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From What Country Are you Coming From?
By Salmon Friscia
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Ahhh, those Indians. No, no, not the dispossessed, the sadly
forgotten, the nearly exterminated, shamelessly duped Indians, who were here
long before we arrived. No, not those. I’m talking about the billion or so in
the sub continent, squeezed into a space roughly two thirds the size of the
United States, and what’s more, having to share it with plenty of company.
Imagine. Thousands and thousands of cud chewing water buffalos. Multitudes of
half starved, scrawny cows, shuffling along the alleys. An occasional elephant
on the road with his driver, coming from God knows where. Roving bands of mangy
monkeys making a racket leaping from rooftop to rooftop, chattering and
quarreling. Let’s not forget the packs of yelping pariah dogs, giving new
meaning to the commonplace, “it’s a dog’s life.” Resplendent peacocks. Sooty
black, sly crows, as ubiquitous as sparrows, interminably cawing. Add to the mix
the inhabitants and everything else that flourishes here and immediately you
realize there isn’t a whole lot of free space to go around, yet, somehow, they
all manage to get by.
A billion is a big number; that’s the latest count, There are people everywhere.
Every shape, all sizes and shades of brown, dressed in white garments all the
way to explosive colors which seem to match and rival the fiery sun.
The old section of the cities are bursting with people. The area around the
Delhi train station, at peak hour, is terrifying. It has to be seen to be
believed. The hellish mixture of noise never stops. You are overwhelmed. You
keep telling yourself this can’t be real. Swarms and swarms of people,
unimaginable clots of traffic, rickshaws, bicycles, cars, trucks, porters,
everything stuck, nothing moves. You want to scream, you are suffocating. Pure
chaos. But hovering over it all is the essence, that distinctive odor of burnt
cow dung, which is unmistakebly India.
The Hindu literally smears his religion everywhere. Offerings of ghee are
dripping from garishly painted idols, on street and temple lingams. It’s in the
air, it’s palpable. There is no escaping it. Religion is the underpinning of
India, without it , it would collapse.
Arising out of this religious fervor is a certainty. The Hindu is absolutely
certain about his gods. He knows he has been here before. His beliefs, epoxy
like, bind him fast, unifying, never letting him go. It is you, the visitor,
having no caste, who feels adrift.
.
Almost as tenacious as the his beliefs is the need, a compulsion really, for
many Indians to saunter up to you when you least expect it. You might be gazing
at a temple, or drinking a cup of tea at a stall, watching a row of orange robed
sadhus file by, it doesn’t matter. He begins his cross examination. He must rid
himself of his questions. Most are annoying. You wonder, does he really want an
answer?
He’s there, an inoffensive, pleading smile on his face. I’ll bet my last rupee
the first question out of his mouth will be : “From what country are you coming
from?” emphatically placing the preposition at the beginning and at the end of
the sentence.
Answer him, I’m from Jupiter, the Hermitage or, Transylvania it makes no
difference, he’s not listening. Without hesitating, skipping right along, he’ll
want to know what is your religion, your good name, your age, are you married,
how many children? Your patience is slipping, is there no end? He throws in one
more. “Do you like India?”
I have to be honest and answer yes. I’ve come back again, and again. It’s a
fabulous country I say. I assure him there is nothing quite like it anywhere on
earth, and I mean it. He’s pleased, questions ended. I’m on my way.
True. There is no other place like it, but for how long? The transformation from
bullock and cart to soft wear and computers is accelerating. But for now, you
enter India, spend time there, leave, and discover you have changed, something
has happened. How much, depends on how porous you are. That’s the kind of
country it is.
My flight touched down in Delhi, where I spent a week and then flew to Bombay.
From that city I started traveling down the west coast, stopping for brief stays
but moving quickly, finally swinging eastward in the south, until I hit Madras,
my first visit to this city. I never left the bus station where I had arrived.
At ten in the morning it was so hot and humid I knew I could not remain here,
and caught a bus to Pondicherry, a former French port .
I wanted to be near the calming ocean, away from the tumult. Moreover, it was
Sri Aurobindo’s active spiritual base although he was long deceased. Here would
be a rich collection of devotees from all over the world. There were sure to be
travelers I’d like to meet and talk to.I hadn’t come to Poindicherry searching
for religious experience, but I suspected a semblance of peace, so hard to find
in India, would prevail. It did.
Near the beach, I found a simple, clean, room. All I wanted to do was sleep. I
had covered a lot of ground, maybe too much, too quickly.
Trying to stay healthy here is a full time job, but there is not much you can do
against the continuous assault on your body. Dividing and multiplying all around
you, in the water, the food, the air you breath, the earth under your feet, in
unthinkable numbers, live the country’s other inhabitants. Invisible, lethal,
hard working.
It had been going on for a week or more. I was sick, and getting sicker. The
symptoms were familiar. There was malaise, nausea, fever on, fever off, trouble
eating, forcing myself to drink fluids, bodily functions hard to control.
Tomorrow I might feel better, breath easier, think, well, that’s the end of
that. The day after, more of the same.
The invader can be one of a staggering range of parasites. Under a microscope
they are frightening to behold. Tiny monsters, resembling nothing we see or can
imagine in the visible world. Pure science fiction. Dreamed up by Nature on one
of her bad days.
Matters couldn’t stay this way. I had to do something in a hurry. I learned
there was a nearby hospital, reported to be a good one. Perhaps with a French
doctor or two. My last experience with a hospital in Delhi was indelible, a
nightmare. I couldn’t go through that again. I decided against it.
What to do? The Indian, behind the desk, a pleasant, helpful fellow, provided
the answer. He suggested an ayurvedic doctor, an herbalist, common here. “Good
man, good man,” he repeated. I’d chance it. “Please send for him.”
He arrived. Much younger thanI had imagined. Small, with that dark, intense,
wine brown complexion of the south Indian, in brilliant, white pants and shirt,
his English good, a confident man. After listening to my symptoms, without any
visible reaction, his diagnosis could not be stated more simply: “I am thinking
you have parasites.”
“Can you help me?” “Yes.” “How long would you need? “Difficult. Very difficult.”
“How long?”, I insisted. “Two, maybe three weeks.” Too long I thought, and no
assurance this was the right course to take. I couldn’t gamble. Turning to the
desk clerk I said I would leave tomorrow, three weeks was out of the question. I
paid up, thanked them both, and returned to my room. Pondicherry would have to
wait for another time,
That night, under a sagging mosquito net, too sick to care about the holes, and
the mosquitos, I began putting a plan together. Medical attention was what I
needed. It meant returning as quickly as possible to New York City before things
got worse. The easiest course was to go back to Madras, book a flight, via
Bombay, and then directly to JFK. That plan, the most sensible, bothered me. The
decision became a difficult one because of a little town in the north - Sanchi.
Zimmer’s two volume set, The Art Of Indian Asia, a gift, long ago, with
all its wonderful plates and vivid descriptions, especially those of the
Buddhist shrines at Sanchi, had totally captivated me. They were beautiful,
unique, not to be missed. My plans included a trip there before leaving India.
“Why,” I asked myself, “should I change my plans now?” “You are sick, perhaps,
very sick,” was the answer. “Who knows, I may never get another chance to see
them,” I countered. “If you continue this nonsense you may never get to see any
thing for a long time,” the voice taunted. “Overruled,” I laughed, “I must see
Sanchi no matter what.”
The determination to visit Sanchi removed any and all objections. It was
imprudent, foolish, and dangerous to delay treatment but my decision was firm. I
had only to figure out the best way to get there. In this I erred.
Travel plans were now seriously complicated. Sanchi was north. From here, hard
to get to. Apparently, there were no direct flights to Bhopal, the nearest city.
If I flew, there was the possibility of connection delays, even overnight
stopovers,. After some deliberation I decided to go to Madras, hook up with a
sleeper and spend the next couple of days in a compartment, where, hopefully, I
could rest and recuperate. This was a mistake.
In the morning, after another bumpy bus ride, I arrived in Madras. Luck was with
me. In no time I was able to book a berth on a first class sleeper. Feeling
slightly better, I looked forward to Sanchi, hoping I would sleep most of the
trip. It would be a slow, tortuous journey. My fever had returned, I was weak, I
was worried.
The trip drained me. Exhausted and regretting over and over not listening to my
sane, inner voice, I stumbled from the train smack into a violent sun. The
endless rush of passengers, some on the platform, others descending from the
cars, the crates, bags, baskets, metal chests, yelling porters, the shrill
complaints of women, the hawking food vendors, kids scurrying around selling
drinks, this was all part of India which could fascinate me. Now, I was too ill
to care. It was just pointless noise and motion, viewed with impatience and
revulsion. I had to be sick to feel this way.
My decision to go to Bhopal and not some place closer may have been a wrong one.
I now had to endure a two hour bus trip. Again my luck held out. I caught a bus
without any trouble.
Bhopal began to recede. What little I saw through the dust covered windows was
dirt y and ugly. On boarding, I gave the driver a few rupees, and made him
understand, somehow, that he should wake me when we got to Sanchi . I stretched
out on a hard, wooden bench, and immediately fell asleep.
Someone was shaking me, the bus had stopped... Gathering myself together I
cautiously stepped down from the bus and looked around. Sanchi was a relatively
new, rural, tourist destination. It had its collection of food stalls, the same
tiresome buildings and little else. Where were the temples? That would have to
wait. First, I must find the buddhist guest house. Sleep, rest, that’s all I
wanted.
Trying to unlatch the gate to the compound proved difficult. A young monk
appeared, we exchanged greetings, he opened the gate. Speaking slowly I
explained I was sick, and needed a room where it was quiet. He understood,
smiled, and led me through an overgrown courtyard, up a flight of stone steps,
to a bare cell, with one barred window looking out on some dense growth. In the
corner, was a charpoy, a kind of string bed. There were niches along the wall
for personal items, no chair or table. It needed to be swept and could use a
coat of whitewash, to me it was luxurious.
In halting English the kindly monk informed me this was a special room. The last
guest was a much revered, saintly monk who spent weeks in this cell. What he was
trying to tell me, I guess, was that the former occupant had left behind vital,
residual, blessings. What we would call good vibes. If true, I could use them.
Weak, lightheaded, I eased myself onto the charpoy. In a few moments, another
monk, much older, with a big welcoming smile entered, offering me a cup of tea
and then backed out of the cell. The smile never left his face. The guest house,
this room, the monks, the tea, augured well for what lay ahead tomorrow....
Sanchi’s treasures.
I slept more soundly than I had in the past two weeks. I even felt better. I
wanted something to eat. Perhaps the room was really blessed. After a faux
shower from a dripping tap which barely had any pressure, I went into the
courtyard where the young monk and another I had not seen before, were talking
together.
Smiling, always those open ingenuous smiles, they turned to greet me. It took
some work but I learned there were only three monks in attendance. More would
come later when pilgrims arrived. This was a Buddhist order from Sri Lanka, here
to serve those who came to visit the shrines. I explained that was the reason I
was here. The driections they gave me were simple and easy to follow. Their
heads were shaven; I mustn’t forget to give them some razors before I left.
After some tea and chappatis, I slowly began walking towards the serpentine road
which led to the temple sites. As I ascended the steep incline, the countryside
began to spread out before me. The monsoon was practically over, and everything
which grew, left the earth a brilliant, stunning, almost unbearable green. A
verdant, emerald, landscape.
The placement of the stupas is almost Greek like in its perfectness, and in
total harmony with its surroundings. I saw no one. There was not a soul to
disturb the solitude. A profound sensation of utter peace enveloped me. Every
centimeter of this blessed site was isolated, detached from the other world. It
existed for itself.
The superb plates in Zimmer’s book faithfully depict the majestic beauty of the
site. There, the great stupa, a huge, impressive mound surrounded by a circular
railing of weathered stone. At each of the cardinal points stands a gate and
pillar with the most daring, intricate, carvings, recording Buddhist teachings
and revealing the skill and technical prowess of those craftsmen who left us
these magnificent treasures. The sensuous yaksi, with full breasts,
accommodating hips and wasp waist, jutting out from a pillar on the east gate,
appeared poised, ready to whirl from her pedestal into your arms. It’s true. Go
see for yourself.
I spent the entire morning immersed in this magical setting. With measured step
I walked round and round the Great Stupa, I tried to grasp the thought and
religious impetus for this great endeavor. It is over 2000 years old and the
legacy of a powerful ruler’s conversion to Buddhism. That’s conviction.
Shaking loose from this enchanted scene was difficult. With some enforcement, I
began the descent to the guest house and a crazy world below. Tomorrow morning I
would leave, my decision to visit Sanchi was one I would never regret.
In the morning I learned I could not get a car to Bhopal. Postponing my
departure was out of the question. It meant taking a bus, a prospect which made
my heart sink. The parasites, quiescent yesterday, were back on the job. I felt
lousy. There was an early morning bus, which would get me to Bhopal in time to
catch a sleeper to Delhi. I allowed myself a wide spread of time to offset any
of the usual problems.
Packing what little I had, thanking and saying goodbye to those sweet monks, and
surprising them with a package of razors, I was out the gate and on the road. I
chose a patch of shade, and hoped, this once, the bus would be on time. At some
distance, a few food stalls. Hanging out in a nearby tree, a cabal of crows were
seriously considering the situation ready to swoop down at a moment’s notice and
carry off whatever food was carelessly left unattended.
A sullen Indian crossed the road and set his bag down alongside mine. Ignoring
me, I was relieved when it appeared he didn’t want to talk. There was no
traffic. The sun hammered away at the tarmac. The sound of the approaching bus
alerted us both. It was miraculously on time and rattled to a stop a few feet
away. A door tiredly swung open allowing me a glimpse inside. It was stuffed
with what seemed to be the entire inhabitants of a small village. “Why stop,”I
felt like shouting at the driver.
Even if I managed to get on board and secure a bit of space I couldn’t endure
the ride. With hardly enough floor space to support myself and my bag, the
steady pressure and jostling of packed bodies, the smell, the unbearable heat,
frayed and volatile Indian tempers; it was impossible to even consider it. Add
to this was my near delirious state . I felt the whole world was conspiring
against me.
.
Without the slightest hesitation, the Indian beside me casually approached the
bus. Mounting the passenger step brought clamorous protests from those nearest
the door. He was not to be deterred. With a series of quick, knifelike movements
twisting this way and that, he disappeared inside the bus, the battered door
slowly retreated. Spewing clouds of smoke the bus consumptively lumbered off. I
was sure I had witnessed a miracle.
Too overcome by what had just happened, I stood there, immobile. “WasI going to
be stuck in Sanchi?” “ Was there no way out?” Catching the sleeper was certainly
out of the question, at least for now. The strength to go on was rapidly
deserting me. Dropping my pack, I carefully lowered myself on to it and tried to
think.
The bleak outlook and great risk surrounding my dilemna did not escape me. The
past two weeks had been hard, compounded by the deadly frustration which only
India can inflict. I didn’t want to quit, I had never done it before. It was an
admission of failure, which hurt me. What was worse, I couldn’t leave even if I
wanted to.
Besides, gnawing at me was the chilling fear that what had knocked me out, might
be something more serious than parasites. India had lots of diseases to choose
from. “Where could I turn for help?” “To whom?” I had to get a hold of myself.
Seated on my pack, hunched over, numb , barely noticing the blazing sun which
had encroched on me, blisters of indecision, and self pity creeping in, I was
ripe for some kind of breakdown. It was not denied me.
Slowly, imperceptibly, rising from a place deep inside me, it began building and
piling up. The events of the last two weeks, all the fears and painful emotions
clustered into a force which was about to explode and shatter me. I shuddered. I
could hardly breath. I was choking.
What was I trying to hold back, desperately trying to push away? Futile, it came
with a rush. Sobs, real sobs. Then the tears, the dam had broken. I no longer
had control or, cared. I held back nothing. Opened every escape valve. Crying
uncontrollably, after a bit, the pain, slowly, slowly, started to ease. The
heaviness shifted, a shaft of hope replaced it, I felt lighter. “I’ll get
through this,” I shouted waking myself. I had to.
Out of the corner of a tearful eye I saw him hobbling briskly towards me. His
dhoti could have been cleaner, he sported a Neru cap at a jaunty angle, and
swinging his furled, black, umbrella he bore down on me. And, like many Indians
who eschewed sandals, he was wearing shoes, always too big, and always without
socks.
He stopped, abruptly, in front of me. I turned and stared up at him. I was
gently sobbing, my shoulders moving in concert. Here, in front of you, my good
fellow, is a human being in trouble. Something terrible is going on his life,
he’s crying, can’t you see that? He took no notice. Bracing myself, I realized
he was going to speak. It came.... like a thunderclap. ‘“From what country are
you coming from?’
