Last Days in McLeodganj/Dharamsala

---

August 29, 2008 McLeodganj/Dharamsala

Namaste Everyone!

Well it seems the monsoon has subsided and that the new season is upon us here. The locals all know that shortly after Lord Krishna’s birthday, which was about 5 days ago, the monsoon ends. It hasn’t rained during the day for two days now; this is a good sign. I have been having some interesting and moving experiences which always seem to spring up out of nowhere.

I have been going to yoga class at Guerilla Yoga, which is just below my guesthouse here. Guerilla is a name I was not so hip on, but after reading the manifesto, based on Che Guevara, I appreciated the name. Since everything really is a paradox…I figured why not. One morning, no students showed up, so the teacher and I decided to chat. He is a young guy, 19 and so soulful. His whole being emanates kindness, compassion and old wisdom contained in his boyish vessel. His yoga ability in asanas (postures) is amazing…he can do pretzel-like postures I only dream of. The little show-off! Anyways, he invited me that afternoon to go to Dharamsala so he could show me his town temple and to meet his family. Of course I was up for the adventure.

Before we left, the owner of the yoga studio’s mother came in and we had an amazing connection that could have only been fate. Her name is Pretty and she is a woman in her 60’s. Well it turns out our beings had crossed paths in so many ways previous to India. Although perhaps not mindblowing to those reading this blog, the uncanny connection is nothing short of cosmic intervention. It turns out, that she just came back from White Rock where she was visiting her daughter who literally lives up the road from my mom! Her son, who owns the yoga studio’s name is Raj, and get this…we got talking about the villages in the Punjab and it turns out her husband is from Buddhipind!…the village my father was born in! Now if anyone knows the size of these villages and the number of villages, this is absolutely a miracle. So instantly of course, it was like family. We chatted about White Rock and the area, and her grandkids who go to White Rock Elementary and many, many things. It’s really amazing to feel the smallness of the world. Her husband has passed away and she is now settling here in Dharamsala where her son and his girlfriend from California run the Guerilla yoga studio and a Himalaya exploring company. This was the start of an emotional day.

Later, Omshankar and I stopped at his father’s “business” to have a bite to eat. Omshankar’s father has a tiny little table he sets up outside the bus station where he earns a very meek wage selling chickpea sandwiches. Om told me this is what his grandfather did and that he was suppose to take on this business soon, but wanted to better himself and change his life. He wants to have his own yoga studio and become a great yoga teacher…he is well on his way. Omshankar’s father would not accept any money for the sandwich we had. Indians are so generous despite their subsistence living. We then caught a shared jeep…a kind of shuttle between McLeodganj and Dharamsala. The jeeps cram people in until there is literally not an inch to spare. I sat in the front with the driver and two others. Four in a front seat meant for two is a tad uncomfortable, but this is common and expected. People are tiny here. I feel like an Amazonian. Personal space here is very different than in North America. Because of the number of people and to be economical about things, packing things in, maximizing, and reusing everything is the norm. There are numerous small businesses that specialize in fixing everything from a broken umbrella, to a broken sandal to a broken DVD player. This society does not throw anything away before a HUGE attempt has been made to fix or repair it. It is so refreshing to see that the disposable society we come from is not present here…it cannot possibly be and it’s a darn good thing. Fixing things employs people, protects the environment and of course the value of spending hard earned money on an item is highly respected.

Anyways, I followed Om up some stairs from the main street to his family’s “house” as Om calls it. We entered a one room, low ceiling damp, dark living space. I did not show my shock, but, the whole time I was hit by a wave of emotion regarding the living conditions. I cannot even begin to describe the environment except to say that I would have a hard time allowing any living being to occupy that space. Imagine the oldest home you can think of say circa 1900, then imagine a room in that house situated underground, with concrete walls much like a cellar, with a dirt and rock floor. Imagine then the smell- musty, dirty, moldy and the lack of light. The walls are semi-painted but mostly they are filthy with dirt. In the room are two beds, one for males and one for the females. I sat on a bed and accepted a glass of chai from a sister. The bed had no mattress and was merely as thick as a sleeping bag perhaps. Seven, yes, 7 people share the room. Three females and 4 males. Around the room, there are some personal belongings like a sewing machine, clothes hanging from a rope, some suitcases and some trophies the daughters won in school. Om said without hesitation that he preferred to sleep outside under the overhang on a lawnchair-like cot. Off to the side was a small enclave with a half-door which was the kitchen…a few pots, cups, plates and a two element gas hotplate. Sadly, on the bed across from where I sat lay Omshankar’s grandfather. He wore a traditional dhoti (like Gandhi’s attire) and was curled up in a fetal position. I could hear his laboured breath as he rested quite ill I was told. His fragile and frail body had the sense of death surrounding it. I felt like I was imposing on their private life by sitting on the bed and by being a stranger witnessing the old man’s condition. This was absolutely not the case. Again, individual privacy is not really craved here nor is it possible. In Om’s home, I met his mother, sisters, aunt, grandfather (after he found the energy to sit up) and his older brother. All of the family seemed happy and content and despite their living conditions, they were all impeccably groomed and nicely dressed in beautiful salwar kameezes or pressed pants and shirts. Through the entire visit, so many thoughts and emotions ran through my mind. I felt everything from compassion to sorrow to guilt. I was hit with so many thoughts of how unhealthy it must be to live there to my abundance that I am grateful for in Canada. I wanted to take the family for lunch but they declined. So, I took Om for lunch at a nice restaurant in a hotel nearby. We chatted for some time and what struck me as so profound was the fact that Om was proud of his home and was happy to show me where he lived. He has a non-materialistic approach to things that pervades his being. He did say he wants out of his conditions and has the will to change his position; he said he was not going to fall prey to the traditions imposed on him by the caste system. I promised Om that I would help fix his bicycle for him as he needed parts set to him from the USA and has not been able to ride for two years.

I arrived back at my little guesthouse and images and thoughts of Om’s life and the life of millions and millions of Indians kept gnawing at me. I had a cry. I keep thinking of my father and his life as a young boy. I know he came from a similar situation. I am grateful Om took me to his home for it is preparing me to go to my father’s village of which I am a bit afraid to see. I am afraid because I am not too sure I can contain my emotions.

I am heading to Amritsar tomorrow to my Uncle Saroop and Aunt Maina’s place. I am dreading the heat as it is around 38-40 celsius there, but I must make my way. I waited this long also because I heard the Dalai Lama was going to make a public appearance. It turns out, the Dalai Lama was here, but was whisked away to Mumbai to a hospital as he fell ill. No worries, I am glad I got to see him in Vancouver a few years ago.

Til, Later Leila

---