tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63589039321827333822024-03-05T19:57:36.970+05:30bhakti in IndiaTravel tales and meditative musings inspired by <br>
time spent on the subcontinentby R. Bhakti Kleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15915859892011464480noreply@blogger.comBlogger75125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6358903932182733382.post-43815561991207603102021-05-21T23:40:00.003+05:302021-05-25T00:22:14.056+05:30 I was sitting at my desk today when the ceiling fell on my head<p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span id="docs-internal-guid-8e5bcb00-7fff-9ad0-e879-043307fcabe2"><div style="text-align: justify;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzFC-QEMpJFFcJnjnmDd7z7gAekLyeNb2D5awu-96CTr1ykLMYMTKHok7lICty_N_LMJvLhHWu3b4K_d0awBlO12gvBjVBc6yF8An4IWdpASQUIdVpZEYQPhJ3r0uosjrHfd1p_HUL9unK/s600/roofsattelite.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Cyclone Tauktae" border="0" data-original-height="337" data-original-width="600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzFC-QEMpJFFcJnjnmDd7z7gAekLyeNb2D5awu-96CTr1ykLMYMTKHok7lICty_N_LMJvLhHWu3b4K_d0awBlO12gvBjVBc6yF8An4IWdpASQUIdVpZEYQPhJ3r0uosjrHfd1p_HUL9unK/w640-h360/roofsattelite.webp" width="640" /></a><br />Cyclone Tauktae</td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I live in a rooftop apartment, so every year before the monsoons, my roof needs some work done. Mostly they patch the holes and try to waterproof the whole thing. This year, the work was about to begin two days ago when Cyclone Tauktae became the strongest storm to hit the west coast of India in 20 years. Water dripped in from the ceiling and flowed freely in from an electrical conduit. I put a bucket under the big leak and had to empty it every 20 minutes during the worst of it. There were 4 other buckets strategically placed around the room, and the entire wooden floor was covered with towels that were soaked. Winds gusted to 100 mph (160 kph). The cat and I cuddled closely all night.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXjxY2tq6v8hjuNUsnW5m6sRvvS2qGmUzHvsggGNVfQH9UYtL-6qVeuztMcgapaAZxF3XjSmmLK9JkRP5K8stuOCYRM8TbfdlcdxNSrdrQFxzUStwao2ERz0QomZtpmFYKAj0fjVXrE9G-/s1200/roofgateway.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="The Sea Was Angry That Day, My Friends" border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXjxY2tq6v8hjuNUsnW5m6sRvvS2qGmUzHvsggGNVfQH9UYtL-6qVeuztMcgapaAZxF3XjSmmLK9JkRP5K8stuOCYRM8TbfdlcdxNSrdrQFxzUStwao2ERz0QomZtpmFYKAj0fjVXrE9G-/w640-h426/roofgateway.webp" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Sea Was Angry That Day, My Friends</td></tr></tbody></table><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br />I took a walk the next day. Most people stayed inside, but I grew up in Miami, and I knew that the day after a hurricane is beautiful. The weather was cooler and cloudy. There were palm fronds on the ground everywhere; blocking streets, in apartment compounds, outside shopping malls. There were even a few large trees on the ground. I stopped to chat with fruit vendors, the shopkeepers, and my fellow pedestrian. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Kal pagal tha, na? Bahut pani tha</i></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>!</i> We nodded knowingly at one another. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw8LdCG-tQzE0yWwFGY6I3v8VWPuFPx5sfiu2qSNidL7PSN4_BgZEWtZ_b4q-sLm4fbSzErANTSYMk8dYuXjBTPUvG1OTvCzA8r3mp7hwCtMSf9fiMLVIrA3NkbS5wgQ6jeht9J2htvVU2/s700/rooftrees.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="The Streets of Mumbai the Day After the Cyclone" border="0" data-original-height="316" data-original-width="700" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw8LdCG-tQzE0yWwFGY6I3v8VWPuFPx5sfiu2qSNidL7PSN4_BgZEWtZ_b4q-sLm4fbSzErANTSYMk8dYuXjBTPUvG1OTvCzA8r3mp7hwCtMSf9fiMLVIrA3NkbS5wgQ6jeht9J2htvVU2/w640-h288/rooftrees.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Streets of Mumbai the Day After the Cyclone</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; text-align: justify; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></div><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Today, the work on the roof began in earnest. There were three of them up there, right above me. My ceiling is made of a sheet of drywall, and above it is supposed to be a roof made of concrete panels. But it was a mess up there, with corrugated iron roofing mixed among the concrete, and many holes and cracks. Unbeknownst to me, they decided to remove the entire roof and replace it. As the day wore on, sunlight began to angle into my room from spots where my ceiling had holes and the roof above was dismantled. I began to realise there was nothing above my ceiling except structural 2x4s. There was noise all day, of course, loud, sudden, noise, of heavy objects being dropped above me. The punctuated sound of dust and wood planks and tools and roofing materials landing above me, echoing around the room. William T. Cat was quite perplexed, and spent a lot of time staring at the spots above where the noise was coming from.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And then it happened. An ordinary moment, at my desk, with my laptop, and then suddenly there was a crashing noise and dust all around, and a chunk of drywall about the size of an extra-large pizza came crashing upon my poor unsuspecting skull. I was suddenly hit by the light, and for a moment I think I wondered if it might be transcendental. Then I realised it was a beam of sunlight. There was nothing between me and God’s blue sky. Meanwhile, I had no idea what had happened to my head. The chunk of concrete landed right on top, cutting my forehead and depositing dust all in my hair. I sat motionless for a few moments, then I think I uttered a few choice expressions of displeasure, including </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What the fuck was that?</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> And </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The fucking roof fell on my head! </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></p><p style="clear: both; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; text-align: center; white-space: pre-wrap;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7QOkh6i7lOTnNvxsPb_FClzNlaB6MOt1-m_kItTgjUI3NX9zOJ5eHyzTCxszjPpzuPcb-QyC4eP77jhKLaRZfftLyzQa8bup_pdR3bYOvXwokkkC5uPumyLlHHANIg57w7CgeavciiuA7/" style="font-size: 13.5pt; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="the hole in my ceiling, now covered with wood" data-original-height="1305" data-original-width="2016" height="414" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7QOkh6i7lOTnNvxsPb_FClzNlaB6MOt1-m_kItTgjUI3NX9zOJ5eHyzTCxszjPpzuPcb-QyC4eP77jhKLaRZfftLyzQa8bup_pdR3bYOvXwokkkC5uPumyLlHHANIg57w7CgeavciiuA7/w640-h414/roof1.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the hole in my ceiling, now covered with wood<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">What had happened was that one of the workers tripped over an internet cable and fell. He used his hand to brace his fall and landed on the drywall instead of one of the two by fours. His hand went right through my ceiling, right above my head. After the collapse, he stuck his head in the hole to see if I was alright. I was not. I was freaked out, and a little bit in shock. And there was a drop of blood wending its way down my forehead. Billy the cat freaked out and ran into the bedroom to hide in the almirah. I stood up, a little dizzy. I went downstairs to tell the landlord, who lives below me, what happened. They saw the cut on my forehead and ran to get turmeric to put on the wound. I sat on the stairs because it suddenly became difficult to stand. It was more the adrenaline than the head wound, I thought. I was pretty sure. The landlord’s family offered to take me to a doctor. I refused at first, went upstairs, and took a shower. I’m skipping the part before the shower where I couldn’t find Billy T. Cat and I started to lose my mind thinking he ran away downstairs to get away from the craziness up here. I definitely panicked and it wasn’t fun. </span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisn3EkIl9aaoSQEv2fWpX9yCA5hh6-h3VGNrntrb323E-MxqFyO8MxY1e-nz8jIreEFlqsgKVs7kn8eXWhDvAuDJq6jN1z5ALpFBwJLMGxezYagz7CHP5R8jZVUdKh-vS6mxPYoT9p3921/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="the workspace in question with the hole overhead" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisn3EkIl9aaoSQEv2fWpX9yCA5hh6-h3VGNrntrb323E-MxqFyO8MxY1e-nz8jIreEFlqsgKVs7kn8eXWhDvAuDJq6jN1z5ALpFBwJLMGxezYagz7CHP5R8jZVUdKh-vS6mxPYoT9p3921/w480-h640/roofdesk.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the workspace in question with the hole overhead</td></tr></tbody></table></span></div></span><p></p><p style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></p><p style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; text-align: justify; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="text-align: left;">Fortunately, Billy was just hiding amongst my clothes. Poor baby was scared out of his mind. He didn’t come out for 4 hours. After I cleaned myself up, I felt a little better, but I still had a headache. I felt a little traumatised, both physically and emotionally. Really, I can be so sensitive about these things and they wipe me out. I actually think I inherited some trauma, or rather a reduced ability to deal with it, from my father, who was a holocaust survivor. One theory talks about epigenetic inheritance, or the idea that trauma can affect one’s DNA, and those changes can be passed on to future offspring. More likely is simply the emotional effect that persists in the parent and is subconsciously passed on to the offspring. In any case, I can be cripplingly sensitive to traumatic events. In this case, I was exhausted and light-headed, and starting to feel a little sad. Just to be safe, I took my landlord’s family’s offer of taking me to a doctor. I got on the back of a motorcycle and rode winding roads through the hills of Pali to a small doctor’s office. Every doctor older than 50 reminds me of my father, and this one was no exception. He had me lie down, examined my neck, looked at my head, and proclaimed me generally fit. He wanted to give me a tetanus shot, which I allowed, and antibiotic pills, which i refused. I’ll keep the wound clean and use topical antibiotics. I don’t want to tweak my whole system with antibiotics if not completely necessary. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3HWUvIqnSzf1UJVK9oFgjVFt6Bl17NM920CaFBw3ySbr_L07bT2za6bVGBOBZGMQ8PyaiyeqC-t8zI8bOKxNMCs6gu2kkqzAmiXnub9XklXeEDZxD34mWYqldv8axU18o2v4yltm3qsJb/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="'tis but a flesh wound" data-original-height="938" data-original-width="824" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3HWUvIqnSzf1UJVK9oFgjVFt6Bl17NM920CaFBw3ySbr_L07bT2za6bVGBOBZGMQ8PyaiyeqC-t8zI8bOKxNMCs6gu2kkqzAmiXnub9XklXeEDZxD34mWYqldv8axU18o2v4yltm3qsJb/w352-h400/roofselfie.jpeg" width="352" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'tis but a flesh wound</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I made it back home, finally coaxed Billy out of the closet, and now I am taking rest, as they say. Billy is sleeping next to me. The hole in my ceiling has been covered by a sheet of wood, and the workers are coming back tomorrow to replace the roof and then waterproof it for the season. I’m not exactly sure how they’re going to handle the hole in my ceiling. They apologised profusely. I forgave them. And I’m grateful to my landlord who really does treat me like family. Pretty close, anyway. I’m having Moti, our houseboy, check in on me every couple of hours, just to make sure I’m ok. I’m a little afraid to go to sleep tonight, but that’s probably an overreaction. I’m sure I’ll be fine.</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 18px; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWPiXxwZXMXVVrdGQE12bxlQaMiBD-bsODz94SXEC-fFDF-y58zPQHzxUirKklIWAVc2H3wRrtZqTSCQhwumVdSv9zqwl8QNSGGJfqw3tcOcXbjMH_tjevo4SkkzYSQQuNmzqjYrGDrgEW/s1512/roofbilly.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="poor baby, finally asleep after a scary day" border="0" data-original-height="1247" data-original-width="1512" height="528" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWPiXxwZXMXVVrdGQE12bxlQaMiBD-bsODz94SXEC-fFDF-y58zPQHzxUirKklIWAVc2H3wRrtZqTSCQhwumVdSv9zqwl8QNSGGJfqw3tcOcXbjMH_tjevo4SkkzYSQQuNmzqjYrGDrgEW/w640-h528/roofbilly.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">poor baby, finally asleep after a scary day<br /></td></tr></tbody></table></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>by R. Bhakti Kleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15915859892011464480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6358903932182733382.post-26908794393534117242020-09-23T15:59:00.001+05:302020-09-23T15:59:50.977+05:30Ocean Poetry<p><span style="background-color: black; color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span></p><span style="background-color: black; color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">The sound of the waves</span><br style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Is the original beat</span><br style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">The source of all rhythm.</span><br style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">The regular pulse, driving,</span><br style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">the rock and roll that comes from forward movement, into new beginnings, unknown adventures.</span><br style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">The odd meters, the sevens and elevens and all the waves that come in one beat too early or late, and also are perfectly on time.</span><br style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">The quick tick of a dance beat, forcing the body to move, more flow than will.</span><br style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">The slow grow of a love song, arriving gently, then swelling with power, not afraid to scream out at its peak, losing control for a moment, then gently placing itself on the shore, sweetly.</span><br style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Life and the sounds of life too, were born where the sea joins the sand.</span></span><div><span style="background-color: black; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: black; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">18 Nov 2017</span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: black; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">Om Beach, Gokarna, Karnataka, India</span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: black; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: black; color: #f3f3f3;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dymKZ5dnXIpvx3oXBOU3wHISFguLa9ImSsDK2z4W09PyG_wxVSoNTPhsxZoDT3F0-bKCgMfJKekzHYvQMlqow' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div><span style="background-color: black; color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: black; color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: black; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: black; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">Waves are like people. They're all the same, yet no two are exactly alike. They travel at different rates in different directions, have various sizes and energies, all the while passing one another, joining, separating, joining again. If you stick around long enough, you'll see some pretty strange ones, extreme in enthusiasm or velocity, more quirky than the others, definitely going their own way. Some of those can be scary, but others can be really fun. And when you find yourself surrounded, you have to learn to breathe in rhythm, and sway with them, and not fight against them, while standing your ground. 🌊🌊🌊</span></span></div><div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: #f3f3f3;">23 June 2017</span></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: #f3f3f3;">Arugam Bay Beach, Sri Lanka</span></div></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: black; color: #f3f3f3;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dw9-PC4bN4dw3hIDwQOYyo5aEB5ys56KMtcBkyWYMngbHg4ovF-CWoX66Nz4mnnyXZ7fx7OP584CTAfLRlbfA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div><span style="background-color: black; color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span><div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></div>by R. Bhakti Kleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15915859892011464480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6358903932182733382.post-71323427837624474362019-10-08T12:21:00.000+05:302019-10-08T12:21:14.592+05:30Good and Evil<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="s1">In the Western religions, the Garden of Eden story is often used to illustrate humankind’s rejection of God, or as a cautionary tale designed to induce children and other humans to obediently follow rules. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">To me, it works better as a metaphor for the spiritual and moral evolution of humankind. When Adam and Eve eat from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, it represents our unique ability to divide things into good and bad. Other animals don’t generally make such a distinction. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They do what they do, without calling them good or evil acts. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">That is the sense in which humans are poised between the animals and the angels; that is our blessing and our curse. For with such awareness comes the obligation to maximise the good and minimise the evil. That is our job as humans. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">The Jewish holiday of Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, which starts tonight at sunset, reminds us that we can always choose good, and that such a choice, made despite an awareness of our flaws, can transform the world. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">In Hindu mythology, Dussehra reminds us of this. Good can indeed triumph over evil. With our feet on the earth, and our eyes on the gods and angels and demons, we are reminded that even with all our flaws, all the times we fall short, good can and will ultimately triumph over the forces of evil. Or as Martin Luther King Jr, the great disciple of Mahatma Gandhi, once said, “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice”. Or as it says in the Jewish book of ethics Pirkei Avot, “You are not obligated to complete the work but neither are you free to abandon it.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I apologise to all I have wronged this year. I will try to be better. In the Buddhist (bodhisatva) sense, I will try to be as balanced as I can be, so that I can respond to each situation with Love, and so I can forgive myself when I fall short. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Happy Dussehra and G’mar Chatimah Tovah to all. </span></div>
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by R. Bhakti Kleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15915859892011464480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6358903932182733382.post-75104944198603928642016-01-27T14:44:00.001+05:302016-01-28T01:44:24.432+05:30Today in Mumbai<div>Wow. While walking through Khar Danda this morning, past an area where a local mechanic keeps some junk cars parked, I heard the familiar strains of, "Uncle, Uncle!", in plaintive, muffled, high-pitched voices. That's what the local kids call me, call many older men, out of respect. </div><div>At first I thought it was in my head, as when a song you've been listening to repeatedly starts to play on its own. I hear that refrain often, from neighbours and strangers. I stopped and looked around anyway, and didn't see kids tugging at my shirtsleeves as I half expected. There were just a few men working nearby. </div><div>Then I saw the shell of a car next to me. No wheels, but cabin and windshields intact. And inside were two small children, banging their fists against the glass. I walked closer and saw their dusty faces streaked with tears, their mouths twisted into pleas. </div><div>I walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. The kids poured out. The inside door panels had been removed. <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">They had entered the car to play, and couldn't get out. I don't know how long they were in there. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I followed one boy as he ran to his nearby dwelling, the kind of small shack, with tarp flaps for a door, that is common in this fishing village neighbourhood of Bombay. His mom was squatting outside, washing dishes in a bucket. He was explaining to her what happened. </span></div><div>I don't think they were locked in there for a long time. Though no one was close enough to hear them, it's a busy street with people passing frequently. Surely someone would have heard them eventually. But they were pretty freaked out when I opened the door, and ran away from that car as fast as they could. I don't think they'll be playing there again. </div>by R. Bhakti Kleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15915859892011464480noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6358903932182733382.post-16524144635027282602015-03-10T21:44:00.001+05:302015-03-11T01:33:56.215+05:30Privileged but not Entitled<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Recently, I was taking a walk through the city streets on a busy weekday late afternoon. Traffic lights here are exceedingly rare, reserved for only the most traveled and convoluted intersections, and stop signs are virtually nonexistent and universally ignored. <br />
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The way it works is something like what happens at a 4-way blinking yellow light in the States, but far more chaotic; each vehicle slows down as little as possible, beeps like an angry sheep, and tries to avoid being hit by cross traffic. This applies to pedestrians, bicycles, motorcycles, three-wheeled autorickshaws, small cars, big cars, small trucks, big trucks, and the occasional fisherman on horseback. As per tradition, the largest vehicle has the right of way, and pushes itself through with a deep beeping that is more threat than warning. When a rickshaw does find a gap, it moves in deftly, followed quickly by others close on his tail, as if they could create a new vehicle, a serpentine train that collectively could overpower the trucks and cars. Fortunately for pedestrians, these vehicular exchanges often result in a stalemated gridlock, and those on foot can easily scurry across. <br />
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So I was walking around, and came to an intersection. From the right, a fancy car was approaching. From the left you could hear a siren, and then an ambulance came into view.<br />
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In the US, of course, cars generally get out of the way of ambulances (although I have seen drivers in LA freeze sometimes in the middle of intersections, unsure of what to do). But here, to some, an ambulance is just another vehicle. I stood and watched as the car coming from the right cut in front of the ambulance and came to a stop in front of a shop, blocking the ambulance (and other vehicles) from moving past. Out of the back seat a well-dressed young woman emerged, on her mobile phone, seemingly unaware of anything around her. I was a little shocked. It was like no one else existed, or mattered.<br />
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I have encountered this sense of entitlement before in Mumbai. Only a few days before, I was standing at my favourite local <a href="http://bhaktiinindia.blogspot.in/2010/07/ode-to-south-indian-breakfast.html" target="_blank">street dosa</a> stand, ordering a delicious dosa, when a similarly new and expensive car pulled up right behind me. Out from the car emerged what we call an India Auntie; a woman in her 50s or 60s, well dressed, exuding an air of self-importance. She pushed me aside (not kidding) as if I wasn't there, and started barking orders to the dosa chef inside the stall. No one else in the world mattered.<br />
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Where does this come from? It''s related to the extreme class (and caste) differences here, where some of the wealthy are used to having lower caste cooks, drivers, maids, and other workers catering to their every whim.<br />
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As a foreigner, I realize I have privileges that are unknown to some locals. Although there are times that I'm charged more for things than locals, in general, I have access to opportunities that some locals simply never will have. From the ability to splurge on good meals and imported candy, to the demand for voiceover artists with American accents, to easy admission to clubs and shops, I can go places and see things that many locals never could.<br />
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I only hope, despite this privilege, that I don't cross over into entitlement. I hope I can appreciate the ways in which I'm fortunate while never taking it for granted, or taking it out on those in a less privileged position.<br />
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<a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/nathanwpyle/this-teacher-taught-his-class-a-powerful-lesson-about-privil#.kfnap7R3Y" target="_blank">There is a story</a> of a teacher who sat his students in rows, put a garbage can at the front of the room, and told his students to ball up a piece of paper. He then announced that anyone who could throw the paper into the garbage in one throw would get an A for the semester. As the paper started flying, the students soon realised that those in the front row had a much easier time hitting the garbage can, and the further back in the class the student was, the harder the task was. Not everyone in the front made it, and not everyone in the back missed, but it was clear where the advantage was. Only the students in the back complained. The students in the front were focused on their goal.<br />
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The teacher told the class that's what privilege is like. It's not a guarantee of anything, but it gives some a head start, and makes it harder for others to achieve the same. “Your job", the teacher said, " — as students who are receiving an education — is to be aware of your privilege. And use this particular privilege called “education” to do your best to achieve great things, all the while advocating for those in the rows behind you.”<br />
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I realise I'm at an advantage in some ways being a white foreigner here with a clean English accent. I appreciate that fact that it's easier for a Westerner to come to India than the other way around. I acknowledge my privilege, and will use it to be the best I can be. But I hope I never become complacent about it, and I hope I never feel entitled to that privilege.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And now, some pictures from Holi.I played colours in my old neighbourhood of Khar Danda, and then we had a little party on our terrace at home. Holi really is such a sweet holiday, the way friends and strangers approach you and gently apply colour to your cheeks. Adults drink and dance, teenagers flirt, children run around. Courtyards of neighbours gather, play music, and prepare communal meals, and everyone lovingly douses each other in water and colour.</span></div>
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by R. Bhakti Kleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15915859892011464480noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6358903932182733382.post-51847897511061296342015-02-20T23:23:00.000+05:302015-02-21T13:23:48.285+05:30Bombackground<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Dream on; dream until your dreams come true.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">– Steven Tyler</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours. </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">–Henry David Thoreau</span></i></div>
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This summer will be the 20th anniversary of my first trip to India. In the late summer of 1995, I quit my teaching job, bought a backpack, a combination lock, and a Swiss Army Knife, and headed to the other side of world. </div>
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I grew up in South Florida and was raised within Conservative Judaism (which is not a political signifier- my parents were quite liberal actually- but refers to American Jews whose religious practice falls somewhere between orthodoxy and secularism). As the grandson of a Rabbi I went to Hebrew school for 8 years and became a bar mitzvah at the age of 13. Religion was an important part of my life, and while there were certainly many years of rebellion, by the time I went to <a href="http://www.ufl.edu/" target="_blank">University</a>, it was a subject with which i was fascinated. I was not asinterested in studying the religions of the world from the outside; I was much more interested in religious and spiritual experience- what it's like for the practitioner; the experience of the mystic. I studied physics, philosophy, psychology, and religion, and after a glorious 5 1/2 years of erudition, enjoyment, and enlightenment, I graduated with a degree in religion. </div>
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I then moved to California, in the summer of 1990, and went to graduate school in<a href="http://www.jfku.edu/Programs-and-Courses/College-of-Graduate-Professional-Studies/Consciousness-Transformative-Studies/Programs/MA-Consciousness-and-Transformative-Studies.html" target="_blank"> Interdisciplinary Consciousness Studies</a>. The program has since changed a bit, but it was an academically rigorous attempt to reestablish phenomenology as a way to gather knowledge about nonphysical aspects of human experience. Put simply, it recognized that there is more to life than the physical world, and that even though science can't study them, such experiences can be studied in a scientific way, by acknowledging the role of subjectivity. We looked at the role the observer plays in quantum physics, mystical or spiritual experiences and their effects, alternate states of consciousness like dreams, out of body experiences, and psychedelic experiences, and other ways in which the individual can influence experience. </div>
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Science, you see, has turned out to be a terrific way of learning about the physical world, but is not a complete description of human experience. By definition, the individual scientist shouldn't have an effect on the results of any experiment. Two scientists should have the same results if they do the same experiment, and in that way, we learn what rules about the physical world are universal. Who the individual scientist is, what her history and expectations are, should not matter at all.</div>
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But we all know that individuals can and do bring a lot to any situation.Who we are, what our history, emotions, and expectations are can drastically effect our experience of a situation. So clearly, there is more to human life than that which can be explained with science. That's what we studied.</div>
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Although I had been introduced to the religions of India as an undergrad, as a graduate student I studied them, and south Asian religious history, more extensively. I grew to love the subject and that part of the world, especially due to teachers such as <a href="https://www.linkedin.com/pub/david-komito/6b/987/75b" target="_blank">David Komito</a> and <a href="http://in.integralinstitute.org/contributor-91.aspx" target="_blank">Vernice Solimar</a>. </div>
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After grad school, <a href="http://archwayschool.org/" target="_blank">I started teaching</a> middle school math and science, but after a few years the pull I was feeling grew inescapably compelling, and I left that school, and headed off to India.</div>
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That first trip, in the fall of 1995, was magical. From the moment I landed, I felt at home. It was (and remains) difficult to explain, but I felt so comfortable and happy among the chaos and beauty. On that trip, which lasted 3.5 months, I saw a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=llnkzm-LuCc" target="_blank">total solar eclipse</a>, went on a 10-day Tibetan Buddhist <a href="http://tushita.info/" target="_blank">meditation retreat</a> in the hills above Dharamsala, had a brief affair with a young woman from Sweden, visited <a href="http://www.vrindavan-dham.com/" target="_blank">the birthplace of Lord Krishna</a>, met many lovely people, and ate a lot of great food. I got sick a couple of times, and there are always frustrating and difficult moments traveling here, but I loved every minute of it.</div>
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Twenty years and a few more trips later, I have returned to live here in Bombay, <a href="http://www.desislang.com/define/aamchi%20mumbai" target="_blank">aamchi Mumbai</a>, the 8th biggest city in the world, the most progressive and populous city in India, Maximum City, the City of Dreams, to call myself a <a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/tasneemnashrulla/are-you-a-true-mumbaikar#.olebAm89O" target="_blank">Mumbaiker</a>, to make this incredible place my home. I do realize how fortunate I am. I am grateful every day.</div>
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What will happen? Will I stay 6 months or 6 years? Will I teach music, do voiceovers, appear in Bollywood movies? Will I find love? So many mysteries lie ahead. I'm ready for the unfolding. I surrender to you, mother India. Take care of me, as you always have. Return my love, as you always have. </div>
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This should be interesting...</div>
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by R. Bhakti Kleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15915859892011464480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6358903932182733382.post-54914541847970660332014-03-09T15:30:00.005+05:302015-02-05T22:00:11.655+05:30Photographic Interlude<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset at Carter Road, Mumbai</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Namaste hands in Ahmedabad</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snack Wallah</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Locals at rest stop in Gujarat</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Desert Festival Parade in Jaisalmer</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Entrants in the Mr. Mustache competition</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mr. Desert and me</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jaisalmer view from fort</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig8mEFcknj6vrxnDCvz_7huhGhclt5UFLn9uXlRgF2g6GUS-sHoMBM7jla3uRKJwjDtGhtiNEjk2dZ4z9ESvrj8Q4FLoxVItw597AISrK9FIwlaAcAVgBPFyi2ghTmgIQzhJo3Okzt_vu5/s1600/IMG_8532.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig8mEFcknj6vrxnDCvz_7huhGhclt5UFLn9uXlRgF2g6GUS-sHoMBM7jla3uRKJwjDtGhtiNEjk2dZ4z9ESvrj8Q4FLoxVItw597AISrK9FIwlaAcAVgBPFyi2ghTmgIQzhJo3Okzt_vu5/s1600/IMG_8532.JPG" height="478" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset over Jaisalmer</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMcBzXwnNosidTOIcY6OgaGu3yxgyZ-oXyaDGXKciTcO6Mfpm8zBPX6-CCVSadlLEdGCdgEhw2yxl3rYbDd7URy53oNmffFclWdXzWdq7b7b9_HeseLffmmhlAfT5kYVimAByC4NTAiTNb/s1600/IMG_8570.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMcBzXwnNosidTOIcY6OgaGu3yxgyZ-oXyaDGXKciTcO6Mfpm8zBPX6-CCVSadlLEdGCdgEhw2yxl3rYbDd7URy53oNmffFclWdXzWdq7b7b9_HeseLffmmhlAfT5kYVimAByC4NTAiTNb/s1600/IMG_8570.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A boy and his camel</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNJ1st8u3TmztP9dW-JgkxGfJz7tmV0qUcgR5j8X8HZ2wQw-YpjzZPx8v2895nmwoPKdke2Y9skxozpKWSWGIcJh_zaauEVjWTr0GTKIMQwNN9_WAI_TDRuzn4f-tfiymVjztOQsq6kf0D/s1600/IMG_8610.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNJ1st8u3TmztP9dW-JgkxGfJz7tmV0qUcgR5j8X8HZ2wQw-YpjzZPx8v2895nmwoPKdke2Y9skxozpKWSWGIcJh_zaauEVjWTr0GTKIMQwNN9_WAI_TDRuzn4f-tfiymVjztOQsq6kf0D/s1600/IMG_8610.JPG" height="476" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2adC8utHqR5G5NrAVIPp_1qr856z0XuQiENlh6YCiZRPBf5AuJVQYAp85qqCJd7rOJ3xF5PXyee6n-rq_GDe2SjkQRVk2CPsEQTyVJWtxRM8boPDJZNVDUIk-4t_Ss91ijrRFRJCPH_lS/s1600/IMG_8688.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2adC8utHqR5G5NrAVIPp_1qr856z0XuQiENlh6YCiZRPBf5AuJVQYAp85qqCJd7rOJ3xF5PXyee6n-rq_GDe2SjkQRVk2CPsEQTyVJWtxRM8boPDJZNVDUIk-4t_Ss91ijrRFRJCPH_lS/s1600/IMG_8688.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset at the Cenotaphs at Bara Bagh</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8wn5lPGshLwJnVyU7yl0C3rzuqltMck_1gANu8EMk2UU0JfkbPO60k26T2awe62wKks47rBtBBaZZq4hR_3OI27GEstNgnWuHqu6ayd4TSjQ63XwSTYR7BEewrGvFaxCHZS8ODjmqz0iZ/s1600/IMG_8689.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8wn5lPGshLwJnVyU7yl0C3rzuqltMck_1gANu8EMk2UU0JfkbPO60k26T2awe62wKks47rBtBBaZZq4hR_3OI27GEstNgnWuHqu6ayd4TSjQ63XwSTYR7BEewrGvFaxCHZS8ODjmqz0iZ/s1600/IMG_8689.JPG" height="476" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bara Bagh</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHC_HyPqgWyyNlaN1xf66ceSs1j4oQmh_8uSIfxtnLLTo0UT6i1A6802jMdamnjUZA879Y9ti3L8DI7et2pCmUq8vjXsUupfkY6JUG0-5XvfH7cndZDsPG_9Sw2xHYjA7lYO5XuGi08bWp/s1600/IMG_8722.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHC_HyPqgWyyNlaN1xf66ceSs1j4oQmh_8uSIfxtnLLTo0UT6i1A6802jMdamnjUZA879Y9ti3L8DI7et2pCmUq8vjXsUupfkY6JUG0-5XvfH7cndZDsPG_9Sw2xHYjA7lYO5XuGi08bWp/s1600/IMG_8722.jpg" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bara Bagh</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgspn1YmfAoXALi3UAwnFl5NiNgA6fBi9xGIsiDgcBFfjOaPCxnN8QPTRXqm0aP3CewQ5_SJne2N6OPtmAU-IMzlXmPoMuIAwILfrHSl9mq5zl3sMzFMjnlfGzJhMqc5ZcOdOVwQjBaFfYn/s1600/IMG_8724.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgspn1YmfAoXALi3UAwnFl5NiNgA6fBi9xGIsiDgcBFfjOaPCxnN8QPTRXqm0aP3CewQ5_SJne2N6OPtmAU-IMzlXmPoMuIAwILfrHSl9mq5zl3sMzFMjnlfGzJhMqc5ZcOdOVwQjBaFfYn/s1600/IMG_8724.JPG" height="478" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bara Bagh</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzfcSLyWzD_yCfLQuUKe075wJr4cwkvD1TLp1s3sQn9pYoBEgEoscNmfhIFIggLj9xCED56pSf5XN8o3eSVmx2LgcSbr64L3XjWkU58IBXtC-SkwDj_t0h8iWdBv4mXnlSnaffX851ZU6t/s1600/IMG_8774.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzfcSLyWzD_yCfLQuUKe075wJr4cwkvD1TLp1s3sQn9pYoBEgEoscNmfhIFIggLj9xCED56pSf5XN8o3eSVmx2LgcSbr64L3XjWkU58IBXtC-SkwDj_t0h8iWdBv4mXnlSnaffX851ZU6t/s1600/IMG_8774.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Local friend at Bara Bagh</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Um_4-cTFtQqyevc1pE5w9WqIqlDOB8SkhOEhk0ces0Zd-HMHsRjyyw_aAU03ANSYA9tNAi7PU2IkYklC-7YnrXXNbMyrIyYSjDLu4GNtdNMj7muzN69cotPbsyw1P_ufyY9MriEZlAQi/s1600/IMG_8802.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Um_4-cTFtQqyevc1pE5w9WqIqlDOB8SkhOEhk0ces0Zd-HMHsRjyyw_aAU03ANSYA9tNAi7PU2IkYklC-7YnrXXNbMyrIyYSjDLu4GNtdNMj7muzN69cotPbsyw1P_ufyY9MriEZlAQi/s1600/IMG_8802.JPG" height="478" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset at Bara Bagh</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsuiX8P4mqDWDdRWLXhtk9MK1QhyUxDq7HQ94yfHAQh3SFnL2XldoTuDWuzDlVQeu8qYMM0Y5_Hu8iJgTpJnGAKJtIh_26VOZEt4z6JuwOLMlBj_BeIEMSoKeWC3zW8QfykjvgB7RrUqkl/s1600/IMG_8828.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsuiX8P4mqDWDdRWLXhtk9MK1QhyUxDq7HQ94yfHAQh3SFnL2XldoTuDWuzDlVQeu8qYMM0Y5_Hu8iJgTpJnGAKJtIh_26VOZEt4z6JuwOLMlBj_BeIEMSoKeWC3zW8QfykjvgB7RrUqkl/s1600/IMG_8828.JPG" height="476" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset from Bara Bagh</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOKxrpGpUecH9Yz70xrlX_ghQdO_gpKc8KujvvT1LHYzrBH-jtgq9313IuIvfM9uMLX6Bxt51x55WK-O989mWihp8EqIL4UqR9dc-tw5yyTLeqiDBdLhZEEPF_gwhEIRhQFGcuVQfPa-S-/s1600/IMG_8903.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOKxrpGpUecH9Yz70xrlX_ghQdO_gpKc8KujvvT1LHYzrBH-jtgq9313IuIvfM9uMLX6Bxt51x55WK-O989mWihp8EqIL4UqR9dc-tw5yyTLeqiDBdLhZEEPF_gwhEIRhQFGcuVQfPa-S-/s1600/IMG_8903.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Holy Cow</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrWOEnB5WpAtIFSGBrYo7gNXw_wrSv55eKSM_DuLhM6fYS9odcsztppLF_v7HqE_Z6mU5Ol7PmNa_IDGTOj2nULILrmbJHPrSCzZll-s-CCmzaNbyDNXThFHUmzuwl46mi8HkbtJolcNYG/s1600/IMG_8916.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrWOEnB5WpAtIFSGBrYo7gNXw_wrSv55eKSM_DuLhM6fYS9odcsztppLF_v7HqE_Z6mU5Ol7PmNa_IDGTOj2nULILrmbJHPrSCzZll-s-CCmzaNbyDNXThFHUmzuwl46mi8HkbtJolcNYG/s1600/IMG_8916.JPG" height="476" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wall detail near Shiva Temple, outside Jaisalmer</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs3Ep1f-nOzW1aH3uTqyO2Y0pX8QVchhu52glj7fEHIoW4UGLn2nvIgmwFHcCJZi9JDOEq2Xsf-gWk6XKC2eCT-xzD2NRjNoA9rzWBJZO33bEx3Ujo8HnEOsYdrqHfqZUXsmJxyfVqhxjr/s1600/IMG_8933.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs3Ep1f-nOzW1aH3uTqyO2Y0pX8QVchhu52glj7fEHIoW4UGLn2nvIgmwFHcCJZi9JDOEq2Xsf-gWk6XKC2eCT-xzD2NRjNoA9rzWBJZO33bEx3Ujo8HnEOsYdrqHfqZUXsmJxyfVqhxjr/s1600/IMG_8933.JPG" height="476" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shiva Temple</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn5r7ECxNg5hBmHFHp8shTXeQkH6Yk-8F6r7WuPBrueLJu6LEqvlTOam7oQtl3QFVuYxlfeozY1xXcGlbqNk-Ly6NybWcwjPWD46d__cnknYo-c2F6mLCpKJbFlRNi1hFxGv1Nel7fWme8/s1600/IMG_8941.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn5r7ECxNg5hBmHFHp8shTXeQkH6Yk-8F6r7WuPBrueLJu6LEqvlTOam7oQtl3QFVuYxlfeozY1xXcGlbqNk-Ly6NybWcwjPWD46d__cnknYo-c2F6mLCpKJbFlRNi1hFxGv1Nel7fWme8/s1600/IMG_8941.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ceiling of Shiva Temple</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvFSnPolc-TOSMtLhQmPLinhpdMUUoI3-erPlKfzBb2gyXSSpUcFXHmHTfzq9ywa_KTNhbo0x6xHTKm2lqmhHER_0TuooOOKlwF20jMZEwwWh72SPhFLDydVUYWafe8MMhQyqOkVjHm0BN/s1600/IMG_8952.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvFSnPolc-TOSMtLhQmPLinhpdMUUoI3-erPlKfzBb2gyXSSpUcFXHmHTfzq9ywa_KTNhbo0x6xHTKm2lqmhHER_0TuooOOKlwF20jMZEwwWh72SPhFLDydVUYWafe8MMhQyqOkVjHm0BN/s1600/IMG_8952.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh6uuNKiss54wKsDGmTkm8ECSLJMBEQvmOPBIJZP4KcZyc8DSWmSdBM5q0VPzA7cbUOHBSNH7cHEtWDcPvFM4vMDeLzbU4Tbvi55HJpz0H6GS1nBveStFuckPdfhBvvr_PFgiqC29VII_e/s1600/IMG_8969.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh6uuNKiss54wKsDGmTkm8ECSLJMBEQvmOPBIJZP4KcZyc8DSWmSdBM5q0VPzA7cbUOHBSNH7cHEtWDcPvFM4vMDeLzbU4Tbvi55HJpz0H6GS1nBveStFuckPdfhBvvr_PFgiqC29VII_e/s1600/IMG_8969.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcHMlyEhGi7t0Wt0Jby7lqvelzG2qFMU4wN7nS5bfvKf5a1oS8vIS-TBWD6qwcnvg2UGmUbIrIyUgLeSUfE1oyb7T4D7Hi1kyYoFOrpWPQHbX1Z9u2-ITnPdY6ry3lqxvdc9B-xEYHabpG/s1600/IMG_8974.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcHMlyEhGi7t0Wt0Jby7lqvelzG2qFMU4wN7nS5bfvKf5a1oS8vIS-TBWD6qwcnvg2UGmUbIrIyUgLeSUfE1oyb7T4D7Hi1kyYoFOrpWPQHbX1Z9u2-ITnPdY6ry3lqxvdc9B-xEYHabpG/s1600/IMG_8974.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rickshaw Driver at Shiva Temple</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh16mjgiOKTXgPTSpjhkDzGw86PDp2_jlOzUxKEaxdCwEL3k1PZRqxLB1iH6xp1TtLvSVPTntBihs4M_5f7WYyTftSjLFKg5jFJKpTXig8MSdBrP92YQ0ufJQ0eHzEuyuepv_-dc76SMjKB/s1600/IMG_8999.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh16mjgiOKTXgPTSpjhkDzGw86PDp2_jlOzUxKEaxdCwEL3k1PZRqxLB1iH6xp1TtLvSVPTntBihs4M_5f7WYyTftSjLFKg5jFJKpTXig8MSdBrP92YQ0ufJQ0eHzEuyuepv_-dc76SMjKB/s1600/IMG_8999.JPG" height="478" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clown at Car-Free Day on Carter Road</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnXyhHv_7gSXXK6w2bfGU5QccuUtezcspAvUF-HuvLQey-jndu-IJru4R-NYCjWb6zdTKHzv1ai6BZUOekk31ejjYZHzDBnpLaPyqQqxww_X4JwFBaGHG8Qts40f0MTeIernuhR8TRQqHe/s1600/IMG_9043.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnXyhHv_7gSXXK6w2bfGU5QccuUtezcspAvUF-HuvLQey-jndu-IJru4R-NYCjWb6zdTKHzv1ai6BZUOekk31ejjYZHzDBnpLaPyqQqxww_X4JwFBaGHG8Qts40f0MTeIernuhR8TRQqHe/s1600/IMG_9043.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset panorama at Juhu Beach, Mumbai</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMcTvaELm3dMikBSPg6bQxwGZgrnrJRlv2WEx8usUIfq4AxUcn71Lmd8zqaMGmTKqn72NTztKdcyjQd58WvKRErJQUcXtD0RA8uVAdZIALgBxlwMtcVKXwrBKQrXL18y4yS9aSwb_qr-zX/s1600/IMG_9086.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMcTvaELm3dMikBSPg6bQxwGZgrnrJRlv2WEx8usUIfq4AxUcn71Lmd8zqaMGmTKqn72NTztKdcyjQd58WvKRErJQUcXtD0RA8uVAdZIALgBxlwMtcVKXwrBKQrXL18y4yS9aSwb_qr-zX/s1600/IMG_9086.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hair Salon. Like the name?</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpKbj8xP8nYuDrYGVmvQw3x8UCB6GgOR5WUAoNuPt_gIyLFSwNlvoAy9MM31sEOaJTsC9YMFjA85Ny0OFV6CWIaQ0UDb8vbNTp0KrMwKTTPOSydT5TYh9Fh2u39ouSnqTmCPNEx49wlhIh/s1600/IMG_9103.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpKbj8xP8nYuDrYGVmvQw3x8UCB6GgOR5WUAoNuPt_gIyLFSwNlvoAy9MM31sEOaJTsC9YMFjA85Ny0OFV6CWIaQ0UDb8vbNTp0KrMwKTTPOSydT5TYh9Fh2u39ouSnqTmCPNEx49wlhIh/s1600/IMG_9103.jpg" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oscar the Cat.</td></tr>
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</div>by R. Bhakti Kleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15915859892011464480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6358903932182733382.post-48451360078241952712014-02-27T23:32:00.002+05:302014-02-27T23:35:37.712+05:30The Rhythm of the City<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I was feeling the rhythm of the city today. The trick is to get out early, have a leisurely breakfast, get some work done, and then return home to escape the heat of the day for a few hours. Then, at 5 or so, head out again, and enjoy the Mumbai evening. Today, I did leave my room early, mostly because I was asked to, in order for the maid who clean the apartment I"m staying at could get in, change my sheets, and tidy up a bit. It's a little weird, but she comes with the apartment, and that's how it's done here. So I went out for coffee and breakfast at a place called <a href="http://www.mocha.co.in/bandra.htm" target="_blank">Mochamojo</a> nearby. It's done up in full 70's decor; vinyl booths that look like the back seat of old cars, bean bag chairs, end tables that look like Rubik's Cubes. The coffee was quite good, and for breakfast I had basically a <a href="http://www.eatdrinkandtravel.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/11/Spanish-Tortilla.jpg" target="_blank">Spanish tortilla</a>; eggs and potatoes baked together in a pie. Over breakfast, I had a long phone call with Sonali, whom faithful readers will remember as the head of Dreamcatchers NGO, and who is getting used to the idea of becoming a mentor for younger people who are called to service but don't know how to begin. Truly, she's been a mentor for many for a long time, and is one of the most inspirational people Ive ever met, but of course no one sees themselves from the outside quite as others see them.<br />
From there, I did go home for a few hours. The last few days have been very hot and humid, although it's still quite pleasantly cool in the evenings. I left a little earlier than usual though, and headed up to Juhu, the part of town a little further north, with its wonderful beach and grand Hare Krishna temple. The last time I was there, I discovered, around the corner from the temple, a Thai massage shop, and I went back and treated myself. The first time, I got a traditional Thai massage, and this time I opted for the classic Swedish. Sixty minutes, as professional as you'd want, for US$20. I could get used to it.<br />
After the massage, I went to the Krishna temple, one of my favorite spots in the city. It's a whole complex, with a hotel, restaurant, snack stalls, library, and other services, but the centerpiece is a giant, white marble temple which displays all the grandeur and beauty befitting Lord Krishna and his consort Radha. The statues of the deities are lovingly cared for by a crew of volunteers, who dress them, cover them in flower garlands, and burn sweet-smelling incense to please them. All the while, devotees chant Krishna's name in the background, and we all join in, call-and-response style. I love going to the temple. It's a beautiful, peaceful place to give thanks for being here, for being alive, and it's always among the first and last places I go when I visit this country.<br />
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A new baby Krishna light I got at the temple.</div>
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From there, I headed to the nearby Juhu beach, which is always crowded with locals and Indian tourists who bring their entire families and baskets full of food. Some people swim, some sit together on the beach, lovers stroll along the shore, and children run and play freely. I watched the sun set over the Arabian Sea, ate some <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLMXo3-4rWZ1JpBxBEOcpj61Kc9TKb6eETyI3y22LpkZKBxtUzwgpnoX2fcAb2uJV7_hKay_TReUJyQA4cJrCv4OppCh_xZTjLpCfXpcCmY4huR0MOOiD3FCXM-bI9BzVB-xQ-Cra-E48/s1600/DSC06527.JPG" target="_blank">Pav Bhaji</a>, and when it was dark, headed to my old neighborhood of Khar Danda.<br />
There, I visited my old friend Sachin the saloon-keeper, for it was time for my weekly <a href="http://bhaktiinindia.blogspot.com/2009/08/shave-haircut-few-rupee.html" target="_blank">shave</a>. And then I visited my old neighbors, the DJ brothers Sachin and Pravin. They were not actually there, but their sister and father and uncle were there, and I hadn't seen their father since I've been back, so it was great to catch up with him. He's had a really rough year, losing his wife and a younger brother within a few months. (I told him I understood.) And now, his daughter Poonam must take care of the father and the two brothers, because they are a poor village family, and that's how it's done. I wish she had the freedom to leave, continue her education (she did finish college), find a husband of her own, but they are a traditional family, and with the mom gone, she feels it is her place to take care of her father. She's perfectly happy though, and thinks it's weird that American families don't stay together forever and are scattered around the country. Indian families stay together, she says, and who am I to say that's wrong. It seems like she's happy with the decision, and doesn't feel forced into it, although it's hard to tell because in some ways it's expected of her. But she says she would choose to do it, even if she did really have a choice, and she certainly seems happy.Not everyone has to become a big shot or become super-productive at business. There's something to be said for a quiet, simple life, too.<br />
From there, I tried to take the bus home, but I must have missed my stop, because before I knew it, I was at the last stop, the Bandra railway station. No problem. I hopped in a <a href="http://thecityfix.com/files/2010/03/Auto-rickshaw-driver.jpg" target="_blank">rickshaw</a> and headed home. My apartment is near a Bollywood film studio called Mehboob Studios, and it's a great landmark that all the drivers know. I locked up the gate, as I do each evening, and headed upstairs. All in all, a great day in the city.<br />
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Tonight's sunset at Juhu Beach:</div>
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by R. Bhakti Kleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15915859892011464480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6358903932182733382.post-45385594298379714612014-02-07T18:13:00.000+05:302014-02-07T18:13:51.820+05:30To Serve, With Love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve previously mentioned my friend Sonali, whose assistance
in finding housing has been invaluable, and with whom I’ve had some incredibly
enlightening and uplifting conversations. She is the founder of the NGO
<a href="http://dreamcatchersfoundation.org/" target="_blank">Dreamcatchers</a>, with which I worked when I came here 4 years ago, and have
started working with again. Dreamcatchers works with people who have suffered
deep traumas, from victims of the <a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/47/2004_Indonesia_Tsunami_Complete.gif" target="_blank">2004 tsunami</a>, to urban slum dwellers, to kids
who have taken to the streets to escape from abuse at home. While there are
many great organizations working on housing and feeding these people,
Dreamcatchers’ mission is to attend to their spiritual and emotional health, to
cultivate self-love and -respect and –empowerment, to begin the process of
healing these deep wounds and generating a sense of wholeness in the
individual. They have experienced such deep traumas that they can’t see
themselves as worthy of anything good, and sink into meaninglessness and
hopelessness. Using storytelling, music, art, quotes, poetry, images, movement,
meditation, visualization, and group discussion, Dreamcatchers helps to create
experiences which give people a renewed sense of themselves and their own inner
power, which is, in some cases, the only thing that they can give again to
themselves. We seek to integrate the various aspects of the individual which
have been separated due to the trauma, and restore to them the sense of self and
wholeness which has been shattered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The 2004 tsunami, for example, destroyed the culture of many
small fishing villages in the southern Indian state of <a href="http://www.mapsofindia.com/maps/tamilnadu/tamilnadu-map.jpg" target="_blank">Tamil Nadu</a>.
Dreamcatchers did intergenerational work with these villages, helping the
children to reconnect with the elders so that village traditions could be
restored and continued. By using storytelling and imagery, the older generation
could relay the traditions in ways that were clearly communicated to the
younger villages, and the kids of the village could share their fears and
dreams about the future of the village. Together, the villages could unite in a
common cause of rebuilding, with a shared vision of the future, and the youth
were more responsive to the elders in the restoration of the past, while the
elders were more flexible with the changes that the younger villagers dreamed
of for the future.</div>
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In many other ways, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Dreamcatchers-Foundation-A-Multifaceted-NGO/115240768569831" target="_blank">Dreamcatchers </a>works with traumatized
children who have lost a sense of self, and allows them the space to express
themselves, discharge some of the heat, and recognize the ways in which they do
have inner strength, power, and creativity. We can’t always change the
difficult external situations in which these kids find themselves, but perhaps
we can change how the kids respond, by giving them internal emotional, cognitive,
and spiritual skills so that they don’t lose themselves and they don’t come to
expect the abuse, or think they deserve nothing more. We help them to catch
their dreams and make them specific, whether through drawings or narratives,
and hopefully we help them see their own unique talents. India is a culture
where the individual can be made to feel insignificant in the group or family
for reasons of gender or class, and lose themselves in favor of others who are
seemingly more important. It always amazes me how high the suicide rate is
here; women killing themselves because they can’t give their husbands children,
or men because they can’t support their families. There are so many who live
unseen, unrecognized, and when this starts in childhood, it is tragic. This is
what Dreamcatchers addresses; giving these people a sense that they matter, and
they deserve love and respect.</div>
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Yesterday we met with two women from <a href="http://www.protsahan.co.in/" target="_blank">Protsahan</a>, a fabulous
NGO that works with girls on the streets of Delhi. The founder quit her
corporate job because she felt a calling (she said her father cried for a week,
but now is quite proud), and her partner joined last year, after she awoke to
her own childhood traumas and wanted to save other girls from the same fate.
They are both in their upper 20’s, and Protsahan (which means encouragement in
Hindi) is really starting to get attention for the great work they do. The
founder used to make corporate training films, and now <a href="https://www.facebook.com/ProtsahanIndiaFoundation" target="_blank">Protsahan </a>enables their
girls to make their own films on subjects like menstrual hygiene, the
importance of education for girls (in this population, the boys go to school,
but the girls aren’t generally sent), and issues related to physical and sexual
abuse. The girls make the videos, show them to their friends, and not only do
the filmmakers awake to their talents, the rest of the girls are inspired to
find their own talents, and are more open to the content of the films because they
come from their friends. Both women are great; the future of India. We had a
fantastic discussion about the work; about scaling vertically rather than
horizontally, in the sense that we want our programs to be flexible enough to
reach each person in an authentic way, rather than just increase the number of
people exposed superficially. We also talked about the parallel work of healing
oneself and serving others, and that you don’t have to wait for any level of
personal development to serve, because the service itself is part of your own
path of healing and integration. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was a miraculous evening of conversation, dreams, hope, and love.
Changing the world, one heart at a time. I'm honored just to be involved. </div>
</div>
by R. Bhakti Kleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15915859892011464480noreply@blogger.com1Mumbai, Maharashtra, India19.0759837 72.87765590000003618.5957917 72.232208900000032 19.556175699999997 73.52310290000004tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6358903932182733382.post-66863431727537795572014-02-06T14:59:00.002+05:302014-02-06T15:02:10.849+05:30India 2014<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
One week in, 23 to go.<br />
In some ways, it feels like I never left. The streets, the chaos, the animals, the smells, the smiles are all the same. It has been an adjustment though. Jet lag has been harder than I thought it would be. I was walking around like a zombie for the first few days, falling out hard at 5 or 6 pm, waking up in the middle of the night, watching tv or reading until the city woke up a bit. And this city wakes up late. Many shops don't open until 11, and stay open until midnight or so. I was hungry at some inopportune moments, and not hungry when I should have been. It's getting better, though, and I think I'm almost there.<br />
I just moved into my third hotel. The first one is where I always start out, very comfortable and in my old neighborhood, but expensive at $45 per night (that's my discounted rate from them, actually). Next was a similar place for a little less nearby. Now I'm up in Juhu, a neighborhood a little to the north, famous for its beach, its giant Marriot hotel complex, and its large Krishna temple. I've never stayed here, and it's a little quieter and more peaceful, maybe because of the beach. It gives me whole new areas to wander around and explore. I'm staying at a hotel/ashram only for people visiting the temple, but my friend Sonali called them as a reference, so I'm in. And yes, I'll be visiting the temple two or three times a day, giving thanks for being here, and opening my heart.<br />
This whole trip is about opening my heart. I just recently got divorced. This blog started as a record of the two of us, and the beginnings can be found in the first few entries. Heather and I are still close, but long-term partnership was not to be. So I'm back, to travel solo again, to meet other travelers on the road, and to remember myself. Who am I now? What do I want, where do I want to be, what will be my future of romantic relationships? Before I am truly open to being with another, I must patch some holes, heal some cuts and bruises, and turn on my lovelight for myself, for all beings. I am hopeful that I will find a new partner someday, but in order for it to work, I must find myself again first. And no, it's not that I'm all that lost, I just need a little time to integrate the past few years, so free up the future.<br />
Meanwhile, I've been taking long walks and reconnecting with people. Saw my old friend Sachin the hair-saloon keeper. Got my first shave from him, and a haircut too. Getting shaved by an expert here with a straight razor is one of the pleasures of India, <a href="http://bhaktiinindia.blogspot.com/2009/08/shave-haircut-few-rupee.html" target="_blank">which I have written about before</a>. Last time I came I brought him a wristwatch, and he was still wearing it. And there's my good friend Sonali, I can't say enough about here. She runs the NGO Dreamcatchers, for whom I volunteered in 2010, and I'll work wtih them again this time. Our conversations soar to the loftiest heights, wherein we remind each other of our deepest selves, and I value her insight immensely. I've also seen a few times the Rajput family, DJ brothers Pravin and Sachin, who were my neighbors in my old building. (Sachin Tendulkar is India's most beloved cricket player, recently retired, and so it is a popular name.) I even met a couple new people, one guy named Adam, although when he found out I was het, I think he lost interest. I met him by complimenting him on his tattoo, so I can understand the confusion. It's an awesome tattoo; a stylized om symbol made to look like a meditating person.<br />
I'm so happy and thankful to be here, although there have certainly been times that I've wondered what the heck I'm doing. But let's call that Jetlag too, or the vicissitudes of India. It's all extremes here, internally as well as externally. Keeps things interesting, at least.<br />
I'll stay here in Mumbai for a while, and at some point I'll hit the road. To follow my heart, that is the key. </div>
by R. Bhakti Kleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15915859892011464480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6358903932182733382.post-68556102279314266542012-08-02T22:48:00.004+05:302012-08-02T22:56:39.477+05:30Refilling my heart, and my stomach<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
After almost exactly two years, I have returned to India and <a href="http://www.desislang.com/define/aamchi%20mumbai" target="blank">aamchi Mumbai</a> for a 2 week holiday.<br />
<br />
And what a homecoming it's been. Today reminded me of all I love about India and her people. The warmth, open-heartedness, connections. In short, the people. Oh, and the <a href="http://bhaktiinindia.blogspot.in/2010/07/ode-to-south-indian-breakfast.html" target="blank">food</a>.<br />
<br />
I arrived just after midnight, and after an emotional taxi ride through the streets, gulping in the sweet, unique smell of Mumbai, I went to a hotel in the neighborhood where I used to live, Danda, in west Khar. It's a bit of a fancy hotel, but it's the only one I knew of in the area, and I knew I could arrive at any time.<br />
When I woke, I checked out, thinking I would look for a cheaper place, but there was none in the area to be found. I thought I would have to go further, near the railway station, when the manager came over and wanted to talk to me about a deal for the whole 2 weeks. He offered me a very reasonable price, more than I'm used to paying in the rest of the country, but as low as anything that could be found in this city, so I accepted. Which is great, because it's right here, walking distance from my old apartment.<br />
<br />
The next thing I did was walk to my old street. I hadn't shaved for a couple of days, knowing I would see my old friend and saloon-keeper, Sachin. We recognized each other right away, and while I waited for him to finish with his current client (who translated a bit for us), we chatted. When I was here two years ago, he used to joke with me about sending him gifts from the US, and Sachin jokingly said that I hadn't sent anything. Aha! I pointed to my bag and told him that I had brought. He was pretty amazed when I pulled out a Timex watch for him, some t-shirts for his kids, and a Hollywood snow globe for his wife. The look on his face, I will never forget. He gave me my shave, shaping my beard just so, and we caught up. At the end, he refused to accept any payment, but I told him that next time, I would pay, and he reluctantly agreed to that. I told him I'd be back in a few days.<br />
<br />
Then, I went over to the Pali Naka neighborhood of Bandra where I was meeting my friend Sonali for lunch. Before that, though, I changed money at a shop I know that performs such services at rates higher than banks will give. I got 55 rupee to the dollar; two years before it was only 45. Good for me, not so good for the locals. Then I went to Shiv Sagar to meet Sonali. She is the director of Dreamcatchers, the NGO for which I volunteered when I was here. I got a masala dosa, which as we all know is something I love. It had been 2 years since I had a proper one, and i savored it. Between bites, we had a great talk. We've always had an immediate, deep connection, understanding each other's hearts, minds, and souls effortlessly, in ways that inspire both of us to reach our deepest selves. It's been a very eventful two years for her, and for me, so we had a lot of catching up to do. The restaurant eventually kicked us out because they needed the table space, and we stood on the street outside talking for a few more minutes before putting the conversation on hold until we go to our next restaurant together (there's supposed to be a great new South Indian place in Juhu).<br />
<br />
Back on my old street, I ran into so many shopkeepers and former neighbors, and they all greeted me so enthusiastically, it was a real homecoming, so sweet. I went to my old building and all my old neighbors were so happy to see me. One of them, a family living on the ground floor with two brothers who are DJs, Sam and Sachin, had been particularly friendly when I lived in the building and invited me to come back later for dinner.<br />
<br />
After resting at the hotel, I returned for dinner. Sachin is in Goa, so I talked to him on the phone, but Sam and his sister and father and aunt and grandmother were all there, and we chatted, and they fed me a lovely dinner. Some customs are quite interesting, including the one where they let the guest eat first before they ate. So I ate alone while they watched, kept filling my place when it got half empty, made a special trip to get soda for me, and we talked. They couldn't have been nicer or more sweet or hospitable. They kept piling puris on my plate until I have to beg them to stop. They told me they were so happy to have me as a guest, they wanted to make sure I got enough. And they even had gone out and bought a little vanilla ice cream to give to me for dessert. Before I left, Sam and I made plans to have dinner on Sunday night.<br />
<br />
And to top it all off, today is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raksha_Bandhan" target="blank">Raksha Bandhan</a>, a lovely Indian holiday that celebrates the bonds of brothers, sisters, and cousins. The streets are filled with families dressed up and blowing noisemakers.<br />
<br />
I'm heading back to the room now, but stopped to get these thoughts down, so I could always remember this incredible day. Earlier, I had told Sonali a story about seeing an Indian family at Universal Studios in Los Angeles this year, and how I had approached them, asked where they were from (turned out to be Tirumala, where I spend my birthday in 2010), and talked with them a bit. Sonali told me that she was in Amsterdam earlier in the year, and when she was there, she understood the core of my love for India. There, as in LA, people just walk briskly, minding their business, on the way to doing something important, and she had a hard time getting anyone to stop and chat or even so she could ask for directions. She knew that in India, when you're in public, it's one big community, and it's common to talk to strangers, show them kindness and friendliness. Sometimes in LA, I seem weird for talking to strangers in public, as if we were friends. Here, it is commonplace. And when I <b>am </b>friends with someone, or neighbors of theirs, the love and kindness and hospitality can split my heart wide open, and refill it to overflowing.<br />
<br />
Mumbai, thanks for the love. Not only are you the best food city in the world, your people are second to none. </div>by R. Bhakti Kleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15915859892011464480noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6358903932182733382.post-4706001277729586412010-07-20T11:08:00.013+05:302020-09-24T15:12:58.402+05:30An Ode to the South Indian Breakfast<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">O</span>, Ye south Indian breakfast;<br />
Thou art the greatest breakfasts in the world!<br />
Thou fillest me with a joyful feeling,<br />
Reaching into every corner of my soul and body,<br />
Igniting me to life each day with the perfect balance of sensation,<br />
With sweet and spice,<br />
With refreshing coolness and exhilarating heat.<br />
Like the culture and religion around you,<br />
You have evolved over a thousand years, <br />
To become a perfection.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://myweekendkitchen.in/wp-content/uploads/2013/01/Idli-Sambhar-Chutney.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://myweekendkitchen.in/wp-content/uploads/2013/01/Idli-Sambhar-Chutney.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Ye startest with Idli, that saucer-shaped pillow of soft, absorbent pleasure,<br />
Made of slightly sour rice flour, steamed into light, airy goodness<br />
Like a cloud; like an empty mind, ready to absorb the day, ready to absorb the spicy and tangy sambar soup, and the cool and and tropical coconut chutney.<br />
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And with thy lightfulness, delightfulness,<br />
also comes the Vada.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5mB-yBeRPtYRx5gjbpU8NUDjI8XjBtD3LKDT3GhyphenhyphenVtTTv32o_sB0K5MfK78xkc8MqVeYEGt7ManRYbPURkeaR8Stw8aliocxbZQt0Mi6U8Ef_Q2AvM6ovo59sE7zK7yJp31E9uTnPUMzx/s1600/Medu-Vada.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5mB-yBeRPtYRx5gjbpU8NUDjI8XjBtD3LKDT3GhyphenhyphenVtTTv32o_sB0K5MfK78xkc8MqVeYEGt7ManRYbPURkeaR8Stw8aliocxbZQt0Mi6U8Ef_Q2AvM6ovo59sE7zK7yJp31E9uTnPUMzx/s1600/Medu-Vada.jpg" width="197" /></a></div>
Oh ye Vada, ye savory doughnut of delight, <br />
Fried gently, lovingly, so that your outside is crisp and your inside is light and cake-like,<br />
Also ready to be combined with the twin condiments of sambar and chutney,<br />
<br />
Idly and Vada, sambar and chutney-<br />
Thy formest a heavenly mixture that is eaten with one’s fingers<br />
There is no silverware to intercede; no fork or spoon to separate the sensation.<br />
Fingers are used to mix, and scoop, so that it becomes an experience of all the senses.<br />
Why deprive the fingers, the skin, the sense of touch of the goodness? <br />
This breakfast is made to be relished by all the senses, for there is plenty of bliss to go around.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://www.madrascafe.net/images/dosa.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://www.madrascafe.net/images/dosa.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
And then, of course, the masterpiece, the grand and glorious Dosa, the sourdough wonder, fried thin as the border between Man and God, thin as the delicateness of a newborn butterfly, crispy and airy and utterly celestial, so light that it lifts the eater into Heaven itself, into a world of ecstasy.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDYhW4B1V610YTQE1lbqHcfZmrfZ440utSwC7B5IqI0K2tOs3J2xDuLuOmPgYTKJLyJcIJuqYIDtCHb2nT8iuRZ2kwX1UzWQNxSpYlbwWu3PcE71aq9i3amqKAlkv2tytMSasQ7bue7iBW/s480/kafi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDYhW4B1V610YTQE1lbqHcfZmrfZ440utSwC7B5IqI0K2tOs3J2xDuLuOmPgYTKJLyJcIJuqYIDtCHb2nT8iuRZ2kwX1UzWQNxSpYlbwWu3PcE71aq9i3amqKAlkv2tytMSasQ7bue7iBW/s320/kafi.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>
Finally, the coffee, brewed fresh and strong, premixed with milk and sugar in perfect balance, and served in a cup inside a bowl, so that you can pour it yourself, from cup to bowl and back to cup, mixing it, aerating it, lightening it, cooling it, until it is ready to be savored.<br />
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<br />
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Each day, I am graced with your goodness, O South Indian Breakfast, and with a beginning like that, how can the day fail to unite me with my God, remind me of my Love, and bring out the best in me and all humankind?<br />
<br />
Yum.</div>
by R. Bhakti Kleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15915859892011464480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6358903932182733382.post-36564219661340334422010-07-14T14:49:00.000+05:302010-07-14T14:49:00.237+05:30Singin' on the TrainIt takes about 24 hours to fly from the US to India, if you stop somewhere in Europe, including layovers and all. The 24 hour train trip from Mumbai to Chennai was much easier and much more comfortable than any of those journeys. I usually take the 2-tier or 3-tier air conditioned cars on long train trips here, but this time none of those seats was available, so I took the sleeper class, which is the class most Indian families take. Each little section has 6 seats - 3 long benches on each side, top, middle and bottom, that are long enough to lie on. During the day, though, they fold the middle one down so that it makes a back to the bottom one and forms a little bench for sitting. But I prefer the top berth, so I can lie down and nap whenever I want. The sleeper class turned out to be very fun, much more friendly and social than the AC cars, and I was the only non-Indian in sight.<br />
<br />
I shared my car with a family of 5. When they came onto the car, I said hello, and saw that one of the young women had her hands beautifully and intricately decorated with henna, so I asked her if she had just gotten married. She told me she was heading down south to get engaged. She was traveling with her Father, Mother, Auntie and best friend. And now, me. <br />
<br />
The groom's family does the engagement party, which is as big and lavish as the wedding, and that's where they were heading. The bride's family does the wedding, which is going to be up in Mumbai, where they are from, and then the happy couple is planning on moving to Simi Valley near Los Angeles. <br />
<br />
The train rides are a real joy, everyone is very open and friendly, children play with other passengers, families bring extravagant picnics, and just in case there's not enough food for anyone, every few minutes a porter comes by selling cold drinks, or chips and cookies, or fried snacks, or full meals of biryani (rice mixed with chicken or vegetables) or Indian thalis (meals with white rice, curries, and other goodies). And of course, even more often than that, someone comes by selling chai and coffee. They carry urns filled with hot spiced and sugared milk, fill up a little paper cup, and then add a tea bag or instant coffee. Each cup sells for 5 rupee, or about 11 cents.<br />
<br />
The family in my car was great. We chatted a lot, bought each other chai often, and they shared with me some of the food they brought along. I even tried some of my Hindi and a couple of Marathi words on them, and they totally lit up at that. I guess some westerners learn some Hindi, but nobody learns any Marathi. My local shopkeeper Prakash has taught me a few Marathi words, showing me off when other people come to his shop, and beaming like the proud teacher he is. So I tried those words on my new friends on the train, and they loved it. The train left at 8:30 at night, so after dinner and tea and getting to know each other, we all settled in for the night. I had one last cup of garam dudh (hot sweet milk), without tea or coffee this time, and went to sleep.<br />
<br />
In the morning, when I took off my eye mask and iPod, the train was a bustle of activity. I watched from my perch on the top berth as people went to the sink to wash up, put away their sheets, returned the middle berths to the bench position, and ate breakfast. I waited until a magical convergence of 2 porters stopped in front of me, one selling coffee and the other selling idly, a steamed rice cake which makes for a lovely light and tasty breakfast. I ate that great train meal for less than a dollar, and then climbed down to join my party.<br />
<br />
For the next couple of hours, we sang. The bride, her friend, her mother and auntie were all singing songs from Bollywood movies, occasionally moving their hands or heads in imitation of the dance steps done to the songs. I sat with them, smiling, clapping along, and joining in on choruses when I could figure it out. Then they asked me to sing! (Little did they know what they were getting themselves into.) First, I sang the 2 Hindi songs I know, from an old movie I saw in 1995. I bought the DVD before I came back from that trip, so I learned the songs. They were very impressed I knew even those songs, and joined with me enthusiastically. Then they wanted an English song. Fly me to the Moon is what came out, and when I finished, they applauded, and we went back to Hindi songs, moving on from happy love songs to sad love songs and then back to happy ones.<br />
<br />
The day went by quickly, with all of us taking naps during the couple hours when it started to get a little warm in our car, and the next thing I knew, the sun had set, and shortly thereafter we arrived at Chennai-Egmore station; the end of the line.<br />
<br />
We exchanged email addresses, so that Heather and I could see Jayshree and her husband-to-be when they move to LA in December, and said our goodbyes. I congratulated the father on his daughter's engagement, and on a lovely family. <br />
<br />
Getting off the train, I was in the middle of India's 4th largest city, but it had a peaceful, slow feeling to it. Around the station were many travel shops and hotels, and I wanted to get to Pondicherry as soon as I could, which is a town about 4 hours away by bus, because the next day was Bastille Day, and it's supposed to be a holiday in Pondy. Pondy is a former French enclave, the way that Goa is a former Portuguese enclave, 2 small remaining parts of India that the British left to other European powers when they consolidated their colonial power over the country. Apparently, somehow Pondy remained an independent French colony until 1956, long after Indian independence. But Pondy is also close to the Sri Aurobindo ashram, and most of the hotels close by 10:30, so I had to wait until the morning.<br />
<br />
I had looked up bus companies online before I left, and found one tha thad an early morning bus, so I searched for that company. I went to another random travel agency that only had busses at night, and tried to convince me to take one, but I told them the name of the bus company I wanted, and they sent me in the right direction, which I thought was mighty friendly of them. Even the rickshaw drivers who jump all over newly-arrived passengers left me alone once I told them I didn't need any help. In some other places in India, they've been much more persistent. I easily found the right bus company and booked a ticket for the bus leaving 6:00am the next day. I even found a rickshaw driver who agreed to meet me at 5:00 am to take me to the bus stop, which is about 45 minutes outside of town. Then I went to a restaurant on the block and got my first official south India dosa, which was indescribably delicious.<br />
<br />
The next step was to find a room. I was only going to be there for a few hours, but I still needed a room. I found a tiny, grungy room at a good price at a bachelor's hotel. Only men allowed. Those 4 hours were more miserable than the 24 on the train. I was attacked by mosquitos, and when I hid in my sleep sack, it became unbearably hot. So from midnight until 4:30 am, i swatted mosquitoes, and killed more than a few, who died leaving bright red spots on the walls and sheets, which I knew was my blood, freshly sucked from me. I hardly slept at all, and was relieved when my alarm went off and I could get up, shower, find my rickshaw driver, and head to the bus stop.<br />
<br />
The bus ride was easy, I slept hard and they had to wake me when we arrived in Pondi. I went to a guest house that I chose from my guidebook, checked in, opened the doors to the balcony overlooking the ocean, and crashed on the clean and comfortable bed.by R. Bhakti Kleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15915859892011464480noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6358903932182733382.post-35359030531391301722010-07-11T00:18:00.005+05:302010-07-11T13:19:47.754+05:30Once more, with feeling.It's almost time to come back. But before I do, I'll will take one last Indian road trip. Today I bought a ticket to head down south, 26 hours on the fast train to Chennai. Tamil Nadu is the one state I've always wanted to see, and haven't seen yet (except for a one-night layover in 2004, where I dipped my toes into the Bay of Bengal, but didn't do much else). It's a completely different world than the north. The north of India is a melting pot, due to centuries of invasion by everyone from Alexander the Great to the British. But the south has remained largely untouched (despite British rule), and is still strong in traditional Hinduism, with many ancient temples still standing and actively used. It'll be back to English for me there, for all the Hindi and the few words of Marathi I've learned will be useless. They speak Tamil, and would rather hear English than Hindi.<br />
<br />
It wasn't easy getting a ticket. The trains were sold out, but they reserve a certain number of seats for every train that are released first thing in the morning, 2 days before the train leaves, known as the tatkal quota. I went to a travel agent I know, and hired him to get me a tatkal seat. Even still, he was unable to get a berth in the air-conditioned cars, so I ended up in sleeper class. I believe I still get a full padded bench to myself, but there is no AC. It's been cooler since the monsoon has started though, and I don't mind roughing it for this last trip, so we'll see what it's like. I can always try to upgrade on the train itself; that is usually possible, and you pay the porter the difference. It was much cheaper this way anyway; less than US$10 for a 26 hour, 1279 km (795 mile) journey. The AC cars are 3 times as much.<br />
<br />
I get to Chennai (formerly Madras), the big city down there, on Tuesday at 10pm or so, too late to head out that night. I'll spend the night at a retiring room in the train station itself, or more probably at one of the guest houses nearby. Early the next morning, I want to leave for Pondicherry, a town I've always wanted to see. It was a French enclave, the one place left to them by the British, and still has a French feel to it apparently. Wednesday is, appropriately enough, Bastille Day, which is celebrated there with parades and other festivities. I'll arrive as early as I can (it's a 4 hour bus trip from Chennai), and spend 5 or so days there, depending on how I like it.<br />
<br />
From there I plan to visit Mamalapuram, a friendly traveler's enclave on the beach, with seafood restaurants and palm trees and temples. I'll relax there for another 5 days or so, doing nothing but reading and eating and walking. (I look forward to visiting <a href="http://img.geocaching.com/cache/8113dcf7-ec65-45ac-aae7-672a9c6e986f.jpg" target="blank">Krishna's Butter Ball</a>, a large, precariously balanced stone formation. Oh how <a href="http://krishnastore.com/images/04_web.jpg" target="blank">Krishna loves his butter</a>.)<br />
<br />
The other place I plan to see on this little trip is the holy town of <a href="http://www.articlestreasure.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/12/Tirupati_tirumala.jpg" target="blank">Tirupathi</a>, and the nearby temple at <a href="http://vamsikarra.wordpress.com/2009/07/30/tirumala-the-abode-of-lord-venkateshwara/" target="blank">Tirumala</a>. It's a famous Hindu pilgrimage site, apparently attracting more religious visitors than Mecca, Jerusalem or Rome, though it gets very few Western tourists. I want to end my year in India with a visit there, to express my love and gratitude for the time I've had here, ending it with a spiritual focus, as a resident, an Indian by nature if not by birth, and not as a tourist, not as an outsider. I will walk with the thousands of pilgrims to spend a few moments with the deity, and give great thanks for this amazing year, before I leave this country, and head back to my real family.<br />
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I'll have a few days in Mumbai when I return, and I will, as I have been doing in these weeks since I returned from Hampi, enjoy my beloved city. I've been taking long ambles around town, talking to the people, visiting my favorite restaurants, shopping for mementos (and pretty things for Heather), and enjoying the ambiance. <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?f=d&source=s_d&saddr=33rd+Rd&daddr=Vithalbhai+Patel+Rd+to:19.075016,72.825022+to:Unknown+road&hl=en&geocode=FUjqIgEd-VlXBA%3BFcPuIgEdFFtXBA%3B%3BFXwQIwEdEjBXBA&mra=dme&mrcr=0&mrsp=2&sz=15&via=1,2&sll=19.070757,72.829828&sspn=0.023809,0.028796&ie=UTF8&ll=19.070818,72.828755&spn=0.011904,0.014398&z=16" target="blank">Tonight I walked home from Waterfield Road and Linking Road</a>, after drinking lemon tea at a new bakery there.<br />
<br />
The other night, <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?f=d&source=s_d&saddr=Juhu+Tara+Rd&daddr=19.075259,72.82588+to:Govind+Patil+Rd+to:Govind+Patil+Rd+to:Unknown+road&geocode=FfpoIwEdzj9XBA%3B%3BFQMQIwEdOjtXBA%3BFXEQIwEd0jhXBA%3BFXwQIwEdEjBXBA&hl=en&mra=dme&mrcr=0&mrsp=1&sz=15&via=1,2,3&sll=19.075543,72.826953&sspn=0.023808,0.028796&ie=UTF8&ll=19.079315,72.825923&spn=0.023807,0.028796&z=15" target="blank">I walked home from Juhu beach</a>. Actually, the <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?f=d&source=s_d&saddr=Juhu+Tara+Rd&daddr=19.075259,72.82588+to:Govind+Patil+Rd+to:Govind+Patil+Rd+to:Unknown+road&geocode=FfpoIwEdzj9XBA%3B%3BFQMQIwEdOjtXBA%3BFXEQIwEd0jhXBA%3BFXwQIwEdEjBXBA&hl=en&mra=dme&mrcr=0&mrsp=1&sz=15&via=1,2,3&sll=19.075543,72.826953&sspn=0.023808,0.028796&ie=UTF8&ll=19.079315,72.825923&spn=0.023807,0.028796&z=15" target="blank">linked map</a> was not my route. I walked directly from Point A to Point B, through no man's land. I walked as far on the beach as I could, a beautiful seaside walk along the Arabian sea with joggers and young couples and families, enjoying the respite from the ever-present monsoon rains, until the sea encroached and blocked my path. I turned East, inland, and found myself in the middle of the poorest slum I have seen here. On the google map, it's just empty, and it's true that there were no roads, no cars, no rickshaws. There was only semi-permanent, hastily built homes, with blue tarps as walls and roofs, and thin beams of recovered wood in the corners for structure. The alleys between them were so narrow that you had to turn sideways to pass anyone, with only garbage and mud underfoot. There was no electricity, just the light of fires and wood stoves, and no running water. I was lost. I was looking for a rickshaw but was in the middle of this neighborhood, with nary a vehicle to be found.<br />
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In any other country in the world, I might have been scared to be in such a neighborhood. But not in <a href="http://www.facebook.com/AamchiMumbai" target="blank">Aamchi Mumbai</a>, my Mumbai, my India. I felt as safe and at home as I do anywhere here. I asked a local man to point me toward a rickshaw, and he told me to follow him for a while. (Though the only word spoken between us was "rickshaw".) He led me deeper into the neighborhood (I am reluctant to call it a slum, though anyone would), and then pointed for me to continue, mysteriously saying "boat". I looked in the direction he was pointing, and it was darker, and muddier, and more desolate. Could that be the right way? But I went with my heart and trusted him, and continued, my feet sinking into the mud as I approached the banks of a small inlet of water. It was very dark by then, and before I realized it, I came to the edge of the water, and a small wooden raft. Across the water, i could see lights and vehicles and the rest of the city. I had to cross the water to get to my rickshaw. There was a boy on the small raft. It was about 10 feet square, and he was about 10 years old. I climbed aboard, and he pushed his big bamboo pole into the bottom of the waterbed, and ferried us across. I thanked him with 2 rupee, and carefully stepped off. I walked in the direction I knew had to be right, and after a couple dark blocks, came to a busy street, filled with rickshaws and vendors selling things on the streets, and small shops. And i recognized it! It was the road I always drive down on my way to Juhu. I knew where I was! It was close enough to my neighborhood, so I walked along the road. I stopped at one vendor selling sheets, I had bought some from him a month or so ago, and he recognized me, beamed a smile at me when he saw me, and started to show me more sheets. I wasn't buying that night, but I smiled back. I finished the walk back, got home, washed my feet, and settled into my apartment. What a night, what a walk through the city, parts I had never seen, until coming to parts I recognized. I do so love it here. But I'm also ready to come back.by R. Bhakti Kleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15915859892011464480noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6358903932182733382.post-4836601179921860132010-07-04T00:44:00.011+05:302010-07-04T15:23:11.848+05:30A week in HampiThe monsoon has been raining down in Mumbai all morning, like millions of overturned buckets. i'm making coffee at home. The last couple of days have seen very light rain, and I was going to head to a nice new bakery that opened up nearby, but not this morning. The rain is an ongoing presence; when it's not actively coming down, it's looming in the clouds, gathering. It's soaking into my clothes and skin, leaking from my ceiling, and sneaking in to my internet cables, disrupting my service. (A technician came by to fix it, cut the wire, whipped it, and drops of water came out. No wonder i heard a sizzling sound from the modem.)<br />
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I did escape the rain for a while; I got back a few days ago from a week-long trip to Hampi, in Karnataka state, about 720 km (450 miles) to the southeast. Hampi is the location of a remarkable Hindu empire from the 15th century. The landscape is dotted with giant granite boulders and the shade of banana trees, and many old temples, statues and the ruins of royal buildings. People who visited from other places, like the ancient Persian empire, wrote about it as being the most lavish, comfortable, beautiful empire they had ever seen. Today, it's a UN World Heritage site, so no new building is allowed, and the old ruins are well preserved. You can visit the Queen's Bath, a building with a pool larger than an olympic-sized pool, where the queen would swim; and the elephant stables, where the herd of royal elephants was kept; and the royal palace grounds, where only the foundations remain, but you can still make out the royal seating areas with vast open fields in front, where sporting events and performances took place in front of the king; and many amazing, beautiful temples, with large stone statues of Ganesh or Krishna or Vishnu. Also in Hampi, right in the middle of the town, is a big temple, 30 meters high, and inside lives happy Lakshmi the temple elephant. Lakshmi is 22 years old, very well loved and cared for, and gives blessing to anyone with a coin. You hold out a coin, she grabs it with her trunk, puts it in the collection box, and then bops you gently on the head with her trunk as a blessing. And let me tell you, if you've never been gently bopped on the head by an elephant, it's really fun. Every morning they take her down to the river for a bath, and on most evenings she's featured in a little parade through the streets of the town. Everyone loves Lakshmi, and she graces everyone with her beauty and blessings of good luck. I was lucky to get a blessing from her on my first visit to Hampi in 2004, and extra lucky to get another one this time.<br />
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It was a nice, quiet week. I read about 500 pages of <a href="http://www.shantaram.com/" target="blank">Shantaram</a>, the epic novel I'm reading. I might actually finish it now! The pace of life is sooooo slow there, everything is so peaceful and gentle. The children are friendly but not crazy, mostly minding their own business unless you approach their cricket game and express interest in joining, which they immediately invite you to do. The adults are quiet and happy and spend a lot of time just sitting together. It functions as a small village; poor but not slum-destitute. They have their animals and their gardens and live simply but happily. It was nice to get out of the bustle of the city for a while.<br />
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I traveled there by bus; it was great to be on the road again. It took about 14 hours going and about 12 hours back. I think we saved a couple hours of traffic in Mumbai on the way back, because we arrived very early in the morning, whereas we left the city in the bustle of the evening. It was a comfortable overnight bus, air-conditioned, with blankets on each seat. Both times I sat next to a large, snoring Indian man, but that's to be expected traveling alone. They both were all over the armrest, and Indian men have no issue about touching strangers in a situation like that (you should see the commuter train, everyone packed in, touching tightly), so i could either rub right up against them on the armrest, or cede my position. I did both, at various times. Mostly I just plugged in my iPod and looked out the window or slept.<br />
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On the way out of Hampi at the end of the week, I had my rickshaw driver, Mr. Paul, take me to a couple more temples and palace ruins before heading to the bus. I went to one temple on the top of a hill that was about 600 years old, and was about to head back, when Mr Paul asked me if I saw the view from the other side. I had not, and he told me to go through a little door in the wall on the far side of the temple, and beyond it there were supposed to be spectacular views of the valley. I did, and it was amazing. You could see many of the other temples and ruins, lush greenery, and amazing rock formations. There was also a smaller temple, at the top of a little hillock, a little further up, that looked enticing, so I climbed up the lunar landscape to check it out. As I got close, a voice from within the temple called me closer.<br />
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The small temple was inhabited, and he invited me in, so I left my shoes outside, ducked through the doorway, and entered. It was a small space, almost a cave carved out of the stone, with a bedroll in one corner, several books on a shelf, with one large one opened on a table, and a area for prayers in the back, with a couple of statues of Ganesh and Vishnu. Above Vishnu there was a brass container filled with water, dripping onto Vishnu's head and the flowers that were spread around the statue of the god. The gentleman that lived there was bright eyed and soft spoken. His name was Pramanand Shashtri and he lived in that little cave, studying his books and meditating all day long. He was a scholar, having earned a Doctorate in Sanskrit, the language of the ancient religious texts. We talked, and did a little prayer together, and looked at his books for a while. Another Incredible India moment, just before heading out of town. It's one of the things I love about this country; India rewards me for friendliness and curiosity. There is magic around every bend, and behind every bright, sincere smile. <br />
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I took the overnight bus back to Mumbai, and when I got back it was raining in the city. I caught a rickshaw back to my apartment feeling calm and peaceful, bringing a little of the spirit of Hampi back with me.<br />
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<a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=61877&id=1545873894&l=8198af4ac8" target="blank">There are lots of photos of Hampi at this link</a>. Here are a few samples, you can click on them to make them larger:<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Gg-AUpQcER-ahyphenhyphenzN0mBu-Jx5U6LUE4VC0XQcSoXrqcQok7LwtAYZXxbGHCb8D6LgGCPwpWOl7geXneFloVzZyqqOzcuULGD9fzJlNkTX5x4CB-Sd-gqCAfNxlKacgJ35QOk6_YFlqDVj/s1600/DSC03358.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Gg-AUpQcER-ahyphenhyphenzN0mBu-Jx5U6LUE4VC0XQcSoXrqcQok7LwtAYZXxbGHCb8D6LgGCPwpWOl7geXneFloVzZyqqOzcuULGD9fzJlNkTX5x4CB-Sd-gqCAfNxlKacgJ35QOk6_YFlqDVj/s320/DSC03358.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Sunset over the River in Hampi</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjns6lPjTdt2YTNCAfw0d2poaFxcaEpgowXQJJDSN_7ss6EgJWYxPILuUbzE2eovocTbDBA2rGH5uYQ_9DHypgl5rFzuYptZu2UBC5rBSToikvxKjJE5LS3an1SbDktFOnwZNmlK6iQ9DsO/s1600/DSC03212.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjns6lPjTdt2YTNCAfw0d2poaFxcaEpgowXQJJDSN_7ss6EgJWYxPILuUbzE2eovocTbDBA2rGH5uYQ_9DHypgl5rFzuYptZu2UBC5rBSToikvxKjJE5LS3an1SbDktFOnwZNmlK6iQ9DsO/s320/DSC03212.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Vittala Temple</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEismmOAm_pLw5pySy7x6yn4CcbES6kleQSPZJia9VvbISErV4NK6Z2hq_V48b-geUfk42pRd7fpQWoEnQ1tC_QtROLi0lCb9ltOtwvHdGgtaEhs1KdLg_UxEEmvd0Urq05BGuxVoG5c5HGO/s1600/lakshmi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEismmOAm_pLw5pySy7x6yn4CcbES6kleQSPZJia9VvbISErV4NK6Z2hq_V48b-geUfk42pRd7fpQWoEnQ1tC_QtROLi0lCb9ltOtwvHdGgtaEhs1KdLg_UxEEmvd0Urq05BGuxVoG5c5HGO/s320/lakshmi.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Getting a blessing from Lakshmi in 2004</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKB3ny1TCZHCWuff_BV0wPyRZtcRRMPltEEKY8RZe9RcCauZga4po68tVlQYxILX-uiUeg4BTww7wWSY5z4HEHa1BWkPt2qfF0uBU3aF3Q9gHZRsBfms4MdHlE-h1-GCV2YRawcI0LoiJd/s1600/DSC03506.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKB3ny1TCZHCWuff_BV0wPyRZtcRRMPltEEKY8RZe9RcCauZga4po68tVlQYxILX-uiUeg4BTww7wWSY5z4HEHa1BWkPt2qfF0uBU3aF3Q9gHZRsBfms4MdHlE-h1-GCV2YRawcI0LoiJd/s320/DSC03506.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Sri Pramanand Shashtri</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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Landscape on the way to the Vittala temple</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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15th century ruins and temple<br />
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Vittala temple (note the stone chariot)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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Caught in the rain on the way back from Vittala.<br />
Took shelter for a while, but still got soaked.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dy5GAl4fNcM7cT1Jz8s6JMTJml00RIg7c1BDw35WUNdkIJvk_pzxNbv76VnG4z1xg16OWM2r9Vy0ULBWn6S7A' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Crossing the river in a coracle boat; water had to be bailed out after each trip.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I was waiting to catch it for the return trip.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>by R. Bhakti Kleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15915859892011464480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6358903932182733382.post-54954345263979841222010-06-16T16:08:00.001+05:302010-07-03T23:40:59.828+05:30FameI was walking home today during a break from the monsoonical outbursts, and I took the back alley. I haven't gone that way in a while, because there's a dog back there that doesn't like me, and I don't want to get bitten and have to get rabies shots again, like I did in 1995. But the street dogs have been scarce since the rains began, and this one is usually only there at night, so I braved it.<br />
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I like going that way because it's quieter than the main road, and there are lots of people, especially kids, outside playing in those courtyards. I've stopped for many a turn at bowling or batting in one of their street cricket games while walking through that alley.<br />
<br />
So as I passed a group of three teenage guys that I had never seen before, we smiled and said hi to each other, as we usually do in this neighborhood. <br />
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As I started to pass them, however, they stopped me and gave me a thrill. They told me they knew me from <a href="http://bhaktiinindia.blogspot.com/2010/05/my-first-live-cricket-match.html" target="blank">the article I wrote</a>. "Newspaper", "IPL", they said. <br />
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"Your name is Richard."<br />
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Awesome. <br />
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I said, "Wow, I'm famous" and they replied, "Yes, everyone around here knows who you are."<br />
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How fun is that??<br />
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(Very!)by R. Bhakti Kleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15915859892011464480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6358903932182733382.post-83275446417949567612010-06-14T21:41:00.005+05:302010-06-14T21:53:39.833+05:30DelugeWow. They are NOT KIDDING about this monsoon thing.<br />
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It rained all last night, and most of the day. I left my apartment around 7 to get some dinner, and when I left, it was coming down, but not unreasonably so. I brought my umbrella and caught a rickshaw towards 16th road.<br />
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By the time I got to the corner of 16th and KFC road, it was pouring. I got out of the rick and made it to the restaurant, which had some covered outdoor seating. It was dry and cool, and I could watch the rain from there, so I stayed and ate. Even it was an amazing meal, by the way, <a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2274/1853842218_f9f0f9613b.jpg" target="blank">masala baby corn</a> (breaded spicy baby corn appetizer), <a href="http://littleindiachicago.com/catalog/images/paneer_makhani.jpg" target="blank">paneer makhni</a> (cheese cubes in a tomato/butter sauce), <a href="http://www.haveli.co.za/files/2283123798724137081237813733BUTTERNAAN.jpg" target="blank">buttered naan</a> (doughy bread cooked over an open flame), and a <a href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3658/3415575152_98c0a334db.jpg" target="blank">fresh lime soda</a> (lime juice, soda water, and liquid sugar). Very delicious, and only 350 rupee ($7.50).<br />
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By the time I had finished, it had been pouring the whole time, and the world was covered in water. The streets were flowing, and it was still pouring from the skies. People were fearlessly slogging through ankle-deep water. I sat for a while and then headed out of the restaurant and into the weather. My first step completely submerged my shoes and bottom couple inches of my pants. My umbrella was useless within moments. It was amazing how quickly I was soaked. I crossed to street to catch a rickshaw home, and that side of the street was even deeper. I stood in the rain trying to hail a rick as they passed by, all full. Finally, one stopped. It was a 12 rupee ride; he offered to take me for 500. I talked him down to 30 (mostly because I know the Hindi word for 30) and got in. <br />
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The ride was absurd. Motorcyles and scooters were being walked by their waterlogged drivers. Some streets were okay, some were little torrents, 2 or 3 feet deep. The driver and I were laughing the whole time, and singing a little song we made up, an ode to water. "Pani pani pani, pani, pani", over and over. <br />
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We got to my street, and I needed to make a left, but that corner was particularly flooded, and he wanted to stop. Fortunately, just then a couple other rickshaws came rolling by, water up to their axles, but I encouraged him, pointing out the other ricks, telling him he could make it. He gave it a go. The traffic was crawling, and we inched closer to home, still singing our little pani song.<br />
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Finally, his poor, long-suffering rickshaw stalled and refused to start again, so we called it quits. It was close enough for me to walk, even in the rain. I helped him push his rickshaw to the side of the rode, gave him 50 for his trouble (still about a dollar), and started walking. <br />
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you have to give up any notion of keeping the tops of your feet dry. They were just submerged. My clothes were soaked. I was cold outside for the first time since we were in the Himalaya. I think I prefer my shirts being soaked because of sweat than rain. Still, I could do nothing but sing and laugh. And life went on; the <a href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3338/3602808316_5e272fa2c2_b.jpg" target="blank">chicken shack</a> was still selling chickens, the wada pav shop was still frying and selling <a href="http://blogs.villagevoice.com/forkintheroad/vada%20pav_xpress.jpg" target="blank">wada pavs</a>. I stopped at a little shop and bought some <a href="http://www.cadburyindia.com/images/media/cadimages/gemsbox.jpg" target="blank">gems</a> (cadbury's version of m&m's) and made it home. Stopped to talk about the rain with the neighbor kids, went inside my place, peeled off my clothes, and took a hot shower. <br />
<br />
As I sit here, it seems that it's stopped outside, but it could start again at any moment. It was fun for a while though. <br />
<br />
I'm seriously considering heading out of town for a few days.by R. Bhakti Kleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15915859892011464480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6358903932182733382.post-69184491906492131922010-05-27T21:41:00.022+05:302010-05-30T21:22:50.612+05:30Full moon over Juhu Beach<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A woman once said to the great violinist Fritz Kreisler after a recital, "I'd give my life to play as beautifully as you!"<br />
"Madam", Kreisler replied, "I have."</span></span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">May all beings experience happiness and the causes of happiness, and be free from suffering and the causes of suffering.</span></span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">-- Buddhist prayer</span></span></i><br />
<br />
<br />
It's a full moon tonight, corresponding with the holiday of Buddha Poornima, the celebration of Buddha's birthday.<br />
<br />
I went back to Juhu; the Sea View for dinner, and a gola for dessert. I like it there. It overlooks the beach, and the teeming crowds. Families going to the beach, lovers holding hands, groups of young men or women out together, and the vendors, selling maps or toys or food or chai or henna stamps, or just bringing scales to the beach, and weighing people for 5 rupees each, the scale lighting up in vibrant colors before reporting its results. The moon rose behind us, and joined all of us as we overlooked the sea, the wind cooling us and lifting kites, the sand massaging between our toes.<br />
<br />
I've been a little sad lately, a little lonely. I can hear the clock ticking on me, can feel my time here slipping away. I'm certainly ready to get out of this city, even ready to leave the country, come back to the States, see what's next, build a new life. But at the same time, as I feel the time passing, as I can measure my time left here in weeks, even days, I am fighting it, I am holding on.<br />
<br />
Each person we lose, everything that comes and goes, all the things and people and interactions and experiences that honor the stage of our lives for a moment, or a day, or a decade, and then walk off the stage, never to reappear, each loss is like a little death. and while we try to let the stream of time flow by us with grace, with acceptance, every instinct we have tells us to hold on, tightly, forever, hold on and never let go.<br />
<br />
I'm absorbing everything. Every time i go to one of the stores on my street that I frequent, to speak a little Hindi and buy milk, or chocolate, or breakfast, each conversation is treasured and i'm savoring it all. Each time Sachin shaves me; each time Prakash teaches me another word of Marathi as I buy drinking water from him; each trip to the beach; each bite of food; each visit with a neighbor- I am trying to draw it all in, absorb it deeply. I looked over Juhu beach at the Arabian sea tonight, and let it burn itself into my brain. Someday, very soon, that image will be a memory. One I will always be grateful for. I've loved this dream-come-true, loved it more when I wasn't alone here, but I've loved every precious moment, I just hope I haven't sacrificed too much for it. Because whatever poverty I face, whatever starting over I face, whatever hard work awaits me, still, I wouldn't have traded this for anything, but i hope i haven't lost too much in making this dream come true, and i hope i'm not losing too much in making the next dream come true. And I hope and trust that the people that are waiting for me know this, will forgive me my self-indulgence, and will greet me when I return with open arms and open hearts, and I will try to let go, to appreciate what I've had, and, as I've always done, to run towards what's next.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG8c4Oighl6GeYt9s8CNXdpDo5FQ81NwqERSCPWr9r727RCc94hdmfsbubh8zlrGke90TYLqahkTTK5-42twr72ZegUqa6ur-BNpSsK0Y_KcfW7CGnV3BP-LQY285cRM7w4q4X9QjgFj8P/s1600/DSC02724.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG8c4Oighl6GeYt9s8CNXdpDo5FQ81NwqERSCPWr9r727RCc94hdmfsbubh8zlrGke90TYLqahkTTK5-42twr72ZegUqa6ur-BNpSsK0Y_KcfW7CGnV3BP-LQY285cRM7w4q4X9QjgFj8P/s320/DSC02724.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Juhu Beach, Mumbai</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdx4Dm-zTUxvT9lq5ltcS9Ev8W5nIH9C7RlsKGdl2Ag64KqHmWGq0ypWlAMWIaFyRNcTSVsx26vCLuMBjZg9vsmQ7c-pMZGKGelVUlxsZizSBowDzIZ3fHyzSZ6injUjy0P5b0mHopfFLp/s1600/DSC02708.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdx4Dm-zTUxvT9lq5ltcS9Ev8W5nIH9C7RlsKGdl2Ag64KqHmWGq0ypWlAMWIaFyRNcTSVsx26vCLuMBjZg9vsmQ7c-pMZGKGelVUlxsZizSBowDzIZ3fHyzSZ6injUjy0P5b0mHopfFLp/s320/DSC02708.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">the people, the sea</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2oOexzA4gDIDwxN1YXmvi4gHxDXE2CbP1vO-nQTZymB_TjU2OusL-FpWgSWM9DpxIJbxTHejnXrZidE3D2gSQqxsKZ_iDNGcC6DcodDxKB6TSf9e9CL4AtjHImFHTPEoI0WYdpCs8Ad8V/s1600/ice_gola.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2oOexzA4gDIDwxN1YXmvi4gHxDXE2CbP1vO-nQTZymB_TjU2OusL-FpWgSWM9DpxIJbxTHejnXrZidE3D2gSQqxsKZ_iDNGcC6DcodDxKB6TSf9e9CL4AtjHImFHTPEoI0WYdpCs8Ad8V/s320/ice_gola.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">dessert</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">my gola stand</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLt_Iq5yVcmdPZ62_XlB0f5Md-oTouC3X5r78mmW0GJ10xpZ6FEyKAO4Q9phwSvUQSdrZX-KxA-7bLzDQkW4Ox9SL__FYwTupPOs_PZcRzcEBw3iLQA7s-XYzGejOWv1gqvVlQOIbeEZSi/s1600/P1010015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLt_Iq5yVcmdPZ62_XlB0f5Md-oTouC3X5r78mmW0GJ10xpZ6FEyKAO4Q9phwSvUQSdrZX-KxA-7bLzDQkW4Ox9SL__FYwTupPOs_PZcRzcEBw3iLQA7s-XYzGejOWv1gqvVlQOIbeEZSi/s320/P1010015.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">mine was blue and yellow tonight</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>by R. Bhakti Kleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15915859892011464480noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6358903932182733382.post-82171849806347932492010-05-04T08:32:00.008+05:302010-06-16T16:10:46.587+05:30My first live cricket match - full version<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;">I wrote this after attending the semi-finals of the Indian Premier League, which was my first live cricket match.</span></span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;">An edited version was published in today's Hindustan Times, HTCafe section, page 23.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;"></div><div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">As an American, I grew up knowing nothing about cricket. Despite being a former British colony, it’s not a sport we play, or watch, at all. But after traveling to India as a tourist and volunteering at an NGO in Mumbai, I have come to understand why the game is so beloved here, and in so much of the world. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I live in an apartment in Danda, in west Khar, which still feels like the small fishing village it once was, in the middle of the grand and glorious metropolis of Mumbai. My neighbors are all welcoming and friendly, and often offer me tea, inquire as to whether I’ve had sufficient food for the day, and invite me into their homes to watch cricket on television. And although I was starting from scratch, I’ve learned much about the game. I became familiar with players like Sachin and Sehwag and Dhoni, and some of the many, often obscure rules. Of course there are many things that still baffle me. Dot balls? Googly? Popping crease? But I started really enjoying the game, and even I sometimes play with the local children in my neighborhood with their plastic bats and balls. But I had never seen a major cricket game in person, and I knew I would have to sometime before leaving this fine country that I love so much.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">So when the IPL took place this Spring, with its exciting 20-20 format, I quickly became a huge fan of my local team, the Mumbai Indians. And when I realized that the semi-finals were going to be played in Navi Mumbai, I knew I had my chance to attend my first ever live cricket match.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Tickets went on sale just a couple days before the game. I heard that they were being sold at a few places throughout the city, so I went to an auto parts store in Bandra to look for them. Of course, by the time I arrived, they were fully sold out. I received a couple curious smiles when I jumped up and down in my frustration at not being able to buy tickets. Who is this crazy foreigner who so wants to attend the semi-finals?</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">So I looked online, and found someone selling tickets. We talked on the phone and arranged the purchase on the day of the match.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">My friend and I decided to take the train to Nerul and catch a rickshaw from there to the stadium. Although somewhat crowded, the train was surely the best way to travel there, and we arrived quickly. Although I have been all around India, from Kashmir to Kerala, I haven’t been out of Mumbai in a couple months, and was struck with how peaceful and green everything became as soon as we crossed the canal into Navi Mumbai. </span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">As we got closer, more and more people around us were heading to the game. We could feel the excitement growing. When we got out at Nerul station, the rickshaws were there ferrying people to the stadium, and my friend and I jumped in one with a third passenger, and got as close as we could, until the point where the police were stopping the vehicles. </span><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">We got out and started to walk. All the way, people were selling shirts and caps, and painting people’s faces in the team colors of blue and gold, and the national colors of saffron, white and green. We walked around to gate 5, past long lines of people waiting to get inside. Fortunately, when we got to our gate, there was no line. We went in, and the atmosphere was positively electric. We headed into the stadium, and as we saw the pitch, our view opened up into a great, green, round field, surrounded by stands that were about to hold 50,000 screaming fans. We took our seats in the 10th row of the lower section, and immediately met everyone around us. In general, I find people here to be very friendly, and this crowd was especially so. I pulled my cell phone out to take some photos, and both the students in front of me and the family behind me asked me to take their photos, gave me their email IDs, and asked me to send them the photos later, which of course I did. We chatted with all our neighbors, waved our blue and gold flags around, and enjoyed some drinks and snacks. Everyone was happy to see foreigners there, engaging in the spirit of the game. Watching the game together, as a little community in our section, made the experience even more special.</span><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">The game started, and the home team won the toss and elected to bat first. It was amazing how in love with Sachin everyone was. We chanted his name, and screamed like mad every time he batted or appeared on the big screen. When he exited the game early, we were devastated, but we knew the rest of the team could pull us through. And pull through they did, with Tiwari and Rayudu playing a great partnership, and Kieron Pollard of the West Indies bowling and batting brilliantly. The Indians produced many runs in the last few overs, bringing our score to 184 runs, a formidable score indeed.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I walked around during the interval, drank a few cups of cold coffee and iced tea, wandered among the crowd, enjoying all the people and the unique occasion. Even the locals knew we were at a special game.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">As the game went on, the sides switched, and while the Royal Challengers Bangalore (RCB) played well, the inevitability of our victory became more and more apparent, and our excitement grew. And when there were only a few balls left, and it was impossible for RBC to catch up, the crowd went even more wild than before.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">It was a long journey back, with all 50000 people heading home together, but no one seemed to mind. We caught the last few trains of the night and had to switch trains a couple times, but we travelled with a few others who had been at the game. Everyone seemed thrilled that we Americans had taken the effort to attend, had dressed up in the team colors, and were celebrating with our adopted city.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I know that for many Indians, coming to the West is a dream they work hard at making a reality. For me, the opposite is true. Living in India is a dream come true, and I am enjoying every crazy, beautiful moment.</span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Al Bayan';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><br />
</span></span></span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div></div>by R. Bhakti Kleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15915859892011464480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6358903932182733382.post-62874224334773552752010-04-29T21:07:00.005+05:302010-04-30T09:50:15.368+05:30More fun at the Infiniti MallOK, I may have been a bit premature about the Karaoke guy yesterday. Today I went back to the good ole <a href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3125/2341092950_2d8bc32dee.jpg?v=0" target="blank">Infiniti Mall</a> after work, to get a little dinner, and the evening circus extravaganzic activities were in full swing. The Karaoke guy had moved to the stage set up on the ground floor, and there was some kind of contest going on, and they were indeed charging 100 rupees to register. There were supposed to be prizes for winners, but they were a little vague about that, something about coupons. I still didn't want to pay to sing, tempted though I was, because of the stage set up, but I thought I'd have a little fun, so I said to the guys "You want me to pay you ? YOU should pay ME to sing! When <a href="http://www.interweb.in/attachments/pc-wallpapers/25216d1235653089-shahrukh-khan-s-wallpaper-shah-rukh-khan-actor.jpg" target="blank">SRK</a> does a movie, does he have to pay to be in the movie, or does he get paid to do it? When <a href="http://sakthiinfotech.files.wordpress.com/2010/03/15_sachin_tendulkar_2.jpg" target="blank">Sachin</a> plays cricket, does he have to pay to play, or do they pay him to play cricket? So I shouldn't have to pay to sing, you should be paying me to sing!". They all took it in the playful way in which I intended it, and we all laughed about it.<br />
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Anyway, it just goes to show that misunderstandings can happen frequently here, even if I'm speaking a little <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hindi">Hindi</a> or <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marathi_language">Marathi</a> and they're speaking a little English. In the vast majority of cases, no one is really trying to cheat anyone.<br />
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Then I went to the display where they were giving samples of a skin lotion for women, which had some skin-whitening properties. I think this one was just cosmetic, a white cream that didn't totally disappear, not lemon juice or anything harsher, but still. <a href="http://bhaktiinindia.blogspot.com/2009/11/taste-rainbow.html" target="blank">I've written about this trend before</a>, and tried to tell the woman working there that Indian woman are beautiful, why should they want to lighten their skin, but she wasn't really interested in getting into a philosophical discussion about it. But she blushed a little when I called all Indian women beautiful, and we laughed a bit too.<br />
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Then I got some <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/premshree/3885550115/" target="blank">pav bhaji</a> for dinner and headed home for the night.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVuA94RAjgNG3XwWgpPIVDAfW9LJTPn3gc5jpzfBgUF3Y8LL_YBWS7dy5MIvu8glJ4qzKpvCdfYtXjP_SuUtRSXTvdOfghDxmFfuHTW0TmEbClZJUbI4t-gMSYlTRVmvqFAfPWmegY4WR3/s1600/clown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVuA94RAjgNG3XwWgpPIVDAfW9LJTPn3gc5jpzfBgUF3Y8LL_YBWS7dy5MIvu8glJ4qzKpvCdfYtXjP_SuUtRSXTvdOfghDxmFfuHTW0TmEbClZJUbI4t-gMSYlTRVmvqFAfPWmegY4WR3/s640/clown.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>by R. Bhakti Kleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15915859892011464480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6358903932182733382.post-33087659772075117932010-04-28T23:34:00.000+05:302010-04-28T23:34:31.994+05:30The 100 rupee dayFor some reason, people kept trying to overcharge me today. First was the Karaoke guy at lunch. On my lunch break, I went across the street to the Infiniti mall for some pav bhaji (dosas are starting to get jealous because I really love pav bhaji these days). The mall is having some kind of circus extravaganza, including a karaoke machine that you can sign up for. It figures out how well you're doing (like the wii karaoke game) and if you get a good enough score, it's free; otherwise it costs 10 rupee. I know this because last week I sang a James Taylor song and got 99 out of 100, so didn't have to pay.<br />
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Today I sang Hooked on a Feeling (ooga chucka, ooga chucka). They didn't want me to do it because there was something else going on, so they kept turning the volume down, but I insisted and they relented, and I sang away, gathering a bit of a crowd, of course. It was really fun, and I finished with an 85 or something. So then, the karaoke guy comes over to me and tells me that there's a 100 rupee charge! Ha! Who does he think he's dealing with? I told him I happen to know that it's free if you get a good enough score, and even if you don't, it's 10 rupee per song. 10! I handed him a 10 and he smiled sheepishly.<br />
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Then, after work, I was riding in a rickshaw home, and the rickshaw broke down. So I got out, paid what was owed so far, and flagged down another one. Now in most of India, rickshaws have meters but they are never used. You haggle a price before you get in. But in Mumbai, they actually use the meter, always. So I told the driver where I was going, to Carter Road in Bandra to visit my friend Ramu and his street dosa stand. (pav bhaji for lunch, dosas for dinner, yum!!) And the rick driver says it'll cost 100 rupees. Again, with the 100 rupees!! So I said, nahin-ji (no, sir), meter, meter. He repeated his demand for 100, so I started getting out, and then he said OK, meter, meter. Darn tootin', meter meter. We arrived at Ramu's dosa stand and the cost of the ride was 38 rupee. puh-lease!<br />
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(okay don't do the conversion to dollars or I'll look ridiculous. It's the principle! And when I can eat for less than 100 rupee a day (2 dosas from Ramu cost 45 rupes), it's a lot in local terms.)<br />
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Nice try, guys. What, do I look like I'm not from here or something?<br />
:-)<br />
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Oh, as I'm ordering my first dosa, a very well-built guy comes up next to me and orders a plain dosa. He was young and obviously worked out a lot. For a plain dosa, Ramu usually slathers it with butter, and when he did, the guy complained and said he wanted it without butter. I told him, oh, but it's so much better with butter, and he said that he knows, but he has to maintain. I told him it looks like he's doing just fine and he laughed. Then I said I wish i was maintaining as well as he was, and then noted that the butter may have something to do with my lack of, er, maintenance. We laughed together.<br />
Later, he ordered a 2nd plain dosa, and I ordered a plain dosa for my 2nd dosa of the night (the first being a masala dosa, filled with potatoes and spices), and I made sure butter was going on my plain dosa. So there were 2 on the grill, one all brown and buttery, and one without butter, and I turned to him and said "see if you can guess which one is mine and which one is yours". hahahahaha. a good time was had by all.<br />
I don't care if I have a bit of a belly. Those plain butter dosas are crispy and YUMMY!!!!by R. Bhakti Kleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15915859892011464480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6358903932182733382.post-38302158048763429932010-04-17T01:16:00.003+05:302010-04-17T18:14:07.490+05:30Mumbai by MotorbikeI paid rent today; my day is the 12th, I moved in on September 12th of last year, so I pay rent on the 12th. Actually it's a couple days later, but this is the first time my landlord and I could get together. When Heather was here, we went out with him and his wife, and since then we've been trying to go out again, and tonight we did.<br />
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He picked me up at the Cafe Coffee Day down the street, which is being renovated, but is still open even though the outside is a big construction mess. So I got an iced tea and waited, and my landlord, Viqar, showed up on his motorcycle. The first time I rode it, when I first got here, I must admit was a little scary, but I've been on the back of his bike a couple times since then and by now I'm pretty comfortable, just leaning against the back rest, hands in my lap.<br />
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First we went all the way down to central Mumbai, past the <a href="http://mdb4.ibibo.com/07953616c7465645f5fb4157437e61b4a4774b15f1af486f13c727c3a2aa9fa3c32fa4d91a4ef352b422b29935d54b5783e6931e5.jpeg/haji-ali-mumbai-india-places.jpeg" target = "blank">Haji Ali</a>, a beautiful mosque built out in the ocean, to get some <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/premshree/3885550115/" target = "blank">pav bhaji. Pav bhaji</a> is a popular restaurant and street food here, it's kind of like refried beans, made of potatoes and lentils and tomatoes and other vegetables and spices all mushed together, served with buttered rolls. We went to a place called <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw0t27VggxqxGldiZizcTob6Lo6ZFo1_YumZBTuj0cgRfRK1hsstDTeKfx93V6ZV3CP2hE8HBpfOaQga1n0NsVFFmGtibkCGS7_IL6uc_30eQvA_ZKFYkg1vwbInwT0kSigOs7bwXS9ODj/s1600/DSC_0018.jpg" target = "blank">Sardar</a>, where it was supposedly first made, and even if it wasn't the first, it seems to be the best. It was a very crowded restaurant, and everyone there was eating the same dish. It was the first time I tried it, I was kind of waiting to try it with him, he told me he would take me to the best place for it. And it was fantastic! So deliciously yummy. Some places apparently use water to make the mush, but this place uses only butter; butter in the bhaji, butter on the bread, it was great.<br />
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After that, we hopped back on his bike and went on a little tour of the city, starting with the red light district. I didn't really know Mumbai had one, but it was a little grungy street, filled with working women, in rooms together with the front doors open, or out on the street in groups of 3 and 4. They looked to be in pretty good shape, clean, pretty, not particularly unhappy, but the scene was quite seedy. Still, it was fun to see, and I got a couple of nice smiles. We pulled over for a second when his bike stalled, and immediately some man came over, waiting for us to ask for what we wanted. He just wagged his head when Viqar started his bike and took off.<br />
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We drove through some more alleys, including through <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chor_Bazaar" target = "blank">Chor Bazaar,</a> a market place where you can get anything. Chor means thief, thieves' bazaar, and apparently it got its name from a story about Queen Victoria. Once when she visited India, some items went missing from her ship's stateroom, and when she went to that bazaar, she found people selling her stuff there. Anyway it's more of a daytime marketplace, so there was not much going on at the time.<br />
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All along the way, we were talking on the motorcycle, We discussed everything from religion to sex, and although sometimes some ridiculous things come out of his mouth (he trash talks the Hindu religion, being some combination of Muslim and Christian himself, and he seems to be of the Bill Clinton school of thought about what qualifies as sex), he's always entertaining and sincere.<br />
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Oh we did have one kind of scary moment. We were riding along, and there was a local commuter bus next to us. All of a sudden, the bus driver, who was probably drunk, veered to the left. Viqar was fine, he's a very good driver and extra careful when I'm on the bike with him. We pulled over to the left and stopped. But I looked back and someone was on the ground, rolled over a couple times, and then got up, filthy from the street. He looked okay but it was way too close. At the next light, Viqar pullled in front of the bus and yelled at the driver who yelled back. Apparently the driver was telling him to climb onto the bus so they could fight about it. If the driver came down, he would be fired, but he could retaliate if anyone gets on the bus and starts something, so he was egging Viqar on. Viqar is generally quite sweet and peaceful (earlier that night he helped push another motorcycle who had run out of gas to the gas station, when he saw the owner pushing it along), so after a few acerbic words we moved on.<br />
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We rode back home along the scenic route, seeing the coast and the new <a href="http://www.usefilm.com/images/5/9/7/4/5974/1529582-medium.jpg" target = "blank">Worli Sea Link bridge</a> (though we couldn't ride over it, no 2-wheelers allowed), We made it back home after almost 3 hours of riding around. Which was not easy on the body, it felt like the camel ride. All in all, it was a great night riding around Mumbai by motorcycle.by R. Bhakti Kleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15915859892011464480noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6358903932182733382.post-84403793090823689232010-04-11T19:29:00.000+05:302010-04-11T19:29:28.010+05:30Proof of the Spiritual World(I have written on these matters before, but I'm corresponding with someone about it, and I though I would publish this letter I have just written.)<br />
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The subject is Dimensionality vs Multiple Universes.<br />
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By dimensions, we mean the physical dimensions of space. 2d, 3d, etc.<br />
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you can think of them as degrees of freedom, or the amount of information you need to locate something.<br />
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for example, a flat sheet is 2d. like a map, you need only 2 pieces of information to locate something on a map, latitude and longitude. left-right and forward-back.<br />
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3d is space. you need a third: up-down. that's the real world we live in. 3d movies add depth to the otherwise flat movie screen.<br />
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to get from 2d to 3d, you draw lines at right angles to both 2d dimensions. we can see that to do that, you take a flat picture, and move up. those up lines are at right angles to both left-right and forward-back dimensions of a flat picture.<br />
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4d gets interesting. we live in 3d, so we cannot really know it, we can only imagine it by metaphor. if you take a cube, and draw a line at right angles to all 3 dimensions, that would be the 4th. we can't do it, we can't even really imagine it.<br />
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but just like a 3d cube can cast a 2d shadow, the 4th dimension casts a shadow on our 3d world, and that shadow is time (that's part of relativity). <br />
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we live moment to moment, but our 4d selves is the self made up of adding all the moments of our life together. see each moment added together as one thing, and that's the 4d version of yourself.<br />
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5d adds another level of choice. take your lifetime, the 4d version of you. then imagine all the possible ways your life could have turned out. add them all together into an even larger, more inclusive version of you, and that's your 5d self.<br />
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that's when multiple universes get introduced. each possible 4d self is a different universe in a way. but they are not real, they are possible. only the real life you are having is actual.<br />
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people who like the theory of multiple universes think that each possible 4d self is actualized, but in human life, we take the set of possibilities and extract one actuality from it. only 1 life is real. the others are potential.<br />
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that's how quantum physics gets involved. it describes, in multi-dimensional terms, the set of all possible outcomes. but humans don't experience all possible outcomes, just one. one actuality is extracted from the set of all possibilities.<br />
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i think it's wrong to thing that all possibilities are actualized, but some people go there because it['s one way to explain the weirdness of quantum physics. because quantum physics just describes the possibilities, and says nothing about how or why one actuality is extracted from the set of possibilities. but that doesn't mean they all exist, it just means we don't understand how the one that exists comes into being.<br />
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to me, it proves that there's more to human life than the physical world, more than what science can explain.<br />
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to put it more succinctly, quantum physics is a complete description of the physical world, but it is not a complete description of human experience, therefore, there is more to human experience than the physical world.by R. Bhakti Kleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15915859892011464480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6358903932182733382.post-10314370542116127122010-03-31T20:25:00.000+05:302010-03-31T20:25:39.323+05:30Musings on PassoverMonday night was the first night of passover, and in India, this year it corresponded to a <a href="http://www.merinews.com/article/hanuman-jayanti-an-important-hindu-festival/15802316.shtml">full moon festival</a> for <a href="http://dhirendra.files.wordpress.com/2009/04/lord-hanuman_2.jpg">Hanuman</a>, the monkey god. I have just returned, and am busy cleaning my apartment, which has been gathering dust for 2 months (yes, all the windows were closed, but still, somehow, the outside enters). I've also been going to all my favorite restaurants that i've missed the past 2 months. And although I was volunteering for American Jewish World Service when last I was here, I was thinking that passover would come and go for me.<br />
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As it turned out, I went to 2 seders, and it was one of the more meaningful Passovers I've experienced.<br />
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I do like Passover, as I like many of the calendar-based Jewish holidays. It's an opportunity, at certain times of the year, to do some introspection and self-examination. It's a chance to check in, each year, think about the past year, and set intentions for the coming year. Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur in the fall are a time to think about sin and redemption. The Hebrew word for sin means "to miss the mark", as in an arrow. During the high holidays, we can look at the ways in which we've missed the mark, not lived up to our expectations of ourselves, and set the intention to come a little closer next time. It's not about punishment; it's about self-improvement; always trying to be a better person. While this is a daily activity, the fall holidays gives me a chance to put some focus on that endeavor. <br />
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Passover, on the other hand, is all about freedom.<br />
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Of course, we tell the story of the Jewish exodus from slavery in ancient Egypt, which may or may not be true, (some say it was written during the Jewish exile in Babylonia, to give hope to the people that they would return to Israel someday. (we were exiled once before, and we returned, so it will happen again.) The reason that this idea appeals to me is that it changes our notion of how the ancient Jews entered the promised land. Instead of a people coming in from the outside and conquering the people living there, another narrative emerges. <br />
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In ancient Israel, there were many peoples, with many gods. But in any society, there are outliers, misfits, square pegs for the round holes (do I sound like an Apple commercial?). Individuals were coming up with new ideas that didn't fit the mainstream. Ideas like taking care of the poor, living ethically, working for peace, the importance of education etc, began to emerge in individuals. These people were not appreciated by the others; eventually they left and gathered together. They became a group of people brought together by the similarities of their ideas, by a new way of thinking. These people became the Israelites. They started the first conscious community, gathering together in a common purpose, for freedom and equality and truth and knowledge. <br />
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I realize that this theory of the origins of the Israelites is, well, un-orthodox, but all of the bible (and much of life) is symbolism to me, and I appreciate the symbolism of a home grown conscious community far more than stories of a war-like people conquering a land. Of course, those war like stories are great if you are a people in exile, as the Jews were later in Babylonia. They are inspirational and helped people feel that they could and would fight back. But when it comes to how origin stories can be meaningful to our lives today, I much prefer the idea of the community of misfits.<br />
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But I digress.<br />
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As we tell the story of the Passover, the exodus from slavery into freedom, we are inspired to think of notions of freedom and slavery as they affect us today. What freedoms do i enjoy, and how can I be more grateful and appreciative of them? How can I not waste the opportunities they provide? In what ways do I enslave myself, through a lack of self-confidence, through mindless habits, through negative reactive patterns which cause me to robotically react to situations instead of authentically responding to them. How can I become more authentic, live in the moment, and act through love and not fear? And in what ways do my actions enslave others, either personally or politically? These are all questions I like to ponder during the Passover season. <br />
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As the great Jewish/Hindu mystic <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ram_Dass">Ram Dass</a> has said, the goal is not to get high. the goal is to get free.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">to be continued...</span>by R. Bhakti Kleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15915859892011464480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6358903932182733382.post-13392849101711111662010-03-28T18:28:00.000+05:302010-03-28T18:28:24.362+05:30I'm back!After 2 months in exile, I have made it back to Mumbai. I miss my traveling companion but I'm so happy to be back. There are some crazy stories to tell, but they will remain untold for now. For now, know only that I have returned, back to the land I love.by R. Bhakti Kleinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15915859892011464480noreply@blogger.com1