Read The Adventures of Bindi Girl: (2012) Online
Authors: Erin Reese
For example: You’re stuck in a sputtering, hiccupping local bus in a smoggy traffic jam in the outskirts of Delhi. You peer out the open window, and chuckle to witness a holy man with a flowing white beard and a loincloth zip past your nose on the back of an Enfield motorcycle. Meanwhile the Rajasthani tribal woman a few seats behind you has been shamelessly upchucking a foul, yellow-green fluid substance out the side window for the last ten minutes. Before you even have the chance to consider feeling repulsed, a school bus in the next lane cozies up to your own carriage. Dozens of smiling, laughing children hang half their little bodies out the windows, ecstatically scream
“H-i-i-i-i-i!”
and wave fervently at you, the charmed Westerner. Their sweet little arms stretch toward your lane as they strive to skim fingers with you, instantly giving you that special “Rock Star Glow” of recognition that comes every other moment while Doing the India Dance.
And that’s how India is. She turns you on your ear to accept a mixed-up, magical melting pot of life’s follies and quirks as part and parcel of the ineffable beauty of life.
Sab kuch milega.
Hallelujah.
9
th
of November, New Delhi
Sitting in my favorite little hole-in-the-wall café in the Main Bazaar off the New Delhi Train Station, having just ordered a supper of
aloo gobi
,
biryani
, and
paneer
, I gaze out the open storefront entrance, try to shake off the flurry of another ever-hectic Delhi day, and take a deep breath.
As deep as is possible, that is, with the usual mass of carbon monoxide, stench, and excrement in the air.
Ah, well,
maybe I should do like the others in here and light up a cigarette to calibrate my lungs
, I sardonically consider as I
welcome a particularly fragrant gust of
Eau d’ Pollutante.
The sweet thirteen-year-old waiter boy is about to take my order up to the kitchen, when he stops in his tracks and looks out the front entrance with a look of panic. The sound of a monster machine rumbling down the alley fills the air.
That must be one big-ass truck,
I ponder,
to rise above the relentless, ear-splitting din that is Delhi
. You know something wicked this-a-way comes when a local boy is flustered.
The object of his concern makes its way into my field of vision. Through the tight lane corridor packed with cows, vendors, rickshaws, chai wallahs, fruit stands, and flustered travelers, comes the threatening truck: a chemical tanker, bullying its way through the Pahar Ganj maze, spewing fumy, smoky substance directly into the doors of all the shops, straight into everyone’s face. Within seconds, the entire marketplace, including the café where I sit, is overtaken with the white, powdery chemical dust.
Hack, hack. Wheeze, wheeze. Watering eyes… I’m wondering if perhaps some terrorist group has gassed the entire area. “What
is
that,
ji
?” I inquire of the wait-boy, who is still standing there with a wide-eyed look of concern.
“OOH!” he spits out. “Bad! Very bad, madame! It for—you know…!” He makes little pinching motions on his forearm. “In skin! To kill mosquito! Really bad!”
As the chemical wafts all around us, settling onto my hair, skin, and cafe table, I realize what’s happened.
Oh. Shit.
Yes, it’s confirmed by the well-informed German traveler seated next to me: It’s the villainous, toxic DDT.
DDT—DichloroDiphenylTrichloroethane—has been banned in the U.S., but not in India and many other developing nations who rely on the cheap toxin to battle malaria. Proven highly carcinogenic to humans and wildlife, we have been blatantly, shamelessly gassed with the stuff.
Now, do I say, “Oh goodie! Now we will certainly be freed of the risk of highly infectious, mosquito-borne dengue fever!”? Or, rather, what actually spilled forth:
“Fuck. I hope I can still have children.”
Yep.
Definitely time for a cigarette.
9
th
of November, New Delhi
DDT gassings aside, life is quite delectable in the Delhi-catessen, with a smorgasbord of delights on offer. Since I’ve likely left a sticky, sad taste in your mouth from ranting about chemical warfare, perhaps it’s necessary to offer a morsel or two of goodness to clear the palate.
In spite of its seeming intimidation, for me, the congested capital of Delhi is relatively manageable. Pahar Ganj, a market area next to the New Delhi Railway Station, is a bustling backpacker
centrale
, with all the necessary resources for travelers—one primary fuel being other vagabonds themselves. My days of late have revolved around the Hare Krishna Guest House, having reconnected with some of the long-term residents I met upon arrival at the end of last month. We seem to have formed a homey “boarding house” atmosphere. A veritable family of lovable freaks—
et mais oui, moi inclus!
I could spend all afternoon blabbing about effervescent Abhishek, my new Indian “cousin-brother” who is the center of activity—literally—here at the Krishna. Abhishek lives here. Right in the heart of the Hare, the center room on the center floor of the hotel.
Abhishek is a freelance trainer for call centers in the region. He can’t stop singing “Love is a Rose,” the song I taught him the first night we met. He’s determined to teach this song to the customer service reps with great gusto.
“Love is a Rose”
à la
Neil Young may now be the passage to correct consonant pronunciation in offshored industries. The next time you call Dell Computers Customer Service, your India-based representative may have been trained in proper American English through this little ditty of a tune exported by Yours Truly.
The Hare Krishna Crew includes a bevy of other heavies, like “Shushu-Meeta” from Angola. Meeta is “friend” in Sanskrit, as Shushu offhandedly mentioned one full moon night of music on the rooftop. We all loved the phrase so much that Shushu-Meeta became his name, which perfectly suited his ever-present, glimmering display of pearly whites offset against gorgeous chocolate skin.
Shushu-Meeta is seriously into his
bhakti
practice of devotional love for his guru, Satya Sai Baba. He spontaneously plunges into
puja
prayer and song with great fervor, whenever his heart center is exploding with divine love. Shushu strums the same two guitar chords, over and over and over again, wailing heartfelt songs to his God. Loudly. At any time of day, or night.
It’s all good. Except for the small detail that he is my immediate next-door neighbor. Apparently,
I
am also meant to be up and a-praying, whether it be 1:00 a.m. or 7:00 a.m.—or both.
Throwing the pillow over my head yesterday morn, a thick Aussie male voice called through the paper-thin floorboards, perfectly in time with Shushu-Meeta’s warbling wail and the only two notes repeated, over and over, on the guitar. A call and response ensued:
Shushu-Meeta: “Ba-baaaaaa! Oh, Ba-baaaaa!”
Aussie: “Shut uppppp! Oh, Shut uppppp!”
Repeating, until finally:
Aussie: “WE ARE TRYING TO HAVE SEX!”
Like that. Just another fine morning at the Hare home, overflowing with divine nectar. Who would put a stop to such glorious madness?
Of course, we have the requisite Hare Krishnas staying here. Why, what other hotel could they possibly choose? This is fine with me, as Krishna energy (divine bliss, song, dance,
bhakti
love and devotion) is definitely welcome in my om.
It’s where the heart is, after all.
11
th
of November, Rishikesh
I arrive at last in Rishikesh, known as the ancient home of traditional yoga, lying nestled at the foot of the Himalayas where the holy Ganges runs clean, clear, and cold. Here, one can romp and roam at the feet of the Goddess herself, the great Ganga Maa. Her waters are turquoise and clear, her sands are white and smooth. She gives life to India, and she replenishes my soul.
Long before California’s power yoginis cut DVD’s and late-night Infomercials, this relatively quiet enclave of temples and ashrams hosted sincere seekers, giving devotees the spiritual sustenance of Vedanta philosophy as well as hatha asana.
Rishikesh is one of my spiritual homes here in the motherland. Perhaps it’s the wannabe rock star in me that is attracted to the old base of Maharishi Maresh Yogi, the Beatles’ guru. Dilapidated and abandoned, the Maharishi ashram on the Ganges’ right bank still carries powerful vibrations in its underground meditation cells, where the Fab Four opened their third eyes and caught aural inspiration for
The White Album
. But we’ll get to that tomorrow.
Scampering along the riverbank with a Dutch friend named Gerrald, we are summoned by a chorus of “hellos” and happy young faces. It’s a group of children motioning us over to their tiny abode. In this simple mud and dirt home, built into the side of the mountain, live a family of four jubilant sisters and their aging parents.
I greet them in their native tongue: “Apa kaise hai?”
How are you?
They take great delight at the foreigner’s weak attempt at Hindi, and the fact that my “
nam
” is Sapna. The girls promptly nickname Gerrald “Jaro,” which I suppose is much easier for Indian ears.
I perch on a large boulder in the middle of what appears to be their multipurpose, combination front and back yard, foyer (place to welcome visitors), laundry room (mom is scrubbing on the washboard), kitchen (a pot is boiling on the smoking campfire), and parking garage (a few cows are at the gate).
The two youngest daughters scramble up on the boulder, crawl on my lap, hold my hands, caress my arms, and hug me tight. Running through the back of my mind is the question, “When is the shoe going to drop? When will the
chai-chapati
money be asked for? The school pen requested? The bit of chocolate? The hundred rupees for the family’s education, medication, or edification?”
But these questions can be temporarily ignored and then gracefully dealt with as need be. For now, we are having a gay old time.
The slightly interested, graying father peers out the mud hut door, stretching his neck from behind his foot-pedal sewing machine. Perched nearby on the ground, the toothless and happy mother looks on as she scrubs socks and sundries within arms reach of the smoking outdoor fire.
After spending a few laughter-filled minutes teaching the sisters how to play “Patty Cake, Patty Cake,” I look up to welcome the middle daughter, Sunita, who has just ran home from school and is now quite breathless and excited to realize that two
very
tall, very white foreigners have descended upon her home.
Sunita is wearing a tiny
bindi
on her golden-brown forehead, nicely offsetting her generous smile and perfectly pressed school uniform. I’m impressed to see that the family is investing in this daughter’s education, for their living conditions indicate that they have zero disposable income.
As the little green bindi gem between Sunita’s eyes glimmers with the flash of the fading daylight, I suddenly realize that I am myself—gasp—bindi-less.
In weak Hindi, I explain that “Sapna” has a nickname in the U.S., and it’s “Bindi Girl.”
“YES!
Nam
Bindi Girl! YOU are Bindi Girl! Sunita declares with delightful squeals. Apparently, she likes the idea wholeheartedly. She instantly dashes inside the hut, and comes out with a sheet of bejeweled bindis.
For shame! Bindi could be blind without her blessed beauty mark, third-eye of intuitive wisdom, where “X marks the spot.” It’s a forehead-feeding frenzy as all the girls gather ’round for proper placement and encouragement, and I am properly anointed.
I can see clearly now.
14
th
of November, Rishikesh
Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
~William Blake
Ever come face to face with a goddess? It’s time to meet Maa Durga, who rides a tiger.
Durga
,
in Sanskrit, means “She who is incomprehensible or difficult to reach.” Maa
Durga, also known as Jagatambe or Mother of the World, manifests in many forms, including Parvati, the devoted wife of Shiva and mother of the elephant-headed Ganesha. Durga is also the ground of Maa Kali, her most wrathful form. Kali sprang from Durga’s forehead to conquer the demons of illusion and suffering.
In India, the veil between worlds is very thin, and the common saying amongst travelers, “everything is possible,” is a truism. Through a most unpredictable series of events, I have come to realize directly the nature of the wrathful goddess.
Yesterday, an Australian travel writer, Christine, and I took a walk to the old “Beatles Ashram” near the banks of the Ganga here in Rishikesh. The dilapidated Maharishi Maresh Yogi center, prior home to the Fab Four’s temporary guru, is nestled up against the jungle, at the outskirts of Swargashram at Ram Jhula. I was especially excited about our excursion: I plan on buying a guitar on this trip, and I wanted to offer up rock ‘n’ roll prayers to give me an extra boost of musical oomph. Little did I know, more than an oomph was on the way on that fateful day of the
lila
, the gods’ divine play…
After weaving our way along the Ganga, past flocks of schoolchildren,
chillum
-smoking sadhus, and Hanuman temples, Christine and I arrive at the entrance of the old ashram. The imposing main gate is locked, and a squat, unhappy-looking Indian is scowling at us through the bars. I see the sign: NO ENTRY.
Strange
, I think.
Last time I was here, anyone could come and go as they pleased.
Well, sister, it’s four years later, and The Indian Mafia has arrived.
“Baksheesh!” the pudgy, mustachioed character shouts, like an angry guard at the gates of Oz, demanding bribery money for entry into the gates of pop culture memorabilia. “No, sir!” I retort. “No money! Ashram free!”
“Hundred rupee! Two hundred rupees!” he demands. I marvel at his increasing-price non-bargaining skills.
“
Nahi
,” I decline with a firm “no.”
“Fifty!” he shouts.
“Nahi
.
” I’m being stubborn, shaking my head in disagreement. Who wants to pay bribe money to pray?
“Forty!”
“
Das
!” I respond. 10 rupees. Last offer. I’m not budging.
Neither is he. No deal apparently. He gives an angry glare our direction, and stomps off. It’s truly like a Indian village version of
The Sopranos
, with our own “Tony the Tiger” head honcho, puffing up his chest and bellowing his script: “I own this tourist trap. Don’t even try it, ya big white American broad.”
I’m determined to get in; nothing motivates me more than a righteous challenge, for better or for worse. Christine and I scour the edges of the tall stone walls to see if there’s an alternate entry, to no avail. The ashram walls are too high; not only that, they’re lined with monkeys, and Christine tells me she isn’t up for being attacked today. “I already had one monkey jump on me this trip, and it scared the hell out of me. I’m not risking a bite and several shots at the clinic,” she says. So we scope out the main gate once again, as the watchman is out of sight.