Category Archives: india

interview with a village family

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India is the home of almost 1/6th of the world population; 1.13 billion people and around 80% of this population lives in rural areas.

Last weekend I spent a long weekend in a small, rural village on the outskirts of Varanasi of which I’ve visited and fostered some lovely friendships over the course of the last six months. Our students each lived with different families in the village and we gave them a set of questions (constituting a sort of, “anthropological survey”). We, as well, lived with one of the families and spent a day gathering answers to the same survey questions. The following are excerpts from the information gathered…

(I start off by addressing my questions to our 14-year daughter of the primary family occupying the house.)

Me: So this is the only Brahmin (highest caste) family in the village?

Daughter: Brahmin? What is this? I don’t know.

Me: You know, the caste system?

Daughter: No. I don’t know what that is.

Me: Do you know where the women of the village give birth?

Daughter: Now? Now, babies are born in the hospital. Before they were born in the house. But now, in the hospital.

Me: When do you worship and or make puja (prayer)?

Daughter: Sometimes we go to the ashram. And we make puja also in the house. The whole family participates. But mostly my grandfather does it. Which god we pray to depends on the day of the week and/or the festival.

Me: Do the kids in the village go to school?

Daughter: Yes. All the kids in the village go to school from 8am – 3pm, Monday through Saturday. I go to a special school because the teacher at the village school is very lazy – always sleeping. Many girls here study to class 8, and then they usually make marriage.

Me: Do you know who is the prime minister of India?

Daughter: Oh… I can’t remember his name.

Me: Do you know who is the president of the United States?

Daughter: Ummm. One of my friends is telling jokes about someone called, George Bush. And there was a big bomb blast in America in 2001, no? One of my friends is also calling me, Bin Laden. (She is particularly famous in the village for being a fireball with a temper who is ever eager to instigate brawls and fighting with, even, village boys.)

Me: Can you help me draw out your family tree?

(We draw out a tree of the 43 persons she knows to be in her family. After finishing, we take a chai break and move downstairs, where her uncle is sitting. I turn my next questions to him…)

Me: She told me that she doesn’t know what, “Brahmin” or the “caste system” is…

(The uncle calls his niece into the room and says,)

Uncle: What “janti” do you belong to?

Daughter: Pandey.

Uncle: Pandey is your (last) name. You are Brahmin, na?

Daughter: (She bobs her head in hesitant agreement.)

Uncle (addressing me): Did you know her grandfather (who lives here) was a freedom fighter for the movement with Gandhi?

Me: Really? The man whose feet I touched in the fields? That’s amazing.

Me: So here’s the family tree she and I drew together…

Uncle: (He looks at it for a minute and then asks me for a piece of paper. He then draws out the complete family tree of 64 persons.)

(The uncle leaves and the father of the house returns from working in the fields. His English is limited so I enlist the help of his 20-year old nephew to help me with the rest of the questions…)

Me: So what is your family business/trade?

Father & Nephew: Having land. Other families have shops and sell buffalo milk. We have land.

Me: And in addition to your family, you employ people to work on your fields? How much do you pay them?

House Father & Nephew: Those that work in our fields are paid in rupees, rice paddies (or land), food and jaggery. How many rupees? About 80 rupees per day. The government pays its field workers a rate of 110 rupees per day. But we also provide, each year, a plot of land to each worker. Then, they get 5 kilos of food from the fields they work on each day. And spices and essentials, like jaggery (sugar cane sweetener). We also make meals for them every day. What do we serve them? You know, because you eat the same thing. We all eat the same food. The same meals you are eating here for breakfast, lunch and dinner, are the same that they eat. Are they happy? Yes. They are happy because they have their own land and can do what they want with it; grow what they want on it.

Me: What about the caste system? How does it work here?

Nephew: If you’re in another caste, there is no thinking that another can’t come into your house or anything. We are always wanting and looking forward to nice things happening to all people. Many times I have gone to the “untouchable” part of the village and helped students to do these interviews there. I go into their houses too and we talk.

Me: Who is in charge of the village?

House Father & Nephew: The government leaders are in charge. But ours is a bad drunkard. He is a milker – because in our village, this is an important caste. He is still here, but he only likes to drink and lay around. He uses all the money that the government gives to the village for bad things. So now two others of the village have taken over managing the village. My uncle is one of them.

Me: And what happens when there are conflicts in the village?

House Father & Nephew: If there is a problem in the village, there is a panchayat (a committee of five elders chosen for their life experience and wisdom, to proceed over community disputes). The problem is taken to the panchayat to help. People can also choose their panchayat, if they want. If both people are not happy with the resolution of the panchayat, then they will go to the police.

Me: What happens in cases where people steal, or in the case of a woman who is raped?

Nephew: It’s never happened in my village that I’ve seen.

House Father: There is so much work for the women in the village. Hard work. They work till 12 at night; with the baby,
in the fields, cleaning, cooking…

Me: And the men work hard too?

House Father: Yes. But the women work harder.

Me: Is this fair?

House Father & Nephew: No.

Me: What is the water system here?

Nephew: Rain, when there is rain. But we haven’t had rain for four years. When is the rain season? July. No. September. Hum. I don’t remember, it’s been so long since we’ve had a rain season. The village had to make wells. The government didn’t make them, but my uncle, he had a contact with someone who makes wells for the government and so this family put two wells in: one inside our house for our family, and one outside the house for the village to use. These wells are 350-420 feet deep. This is very deep, and each year we have to go deeper. The government made a water tank two years ago. Six months ago, it started working. It costs 18 rupees per month to use, but it also costs 800 rupees for the connection. That well comes from the earth, 345 to 400 ft. There are maybe 10-12 wells in the village, but only six of them still work.

Me: Does the village have electricity?

House Father & Nephew: Yes. We have electricity. When? From about 11pm to 5pm. But we don’t really know the times because it changes every day. For example, since you are coming, we haven’t had light. The electricity is most important because we need it to pump the water in the fields. 75% of the village has electricity. Normally it costs 70- 80 rupees per month, but most people are using the lines without paying for it by just taking it.

Me: What forms of fuel do you use here?

House Father & Nephew: We use dung from the animals for cooking. And some wood. One time, each year, we go up to the mountain and take wood from the forest. We take 2-3 bushels and use 1-2 small pieces per day. Are we running out? No. We only go a few times a year. There is so much wood. And we use diesel for the tractors.

Me: What kinds of electronics do you use here?

House Father & Nephew: We have TV’s. But ours is in the closet. There used to be only two or three TVs in the village, but now everyone has one. Not everyone uses them; sometimes we use to watch cricket matches, political news and serial pictures which the government plays for free on weekends. We use FM (radio) too – to hear the news. We have three cell towers here, and 30% of people in the village have cell phones. CD players too. Chinese players are so cheap on the black-market in Varanasi.


Me: What is the possession that you treasure most in the house?

House Father & Nephew: Our family.

Me: Where does the food that you cook the meals with come from?

House Father & Nephew: Mostly from the fields. Sometimes we get some vegetables from the market (in surrounding villages). Right now we grow (and are eating) carrots, sweet potatoes, tomatoes, lentils, green peas, chick peas, zucchini, garlic, onion, potatoes, mustard seed (and oil), cabbage, cauliflower, spinach, ginger, bitter gourd, different leafy vegetables, sugar cane (and jaggery), and chili peppers. Soon we will begin to plant and harvest our summer foods: watermelon, cucumber, mangos, pumpkin, and rice when the rain season comes. Normally, we sell our surplus of these things in the city, but because we haven’t had a rain season for four years, we have just enough food for our own family.

Me: And the animals, what is your relationship to them?

Newphew: Do you know the Hindi word for animal? It is, “janvar.” This word means, “he who will kill himself for you.” Our animals take care of us. When my aunt died, we left our house empty (to attend to her death rites), and our dog watched over the house. We only have dogs and water buffalo here. We are Brahmin. So we do not eat any meat. If a Brahmin eats meat, another will say, “Don’t sit on my bed. Sit over there.”

Me: In the case of medical emergencies, what happens?

House Father & Nephew: Here, there are some doctors, but they are not very learned. For fevers and critical cases, people go to the hospital in the city. But it’s hard to get there; some people die on the way.

Me: Do you have any preventative health treatments, natural medicines?

Nephew: Yes. We pick natural medicines from the mountains. We use trees, grasses… I don’t know. My grandfather makes all the ayurveda medicine for our family. He still does it. What happens when he dies? It is so bad for the family. Because no one knows how to make the medicines. No one has the time to learn these things. But he will teach it, if anyone wants to learn.

Me: So when and for what do you go to the city?

House Father & Nephew: For some weddings, government work and to buy electronics. But, everything in the city – milk, vegetables, chick peas, rice, spices – comes from the villages.

Me: Interesting. So really, if there were a major disaster in the world that cut you off…

House Father & Nephew: We’d be fine.

Me: What are the things your family fears most?

House Father & Nephew: Separation of family.

Me: You mean physical separation? Like people moving away, to the city or other countries?

House Father & Nephew: No. I mean, if we don’t have nice relations with each other.

Me: Is there anything else your family is afraid of?

House Father & Nephew: Yes. Also drought and terrorists. Naxilites walked by our village once, two or three years ago. They just walked by. But there is a fear that they will come again and begin to kidnap persons.

Nephew: My uncle wants to know what you think of our village?

Me: I think it all works very well together. The community and family are such a strong and functional foundation to the village. And I think this emphasis is so important. I also see that while there are less material things here, there seems to be more peace and general happiness. Tell him that I think his village is beautiful.

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

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errant thoughts and kites

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IMG_4374, originally uploaded by seekingsol.

Errant thoughts consume me.

Not of the adventurous sort, but the meddling.

The petty. The flinching. The bothersome and be bothered by, sort.

The kind of thoughts that make you feel weak, and mean, and small.

The wind of the fan. The person that turned it on. The dogs barking in the street.

They ruffle. And annoy. And make my eyes squint and my breath shallow.

This is not the world I want to live in.

But that ruffling fan, and that annoying person who turned it on,

They push me out, onto the deck, and out of my little, petty world of trivial thoughts.

To a perch, where the real Wind playfully tosses my hair as a grandmother her stormy grandchild.

And despite even my annoyed resistance, my errant thoughts dissipate in the vastness of a world unwalled.

A deep exhale.

And a look over the edge.

Where boys play cricket and fight over who will jump the fence to reclaim the lost ball.

Where a wandering Sadhu walks barefoot in evening pilgrimage to the river.

Where a “subje wallah” pushes a cart of red peppers and calls out to the mothers who forgot the item on the list at the market this morning.

And where teenage boys sit side by side on motorcycles, holding hands, waiting to make an impression.

Where a vendor chooses a stalk of sugar cane, pushes it through his press, and fills a tumbler of sweetness to lure those that pass by into his shady corner.

Where a rickshaw wallah, through the mumble of his pan-filled mouth, proposes a cheap and faster ride to a walker.

Where a dog, unknowingly trespassing turfs, is attacked by barking calls of war, for his ignorance.

And where a black bull wanders lazily through the streets, while locals sweep long safe distances away from his horns and lethal legend.

Where a grandfather proudly strolls the neighborhood with his tiny toddler grandson in tow.

Where the school-bike rickshaw driver meanders his way home to retire the wagon, now empty of the children he’s safely returned home.

Where teenage girls twiddle thumbs and swing feet off the roofs where they are allowed to safely wander their imaginations.

And where white bed sheets and colored saris, warmed from the late sun, are pulled down from the rooftop lines and make last attempts at flight as their capturers fold them up for storage.

Where a grandmother shells peas on her porch, as she has done for 80 years.

Where a courtyard tree has snarled a dozen errant kites, now translucent with the sun setting behind them.

Where a “dhobi” carries neat stacks of pressed and clean clothes to houses where they’ll be received with great relief.

And where the multicolored scarf of a young student chases in quick step behind her.

Where signs and advertisements scream on alley walls, yet are muted to those illiterate of the Hindi script.

Where small children are stacked strategically, scrunched between their bookend older siblings, on the back of motorbikes.

And where hair plaits are oiled and braided on decks, in the lazy afternoon hour before dinner.

A deep exhale.

Like a headache, or stomach cramps, or a fever, I can barely remember my prior state now that it has passed.

And the Wind ruffles my hair again, this time, with consolation and compassion.

And muffles my mutters of wordy gratitude.

But humbly accepts,

A silent bow of respect.

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a creative life

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For about six months I’ve been feeling something shifting inside of me. I can only compare the sensation to being made of sand; where every move I make shifts a million grains into a new order that fills the holes and packs down to take the shape of each novel form, motion and angle into which I contort. The shifting brings confidence in its settling. But it also brings some discomfort in its weight and slow reluctance to continually resort itself from a form in which it was content. Regardless, this shifting brings me no alarm; it feels natural, timely and called (subconsciously) upon. While I feel it scraping around my insides and clearing the space for something new, with too many options on my table, I wonder if I will be doing the choosing or if, eyeing the clean and ready slate, it will be one of my choices that will snatch the opportunity and choose me. But then again, perhaps every decision is only the “x” where time and opportunity cross – and one (choice and chooser) could not exist without the other. In any case, comforting is the fact that there is also an unaccredited confidence that I am approaching a surprise conclusion. I’m not sure if I’m making any sense, but I attempt to explain this “shifting,” because I like to call out my phases as I move through them, especially for those mislead into thinking that I’m as solid and unwavering as my path sometimes projects.

While the shift is still nameless, there is a new theme that is taking shape. This week I found myself pondering my history and recognizing that while in high school and college I pursued what I imagined to be a “perfect” life (with perfect grades and perfect partners and perfectly pretty places) I finally (and think correctly) rejected the preposterous notion of “perfect” and replaced it with “unique.” And so I spent the next ten years singing to the theme song of, “of all my lives, this will be my most unique” and whistling this tune I walked to a few corners of the earth. Now while this message, of the options and expanse and magic of a unique life, continues to be the most important I carry and share with others, I feel myself now ready for something new. There is an important parable in Buddhism that asks, when you cross a river with a boat, and finally reach the other shore, do you pick the boat up and continue to carry it with you? In this way my “unique life” has served as my boat; and while it was essential in transporting me to where I am, I feel it now weighing and constricting me from my path forward. On a new side and shore, it’s time for me to respectfully leave the paradigm, as I would a child that has come of age, and reassume responsibility for my life, free of the constraints that even a “free” life contains.

So I move. And while perhaps it is not wise for me to so casually and quickly replace one word with another, it is my nature to theme my living, as aims, goals, intentions and dreams, I have yet to resolve as unessential.

The word I have chosen is, “creative.”

Can you hear the sigh in it? Does it not immediately drop bars and overwhelm with relief? Does it expand horizons beyond the straight lines of “unique”? Doesn’t it give room to color in instead of expand straight lines out? It does all these things for me.

And the word is full of challenge.

With a left brain sharpened by a business degree, statistics, excel spreadsheets, and finance, my right brain, while spinning quite out of control in dreams and sometimes in type, has yet to find the outlets through which it would like to fully breathe.

My “creative life” was seeded in birth, fostered in childhood, neglected through school and only started dropping hints as to its existence through the pockets discovered in the path of a “unique life.” But I’m turning those pockets now inside out, and challenging myself, starting this week, to the task of exercising the muscles and employing the tools of a creative life; to drop my bars of perfectionism and contours of exclusivity and open myself to the peaceful process of coloring my life in; focusing on the details, character development, and the lines on and stories behind, the hands that touch my life. It’s a big theme, but a small daily task, to stop looking forward, and instead consider the angles. And it’s a new beginning, with creative muscles that shake with neglect, weakness and fear. But it’s also an invigorating relief, to have a new boat, and new shores, and a new journey, to color in front of me. And I’m especially appreciative of the community of exercised artists that, with great luck, I have subconsciously called into my life as best friends, and of whom I will be calling upon for mentorship on this new phase of, “my creative life.”

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

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leave your expectations; bring your patience

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(I have a new group of Dragons students arriving soon and this was from a note I wrote to them, related to the previous post, that I think continues to provide insight on life in India…)

Tourists always show up in Varanasi and notice I know my way around and ask me the following…

“Please tell us what to do here! We see it’s “sacred” but it’s dirty, polluted, loud, full of trash, we’re constantly bothered by beggars, and there are cows everywhere!”

And I sigh heavily and tell them, “Varanasi isn’t an infatuation, it’s an arranged marriage. And it takes a lot of patience, compromise, time, respect, and humility for your understanding of her to emerge. But once your relationship comes through the fire, the bond is unbreakable and lasts a lifetime.”

Having worked in Dragon’s Administration as the Admissions Director for two years, it is one of my primary jobs to make sure students understand what, “rugged” means.

Rugged does not (just) mean sleeping in a tent in the Himalayas. Rugged means bathing out of bucket with cold water for three months. Rugged means living in a city where there is no electricity for most of the day (still true in Banaras). Rugged means navigating city streets that are FULL of trash and relentless traffic. Rugged is learning how to (emotionally and logistically) respond to the dozen small children who don’t have shoes and pull on your legs and grab your hands asking for food. Rugged is sleeping on hard beds under mosquito nets, but still waking up with bites. Rugged is battling the foreign bacteria of another country and constantly playing your defensive and offensive moves to stay healthy. Rugged is trying to sleep through a city that stays awake through the night – with its thousand temples all ringing and singing through all midnight and sunrise hours. Rugged is learning which bulls are dangerous and need a lot of clearance and finding the right pace to outwalk the water buffalo as the herd walks home. Rugged is sleeping on a dirt floor in your rural homestay and using the bathroom in the appropriate field behind the house. Rugged is coughing constantly on the pollution of a rapidly developing nation. Rugged is staying calm in the middle of a hundred worshipers chanting at a temple. Rugged is helping your rural homestay mother cook over a clay open fire. Rugged is helping your rural homestay sister draw water from a well or plant potatoes in the field. Rugged is coming to acceptance of the fact that EVERYONE will stare and watch every move you (the white foreigner) will make. Rugged is learning how to use a squat toilet the way the locals do. Rugged is about learning what you really need, and can live without, and testing your patience and dedication on the path of what you’re out to understand.

I’m not trying to scare you. But these are all the daily realities of living in India. And I’ll tell you the good news nows: while it starts off tough, every student on my last semester, completely and totally, fell head over heels in love with Varanasi. They each swore up and down that they’d be back, and they each cried as they left their homestays and Varanasi lives. So your patience, your compassion, and your willingness to compromise – they will all pay off; they will open up the secret world of India to you, and in the end you’ll remember that first week with tremendous fondness and a lot of laughter.

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*sol bows her “namaste” and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

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goats in sweater vests

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2007 July 011, originally uploaded by seekingsol.

I’m currently on a short vacation from India and on my last day in Banaras I asked myself, “Will anything really have changed between now and the two weeks before I return?” And my panicked answer was, “goats in sweater-vests!”

For along with the winter months, the small beasts of Banaras come out of a mysterious closet in full cold-weather gear.

I found only a few minutes of time to run to the ghats (stair sets lining the banks of the river, Ganga-ji) to shoot goats. While I did not happen, specifically, upon sweater vests on this outing, I did find a few in collared shirts, sweaters and dresses. Still, the goats turned out to be some of the most stubborn and unphotogenic models I’ve yet found in India. Nevertheless, the few shots will suffice to buy myself a tiny bit of more time betweens posts of the usual prose…

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village faces, U.P. India

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This weekend, I took a trip out to a friend’s home village and brought my camera for those who are interested in visiting the album:


Village Life, U.P. India, originally uploaded by seekingsol.

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Village Life, U.P. India, originally uploaded by seekingsol.

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Village Life, U.P. India, originally uploaded by seekingsol.

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days debrief

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Visions of India Dec 2007 – Pushkar, originally uploaded by seekingsol.

For most Westerners, it’s unfathomable for a major city to function without 24-hour electricity. Yet like the monsoon rains on their mission to Ganga-ji (respected river), the 1.3 million people who live here in Varanasi somehow always manage to redirect, divert, finagle and finesse around the obstacles of 10 powerless hours, to fluidly find a way to go about their day. And despite the fact that the electricity has gone off TWICE in the typing of this single sentence (once for 3 hours, once for 20 minutes), I’ve never heard a native complain. Hold on. I have to “save.”

Three hours ago, my resolve to sit down at this computer and write till something came out was as strong as the espresso I shot to chase it. But the power outages, along with missed trains and traffic jams, prepared yet another alternate reality and route to amble along. So now I’m back at the blinking cursor, but the caffeine I fired up with four hours ago has stopped doing jumping jacks and crashed on the couch. Being the hated type that jumps out of bed at sunrise, I now write from a slightly sleepy and somber mood; why not? Let’s try something new.

No one knows what I’m doing these days; neither my family nor friends. So if you fall into one of two former categories, don’t feel left out, because much like Varanasi, everyone is in the dark. So it is with the purpose of filling in this gap of trivial yet missing information that I chose the content of this update. Also, my fingers are still stiff with bed rest, having spent too much of the last month turning many pages (of books and in life) but not outputting much in the medium of type. *save*

So what am I doing? I’m squinting my eyes and wondering myself. And that is because I don’t do very well without two-page checklists to reference. Ah, yes. So, it’s something I don’t think I’ve ever confessed to, but certainly responsible for 74% of my life successes: I’m a relentlessly effective multi-tasker and organizer. (My sister, in an email today, made reference to this same quality that we’ve inherited by blood from my mother as, “itchy butt syndrome”; I laughed for 10 minutes.) This, as all our best qualities are, is a sword; the other edge being that in the process of my ruthless swinging around, I am often negligent of emotions, people, creativity, alternatives and details that I arrogantly slaughter in the name of producing the fastest and highest yield. (And I call myself a vegetarian.) As my co-leader recently wrote of me in my evaluation: “…she just needs to remember that there is more than one (i.e. her) way to get up the mountain.” So wise and true. And there are just as many ways to get around the mountain — meaning it’s taken me an impressively long paragraph to summarize the sentence: “My days are simple.”

My days ARE simple. Awkwardly and healthily, uncomfortably simple. Right now, I only have three daily obligations. And they are kind of interesting, so let’s go there…

Hindi Classes. This is, without challenge, my favorite hour of every day. And that is because my Hindi teacher, Virendra-ji, is perhaps, my favorite man in the world. And yes, I think this of a hundred human beings. But part of being a “non-dualist” (invented term) means that I can have as many “favorites” as I want (infinite); or at least that’s how I rationalize it in my world (also invented). *save* Virendra-ji is single-handedly responsible for every fluent (Western-born) Hindi speaker I’ve ever met. He is considered the most respected master and guru of language learning in the city – and I too will confidently vouch for him as the nothing less than the, Yoda of Hindi. The man reads minds. He handles Jedi learning and memorization techniques like a light saber. He employs your subconscious and manipulates it like play dough. And us poor, lowly, ignorant students – we are blind to the firm and expert rationale behind his magic-like tricks. You may not get it, but hardly I do – so how can I explain? I’ve never known a teacher to be able to entice the subconscious of a student into secret action. But he does it. He’ll strand an especially complicated sentence together (transliterated example: Nato mai shadi-shuda hung na mai, philhal, shadi karna chahati hung: Neither am I married nor do I, for the meantime, want to be.”) and instruct me, “Don’t think. You will understand this in three minutes. Just repeat. Now repeat again. Now close your eyes. Repeat. Okay, say it backwards. Now say it forward. Say it fast. Slap your hand on the table when you say the last word! Now tell me what it means in fluent English. Not broken English. Fluent English! Now say it fluently in Hindi, with confidence. Good. Next.” *save*

Bamboo Flute Class. The vision, obviously, is of a charmed pilgrim, skipping her way through the winding valleys of the Himalayas, singing back and forth to the little birds, all the while smiling under the whistle of her simple wooden flute. The reality, however, is eight neighborhood kids taking a collective break from their cricket game to inhale just enough air to scream at the practicing pilgrim, “STOOOOOOOP THAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT!!!” It could be worse I suppose. Instead of scales and ancient, sacred Ragas, I could be murdering Mary and her Little Lamb. Either way, it’s bad. It’s very, very bad. And, to the recurring nightmare of my neighbors, it’s likely to be that way for still some months. My flute teacher however, is quite wise. He only gives me enough examples to take home for practice and then fills the rest of the two hours with warm chai and lovely chit-chat on the history, culture, and logistics of learning Indian music.

Brainstorming with Ajeet-ji, the visionary behind GURIA. Ajeet-ji is the lovely man I quoted a few posts ago from his speech aimed at elevating awareness of the flesh trade in India. I’m collaborating with him on a number of projects, all of which he groups into the single, endearing, category of, “high tech.” The projects’ task lists include collecting content, articles, photos, film and contacts for the purpose of furthering global awareness and sponsorship of the NGO and its objectives. We’ll see where it goes; it’s only in seed stage at the moment. But if you happen to be rich and reading this, and hoping to find an amazing non-profit in which to invest some money (with fantastic karmic returns), do email me: solbeam@gmail.com. There will certainly be more thoughts turning to print in future posts on the subject of GURIA as my involvement moves from seed to sapling. So rich or poor, stay tuned.

*save*

Wow. Maybe my days aren’t so simple? But they are. They are. I wake up at 7am (no alarm) and meditate every a.m. I have plunger coffee, brown bread and honey with a newspaper and Hindi conversation every day at the same place for breakfast. I go to my classes and then I read the same book (Indian Religions – The Spiritual Traditions of South Asia – An Anthology edited by Peter Heehs) while I sip on lemon mineral water and wait (1 hr) for vegetable paneer momos, on the same rooftop, every day, for lunch. I meet up with Ajeet-ji, or, in some crazy variation, venture on an exciting errand in the afternoon. And then I share my evening with my Indian homestay family, stop in for email on the way home, say goodnight to my landlord, review my Hindi vocab, crawl into my 0 degree sleeping bag, read a short story from Jo
rge Luis Borges, and fall asleep as soon as, sometimes before, my head hits the pillow. Occasionally, I wake up in the middle of the night with the intrusive and compulsive thought to recharge this or that appliance so that I, too, will be prepared for the 10 powerless hours of tomorrow to come.

And THAT, I guess, is what I’m doing.

(Please excuse my midnightishness.)

*save*

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a new door

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DoorToRajastan, originally uploaded by seekingsol.

Sadly, I have some very negative feedback for FOTKI.com (with whom I’ve been hosting my albums for the last six years and who is also responsible for over 500 posts of broken photo links, now, on this blog).

BUT! Every for every door closed, a new one does open, and THIS is only a test of my new FLICKR album…

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