breathing in, breathing out

Masses of bundled bodies sprawl across every available space into a patchwork heirloom, a silent city. A designated sewer dribbles along the side wall, where men walk to spit as we search the list of passengers for our names. These people wait for days, weeks perhaps, for a train, and I wonder where it takes them. Away and back again. Some have baggage. A few have livestock, a goat dressed in a burlap jacket. I want to ask their stories, whether they‘re coming or leaving, running to or from. Children curl up on the stairway, and I slip a snack into one’s hand, hoping it doesn’t get stolen before he awakens. Bihar is the poorest state I’ve ever seen, and I fall asleep to the sounds of rats’ nails tickling cement and cockroaches gliding through patches of light. I forget where I am and take rest.

The morning reveals more poverty. Pretzeled people scuttle across the street and beggars line the roads. I buy a bushel of bananas, so big I can barely lift it. I pass them out individually to everyone who asks. A young bald monk approaches me, confused, and points to the temple. No, I say. Not for Buddha, for the people. A blind leper with knubbed hands holds them out into the darkness that surrounds him. I place a banana in his palms and he jerks away, and I’m startled and jump back. I wonder if I should peel it for him, but I’m afraid to and I walk on, ashamed. Children hide the ones I give them and come back for more. Women hold out shriveled infants asking for extras. I come to a cluster of kids outside a temple and begin to divide the bounty, but they charge at me and rip the bag from my hands and tackle each other into a pile like dogs, and I leave wagging my finger and my head, not sure whether to laugh or cry.

Born free, children run naked in the streets, snot streaking over chapped lips and scab crusted noses. Puppies and piglets burrow in the trash; baby goats bleat for their mothers in the fields. There are no leashes. Life roams. Mothers don’t brush off the dirt or clean the wounds, these are left for the flies, made to heal on their own, but the women and brothers and sisters hold the little ones in their arms, to their breasts.

Cobras don’t really dance; it’s only an illusion. They are deaf, their world is silent. They follow the movement of the flute, wiggling their bodies back and forth. But the children dance. They skip in a line behind the old man making the music, carrying the sacks of serpents on a balanced rod across his shoulders. The piglets dance; they trot after their plump uddered mother and mowhawked father. The dogs dance, spinning as they scratch mange from the places they can’t quite reach and no one else will.

I am sick-- so weak I can barely move, but I have little time left and I push on. My energy is drained, having seeped forth from every available orifice. I lie on my back and try to borrow it from the grass, the sky, to channel it from the chants that surround me. The streets team with people who all want something, and I’m tired of it. I seek refuge in the temples, where the light streams in through colored glass and cast a rainbow across the altar. Monks play drums with bent sticks and moan words I can‘t understand, but I agree anyway. Paintings cover the walls and tell stories, teach lessons. Practice they say.

And they do. Monks and nuns and men and women and children circle the main temple slowly, paying respects, penitence, offering prayers. Touts sell bouquets of fresh cut flowers to devout Buddhist who preach non violence and place the fresh cuttings across the altar. I pluck one from the trash and wipe away the sauces. Buddha teaches us that the rose and garbage are not separate; they depend on each other for nourishment, they inter are. Apparent opposites are codependent. I place my dripping lotus before the glittering statue as the caretakers clear bundles of bouquets into trash bins.

The building stands enormous and intimidating, a symbol of the incredible devotion of the Buddha, and now his followers carry that focus on. You can feel the energy of this place. My altered state intensifies it, and I feel light. Vibrations crystallize with each forced breath. I kiss the earth with my feet and hold the pain, recognize it, nurture it. All is empty and full of presence, a low hymn you can hear if you listen. Gate gate, paragate, parasumgate, bodhi svaha. The chant fills my thoughts, eliminates all others. It beats with my heart. I sit beneath The Bodhi Tree, the sapling that offered enlightenment to those before me, and I feel connected to them within its branches. I wish for a moment that I brought water from the Ganga to offer the tree, then I smile to myself as I realize that of course these sacred beings are intertwined. I am in this tree. Lord Buddha Siddhartha Gautama is in this tree. As is each creature that has come to consider its existence, or simply existed. Every part of the universe is present in each leaf. I see this, for a moment, and it makes me so happy. so complete. It is enough, as they say.

shanti shanti

I have faith in many Gods and many religions, but I believe in myself, my host VJ proclaims. I sit cross legged facing him in the flickering candle light, considering the stream of declarations and observations and stories that fall from his lips like fortunes from a cookie. I can’t distinguish truth from lies, history from fantasy. I don’t think opium does anything but change the texture of experience from solid to liquid and the pace from animal to plant. VJ confesses that sometimes we go slow, and sometimes we go fast, and I think to myself that Varanasi exists in a different continuum completely, an ancient maze of peeling pastel alleyways where bathers offer bodies to the earth and dirty laundry to be cleansed . Heather and I listen and laugh and fade into the fabric. Every so often he pulls charras from his cigarette pack and when we thank him replies, “it is my goodness.” VJ smokes constantly and drinks what we give him and takes opium each evening, a little black ball that smells of earth and subtle spice. He “make all life like this. and feel good,” but through the blur come fragments of wisdom. He teaches us his history, his purpose, his perceptions.

I bring you in the world, said God. Now you go guru. They will have experience, power, teach you. You begin life with God, but you finish with guru. and life is beautiful.

We are one. I don’t mind.

Bodies are burned every moment of every day for 5000 years. This is the oldest inhabited city and an eternal flame consumes its people. Four men carry their dead through the streets and plunge him into Mother Ganga, a kind of catharsis, a baptism. The body is then covered in ghee. Rama created cows and rams at the same time to make ghee for this ceremony. Loved ones pour water from the river into the open mouth. Sometimes it is swallowed, mostly though it spills back out over the cheeks, the neck, the chest, the earth. The flesh and organs are weighed and, if the family can afford it, the proper amount of wood is laid on top. Men sit above the ghats with green scales and pyramids of timber, waiting for the wealthy to come. The pile is covered with more ghee then powder and set ablaze. The fire is not fed, only watched. The shadows shuffle around it slowly, breathing life into death, making it dance. Silhouettes on the horizon, like the drawings on a cave made of blood and soot. It is better this way. The living make sure the dead depart properly, watch their bodies waste away and know the spirit is free. There is no possibility of escape. They are lucky for this and strong. One part doesn’t burn. No matter how much wood is consumed, how much time, it will remain in tact, an organ inside the belly. It is carried to the water and fed to the fish. If the person who died was old or young or weak there will be wood left over. It is taken by the poor to kept their families warm, and to cook their meals with, to keep them alive.

Saraswati will grant you one wish. But this you cannot choose. One thing you say during the day will come true, be carried out. You must be careful always.

So we watch for the rhinosorous, and then we will know He is listening.

As the sun falls, kites flutter overhead, watching for prey. The children taunt each other from roof tops and ask me where I bought mine and if I know how to fly it. Of course, I respond, but they know I’m lying. A cover of ants swarms the bodhi tree, producing patterns with their bodies, moving bark. Perhaps they are pilgrims called to prayer, trying to free the kites trapped in its branches, dangling. don’t jump shout the boys below. Somehow the shadows of boats rippling on water are more real than the forms themselves. as if God reflects the true nature of life. instability. the consequences of shifting light, visions.

I hold a baby goat in my hands, and its heart beats so fast it scares me. Take it home with you, VJ tells me. The mother begins to cry, to bleat. Goats-- he says-- animals are more intelligent than people, they simply cannot speak. I wonder, would they be angry or forgive us. Who is the more evolved beast?

The goat eats part of my blessing for breakfast--not the baby, another one. Heather Rose and I step into the silt sludge of the Mother Ganga and offer her our strings of blossoms, bestowed with intention. I hold the lei gently in my hand, like a string of prayer beads, contemplating the millions before me who came to show reverence. Lost in thought, I feel a tug on the line and find myself facing a goat. Like the troll of a bridge he takes his toll. I let him nibble away, wondering which of my wishes he’s consumed then toss the remaining flowers into the belly of the goddess, pressing her water into my mind and throat and heart.