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Volume 4
The Lost Chronicles
I spent two hours of computer time in Jaipur carefully crafting volume
4 of my chronicles only to have the diskette stolen with my daypack
on a bus to Jaisalmer (yes, I was warned, yes, I was being careful).
Those lost thoughts may have amounted to the most eloquent and witty
passages I will ever compose (actually, I wasn't very happy with what
I wrote). For that reason, I refer to this volume as the lost chronicles
and will use the rest of this correspondence to briefly recall what
I can of events past.
First, let me ease your mind about the loss of my daypack, which
could have been much worse. I did lose a few items of financial value
(sunglasses, down vest), many items of emotional value (gifts like
my Swiss army knife and good luck charms) and most sadly, my journal.
However, the thieves didn't get any of the items I consider essential
(passport, glasses, loving travel companion). I'm not sure whether
the total loss exceeds the deductible for our travel insurance (because
our copy of the policy was in the pack), but I went through the adventure
of filing a police report anyway. In the end the effort will probable
prove futile because my carbon copy of the handwritten report (which
I wrote with the assistance of no less than six officers) got wet
a few days later and is now illegible. I still might submit it just
to see what the insurance company does.
Carrie and I returned to India from Nepal in early December and made
our way to Bodh Gaya (the place where the Budha was enlightened) to
hear the Dali Lama's public teachings. We arrived a few days before
the program began and witnessed an odd pre-carnival atmosphere. Booths
were being erected. Banners were being hung. There was even a Ferris
wheel and a BB gun balloon-shoot. Resourceful locals trying to make
a semi-honest rupee from visitors are not unusual. However, the fact
that the vast majority of carnival attendees were robed monks provided
an interesting challenge to my pre-conceived expectations. Even more
amazing was how the primarily crimson-robed masses behaved like rock
and roll groupies (though slightly more orderly and definitely more
respectful) with regard to His Holiness the 14th Dali Lama.
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robed monks attending a pujha
at BodhGaya
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same temple, night pujha with
candles
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| Even though we arrived early, reasonable rooms were already scarce.
We ended up staying in a private home with an extremely gracious and
welcoming family. They were a relatively affluent family, which owned
a tailor and a convenience store. Still, each of the four sons still
living at home happily cleared out of his room for a couple of weeks
to help the fiscal cause. The house was only a short walk from the main
road, but we felt much closer to the local community than the travelers
staying in more traditional lodgings. The neighborhood children joyously
cried "Hello" every time we passed but amazingly did not ask for anything.
We watched the family's newborn puppies wobble on their first steps.
We saw the local boys emulating their favorite cricket stars in the
garbage dump that was their field. We walked along open sewers and avoided
defecation from countless species. We saw an unattended baby roll off
a concrete step to fall 3 feet into the dirt road. Despite her face-first
landing, her slightly older (and soiled) brother still screamed louder
(and would probably be attended to first). We were in India. |
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some of our neighbors
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The 6 days of actual teachings were held under two massive tent structures
(supported only by bamboo and twine). The smaller, closer tent was
reserved for monks of some status (reincarnates), press, and unfairly,
Westerners. The common monk (many of whom had traveled a month or
more to attend) were relegated to the bigger tent in the back, but
seamed completely content to be as close as they were to their undisputed
religious leader. From our privileged position I could feel the strong
positive energy emitted by the surprisingly human figure less than
50 feet in front of me.
His Holiness sat on a simple yet regal elevated platform and was
clearly more comfortable in his cross-legged position than I was in
mine. He spoke in Tibetan with a strong and animated voice whose quality
was totally lost in the FM broadcast translation that droned into
my earphone. By the last day, I had essentially abandoned the translator
(who actually did a very good job) and just enjoyed listening to the
Dali Lama's voice reading the rhythmic verses of ancient Tibetan Dharma
teachings. The teachings were the core of his presentation and focused
on the practices an individual should follow after seeking refuge
in the Budha and why. Not being in such a position, the subtler concepts
(as well as some of the basic ones) were lost on me. My acceptance
of a less than full understanding combined with specific doubts about
personal relevance reminded me of the Catholic sermons from my childhood.
In each case, I lost interest when I was unable to overcome lingering
skepticism, but when the event was over, I enjoyed a peaceful feeling
and was glad that I had attended.
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