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Published: November 16th 2012
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Buddha Shakyamuni
Beneath this statue at the Mulagandhakuti Vihara are some of the Buddha's relics. On my second day in Bodhgaya, I received the news that, due to an emergency at his monastery in Nepal, Chökyi Nyima Rinpoche would be unable to lead the pilgrimage to the four holy Buddhist sites as planned. I had joined the group primarily for his presence, so I was disappointed to say the least. Then I saw the group I was going to be accompanying and, suddenly, I didn’t want to go anymore.
The group consisted of 30-odd Westerners of all ages, some there merely to experience something new and others on their umpteenth Buddhist pilgrimage. My discomfort had little to do with the individuals of the group, but rather more to do with the group as a whole. For the first time since I had signed up, I realized that I was about to be shuttled around on a big, air-conditioned bus with a flock of foreign tourists for a week. I’ve always likened such groups to cattle drives – and now I was going to be part of one. Why hadn’t I thought of that before?
For the following four days, I thought about it plenty. I came up with every possible excuse to justify my
dropping out: without Rinpoche it wasn’t worth it; it would be more beneficial to stay in Bodhgaya and do more prostrations; the timeframe was too short, and I could do a better job of it all on my own. It was that last excuse that kept coming up over and over again. I’ve always had problems being a team player, preferring to do things in my own way and on my own time. As I’ve gotten older, my mind has hardened around certain preconceived notions of what it means to be part of a group, especially when it comes to traveling. This case was no different. I didn’t want to be one of
them.
It’s an uncomfortable truth that I’m not all too eager to admit, but hopefully through admission it can be overcome. The fact of the matter is that as part of a group of Westerners, I don’t stand out enough. Traveling mostly in countries where the locals look nothing like me, I’ve become accustomed to sticking out like a sore thumb. And, although I’ve never liked being singled out as an outsider, my ego unconsciously thrives on the attention. Even when I’m adopted into a group
Ashoka's Pillar, Sarnath
Among many of the places believed to be the site of the Buddha's first teaching. of “others,” my status as a newcomer marks me as different enough that my ego is subtly fed. Put it in a group of Westerners who look and act just like me and the food source is disrupted. My ego gets hungry and agitated. If only to starve that ego, I had to carry on with the pilgrimage. After all, pilgrimages are all about purification.
It turns out that I’m not the only one who’d had misgivings about continuing on with the pilgrimage without Rinpoche. Half the group dropped out before we left, and a half of those remaining caught sick – including the bus. We’d hardly been on the road five minutes before it broke down. Even fixed, its horn cried out a lamentable and unceasing
whee-o-whee-o-whee-o. Despite its complaints, we spent more time in the bus than anywhere else, traveling hundreds of kilometers between each site. Stopping to eat was an operation that we never managed to accomplish in less than an hour and a half. Finally at each destination, we’d shuffle off the bus, make a quick pass around the ruins, perform a
sadhana (a combination of mantra and meditation), and then get back onto the
bus to start the journey to the next site.
The experience wasn’t at all what I expected. But if I had a dollar for every time I’ve said that, I’d surely be a rich woman. And to say it was unexpected isn’t to say that I didn’t feel incredibly advantaged for the opportunity to be there – I most definitely did. All I want to say is that, while I would have liked for this to be a more informative piece of writing, full of insights and humorous anecdotes, I actually have very little to say. Hopefully, the time restrictions are understood and my dry reporting can be forgiven.
After Bodhgaya, the first stop of the pilgrimage was Sarnath, where the Buddha first taught the Dharma. Five weeks after his enlightenment, he traveled there in search of five of his former companions. Finding them in Deer Park, he instructed them on the Middle Way, the Eightfold Path and the Four Noble Truths. As a result of their understanding, they too became enlightened, and thus established the Sangha of noble disciples. After visiting the temple that houses some of the Buddha’s relics, we went into the nearby city of
Varanasi where we had planned a peaceful boat ride on the Ganges.
Trying to get to the
ghat that led down to the river, however, we got caught in the middle of the Durga immersion ceremony. The last day of the Durga Puja, the effigies of the many-armed goddess are brought to the water’s edge and immersed in a symbolic act of the goddess’s return to her husband Shiva. The idols were transported through the streets in the beds of pick-ups, each carrying a set of speakers that thumped with the force of the bass. Hoards of drunken men followed behind, some menacingly brandishing sticks, others pointing one finger skyward in a movement reminiscent of the days of disco, as they violently thrust their hips in time with the beat.
For women to join in the festivities was out of the question. In a moment of disregard, my shoulders involuntarily started moving with the music. All around me, jaws dropped open and lust throbbed in the eyes above them. As the third pair of fingers closed tight around my right butt cheek, I lost my cool. For the first time in months, I reacted without any thought or
awareness of what I was doing. I spun on my heel and threw my hand up with the middle finger extended. Months of annoyance at dealing with India’s staring, groping men came out in one explosive, “F**K YOU!!!” The small, offending man cowered. I instantly felt terrible and forgave him his ignorance. Luckily, the party had almost passed and no one bothered me beyond that.
The last official stop of the pilgrimage was in Buddha’s birthplace, Lumbini. But as it lies just on the other side of the India-Nepal border, I wasn’t able to join the group there – unless I wanted to spend another two months exiled from India. So, for me, the pilgrimage ended in Kushinagar. The place of Buddha’s death, the site was pervaded with a deep feeling of loss. With this reminder of the impermanent nature of all things, it was the perfect place to end the pilgrimage – and this stage of my life. Coming up is a phase of sedentarism in a city. It’s time to get a job.
But first, I took a good look in the mirror for the first time in over a month. The signs of impermanence were
Passing into Paranirvana
The location of Buddha's death, Kushinagar. present all over my body. I’ve always said that’s it’s my goal to become a wise old woman sitting in a rocker. And, although I can’t account for the wise part, it appears the old woman part is approaching faster than I could’ve reckoned. All the telltale signs are there: the bat wings, crow’s feet, and turkey waddle. What was once hard and firm has turned soft and squishy. What were faint traces of wrinkles have become deeply etched into the flesh of my forehead. My hair is thinning, and turning gray. With a great sense of urgency, as if I could reverse the effects of time with their removal, I started plucking out each white hair. But with a good laugh, I saw the futility of my efforts and embraced my impermanent nature.
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Samuel David
non-member comment
Very very honest. I truly hope you find what you are looking for. You are making a good effort.