Rascals of India 2

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Carolyn talked a lot about humiliation. These few entries have been a demonstration of that quality. Humiliation is essential if we are to grow a new purpose of living. We take such pride in ourselves as higher beings, as spiritual, as wonderful people, who are misunderstood by others and only occassionally mistreated. We will defend this false self image unto death.

This has been a demonstration of humiliation, and it's not neccessary for anyone to go out of their way to do this too. There are deep humiliations just around the corner, everywhere. Can we learn from them? Can we see where we.

This is the mystery of Humiliation.

So I paid these guys $500 for two machine made carpets--said to be from Kashmir--after they slipped some dark goo in my tea. After awhile I was shouting out, "I'd buy anything from you guys! You're such nice guys!" And so on.

I was out of my gourd there for awhile. And a heavy hangover all the next day from whatever that goo was. Well..that's what happened to me.

So what?

And I will say, the two carpets look rather nice here at the Cottage. They are soft and warm under my toes. It's rare I go on trips and bring back anything at all.

(Okay, now again, to the full unedited version, taking it from "to be continued"....)

OK, so there's this brown GOO in the tea, like a tiny lump of forgetfulness.
And then demands this Q guy, "More tea!"

I'm feeling warm inside. "No thanks, but look, I really like you guys."

Q put his thumb to his chin. "For you, I do something special. You are our friend."

This made me feel pretty good inside.

"It is now the day after Ramadan, and because of this, I must offer to my next customer 50% off. Half off. It is my duty."

50%, I thought. Sounded like Mr. Anger Issues. "I don't know... This is October. Is Ramadan over?" It wasn't but I hadn't figured that out yet.

"More tea, tea!" The boys scattered for another cup. It was by my hand in an instant with the little brown thing at the bottom. I tried to check with my intuition but it was it I'd checked out. Finally, "I like you guys. I'd buy something from you, just because I like you."

"This carpet, hand made silk from Kashmir---see the way the color changes? The carpet! he yelled. Sure enough, the color changed. My eyes were going. He said, again, "$650 US but half off for you, my friend, for Ramadan." Then he stopped and the whole room stopped. He lifted his finger like Mr. Peabody and Bullwinkle. He departed the room. I looked at the boys. They looked at me. It's curious what a photograph reveals. When I took that photograph of them them by the car, I thought they were all smiling. There's something about India, not just with the glow of special cigs and tea, where you don't see the faces but all is felt. I had no idea I was about to be had. In walks Q like an Imam, holding a folded carpet. "This is special, for you. Only you. Kashmir silk!" He slowly unraveled this next work of carpet genius. I didn't even know where Kashmir was, only that Kashmir sweaters from Brooks Brothers were pretty expensive and felt good on the skin. Or maybe that was Alpaca i was thinking about. Where the fuck was Kashmir? And were there a lot of silkworms there, like in China? Q went to his knees in a prayer position with this carpet. I thought he was about to pray. He unfolded it square foot by square foot. "There!"

"Is that from China?" It had six little circles along its length that looked like the Tao Te Ching or something from China.

"China? No, no, no!" I was wrong, evidentally. It was the symbol used by the great Moguls in their inner gardens. I thought of a poem by Rumi that had to do with gardens--a poem I'd been contemplating for a few days, about how a man in rags curls up in ecstasy in a pitched wall, while an emperor walks discontentedly his gardens.

"Oh,yeah, I said, the Moguls. Not the Chinese." I had a carpet from the cottage from a trip I'd made to China with my family in the 1970's, and I could swear it was from China, that round symboly thing the Chinese do. Then I thought of Carolyn Myss's "Energy Anatomy" and "Anatomy of the Spirit," and how there are 6 chakras on the body. "And there are six of these circles, like the chakras."

They all nodded thier heads as if to say, Yes.

Cool, I thought. They know about the chakras. "I'd buy anything from you guys, just because I like you!"

Q, "We are friends. And because it is the day after Ramadan (but it wasn't), he kneeled on the bigger carpet that he'd wanted me to substitute for my Dad's bed and worked it all out on a piece of paper. "For both carpets, only five hundred dollars!"

"Wow, and Kashmir silk?"

They flipped both the carpets, one end, then another, then another. I had been hypnotized. I fumbled for my credit card.

"No, no credit cards. Taxes". They each looked to each other and then to me and they each repeated in different voices, lovely voices all, "Taxes".

Oh. I didn't know what that meant but before I could work it out, they said, "ATM". Each in their own voices, ATM, ATM, ATM, ATM. "Well, great, I have an ATM card right here."

We went outside to the car (pictured above) I got in the front seat, the boys in the back. It was either in my wallet (which I thought I had safely stored in the front pants pocket) or in my necklace wallet, which also had my passport. I tried both. The car wouldn't work. The boys got out and pushed it. It jump started. They rushed back in. I thought to leave my ATM card alone. The car kind of smelled.

Q gunned the accelerator and took a sharp left turn out of the dirtpack lot. We were headed toward Karma Sutraville, but I still didn't know it. I didn't know Karma Sutraville was only sixty yards from the hotel until daylight of the next day. I wasn't sure where we were going. I'd heard stories of American's getting lost in remote places and this was a dark night. Q jammed on the brakes. We were at the ATM. It was about 30 yards away from the shop. I remembered that I still hadn't had my walk.

I regretted not having my walk. I'd started out on one purpose, ended up on another. How we do forget our purpose. Remember, remember, remember.

They opened the car door. It was jammed. I got out. I wasn't sure where we were. We went through a small fenced in area, like a one bedroom apartment patio, and they pointed me to a glass door. I went inside. I closed the glass door.

I felt nervous. What was I doing? Why did I feel so dreamy? I tried one ATM card but it showed no funds. No funds? When travelling to distant lands it's a good idea to call your bank and tell them where you will be, otherwise, they won't release the funds. I tried my other ATM card. I breathed a sigh of relief. I was able to get half the five hundred US dollars out. I thought it was all of it, as I could no longer count in Ruppies in this mood. I turned around, went out the glass door, and counted it out.

Q: "No! It's not enough. Not enough!"

Oh.

I went back in. They followed me. "Excuse me," I told them. I didn't want them to see me putting in my PIN. They each backed away. Then they came forward to see that I was punching in the correct amount of Ruppies.

When I stepped outside into the dusty night, I had the whole five hundred dollars in Ruppies. At this point, a guy in army fatigues drifted toward me with a rifle. I stepped back. He hadn't been on his post, or I hadn't noticed him before. He looked a little sleepy. I found the ATMs well guarded and enclosed, wherever I went in India.

They drove me back to the hotel, past the gate guru, with two carpets in a green and black cloth bag. It was then I took the photo of them by the car as a souvier: James's Muslim friends the day after Ramadan, the day of the great carpet sales. I made no "Namaste" but bowed to them with my hand on my heart. They each kind of made a wave, Q did the hand-on-the-heart thing.

I woke up totally hungover.

The next day, I let the guy selling carpets at the hotel (all the hotels have guys that sell carpets) exclaimed that my carpets were fake! They were not from Kashmir! They were worth a mere three hundred ruppies apiece! I counted that up in my head. "Six dollars??"

I left him with the carpets I was so bummed out. I crawled to the hotel lobby and saw Mr. Anger Issues at the front desk. Our next stop was Varansi, also called, the holy city of Banares. "Five Hundred dollars? I put that up my nose in a night! Just kidding, pal. Go back. Get those carpets back! He'll take them from you for free and sell them himself!" I crawled back to the carpet guy who had by then, wanted me to write out a paragraph in ths book of bad people around town. He wanted to tell the tourists that Q was selling fake Kashmir silk carpets. When he tried to sell me one of his own carpets, I scribbled out my harsh words from his little notebook. I said, No way.

The guy at the next hotel said they were fake too. He said, "SYN-TE-TIC, SYN-TE-TIC," just like the other guy. And just like the other guy, he said he wanted to sell me his carpets too. "No way." All along I thought of the cash. James was tormented. James had wanted to donate about the amount he had spent on the carpets to the people in Pakistan for the Earthquake Relief fund, mercycorps.org. His head was down to his toes, and he was still hung over. Not good for a good mood, even in India.

After we all took a plane ride in a puddle jumper, Carolyn naturally taking potshots and cracks at "Indiana Jones", I took the carpets out of their thin cloth wrapping in the holy city of Benares. I laid them both out on the floor. I would enjoy them, one way or another. Even if to remind me that I'd been had. But they did make the soiled hotel room look warm. Homey. Comfortable.

Bill and Susan happened to walk by when my hotel room door was open. Susan liked them. She said they took the chill out of the room. Bill smiled, said in his gruff voice that those guys back in Karma Sutraville would make a temple to "King James". They would worship it once a year the day after Ramadan. After all, they had money to live on for at least a year.


When they left, I tried my best to justify what Bill had said: Isn't that what we all want, really? After all the good we do for others in this world? To be made important? To belong, which is the same as, to become? To become a some-thing? To have our own temple made to our-"selfs" by other "selfs" we have deemed less fortunate? Anything other than be with what is? Anything other than the pain of being had? Of having been suckered into a precious human birth?

Well, no thank you. Even if James had his choice of temples outside of Karma Sutraville, NO THANK YOU.

Even without the promise of a temple, I had at least five hundred dollars worth of fun! And as Bill and Mr. Anger Issues, and others, had to remind me, we can go to Las Vegas and spend that much, or more, and come back with nothing.

Later that day, the Hindustani boy who cleaned my room in a three piece suit passed me in the hallway and said in a broken English accent, "Very nice carpets".

I beamed, I shined. "Really?"

He nodded.

It was only after the fact that I thought of asking him if he wanted to buy them. But what do I know? Maybe they are silk from Kashmir. And if they are not. And if they are not, ________________.

(FILL IN THE BLANK)

But I will say, they look rather nice here at the Cottage. They are soft and warm under my toes. It's rare I go on trips and bring back anything at all.

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Photos

Asoka Stupa at Sarnath
There is no You, There is only You

FIVE HUNDRED BUCKS LATER
Almost a Prayer Position

Back at the Taj
All is Well

All is Well
Kicked Back with Carolyn