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Published: March 9th 2013
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(I wrote this weeks ago and have been meaning to edit it before posting it. However, I have giving in to the fact that I probably won't find the time to do this. So hear it is in the raw...)
This weekend we went to Mysor, about 5 hours drive from Shanti Bhavan. Much more open than other India cities and towns, the atmosphere felt a bit slowing and more relaxing. Though cars still packed the streets, the wideness of the main streets made the traffic less daunting. A weekend away in a lovely city, with lovely people, eating delicious food and seeing interesting sites: It was a good weekend.
We visited the Mysor Palace, the home of the Maharaja built during British rule. Architecturally the palace was stunning and interesting. Mixing Hindu and Gothic styles it is a building unlike any I have seen. Despite the beauty, I was revisited by this now familiar feeling of discomfort I experience whenever I see such extravagance. When our tour guide told us how many pounds of gold was used to make the Maharaja’s throne, or when he pointed out the ivory inlaid doors, I think he
meant to impress. I just felt sick.
I was interested to learn that most of the palace came from elsewhere. Stained glass from Scotland. Tiles from England. Chandelier from Belgium. Stone from somewhere. Brass from somewhere else. I don’t know why this surprises me. Foreign treasures are a sign of wealth, after all.
Much more I enjoyed going to Devaraja Market, a riot of colors and an scream of smells. Bright powdered pigment. Fruits and vegetables. Spices. Fragrant oils. Persistent shopkeepers asking me where I was from in order to coax me into a purchase. Though I am not good at haggling nor do I ever care to become practiced in the art, I am glad to have found myself in the middle of such a vibrant and bustling and beautiful mess.
That evening we had intended to visit some gardens, apparently beautiful at night. Unfortunately, due to a water dispute, the gardens were closed for the weekend. Instead, we went to temple on top of Chamundi Hill. It was beautiful. Overlooking, the city at sunset I felt I could breathe. The sky was soft, a swirl of purples and pinks. I was visited by another now
familiar feeling, thought this one more pleasant. A feeling of that the world is simultaneously incomprehensibly small and unfathomably huge. When I look at the sky, I feel at home. I am reminded that we all share the blue above us and the earth below. Although I am far from home, it is still the same air and same rock. But big. So, so big. So many steps. So much of this rock I have not, and will not, see. So much air between my lungs and yours.
The morning we went to a nature park. More lovely open air to breath. More beautiful things to see. We took a paddle boat ride in a lovely pond, that I afterwards learned is home to crocodiles. I saw peacocks and other birds of which I still do not know the name.
After lunch, we left Mysor for a small Tibetan village that somehow found itself in Southwest India. The monastery was peaceful. Winding paths through open space. The temples had vaulting ceilings in which the sound of chimes clung to the air. While I appreciated the tranquility of the place I am still baffled and a bit disturbed by
the need for building-tall golden statues.
In my wanderings around the compound, I say many of the young monks. How strange it would be to grow up in a monastery. I suppose not much different than living in Shanti Bhavan. Away from family, living in dormitories, little time unscheduled or alone.
After dinner (for the record, we had gobi Manchurian at every lunch and dinner this weekend, and I am still not tired of it), I sat with Masha waiting for the others to do a bit of shopping. We talked about her leaving. How I dread it, but do not fear it because I know that we will see each other again. We talked about traveling and what the future might hold. Now that I have seen more of the world, I realize how little of it I have scene. How little I know. Now that I have started, I don’t want to stop. I want to see as much as I can. To taste, hear, smell, and try to understand more of this small, gigantic rock. Now that I am moving, it is hard to stop. In our conversation, I realized how awake I had felt
all weekend. I don’t want that feeling to go away.
The drive back was longer than our trip to Mysor, as the Tibetan village was an hour outside of the city in the opposite direction from the school. We pasted the time playing games and chatting, but eventually our conversation would give way to silence as we watched the nightscape zoom past. As the hour grew later, traffic increased. For the first time since being in India, I saw accidents. It was horrible. A man on the side of the road surrounded by a cluster of helping hands. Later, we saw another crowd of people. A bloody man leaning against a knelling figure waiting as another called for help. And then later, a man prostrate on the road a friend or stranger talking to him a motorcycle yards away. I am grateful that every accident we saw was met with by a crowd of good Samaritans. But I ache to think of how long it probably took for medical help to arrive. As I tried to push thoughts of the men’s families from my head, I thought of my own. The distance between us felt larger than it ever
has. Met by the sudden shock and sadness of an accident, all I wanted was to be home. My desire to keep moving was replaced by a longing to be still and to be with the people I love.
Such a hard thing to balance, the desire for new and exciting, and the need for the familiar and beloved. I wrote in a poem, “Sometimes it feels like wings used to be there or will be there. Sometimes it feels like my feet extend into the ground, roots weaving their way deep, to the source of something. Is the answer above or below. Above of below? Below of above?”
Thankful for…
Open spaces
Sunsets
Curbside conversations
Seatbelts
Roots and wings
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