrot, chopped
1 small onion, chopped
1 t. salt
1/2 t. turmeric
1 t. vegetable oil
2 c. water

Cook until the lentils are done. I'm not clear on how long this will take--in a pressure cooker, it takes maybe 20-25 minutes.
When cooked, add 1 T. Sambhar Masala (okay, maybe you can't get Sambhar Masala--I'll look at what's in it next time I have a box handy, but you can use curry powder and garam masala to substitute.) Bring to a boil, then simmer for another 20 minutes.
In the meantime, take:
2-3 T. oil
1 t. mustard seed (the dark brown kind)
1/2 t. cumin
1 dried red chili (or a bit of cayenne powder)
a pinch "hing" powder (okay, this might be hard to find too--look at Wikipedia's definition)
Put these in a small saucepan (or even a very large cooking spoon, over a gas burner), and roast until the mustard seeds begin to pop. Add quickly to Sambhar and cover (or the chili smoke might get to your lungs).
Coconut chutney to follow.....

Portrait of Lalita, and how to make a Dosa

Lalita's flat in Rishikesh is set into a cliff face. Near bird's-eye view of the Ganges a few hundred feet below. Her view of the river and of the green peaks behind it make up for the size of her apartment, which makes a cheap studio in Manhattan seem palatial.

Lalita teaches cooking classes in Rishikesh. She also cuts hair. She waxes legs. She gives masages. Her English is better than that of the average Indian man.

"It was mistake that I am born Indian. I am supposed to be born American, U.K., someplace else."

She is teaching me how to cook a plethora of Indian dishes from North and South--the key, I am finding, is in adding the proper masala. There is meat masala, sambhar masala, chole masala, chai masala.... the list is endless. There are shops with shelves lined with varying hues of masalas.

Lalita is my age. She was born in Varanasi, married at 16 years of age. I don't know the details of their married life, only that the marriage was an arranged one. Maybe he beat her--whatever the case, her voice dripped sarcasm when she told me that "he was such a good husband"--that she had to leave him three years into the marriage. He refused to give her a divorce.

"No problem. We are separated. I will never have another husband, so no problem."

-------------

South Indian Masala Dosa

Part 1:

Take:

200 grams rice (not basmati)
50 grams urd dal (those are is: white lentils with black skins, also called Black Beluga Lentils, apparently)

Place in a bowl together, rinse, cover with plenty of water (they'll absorb a lot) and let them soak overnight.

A few hours before you want to make your dosa, take the softened rice and lentils and run the mixture through a blender or a food processor. Add a tablespoon of sugar. Add water as needed so that the mixture ends up with the consistency of pancake batter.

Part 2:

Boil 2 medium potatoes; remove skins. Mash roughly. In a small fry pan, heat 2-3 tablespoons of oil. Add to this 1-2 t. cumin1/2 t. turmeric, 1 t. salt. Stir for 1 minute, and then add the potatoes and fry for a couple of minutes.

Part 3:

Finely dice about 1/4 cup of red onion.

When ready to cook the dosa, add a teaspoon of salt to the batter, mix it in well, and heat up and oil a large fry pan or griddle. Make the dosa the way you might make a crepe--spread the batter with a spatula, or tilt the pan around to spread it out with gravity. add a few drops of oil to the top, especially to the edges to help with flipping. Flip when ready; spread the potato mixture and sprinkle a little diced onion on top. Ready to eat!

(Sambhar and Coconut Chutney coming later....)

Monsoon Flood

Yesterday, the fattest, heaviest rain I've ever seen. And it came down for hours. Fortunately, I was stuck at my tabla teacher's place and so just practiced and practiced in fugue counterpoint to the raindrops coming in the window and splatting against my back. I ventured home, hoping Heather wasn't worrying too much about me, during a lull in the downpour. The entire mile or so to our hotel is downhill and the streets funnel toward the lone pedestrian bridge. I couldn't believe the water. Thigh-deep and racing downhill, it really was a dangerous river in many places. As I struggled to stay on my feet through the dark brown water, I winced at the thought of all the cow, dog, monkey, and human dung I'd seen covering these streets all week. Cars steaming and stalling-out, drenched hindu pilgrims fighting their way uphill while the fast, heavy, filthy water crested against their chests. One small boy sat on his father's shoulders singing and laughing and absolutely loving the deluge, which made me smile hugely and remember how excited I was whenever our basement flooded when I was a child. A female Japanese tourist passed me, her face, near tears, showing utter despair and disgust, her dress hiked up as high as was decent. I smiled at her, too, glad that I'm not as obsessed about cleanliness. That said, I did take a long shower immediately upon my return, shuddering occasionally.

Home Sweet

Our yoga teacher also happens to be the care-taker of his ashram's shrine / medicinal plant garden which is nestled in a gorgeous forest on the edge of town. He is a sweet man, very talkative, with an advanced degree in Chemistry that he seems to have renounced in order to live a life of solitude and contemplation in the forest. He (we still don't know his name, somehow) invited us to his home (the shrine/med. garden) for lunch. It is an amazing spot: old stone walls and outbuildings beside a clear river, bright moss everywhere, birds and moths. The whole thing feels like a Japanese garden. Over lunch (a spicy South Indian biryani of eggplant, beans, and tomatoes served on the ground on fresh-cut banana leaves) we talked about a crazy range of subjects. Strange to find a monk living in a forest who is able to lithely discuss equations of quantum physics, contemporary politics, and financial planning while relating it all to his spiritual path. He is utterly accepting of our non-spirituality and said even tabla playing can be suitable worship. He has promised us a hike up to a shrine several thousand feet above the city where, on a clear day, we will easily be able to see the snow-chapeau'd Himalayas very near by.

What's more, he found us a house. And we can stay for free! Tomorrow we move into a nice house (with a kitchen, I smell Himalayan apple pie already!) on the edge of town, surrounded by rice paddies and cinderblock school rooms. We'll have it to ourselves, since the owner (a 70-year old ex-mining engineer married to a woman who can't be more than 35) will be going out of town for the next 10 days. Serendipity-doo-dah. All we have to do in exchange is sweep out the meditation room and light incense each morning for Shiva or Krishna or whomever. Oh, and we had to tell him we were married. Which feels funny. 'Cuz we're not, ya know.

Today, I saw wild peacocks and the tiniest frogs ever. I realized I was spoiled by my American tabla lessons (the Indian teaching style seems rather laissez-faire, so far, and my teacher here is young and proud), but I'm making progress and can practice on a shitty pair of tabla whenever I want for free. Overall, very, very good things seem to be happening to us; I blame Heather. I hope we don't get too attached to Rishikesh, since gritty Varanasi is only a few weeks away...

Pictures

To look at more images, go to my Flickr page here.

And a few images for the blog.....

Haridwar, the Aarti ceremony on the Ganges:


Rishikesh, footbridge over the Ganges:


Just outside of Rishikesh, John and I explore a waterfall:

Morning Window-scape

The window of our hotel room in Lachsman Jula faces North. We look out through screen and criss-crossed ironwork onto a small balcony with more criss-crossed ironwork. Every day around the same time, a boy bangs our windows closed so that he can get by. He pours water along the balcony and sweeps it away with the dirt that has collected. Always there is the same amount of dirt. We open the windows again later.

Beyond the balcony there is a cement wall. Moss grows on it in streaks of frozen rain. The bottom is dark with damp seeping up.

There are buildings in the distance rising against a grey sky. A sign for the Jaipur Inn. A sign for Western Union. There is laundry strung up between a tree and a window ledge.

In this place everything slants toward the river. From the window that means that the land runs down to the left, or Westward. Flat surfaces are mostly man made: our own floor; the cement steps beyond the green-streaked wall; the street below.

Heather writes John: Moments from 20/8/07

John lying on his stomach at a slight diagonal across the foot of the bed: it is morning. He is basking in the breeze from our ceiling fan.

John walking ahead of me, in shirt and pants I built for him: we have learned to slow our gait for the heat. Whenever his shirt flutters against his back, the silk is instantly sweat-soaked darker.

John defending our mangos against theif-monkeys: I yell; he swings with the umbrella, after one monkey has ripped the plastic bag and spilled them over the cement. The umbrella hits the monkey hard enough to bend its top--the monkey recovers fast enough to pick up a mango and run. We recover the rest.

"It's strange hitting a monkey. Almost like hitting a person."

John sitting behind me, watching me try and fail to upload photos at an internet cafe: I am sinking into my frustration. Everytime I turn to him he smiles back at my sour-lime face.

John catching my finger on one of the pendulum swings of my arm: this is the edge of the bravery of our public affections in India.

John walking alone to his first tabla lesson in India: I imagine him--he leads with his chest.

John returning 'home': he searches my face for any sour-lime residue. We get to talking of dinner--

"I'm afraid Little Italy is going to be ninety-rupee ponies..."

--we dream up five million-dollar ideas. Then we go.

John at my right side: Who falls asleep first? Maybe me. I see his silhouette breathing against light filtered through the curtained window.

People: Two Encounters with Sadhus

[The setting is Rishikesh, India, where the Ganges River leaves the Himalayas for the lowlands and meanders toward the sea.]

Scene 1

[We are returning to town from a swimming excursion at a nearby waterfall. John, myself, and German girl sit in the back seat; the driver and a barefoot Indian man with long, graying dreadlocks sit in front. The man is tall, with a striking face. His clothing flows on him, color of saffron.]

(After some minutes of silence.)

John: Sir, are you a sadhu?

Both driver and Sadhu: Yes.

Sadhu: I think you understand more than they. (he gestures at myself and the German.)

John: (pause) Are you going to Haridwar for the Khumb Mela?

Sadhu: Yes.

John: In 2010?

Sadhu: Yes. We have to wait for the time.

John: (after a pause) Is it true that most sadhus smoke hashish?

Sadhu: (shaking head, becomes reticent) Sorry.

John: Ap ka nam kya he?

Sadhu: Oh! Ap ka nam kya he?! (begins speaking Hindi quickly and furiously)

John: I don't understand.

Sadhu: (continues in Hindi)

John: I don't understand.

Sadhu: You don't understand? You don't understand? Why do you speak of Hindu things when you don't speak Hindi?

John: (pause) Where did you learn English so well?

(Sadhu turns away, does not respond.)

Scene 2

[On the West bank, cement steps lead down to an 84-year-old footbridge strung 450 feet across the muddy and swollen water. Darkness is recently fallen.]

(John ascends the steps; a sadhu stands at the top. He is a tiny man, maybe reaching five feet. He has the frailty of a scarecrow; his bones seem like bird bones. He sways to a faint breeze. A stronger wind would whisk him away.)

John: Namaste.

Sadhu: Ah! Namaste!

(The sadhu puts his hands in prayer position and bows vigorously, beaming.)

John: (points to himself) America.

Sadhu: Ah! Rajastan!

(They stand awkwardly and watch the Ganges swirl past under the lamplight. John is searching for any avenue that might lead to common ground. Minutes pass. The sadhu continues to smile.)

John: (pointing at river) Ma Ganga.

Sadhu: Ah, Ma Ganga! (Smiling and clasping his hands, he wobbles his head in the universal Indian sign of yes, no, maybe, okay, good, etc.)

[Lights out.]

On Difficulty

Difficulty and discipline—the trouble is defining them to start. What is the root of difficulty? Discipline is from learning, which takes effort, which is inherently difficult. It is working counter to entropy.

I arrived in Ghana already five years ago. I think I wanted to break myself—not melodramatically—open my eyes wider, hyperextend my mind. In the end, what can I say? It was difficult: I grew. That year left deep and clear impressions on me. I was humbled. I worked hard, I sweated hard—but.

I confess that I devoured books. If anyone has time enough to finish War and Peace in two weeks, her life must be called a life of leisure.

These next months will be hard. We will be lonely; we will be frustrated; we will be sick; we will sweat and work hard. Our brains will be constantly overloaded with the newness and strangeness of this brief home.

Toil and hardship remain foreign to my experience. Difficulty is of our own choosing--has always been. A difficult life is utterly different than difficult music, difficult writing, difficult art.

Here, a thought problem: a child is born and raised in the wealthy suburbs of Chicago or Detroit; at age ten, he or she moves to the overwhelming neighborhood of Pahar Ganj in New Delhi. Another child is born in Pahar Ganj, and moves at the same age to a wealthy suburb in the States. For whom will the transition be the most difficult?

Rishikesh: Flora/Fauna.

This afternoon, we stopped dead in our tracks upon seeing an enormous fruit bat hanging upside-down from some very low powerlines. "So strange to see one like that in the daytime," Heather said, knowing these bats from her time in Ghana. I was thrilled to see one. We walked right below it and realized that its body was touching two wires; electrocuted. Next to this corpse were a set of identical feet, still gripping the wire, but stripped of their body. These powerlines are like a perfect fruit bat trap.

Not 100 yards away from the bat-circuit we came upon a half-dozen bicolor crows, one of which was pulling matter from deep within the eyesocket of a just-dead calf. And immediately around the corner, a dog eating another dog. Gleaming ribs and a strange pinkness peeking out from beneath the mottled brown coat. I made some comment about this spot being death-alley. Then, at a small, open-air cafe (which somehow felt more like an opium den) hidden in wet jungle, Heather came a fraction of an inch from consuming a deep-fried cockroach which was attached to the bottom of her veggie pakora. "Don't make that face," I said, realizing something was wrong with her food. "What would make me make this face?" she said, near retch. "A hair? Nuts?" I guessed. "Worse."

But the rest of Rishikesh is very lovely, really. I swear. We had 2 hours of private yoga this morning for $2.50, the mountains are incredible, the heat is tolerable, the mosquitoes are minimal, there's great food and wonderful people. I'm holding out for a glimpse of the rare gangetic dolphin. Hard to believe dolphins live in this river.

Haridwar: Landscape

4-hour train ride north to Haridwar. Fecundity everywhere. Swamps and forests and acres of fetid slums surrounded by colorful garbage. Haridwar itself is a holy city (no alcohol, huge ceremonies on the river every night) in the foothills where the sacred river, Ma Ganga, first leaves the Himalayas. We glimpsed the chai-colored waters from a lovely cable-car ride up to a shrine. It is a beautiful river made swollen and roiling by the monsoon (heaviest rain in 30 years, we were told this morning). The mountains, too, are beautiful; Jungly, steep-sloped, peppered with red-faced/arsed macaque monkeys, and given incredible depth by the ubiquitous mists. Below, the river bank supports a 100ft. tall statue of Shiva which is far more disarming (ha) than I expected. There is also a human-size statue of the figure Mother Ganga on the bank which, due to the floods, is neck-deep and cutting a white wake in the dun water. Utterly startling. And a surreal parallel to the dead, white hog which had run aground in the center of the creek that feeds the Ganges.

When I wrote poems more regularly, I remember longing for such intense imagery in the world around me. Now it's overwhelming. On walking back to our hotel from the evening's riverside fire ceremonies (Aarti), I experienced sensory overload to a degree I never thought possible. Imagine thousands of people streaming down a narrow, shit-paved street in the rain. The street lights go out for minutes at a time and there are cars, scooters, moto-and-bike rickshaws, buses and trucks (many with no lights) blaring their horns at you as they speed through the crowd. Hawkers on their stalls calling for you to buy this bag of decorated coconuts or this glow-in-the-dark helicopter (it really flies!). Dozens and dozens of men stopping in their tracks to ogle your lovely, rain-soaked girlfriend. A group of men restraining a screaming woman and then dragging her down the street and forcing her into a rickshaw. Begging children and begging holy men and mosquitoes and the crowd pushing you through the area where you saw people defecating this morning and you are wearing sandals. Sleep comes easily.

New Delhi: Flora and Fauna

Today they flew kites in Delhi. By the thousand. We noticed them at breakfast, and the numbers seemed to multiply each time we glanced up. They're cheaper than fireworks, after all, to celebrate the Independence. Pigeons flew low to the rooftops; how do they miss the invisible, cutting threads? Intrepid birds. An eagle circled, confused by the myriad false prey.

When we reached the Red Fort, the ceremonies were finished, but hundreds of Indian eagles remained, circling high above the fort and its empty lawns. "Maybe they're here because there are no kites flying," said John. We walked East, towards the river, past thriving ficuses, trees that resembled cottonwood, trees that resembled white walnut. One tree dangled its flowers down to us from its branches on long stems. I don't know tree names here. For all I know, they haven't names in English anyway--so.

We crossed over the Yamuna River today before catching a motor rickshaw back to Pahar Ganj. I thought we'd left the egrets back in Maine, but here they are, too, fishing in the floodplain turned marsh by the monsoon. Nearby, a half dozen water buffalo stood motionless in neck-deep water. A horse with hollowed ribs picked its way along the bank lined with rubble, pulling behind a man in a cart.

Life is roiling and teeming here. We picked our way back to our hotel, past people and cows and sleeping dogs, dirt and smells of incense and urine and spice. And tonight, the pigeons nesting outside of our window will coo me to sleep.

Independence Day, Delhi: People

Begging child performers swept through Paharganj today. They are very small (in need of better nourishment?), dark, filthy, brazen, and somehow very beautiful. We were walking down the scorching street when, practically beneath my feet, a barefoot 4-year old girl began turning inhuman flips (ala Slinky) while contorting and pulling her entire body through the hoop created by one of her tiny hands clutching one of her tiny legs. It did not look real. Her 6-year old brother, sporting a fake moustache, accompanied her with his exquisitely raw and remarkable drumming. Their act was utterly amazing and stunk of exploitation. As they tugged on my pants pleading for rupees, I scanned the busy street for someone who might be putting them up to this, their "beggarmaster".

I suppose the roots of circus, public spectacle, and perhaps all performance arts are thusly tangled in money (ah, the children have just now performed their act again outside the glass door of this air conditioned internet cafe, waving forlornly at any one of us who makes the mistake of glancing their way, such ludicrous juxtapositions here). Over the past decade, I've watched myself attempt to eschew any commodification of my arts. I've held to the notion that any art driven by money rather than valid experience and transformation (of audience, artist, media...) is no art at all. The result for me thus far? Confusion, relative poverty, and baskets upon baskets of joy. But then, joy doesn't fill my stomach with food, and sometimes I wonder if my ego is my beggarmaster.

A few parting notes:

Uh, where are all the women? I swear there must be 10 Indian men for every woman on the street.

In celebration of Independence day, fully grown men have been gleefully flying kites (thousands & thousands of kites) from rooftops all across the city today. Incredible.

Outside the fenced-off Independence day festivities at the massive Red Fort, we were standing in a crowd of people when everyone ran in absolute terror from a lone, approaching police motorcycle. Scary and strange.

Paharganj, Delhi, Day 1

Hotel Namaskar ($12/night) synopsis: I had to urinate in the middle of the night and was forced to dance to keep the tiny bathroom roaches from climbing my legs. Alternately, Heather kept the light off while she peed; smart. In and out of sleep the rest of the night, I admired the highly metered and continuous stutter-step of what I thought was a large cow walking back and forth past our window (Heather thought it was the faucet dripping loudly). Turns out it was just our ceiling fan knocking romantically against its housing.

Obviously, it is insanely hot here. Less obviously, we watched petite and gorgeous urban eagles fly and preen themselves from our Nepali rooftop breakfast cafe.

Overheard in a miniscule subterranean cafe this afternoon: "Paharganj is the shithole of Delhi." Yep, but we really like it.