Living In A Dream World, Live

We are looking out the window of our Bombay Hotel room, overlooking a leafy green park and congratulating ourselves on our good fortune at having found so elegant a setting at so reasonable a price.  We have only just arrived after negotiating the streets near the waterfront around India Gate, at first depressed by the numerous seedy looking hotels and aura of poverty in such close proximity to the grandeur of the waterside drive.  We are only going to stay a day or two and then return to Delhi, a prospect that pleases me greatly since I have felt so comfortable there to begin with.

The first item on our agenda will be to find a restaurant and with this in mind we set out into the streets, free of baggage and with a renewed sense of the euphoria of being on the journey.  There is still nothing so comforting to me as finding a safe haven after running the gauntlet of doubtful cheap hotels.

After a few blocks we find ourselves in the cinema area where once again I am reminded of how much the English affected the structure and look of the city, this area looking like a copy of Piccadilly Circus.  Two blocks later the illusion vanishes and we are in the thick of a Bombay marketplace, teeming with bodies, open-fronted cafes, sidewalk vendors and the exotic aromas of singeing spices mingling with a cacophony of sounds.

My eyes are diverted into the dark recesses of the cafes as we pass, searching for an appropriate place to take the children when I am nearly tripped by a stranger kneeling at my feet and touching my shoes in benediction.  Before I have time to react, a smiling and familiar bespectacled, bearded face looks up into mine.

A moment more passes and we are embracing in astonishment for who could imagine anything stranger than running into an old friend from Vancouver like this, half way around the world.  I first met Michael Asti-Rose twenty years before while he was working as a photographer and independent filmmaker on Vancouver Island.  Since then, our paths had crossed at critical moments in our lives during which each of us was undergoing deep personal change.  Michael once remarked, "We are good mirrors for each other."

He was born in India of British missionary parents and raised in Delhi so this, in a deep sense, is also his country. Standing before me in a new slate blue kurta suit, his beard neatly trimmed, I became instantly aware that something is also different about him, something I cannot put my finger on. As we sit over a big bottle of Kingfisher beer in a nearby cafe, Michael puts the situation into a few words.

"I'm a bought man." he confesses with a sigh. Apparently, while living in Taos, New Mexico he'd met and married a wealthy American named Allyn and together they had planned to go to India and spend some of her money doing charitable work, the nature of which is not completely clear to me.  Somehow they have ended up spending thousands of dollars without seeing any positive manifestation of their efforts and now their marriage is on the rocks.

Knowing Michael it's surprising to see that he is at first reluctant to introduce us to Allyn and when he does there is some initial ice to be thawed but she falls in love with the children and before long we are all lounging around an elegantly laid supper table in the Taj Mahal Hotel's "Tanjore" restaurant watching classical Indian dance and reclining on cushions like members of Rajput royalty.

We have a photo of us taken by hotel staff that looks like an illuminated miniature of that period.  The following morning after a visit to the hotel astrologer, we all take the ferry from India Gate to the Elephanta Caves where monkeys rail and screech at us while trying to steal our food offerings to them and where our children are backpacked up the steep hillside stairs by porters toward the ancient caves sheltering Shiva linga and Shakti statuary.  By now, the communication between the adults has really started to flow and there is some regret at the thought that we have to depart for Delhi the next day.  They too are going to Delhi and Michael gives us the name of the hotel where they will be staying.

The next morning finds us on the train rocketing North to Delhi where we are compartmented in a clean coach with a Hindu family and a pleasant young Sikh gentleman.  This makes the trip quite enjoyable and the time passes quickly except for an incident at Bhopal where Karen leaves the coach to get chai and misses the train. Or so we think until we are told by someone who had seen what happened that she has accidentally gone back into the first class section and that there is no way for her to reach us until the next stop at Bira.

Back in Delhi we find a room for one night at the Alka Hotel and then a more reasonable rate at the Ashok Yatri Niwas, a cut rate but decent tourist hotel with a reduced monthly rental charge.  We are given an apartment on the sixteenth floor overlooking the old city and once more I feel the relief of a home base, nesting there with my family.  Karen sets up a beautiful little altar and I a writing desk upon which I stack six enormous new 10 quire, lined journals which I refer to in my notebook as my "magic creative journals" and there and then make the leap into writing more seriously during our journey.

We decide to go to Nepal eventually and so try to negotiate a ticket refund with British Airways, without success.  The money, they say, can only be sent back to an address in Canada and we don't have one.  We leave them with the understanding that perhaps they will be able to make an exception and have the money waiting for us when we return from Nepal. In retrospect, this is a perfect example of one of those times in my life where I badly wanted something to happen and which I later thank God did not happen! There follows upon this a trip to the Nepalese embassy to obtain a visa and to the Tibetan embassy, now Chinese, where we begin the dance that will result in their ultimate refusal to grant us a visa.

Early morning and incense is burning on the cold stone windowsill sixteen floors above the Delhi skyline and I am gazing at a postcard we found on which is pictured against a sky blue background an image of Buddha from a statue at Sarnath. I write in one of my new journals, "Found Buddha, Sarnath, Varanasi postcard and realized same Xerox image from Adanac days and mid-morning coffee breaks at Oakridge Library. Also realize we are going to Sarnath, Varanasi, the holy city of Benares in a dream world live!"

Several years ago while working as a courier in Vancouver I had Xeroxed this same image during a coffee break and took it home to keep in my journal. Now I realize we will be going to Varanasi and I will actually be able to see the original. Was it a premonition or an accident that I was attracted to this very image back then? As I meditate on this, the children sleep peacefully and Karen is taking a shower. I feel a sense of warmth, comfort and divine guidance surrounding us and protecting us on our journey. This same sensation reoccurs from time to time, nurturing me.

Soon we are up and out in the street, scootering towards Connaught Circle for breakfast. On the way we glimpse Michael and Allyn walking through a bazaar but they don't see us, nor do we stop. We have already looked them up here and gone out with them the night before for dinner at the Imperial Hotel, where  Michael told us, he used to romp through the gardens as a child.

We had a sumptuous dinner and a very confusing, even disturbing conversation sprang up between Allyn and me where she would ask for my opinion on a subject and then proceed to ignore me as I began to talk. This happened three or four times in a row and I got angry and spoke out, challenging her behavior. Michael empathized deeply since he felt this was also a pattern between them that he had never properly addressed.

These vibrations seemed to intensify and briefly the three other adults left her sitting alone at the table while we strolled in the garden. An awkward silence ensued and we felt Allyn might leave but she remained and the situation tried to heal itself. There was so much confusion in the air and in the streets there was a curfew imposed by the army for there had been demonstrations the last few days and a city wide strike was being threatened.

After our dinner with Michael and Allyn, I had walked home wearing Michael's shawl for warmth and when we got home the hotel lights burned out.

All this seems subtly connected somehow and we feel there are crosscurrents in our communication right now, so we don't attempt to stop and talk to them.

After breakfast we visit the State Bank of India to arrange for a transfer of funds from Canada, as our money is quickly dwindling. They tell us this may take up to a week or more since a telegram must first be sent, establishing contact between banks. When the money does arrive we have decided to go to Varanasi and from there to Bodh Ghaya, to visit the historical site of the Buddha's enlightenment. In the meantime we will bide our time.

We pause along the Circle to buy Karen a pair of cotton overalls from an elderly Sikh street vendor.  As Karen rummages through the clothing on the racks, he approaches me and begins to gently lecture me on my health.  Out of the blue he says "What's wrong with you?  Don't believe all those astrologers and palm readers, there's something weighing you down."

I immediately recall my two recent visits to astrologers who are a common phenomena in India with offices in all the big hotels.  The point of his free advice?  "Trust only in God to look after you no matter who says what.  Get lots of exercise.  Eat right, rise early, meditate and do yoga.  And of course, avoid the three evils that plague us here in India: hurry, worry and CURRY!"

The next morning Michael comes to find us at our hotel.  He tells us that he and Allyn have made their final decision to split up and that she will travel back to Canada to visit his parents while he will journey up to Hardwar for this year's Khumba Mela festival.  Several questions are ringing in my head at once, one of which is "Why is Allyn going back to see your parents if you are splitting up for good?" but they remain unvoiced.

Michael suggests we spend the day together and since we are on our way to the Jama Masjid he joins us. In the rickshaw to the old city we talk about the possibility of journeying together but in my mind I am already making a decision to decline his offer of company. We have journeyed too far and too long to get to this place and we have some personal, family business to attend to here.  Michael's presence would distract us from that and bring too much of the past into our present to enable us to journey in the "unknown".  I love Michael dearly and can't bring myself to try and explain this yet.

Soon we are climbing one of the twin minarets high above the domed rooftops of the Jama Masjid, which we are told is India's largest mosque.  There is something spectacular about the view from up here, high on a thin, sculpted needle overlooking the city in all directions.  Birds swoop majestically, landing on the cupola of the domes and I find myself immersed in an aura of romance and high adventure wondering how we ever found our way to this magnificent place.

Karen leads the way down and somehow manages to ring the bell at the nearby gate, bringing a group of elderly, lounging custodians to their feet with angry looks and meaningful gestures, reminding her in no uncertain terms not to do this again, ever! Michael is chuckling at Karen's innocent, prankish display, suggesting that if a local were to do this it might even mean jail.

We are not thrown out however and are soon standing around the pool in the central courtyard snapping pictures and feasting our eyes and energies on the strength and emptiness embodied in this spiritual palace.

Michael sits meditatively, moodily staring into the distance. There is both a peace and a sadness in his demeanor and I empathize with his sense of loss and new found freedom.  As I write in my notebook I am suddenly surrounded by children.  Where they came from I don't know but they are intrigued by this foreign stranger scribbling in a little book.  Perhaps they think I am drawing and they crowd closer.

Karen lies on the pool edge at my side and puts her head in my lap.  The wind rifles the pages of my notebook.  Once again that ineffable sensation of peace and protection descends over me.

In the few days following this we browse through the marketplaces.  Karen buys a copy of Paul Brunton's "A Search in Secret India", some beautiful khadi vests and some trinkets to decorate our house in Greece.

The subject of Greece has now come up for two main reasons.  One, the Tibetan Embassy has denied us a visa and two, while breakfasting near the Circle one morning we meet a western woman dining in the company of a Buddhist monk.  A conversation transpires during which the monk, on hearing of our decision to go to Nepal advises us against it, saying that this is the worst time of the year for dysentery and other diseases which might pose a real danger to our children.

Suddenly, we find ourselves questioning our decision to go to Nepal, even though we have visas now for that country.  So we are talking about going to Greece after our Indian sojourn is complete.  We are still uncertain when that will be, but our visas expire in a little over a month.

I find a Hindi language textbook in a second hand bookstall and begin to learn the rudiments of the language, laboriously scripting the characters into my notebook and practicing the reading of street signs.  Michael confirms I am on the right track one day when I spell out a sign in Hindi.  Michael doesn't read Hindi but speaks it from memory and recognizes the words I am pronouncing as the name of the shop beneath the sign.

One day, looking for the General Post Office, we ask directions from a man who we run into a second time, later that day in the lobby of the Ashok Hotel.  He is a soft spoken man with a slight English accent, dressed in a conservative suit and he stops to speak to me where I am sitting feeling rather fatigued and depressed at the end of an exhausting day.

"Didn't we meet earlier at the post office?"  One thing leads to another and I happen to mention Brunton's book,  "A Search in Secret India".  The man exclaims, "That book changed my life!"  He explains to me that although Indian by birth his education had "Anglicized" him so much that he doubted the existence of anything truly spiritual in India. The book however inspired him to re-examine his cultural roots and because of that he is now a practicing Ayurvedic doctor.  I find myself refreshed after our talk which itself seems right out of the pages of the same book.

We visit the Qutab Minar, where workmen crouch on stone blocks chanting to the rhythm of chisels and where the architecture itself seems music crystallized into stone and then the Raj Ghat where Karen lights a candle and incense in memory of Ghandi, all of this over the next few days.

We are treading water, waiting for our next move.  I do not visit Ali Moosa during this time and seem to have put our encounter out of my mind for the present although in the back of my mind I know we will soon visit him.

At the Feroz-Shah-Khotla we wander among the ruins of an ancient walled fortress and I find myself standing in what might be the oldest mosque in Delhi, listening to the sound of the wind bring eerie voices to my attention.  I am not sure whether I am "hearing things" or whether I am getting radio signals from the distant past that have been preserved in the rocks.

Karen is wandering off by herself with the children and as I round a corner to the catacombs beyond the mosque an old man with a hoary beard is climbing on the rocks followed by a piebald dog.  Below him, beneath the massive walls and near a flower-bedecked lingam, another old man is cracking twigs for a fire.

Beyond him, in a circular structure, I walk down steps to confront an old, crumbling wall surrounding a filthy looking well out which serpents of rusty plumbing are climbing.  Yet another old man stands on the far side of the well and beckons me over to him with a sharp hand gesture, like a salute.  He then directs my attention to a shrine which is simply an empty, disintegrating nook in the wall, in which two or three marigolds are placed against the crumbling mortar and three sticks of incense burn.  I stand self-consciously at first, hands clasped in front of me, uncertain what is expected of me.  Hesitantly I ask, nodding toward the shrine, "Buddha?"

In broken English he replies, "Yes, very old."  He explains to me that he stays there all day long talking to God and while I am trying to figure out whether he is asking for rupees I find myself in a wonderful state of peaceful meditation just standing there in the old man's presence.  He suggests that I do puja and so I pray for my family, my future and the future of this troubled world we live in, all in an instant.  Then I kneel and touch my forehead to the damp, muddy ground in front of the shrine.  I feel very good, perfectly natural and yet a voice in my head is nagging, "What ARE you doing?"

When I look back at the old man, he is still smiling and he salutes me warmly, smartly, gently, gracefully and sympathetically in an all-saying gesture.  By this time Karen is back and we leave together, wordlessly.