I want to share a story I never got around to typing from last year. It was the last event of my trip and was to fulfill a promise to JP. He had asked me to volunteer one day with the Sister's of Charity, Mother Theresa's outfit. When I enquired to the organization I thought that they'd have me ladling dal somewhere. Instead I was told that I could help at the House of the Dying.
After learning that I had no useful skills, the sister who I met told me just to hang out with them, to "love them". That's when the journey began I guess. I was chilling in this courtyard with maybe a hundred "dying". Several of them were rather quick to come up and start fondling me. I did my best to put on a smile and be friendly. One guy had down syndrome and really wanted to hold my hand, while he started undressing. I didn't know what to do. Luckily another patient came up and led the guy away. Then some dude covered in small pox or something came up and insisted on being touchy feely. I decided that I couldn't be in too much danger, but this is a ridiculous thought because nowhere in India is safety anyone's concern, let alone someone else's. It quickly dawned on me that other than a PG-13 orgy with the dying that I had no other way to "love them". I didn't speak enough Hindi and they spoke no English. I felt as if it was pointless for me to be there so I apologized to the sister and told her that I think I have gone in over my head, and that I hoped that she (and JP) would understand my predicament.
On the way home I tried to figure out the significance of that event in my life. Inside the House of the Dying, at the center of everyone's attention, I failed to notice, but once I left, it dawned on me that outside that House, everyday India is actually worse. This is no joke or exaggeration. The only qualification that needs to be made is that here the diseased people who approached me did so purely with friendly intentions, unlike the occasional leper that hops up and begins poking you with his nub in an effort to extort money from you on the street.
As I walked in some random direction waiting to stumble upon some dozing auto-walla, I was more aware, for some reason, of all this, what, inhumanity. In those I see sitting or lying in the gutter or at the street's edge I'm taking JP's challenge to meet their gaze, see them as myself, and recognize their suffering. Come here, do that, and then tell me it's their fault that they're so destitute, because I too need a free conscience while I continue to build my estate.
If you spend enough time here you might get used to it, I thought I did, the Indian elite have. And I don't think the middle class even know it exist, that is, the disease, starvation, and who knows what.
I could have begun this blog in the train station before I left for Orissa. I was making my way to the platform, in somewhat sad shape having picked up the revenge again. You know what happens when you drink the water. As I climbed the stairs I see two of Delhi's "finest" standing over a guy obviously in either great pain or none. He was in bad, bad shape. One leg had a severe case of "elephantiasis". It had swollen so quickly that the skin could not keep up, from what I could tell. There were gigantic gashes where the skin had split. They seemed to be bone deep, measuring in inches directly above the shin. The outermost layer, what should have been skin was charred in appearance, dead, rotten, I don't know, and gradually "improved" as you looked deeper, until it became a nice shimmering, bloody red. He lay on the steps, a crumpled mess. The cops were having a heated discussion. I'm guessing because the man was also literally foaming at the mouth, probably bitten by one of the thousands of rats that, like him, call the train station home. The policemen appeared to be trying to figure out what to do with him as he wasn't going anywhere, even if he willed it (assuming he was still alive), and he couldn't remain such a “menace” to those trying to catch trains. I'm sure the last place they would have him taken is to the hospital, as he clearly could not afford treatment. Otherwise he would've had the filariasis treated long ago, and who knows, to comfort some, gotten a haircut…maybe worn something.
The samaritans, the pretty, the privileged (myself included), gauked while passing in a wide arch around but his gaze remained fixed on That.
I still hate myself. Seeing what I see, knowing what I know, what have I done. Nothing. I do nothing. The understanding that I am not a righteous child of Something, not cosmopolitan, and not even civilized, does nothing. In effect, it is hollow hypocrisy. No dignity left--farewell to India.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Orissa
Orissa, like Gujurat, was high on my list because I had hoped to find the India of my imagination, rather than the one that actually is. The state presented me with several obstacles. The relatively deficient tourist infrastructure leads to high priced taxi chartering and such to see the highlights. Being stingy I opted to just chill on the beach with a couple of day trips tossed in.
The first, about 10 days into my stay was to Konark, famous for its sun temple. I wasn't really impressed. Back in the day, before it was a ruin it also happened to be very near the shore. I'm sure it was much better then.
From there I headed to some village I don't know the name of. Traveling a narrow path not much wider than a sidewalk for over 20 km, I passed some spectacular, yet typical Orissan village life. The countryside was either beautiful or absolutely harsh, or both, and it wasn’t even summer here. I eventually found myself on the outer limits of one such village. It’s moments like these, when you've just put yourself through hell on Indian public transportation and step into silence and the 16th century, that you know why someone comes here.
Puri, the seaside village where I spent a vast majority of my time, just studying, working out, eating okay, and getting some sun, was a good place to both recuperate from too much time in Delhi and also rest for the upcoming trip through UP, Bihar, and up to Sikkim. The people were great and even the most poor seemed to know English, which is unusual in India. It opened a new world to me, being able to communicate with them and develop friendships over my two weeks there. I won't bore you with details but the conversations ranged from the day to day difficulties endured by the small-time chai-walla on the street, whose hygiene was terrifying but whose personality was great, to the inside scoop, from a woman no less, on who's sleeping with who. Fascinating stuff.
Something I don't wanna forget is the discussion I had at the above mentioned chai stand with a neighboring businessman. There was some westerner wandering the town whose gender was questionable. I mean, she was a giant. Bigger than me, housin, and yet had bigger "things" than most women. Her gait, her posture, her face, everything about her said she wasn't a female, except her clothes and "things". This other shop owner, after she had passed, asked me, "Is that a man or a woman?" I had to laugh because I was struggling to figure it out myself. In LA its normal, but here, and not hijra? I told him I think it’s a she. He said, "But he looks like a man." I agreed, but insisted she be considered a woman. He said, "I will ask when he comes back." I was cracking up, and told him that probably wasn't a good idea, but he wanted to know why. So I tried to explain that in our society such an intrusive question could be very offensive. He replied, in all sincerity, "But I need to know. How am I supposed to call him to my shop? Sir? Maam? It is a problem." Is that shit funny or did you have to be there?
I had made plans to wake early the next day and go explore the old city. I had heard that it was quite special. As luck would have it I woke about 4:30 am. It was the day after India's last cricket match. I had gone to bed before the game ended, and at this hour everyone was of course still sleeping, and I was locked in the hotel. I prodded the dude sleeping near the door. He kind of woke up and said "fuck India". I understood then that they had lost, and that he wasn't awake yet. Eventually I got the key.
I set out in search of some supposedly famous place of Krishna worship but never found it. I did manage to happen upon a cremation ground and my rickshaw-walla arranged for me to take some photos. I was so close to the heat that even at 6 am I was sweating like Delhi in July. I don't know. Somehow these images aren't the same once you've experienced it before. I hung my head equally in respect and shame as I departed.
On my way out of Puri I passed the village of Dhauri or something. Here Asoka placed an edict announcing his acceptance of Buddhist principles and encouraging the people here to also adopt dhamma, or non-violence and righteousness and etc., as their way of life. I think he stopped short of crediting his destruction of these people as instrumental in his conversion, and later Buddhists are said to have embellished the story to propagate the teaching. This is not to diminish Asoka's sincerity or anything.
The first, about 10 days into my stay was to Konark, famous for its sun temple. I wasn't really impressed. Back in the day, before it was a ruin it also happened to be very near the shore. I'm sure it was much better then.
From there I headed to some village I don't know the name of. Traveling a narrow path not much wider than a sidewalk for over 20 km, I passed some spectacular, yet typical Orissan village life. The countryside was either beautiful or absolutely harsh, or both, and it wasn’t even summer here. I eventually found myself on the outer limits of one such village. It’s moments like these, when you've just put yourself through hell on Indian public transportation and step into silence and the 16th century, that you know why someone comes here.
Puri, the seaside village where I spent a vast majority of my time, just studying, working out, eating okay, and getting some sun, was a good place to both recuperate from too much time in Delhi and also rest for the upcoming trip through UP, Bihar, and up to Sikkim. The people were great and even the most poor seemed to know English, which is unusual in India. It opened a new world to me, being able to communicate with them and develop friendships over my two weeks there. I won't bore you with details but the conversations ranged from the day to day difficulties endured by the small-time chai-walla on the street, whose hygiene was terrifying but whose personality was great, to the inside scoop, from a woman no less, on who's sleeping with who. Fascinating stuff.
Something I don't wanna forget is the discussion I had at the above mentioned chai stand with a neighboring businessman. There was some westerner wandering the town whose gender was questionable. I mean, she was a giant. Bigger than me, housin, and yet had bigger "things" than most women. Her gait, her posture, her face, everything about her said she wasn't a female, except her clothes and "things". This other shop owner, after she had passed, asked me, "Is that a man or a woman?" I had to laugh because I was struggling to figure it out myself. In LA its normal, but here, and not hijra? I told him I think it’s a she. He said, "But he looks like a man." I agreed, but insisted she be considered a woman. He said, "I will ask when he comes back." I was cracking up, and told him that probably wasn't a good idea, but he wanted to know why. So I tried to explain that in our society such an intrusive question could be very offensive. He replied, in all sincerity, "But I need to know. How am I supposed to call him to my shop? Sir? Maam? It is a problem." Is that shit funny or did you have to be there?
I had made plans to wake early the next day and go explore the old city. I had heard that it was quite special. As luck would have it I woke about 4:30 am. It was the day after India's last cricket match. I had gone to bed before the game ended, and at this hour everyone was of course still sleeping, and I was locked in the hotel. I prodded the dude sleeping near the door. He kind of woke up and said "fuck India". I understood then that they had lost, and that he wasn't awake yet. Eventually I got the key.
I set out in search of some supposedly famous place of Krishna worship but never found it. I did manage to happen upon a cremation ground and my rickshaw-walla arranged for me to take some photos. I was so close to the heat that even at 6 am I was sweating like Delhi in July. I don't know. Somehow these images aren't the same once you've experienced it before. I hung my head equally in respect and shame as I departed.
On my way out of Puri I passed the village of Dhauri or something. Here Asoka placed an edict announcing his acceptance of Buddhist principles and encouraging the people here to also adopt dhamma, or non-violence and righteousness and etc., as their way of life. I think he stopped short of crediting his destruction of these people as instrumental in his conversion, and later Buddhists are said to have embellished the story to propagate the teaching. This is not to diminish Asoka's sincerity or anything.
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