Bodhgaya (7/07/12-7/11/12)
During our last night in Varanasi before our journey to Bodhgaya, we shared a boat with two others down the Ganges River to enjoy the presence of the moon and the presence of thousands of humans gathered at the Ghats to celebrate the Hindu festival. We four people were American, British, Japanese, and Russian. We quickly found out that we were all headed to Bodhgaya early the next morning and decided to share a rickshaw. This was especially helpful because Matt and I have no alarm clock, and we were wondering how we would make it to the train station by 5 AM for our train's departure.
Our Russian friend knocked on our door in the morning to wake us up; though, she has to knock for 20 minutes before we woke up and were conscious of what was happening. I was so tired that the knocking has become part of my dream.
The hot, sweaty, dirty, and cramped non-AC sleeper train was yet another peculiarly inviting experience. The AC sections of the train not only have the luxury of an air conditioner, but they also have the luxury of not being hounded by beggars. In order to properly convey the experience one is met with on the Indian Railways, it is best to pain a visual.
So imagine this: every single minute or every few minutes of the entire journey, there is somebody walking down the aisle. Some are yelling, "Chai, chai, garam garam chai." Others are selling various snacks or food items. Sometimes young children come around and sweep the flood and then return to ask for money. Sometimes lady-boys come around in high heels, clap loudly, stick their hand in your face, and demand money (to which you ask yourself at what point did this person arrive at the conclusion that aggressively clapping in my face would ever entice me to give them money?) Sometimes people walk by playing the flute, beating a drum, doing a trick, for money. And very often there will be the poorest of individuals-- some with disabilities-- walking by pleading for money. The latter is perhaps the most difficult to swallow and digest.
These human beings will approach you and do anything it takes to even get a single coin from you. Some are blind, some have missing legs or arms, some have no legs at all and are making their way down the aisle with just their hands and torso. The encounters are quite endless, and these humans will openly stick their deformity or handicap in your face to increase their chances of getting money. When they do so it is as if they are saying, "Look at me. Look at what I have to live with." And when they nag your shirt and desperately plead and sometimes do not stop or leave for literally 5 minutes (or what feels like a lifetime), it is as if your conscience is also nagging at you asking, "Well, go on now, how honest are you?"
So I had been thinking a lot about that question and realized there are two ways which we typically choose to handle the situation of someone approaching us for money, both of which can be potentially dangerous. The first is completely denying or ignoring the person. This can include pretending you do not hear the person; maybe deliberately looking the other way as you pass them. To which one can only wonder what are you hiding from or what are you afraid of confronting? Denying them can also include telling them you do not have any money. To which one should ask themself, "Do I really not have anything to give?"
The second manner in which we handle the situation is giving the beggars money, even if it is just a coin. This can also be as equally dishonest, depending upon the intention. Are you giving money just to alleviate the stress inflicted upon you; just to get rid of the person so they stop nagging you? Are you giving money because it personally makes you feel better about yourself? Are you giving money so you can tell your friends how you gave money to a homeless person today?
These are all questions that should arise when getting honest with ourselves. And the answer lays solely in the individual intention. To be brutally honest, I have played both sides. After being continuously asked for money all day, it physically, mentally, and emotionally gets exhausting. And I am quite guilty of having sat on the train, noticing ahead that a beggar was approaching, and then pretending I was asleep when they came. Maybe they would nag on my shirt anyhow or shake their bucket of coins in my face to wake me up, but if you are dedicated to "sleeping," they will eventually leave. I have also been glad when I did have coins on me so as to avoid the language barrier and the incomprehension that arises when I say I do not have anything to give.
But just as when you repress bad memories or avoid things that have been left un-dealt with, they always resurface. You can temporarily "get rid" of one, but one or the other returns. So why not get honest instead?
Truthfully, giving our money and our belongings has little or nothing to do with it. What are our possessions anyhow but things which we fear we will need again tomorrow? Physically, I have nothing to give to the amount of beggars that approach me each day, but that is irrelevant. I have the ability to share some of myself instead. So now more honestly I can say to them I have no money to give, but just as I am externalizing that, I am likewise looking them straight in the eye, acknowledging them as a human being not separate from me, and sharing a bit of myself with them. It is all one really has to give.
When I went to Bodhgaya, I was staying at a semi-monastic Buddhist centre called the Root Institute, which is conveniently tucked away from the aggression of the city and is its own little private paradise amongst the farmland of the beautiful state of Bihar. Needless to say, when I first arrived I was thankful to be separated and to be able to come back to myself for a moment. In fact, I considered staying there for the rest of the money.
It only took me until the next morning to remember that was not the point of my trip; again, it is the journey that matters, not the destination. So why would I want to rob myself of the journey or the challenge of coming to the "root of the root of myself"?
It is very easy to separate oneself from the stresses of life and then come to be the idea you have of yourself. But the real challenge comes from transcending the spontaneity of one's surroundings; the unpredictability of life in all of its meanness, depression, beauty, and joy.
At the Root Institute, we were provided with a bed, an outhouse with a shower, a dining room with 3 hot meals a day and chai anytime we wanted, and a meditation hall. It was convenient. It was pleasurable. I was thankful for it. But the outside world-- in its meanness, depression, beauty, and joy-- still ran parallel to my reality, and who was I to pretend it went away?
The real challenge and real test of one's character; the best opportunity you have to become the idea you have of yourself, is by fulling submerging yourself in the madness of life. As the saying goes, live like a lotus flower. Do not renounce the world. Instead, live within it but above the temptations, meanness, and other manifestations. Treat everyone honorably. This may not be the easiest method of settling into oneself, but I think it is the most honest.
So whatever un-dealt with force exists inside-- the one that makes it easy to ignore or dismiss another human because we see them as separate or inferior-- should be honestly welcomed, confronted, and overcome. In a poem, Rumi said, "Close both eyes to see with the other eye." Close the eyes that catch upon physical differences, upon likes and dislikes, upon our everyday standpoint of good and evil and right and wrong, upon our social constructs of class, caste, ubermensch, untermensch, and open the other eye that sees there is no real difference.
Everything is different, but the same.
During our last night in Varanasi before our journey to Bodhgaya, we shared a boat with two others down the Ganges River to enjoy the presence of the moon and the presence of thousands of humans gathered at the Ghats to celebrate the Hindu festival. We four people were American, British, Japanese, and Russian. We quickly found out that we were all headed to Bodhgaya early the next morning and decided to share a rickshaw. This was especially helpful because Matt and I have no alarm clock, and we were wondering how we would make it to the train station by 5 AM for our train's departure.
Our Russian friend knocked on our door in the morning to wake us up; though, she has to knock for 20 minutes before we woke up and were conscious of what was happening. I was so tired that the knocking has become part of my dream.
The hot, sweaty, dirty, and cramped non-AC sleeper train was yet another peculiarly inviting experience. The AC sections of the train not only have the luxury of an air conditioner, but they also have the luxury of not being hounded by beggars. In order to properly convey the experience one is met with on the Indian Railways, it is best to pain a visual.
So imagine this: every single minute or every few minutes of the entire journey, there is somebody walking down the aisle. Some are yelling, "Chai, chai, garam garam chai." Others are selling various snacks or food items. Sometimes young children come around and sweep the flood and then return to ask for money. Sometimes lady-boys come around in high heels, clap loudly, stick their hand in your face, and demand money (to which you ask yourself at what point did this person arrive at the conclusion that aggressively clapping in my face would ever entice me to give them money?) Sometimes people walk by playing the flute, beating a drum, doing a trick, for money. And very often there will be the poorest of individuals-- some with disabilities-- walking by pleading for money. The latter is perhaps the most difficult to swallow and digest.
These human beings will approach you and do anything it takes to even get a single coin from you. Some are blind, some have missing legs or arms, some have no legs at all and are making their way down the aisle with just their hands and torso. The encounters are quite endless, and these humans will openly stick their deformity or handicap in your face to increase their chances of getting money. When they do so it is as if they are saying, "Look at me. Look at what I have to live with." And when they nag your shirt and desperately plead and sometimes do not stop or leave for literally 5 minutes (or what feels like a lifetime), it is as if your conscience is also nagging at you asking, "Well, go on now, how honest are you?"
So I had been thinking a lot about that question and realized there are two ways which we typically choose to handle the situation of someone approaching us for money, both of which can be potentially dangerous. The first is completely denying or ignoring the person. This can include pretending you do not hear the person; maybe deliberately looking the other way as you pass them. To which one can only wonder what are you hiding from or what are you afraid of confronting? Denying them can also include telling them you do not have any money. To which one should ask themself, "Do I really not have anything to give?"
The second manner in which we handle the situation is giving the beggars money, even if it is just a coin. This can also be as equally dishonest, depending upon the intention. Are you giving money just to alleviate the stress inflicted upon you; just to get rid of the person so they stop nagging you? Are you giving money because it personally makes you feel better about yourself? Are you giving money so you can tell your friends how you gave money to a homeless person today?
These are all questions that should arise when getting honest with ourselves. And the answer lays solely in the individual intention. To be brutally honest, I have played both sides. After being continuously asked for money all day, it physically, mentally, and emotionally gets exhausting. And I am quite guilty of having sat on the train, noticing ahead that a beggar was approaching, and then pretending I was asleep when they came. Maybe they would nag on my shirt anyhow or shake their bucket of coins in my face to wake me up, but if you are dedicated to "sleeping," they will eventually leave. I have also been glad when I did have coins on me so as to avoid the language barrier and the incomprehension that arises when I say I do not have anything to give.
But just as when you repress bad memories or avoid things that have been left un-dealt with, they always resurface. You can temporarily "get rid" of one, but one or the other returns. So why not get honest instead?
Truthfully, giving our money and our belongings has little or nothing to do with it. What are our possessions anyhow but things which we fear we will need again tomorrow? Physically, I have nothing to give to the amount of beggars that approach me each day, but that is irrelevant. I have the ability to share some of myself instead. So now more honestly I can say to them I have no money to give, but just as I am externalizing that, I am likewise looking them straight in the eye, acknowledging them as a human being not separate from me, and sharing a bit of myself with them. It is all one really has to give.
When I went to Bodhgaya, I was staying at a semi-monastic Buddhist centre called the Root Institute, which is conveniently tucked away from the aggression of the city and is its own little private paradise amongst the farmland of the beautiful state of Bihar. Needless to say, when I first arrived I was thankful to be separated and to be able to come back to myself for a moment. In fact, I considered staying there for the rest of the money.
It only took me until the next morning to remember that was not the point of my trip; again, it is the journey that matters, not the destination. So why would I want to rob myself of the journey or the challenge of coming to the "root of the root of myself"?
It is very easy to separate oneself from the stresses of life and then come to be the idea you have of yourself. But the real challenge comes from transcending the spontaneity of one's surroundings; the unpredictability of life in all of its meanness, depression, beauty, and joy.
At the Root Institute, we were provided with a bed, an outhouse with a shower, a dining room with 3 hot meals a day and chai anytime we wanted, and a meditation hall. It was convenient. It was pleasurable. I was thankful for it. But the outside world-- in its meanness, depression, beauty, and joy-- still ran parallel to my reality, and who was I to pretend it went away?
The real challenge and real test of one's character; the best opportunity you have to become the idea you have of yourself, is by fulling submerging yourself in the madness of life. As the saying goes, live like a lotus flower. Do not renounce the world. Instead, live within it but above the temptations, meanness, and other manifestations. Treat everyone honorably. This may not be the easiest method of settling into oneself, but I think it is the most honest.
So whatever un-dealt with force exists inside-- the one that makes it easy to ignore or dismiss another human because we see them as separate or inferior-- should be honestly welcomed, confronted, and overcome. In a poem, Rumi said, "Close both eyes to see with the other eye." Close the eyes that catch upon physical differences, upon likes and dislikes, upon our everyday standpoint of good and evil and right and wrong, upon our social constructs of class, caste, ubermensch, untermensch, and open the other eye that sees there is no real difference.
Everything is different, but the same.
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