Holi Sh*t!

When I mentioned my idea of heading back to Varanasi for the Holi festivities to Pascal, he warned me against it. "It can be very dangerous" he said in his french accent "people go crazy in Varanasi." My ears perked up. After the next two people told me pretty much the same thing, I booked my train ticket the very next day.

Holi is one of the most popular Hindu festivals ... probably because it involves large groups of men getting bhaanged and drunk out of their minds, then engaging in a water color fight all over town before finally ending the night dancing in the streets until the wee hours.

I arrived in Varanasi one day before the event. As I walked down the ghats on the side of the Ganges I saw evidence of the impending mayhem. Kids filling plastic bags with colored paint water; multicolored cows, goats and dogs meandering through the alleyways; the vendors selling waterguns and colored powders ready to be mixed with water.

I found a cheap guesthouse by the Manikarnika Ghat, the Burning Place. After I checked in the manager warned me about the festivities. He advised me to stay inside the next day, told me he was locking the doors and not letting anyone in or out. I let him know that I had come to Varanasi on Holi specifically for craziness. "Well, I cannot be held responsible it anything happens!" he told me in what I was sure was his most condescending voice. My own voice changed to my rebellious tone, but it wasn't until I heard the words coming out of my mouth that I realized what was going on. "Don't worry, I'm a big boy and I don't need you to take care of me. This is a hotel, not a jail cell. And you are a hotel manager, not my father!"

Simply rebelling against everything you are told makes you no more of an authentic person than unquestioningly following orders. In either case the circumstances around you dictate your behavior, as opposed to looking within your own soul to determine who you are and choosing to put into action what you believe in.

Armed with that new bit of insight, I began my own preparations for Holi. I purchased the cheapest kurta-pajama outfit I could find but decided against arming myself for the war that was to start in the morning. I figured I would take whatever colors were thrown my way, and seize whatever opportunities presented themselves to return the favor.

There was no need to have set the alarm the next morning. The sound of mayhem in the streets was plenty to wake me up. I slipped on my new duds, threw 400 rupees in my pocket and headed out the hotel door and turned right. Within 2 seconds a gang of young boys spotted me and my new and clean clothes and pounced. Two of them held me down while the others smeared colors all over me. Holi had begun!

I decided to just try to find a cup of chai to start with. As I walked down the alleys of Varanasi I dogged water balloons hurled by children at the tops of buildings; turned corners to find buckets of colored water thrown at me; avoided open bonfires in the middle of the street; was greeted by more hooligans who ripped my shirt off my back; pinpointed for assault by water guns on the backs of passing by scooters.

The insanity truly erupted once I made it down to the Ganges, walking down the ghats which lined the river side. I found a few kids to chase, trying to steal their satchel of ammunition. I found out how truly difficult it is to catch a water balloon hurled in your direction with your bare hands. And I sighed as I watched countless Western White Women attempt to play with the Indian boys and come away yelling at throwing punches after being groped and disrespected. "Welcome to India" I said to a few as I walked by.

All the respectable business had closed up shop for the day. Pretty much anyone on the streets was considered fair game. If you didn't want to Play Holi you should have stayed home was the prevailing attitude of the gathered mob. Once I made is to Dashaswamedh Ghat, the main ghat of Varanasi, I truly saw the size and scope of the festivities and it was simply mind boggling fun! There was nothing to be done but to immerse myself in it, and just play along with all the others.
By 3 PM the playing colors had come to an end. Women and little children slowly started to return and a few stalls opened up, but Holi was still young. I went back to the guest house, colored blue, red, yellow and green from head to toe. My clothes had been ripped to shreds, but my key still safely tied to my pajama drawstrings. And I spent the next hour washing up preparing for the continuation of the festivities that evening.

When I returned outdoors all I had to do was follow the music to find the party, which was everywhere. Groups of men, still riding that Holi wave of intoxication, danced together, openly displaying their best Bollywood moves, bumping and grinding on one another, showing absolutely no shame. And what was I to do but run in the middle and find my own bit of Holi, letting it all go, freeing my body to express the joy and celebration all around. I bounced from group to group of dancing men, stopping for the occasional chai or samosa break, until about midnight.

I thought it odd at first. All these men, gyrating against one another, and not a woman to be found amongst them. I contrasted it with the scene I'd seen so often in clubs in the West. Women on the dance floor, guys standing at the sides, too cool to participate, pretending not to be interested. And I realized how odd that truly was. Perhaps the two cultures put together could represent an open and free expression of true emotion. The truth was we are both repressed in our own ways.

As I walked back to the hotel at the end of the night I stopped for a while and watched the ceremonial bonfires still taking place. I watched a few bodies being brought down to the Burning Place. Watched family members lament as the sons washed the empty shells of loved ones in the Ganges. I watched the workmen arrange the pyres, place the bodies upon them. I watched as the flames were carried from the mandir above to begin the process or returning ashes to ash. Watched as the flames grew large enough to eat through the ceremonial coverings and garlands and finally through the flesh of the departed.

India. Just when you think you've got your finger on it, you've kinda got it figured out ... it managed to slip out from under your thumb and pop-up in a completely different place.

Vipassana

When I started thinking about my India trip I had a few things on my mind I wanted to accomplish. A Vipassana retreat did not have the top spot on the list, but was definately in the Top 5. So when we arrived in Bodhgaya, the spot of the Buddha's own Englightenment, and found the International Meditation Center, I was pretty much sold. "Sounds like fun" said Maria when we started talking about the idea. "What a strange comment" I thought. Maintaining complete silence, six hours of seated meditation a day and another four hours of walking meditation sounded like a lot of things, but fun was none of them.

The biggest question our group faced was how many days to go for. The center allowed for a flexible schedule, you could come and go as you please. Mike said we wanted to stay as long as he needed, maybe even 20 days. Maria had this numerical formula developed that involved 3, 5, 7 and then 10 days. I didn't quite understand it and really was just hoping I could make it 3 without going crazy. After much back and forth we settled on 6.

I knew I wasn't in a good spot before we stared. My mind had been going crazy as of late dealing with some family drama, recovering from an emotional dagger that was plunged deep into my heart. Our retreat did not start on the best footing either. We arrived five minutes late to orientation. The venerable monk noted our tardiness and then offered us some tea before we began our retreat. As we sat in the meditation room where we spend the majority of the next few days he laid out the precepts to us ... No harming of living things, even mosquitos; no speaking, reading, writing; maintining celibacy; no intoxicants; two meals a day with no solid food after noon; wake up at 5 AM to start meditation and continue until 9 PM each day.

He explained the practice to us, incredibly simple and yet amazingly difficult. It involed just being present in each moment, watching the rise and fall of the abdomen as you sat, and putting your concentration on the moment it rises and then the moment it falls. When the mind distracts you, know that you are thinking, and when the thought passes, return back to watching the rise and fall of the abdomen.

We started with a group of 7 practicioners, all following the same guidelines. The seated meditation the first day was enjoyable, but as I went to shoo away a mosquito I squished one that lingered too long, breaking the first precept. After 24 hours our teacher entered the room and brought us out of meditation. We had our 15 mins of talking time for the day and a brief lesson. As he went around the room taking notes from all the practicioners they all seemed to complain about the same thing, the physical pain associated sitting still for that amount of time. I was suprised, for me the physical pain wasn't much to endure. I had spent the last few years training my body to recognize the difference between pain and discomfort and knew my limits, knew how to treat my body with compassion so as to not injure myself but still be able to push myself. For me, I just couldn't get my mind to quiet down.

On the 2nd day two practicioners finished their retreat and left our group. Another one on the 3rd day. I felt like I was just starting to make some progress. All that silence had given me time to watch my mind wrestle with all the thoughts and emotions it created. Different variations on the same dialogue played over and over again, but I had started to understand what I needed to do.

The answer was simple, forgiveness. I realized what an amazing vehicle forgiving those who had caused you pain was. Forgiving the transgression of others required no one else but yourself. It didn't mean forgetting or condoning their hurtful acts, but choosing not to allow one unskillful action to result in another and continue to pass forward that pain and sorrow. And it is one of the most amazingly powerful acts you can commit, because it allows you to let go of the bitterness and anger that otherwise just eat away at your soul and leave you a jaded person. I started to apply it over and over again to the pain I had been caused and felt like my mind was finally finding some peace.

It was at our daily break in silence that Maria let us know that she would be leaving tomorrow. I knew this retreat wasn't really for her. This austere path, the mosquitos, the mice, the toilets that didn't flush, the laddle full of gruel for breakfast. That night she broke her silence and let me know that she had only been staying because she was afraid to be by herself. And now she was ready to find her own trip, on her own terms. I was happy for her, knew that she would be ok, knew that she was capable of taking care of herself, but sad to see her go. And as she was planning on heading to Nepal, I knew this might well be the last time I saw her for a while.

Over the last few years I've had to say more goodbyes than I've cared to. Some have been harder than others. Not being able to speak probably made this one easier, I did my best to pantomime my appreciation to her for having accompanied me on this journey this far. She spoke to me and I listened, breaking another precept. I presented her with then pendant I had won from the Shi Fong temple in San Diego. She asked me who it was, and I wrote down "Guanyin, the Boddhisattva of Compassion", breaking yet another precept. Guanyin had come to symbolize this trip for me. But the pendant truly belonged to Maria because throughout the last month she had taught me how to see the human side of the people around me. It wasn't enough to know the rigth answer and seek to apply it with all due haste, but rather to understand how a human being needed to be approached in the precise moment they were in.

The next morning Mike broke his silence, letting me know that he would be leaving as well. His back was killing him from all the sitting. As I came back from breakfast they had their bags packed and were ready to leave. I tried to convey my great joy in having had them as travel partners and a bit of advice, that they needed to take care of each other. It wasn't until after my next seated meditation that I realized that I was all alone. As I walked back to my room I saw the Bengali woman who never before broke her meditative gaze, moving at a casual brisk pace. I realized I was the only one left out of our original group of seven.

My world collapsed. I felt alone and alienated from everyone and everything. I questioned myself, my path, what I was doing here at all. I wept openly. I wondered if I shouldn't just head back to the US, find a job in some cubicle, watch TV, save for my retirement, follow the rules and just lead a mundane life like any other person. I laid in bed missing our 2 o'clock meditation, 3:30 tea time and didn't even start the 4 o'clock meditation until I was already 1/2 hour late. I managed to find a little solace as I sat, but when the venerable monk came to the meditation room and asked how I was doing I couldn't keep the tears out of my eyes. "Today has been a very hard day for me" I let him know. "My friends have left, I am in this room all alone and I feel incredibly sad."

The monk found the right words to soothe me. He showed compassion for me, letting me know how my friends had let him know they were sad about leaving me as well. He told me about the impermanent nature of all things, even relationships. He told me how I was clinging onto the moments I had shared with my friends. How that attachment was causing my suffering. He advised me not to deny my emotions, not to fight them but not to obsessively think about them either. Just be aware of them ... sit with them ... and when you're sad let yourself know that you are sad. And when you feel lonely, let yourself know that you are lonely. And those feelings will pass as well.

His teachings were not new to me. But they were what I needed to hear. I tried to put them in practice. I spent the majority of the next hour meditatively walking back and forth in that room, letting myself feel the saddness that envoloped me, slowly repeating to myself "saddness, saddness, saddness" and eventually it passed. I returned back to my practice of watching the rise and fall of my abdomen.

I spent the next two days in that room alone, sitting with my mind. Watching it drift off and then gently bringing it back to the present moment. I allowed myself to feel the emotions that arose, I continued to forgive when anger came. I found the tension in my belly I had been holding onto for years upon years. I found the seat of my breath in my lower Dan Tien. I felt my hips loosen, my tailbone extend, my spine straighten, my shoulders relax. And I knew that what I was doing was exactly what I was supposed to be doing.

On the 6th day, I had met my intention. It was time to leave. I finally broke my silence, by thanking the venerable monk for his teachings and his support. Perhaps someday I'll complete a full Vipassana retreat, but for the moment, I was walking out doors aware of things all around me, but with my mind nowhere but right now.

A Nice Place to Sit

As I sat under The Bodhi Tree I tried to still my mind, but no peace would come. I was here in the spot where Siddhartha Guatama attained Enlightenment, yet the only thing that ran through my mind was the story of his Renunciation.

At the age of 29, the Prince Siddhartha left his infant son and wife sleeping in their chambers, renounced all claims to the throne and set off for an austere life. He left home searching for a means to end the suffering that is human existence. At the same age I quit a relatively easy job with a six-figure salary to wander around and search for something more. We had both come to the conclusion that material wealth was not the ultimate goal of life, but the similarities seemed to end there.

It took Shakyamuni Buddha another 6 years of false starts and failed attempts before he came to Bodhgaya and sat under the Bodhi Tree for 49 days. I made it here within 3 years, but I could only imagine how much further away Enlightenment was.

I wondered how his loved ones reacted to his "Great Departure." It is said that while meditating and approaching enlightenment, the demon god Mara attempted to distract Siddhartha Guatama by sending his three charming daughters to seduce and enchant him. But the Buddha to be would not be moved. I thought about all of the times I chose to indulge in my own desires instead of pursuing the straight path, the more difficult path, and I wondered if I was done.

As the Bodhisattva maintained his deep meditation, Mara summoned a great army of demons and assaulted him with fear and insecurities. But still Siddhartha would not be swayed. He simply made the Abhaya Mudra signifying fearlessness and the arrows that flew towards him fell to the ground as flowers. His tormentors fled seeing the courage that the son of Suddhodana displayed. I thought about all of the times I let my own fears and those heaped upon me by the ones I held most dear keep me from doing what I knew was best.

When Mara realized understood the fearlessness of Shakyamuni Buddha's he challenged him instead. Demanding to know what made him think he was qualified to attain anuturra-samyak-sambodhi. Rather than let his ego become engaged and feel the need to defend himself from personal attack, he simply made the Bhumisparsa Mudra, touching his right hand to the Earth and allowing his actions, as witnessed by the Earth god, to speak for themselves. I thought about all of the times I felt reproached by my most loved ones, the times I jumped to my own defense, engaged in argument in order to justify my own cause, and I realized how pointless it was.

But the Buddha was much smarter than me, he chose to disconnect from the things he could not detach from. He didn't e-mail, call or visit his relatives. He set out out to meditate in the woods, in the caves, nearly starved himself to death and finally vowed to not move until he found full everlasting Enlightenment. He didn't let his desires, the forces of fear or even his own ego get in the way of achieving what he had determined to do. I wondered how many more lifetimes I would have to go through before I could say the same.

I already had realized that, like it or not, there were people in my life who stood in my way. They offered much resistance, hurled only the fear and insecurities which blocked their pure love, and still unequivocally believing that their good intentions justified their bad behavior. Yet I could never disassociate from those loved ones, they were a part of my own being. Instead I wondered if I would ever be able to detach from their unskillful actions and if somehow I could help them by holding my judgments and unconditionally loving them exactly as they were.

Years after Enlightenment, the Buddha's son Rahula and his wife joined his sangha. Things finally came full circle. I wondered if I would ever find that sense of closure and acceptance from within my own family. If I would be strong enough to stay on the path I was, or would I find myself pulled off it and returned to my former life of drugery. As with all things, I was sure the answers were yet to be determined.

Watching the Dharma Wheel Turn

When I first met Dr. Umesh my healthy sense of skepticism kicked in. I always tend to be wary of locals in a foreign land who are quite so eager to help out clueless tourists. But Maria was sold immediately. After her first Aryuvedic massage she came out floating and glowing and let Mike and me know that we would no longer be consuming alcohol, tobacco, drugs, meat or even cold water. We both looked at each other and quickly agreed that she had lost her mind.

The next morning during our yoga practice he told me my energy was blocked. Ok, I could believe that, I was feeling pretty blocked as of late. After class he told me I should take of the mala that I was wearing around my neck, the one that my soul-brother Alex had given me. "It's no good for your energy" he told me in his broken English. And that was enough to set me running.

Alex is one of the best friends I've ever been lucky enough to have. Maybe it's because as an Indian-Muslim and a Persian-Jew, both raised in the US we share a bond only minorities of minorities could ever understand. He gave me that mala at our going away party. I never quite understood the significance it has for him, but when he pulled me aside and started to take it off to present to me, I sensed the obvious hesitation in his hands. He didn't want to give it to me, but did anyway out of a bond of true friendship and I accepted because I could not refuse such a gift.

After our yoga class with Dr. Umesh Mike, Maria and I decided to wander around the streets of Varanasi. Before too long Maria innocently questioned me about the mala. Ever since her awakening she had been reminding me of my mother and sister when it comes to lectures and I was in no mood to hear it. I had just spent a week being told how I should live my life by just about every member of my extended family and didn't need one more bit of input, so I found a way to shut her down quickly.

It wasn't until trying to shoo away a persistent rickshaw-wala that I saw the Wheel of Dharma turn firsthand. He commented on my mala and showed me his. He then said he thought it was great that I didn't eat meat, smoke or take alcohol. And I understood.

Those reminded me of the first questions Dr. Umesh asked me. I had proudly told him that I did all of those things, within moderation of course. I had decided a while ago that the life of renunciate was not for me. I wished to embody the middle path as much as possible, "everything in moderation, even moderation" I would tell anyone who would listen.

But I had chosen to wear a mala that signified a vow I had no intention of keeping. Once I realized that my hands couldn't pull it over my head fast enough. As soon as I got it over my nose I felt my shoulders relax for the first time in two weeks, and only then realized how much that mala had weighed.

I stared at it in my hands and said outloud to no one in particular, although Mike and Maria were walking next to me "This isn't my mala ... it's Alex's!"

Anger was the first emotion that I felt "Why did he give it to me? He didn't even want to!"

And then I understood "He gave it to me, so that I could give it back to him. He gave it to me so that I could return it to him"

And then it all became clear "I have to go back to San Diego"

Before I left San Diego I had this fear of floating away. This notion that one road leads to another, that it would be easy to hop from India to Thailand to Cambodia to God knows where. There was nothing really bringing me back home. And I could just disappear to never be seen again, much like my traveling companions joked about. I told everyone that asked that I was coming back in 3 months, but I was never sure if I really believed myself.

And then in one single instant, it became cemented in my mind. I knew what the future held. May 7th I was hoping on a plane from Delhi back to the US and somehow getting myself back to San Diego so that I could return my good friend Alex's mala to him, put it back in his hand where it belonged all along. I understood that he gave me that mala, to keep me tethered to my friends and city which I love, so as to not float away.

A Son of Lucknow

"4 Times" Nida said with a sense of assurance in her voice that made me doubt the version of events. "Once before independence, once after independence and once in his seventies."

"That's only 3" I thought to myself. "Ghazal said something like 14." Samira agreed, she remembered it too, from just recently when Ghazal was in Madison and we all went met at my parents home to visit. Ghazal had just been flown into New York to attend a muppet conference. She played the part of Chamki from Gali Gali Sim Sim. Nida still insisted it was 4.

Rahil and his family drove in from Minnesota and Samira and Asma flew in from Ohio. We stayed up late into the night trading stories of family history. Our side of the family didn't have too much too offer but we listened intently as Ghazal regaled us with tales of how cool our Nana was. He had just passed a few months ago.

When I asked our Seema-khala she said yeah 14 times, but our Nani our corrected her. "18 Times! They used to hang them up and beat them. But still they would not stop fighting. No matter how many times he was arrested! 14 times before Independence. 4 times after, even when he was 70 he was in jail. 3 days he spent in jail cell."

I had heard about the last jail cell not too many years ago. It was after he gave a rousing speech to a crowd of striking Union Workers. A few of them took it upon to attack one of the managers. Nana was arrested for inciting a riot. Released 3 days later for lack of evidence.

We heard second-hand references to the stories he told about the rats which attempted to chew off his leg. He said he had to stay up all night to beat them off. It was one of his "Damned Fools" stories, because someone always played the part of the damn fool.

After he was released a crowd of workers carried him on their shoulders all the way back to my Nayara Khala's and Shahid Uncles apartment in Lalbagh. The neighbors were wondering what happened. There were no elections pending so he couldn't have been chosen to serve again.

He was a student leader during the Indian Revolution. Was arrested with Gandhi. He was a Freedom Fighter, but never signed up for the pension, because he said he never did it for the money.

My Nana, Muhammad Shakil stayed a staunch Communist up until his last days. He spent most of his time as a lawyer, some as a politician. A member of Congress. Some still refer to him as a Nawab of Lucknow. We never heard too many of Nana's stories growing up, since he passed last year I've been asking everyone I can about stories about him.

I even asked Vikas, the head pimp at charge we met presiding over his sisters wedding. When I mentioned Nana's name the entire room hushed. A raucous animated group of brides brothers and cousin-brothers fell silent ... and Vikas said it with that characteristic Indian sideways bobble. "He was a great man, a son of Lucknow." We had only met Vikas a few hours ago when they were attracted by the unsual sign of a ghora yogini walking down the streets Maria, Mike and I were soon invited into the wedding and fed and welcomed as guests. That Indian hospitality is something else.

At the internet cafe in Varanasi I got a vague promise from Ali to ask his parents for more stories. He was from Lucknow as well and we met while We met while Facebook'ing the girls we left behind.. I asked if they had heard of Muhammad Shakil. He knew the name but not too much more.

Nana was a true renaissance man. Still remembered for his poetry. A family story is told that on the night of their wedding he looked at my Nani for the first time and told her "Woman, even those raven locks will not tempt me, I am off to fight the revolution!" My mother loves reciting his verses, with a teary nostalgia in her voice.

My Nani dutifully supported him throughout all those difficult years while he was in jail. And all those years since. And my Nana returned to her over and over again, until a year ago last December when he finally passed. Throughout those years he composed more and more verses to her and her beauty and intelligence and continued to embody his beliefs.

Before I left Lucknow my Nani pulled me aside one more time and besieged me with love. "Kashif beta, this is no way to behave. Your Nana was not an ordinary man, but he was very orthodox with his family. He loved us, he would do anything for us. But he fought for what he believed in. He was a great man and he raised a family. It is high time you get married now and stop this wandering life of yours."

The great thing about my Nani is that it was only with the love and support of a woman like that was my Grandfather able to rise to such heights. Before their marriage, all the family told her to do anything but marry at Freedom Fighter, what chance has a cause like that got. But my Nani was no slouch in her own right, she was one of the Daughters of the Revolution, later training the next generation as the Dean of an all girls school. But that which would deter those who seek order and reason excited her.

I told my Nani not to worry. That I would make her proud. That my history had not yet been written and no one knew what my story would yet be. That maybe someday I would find a woman as strong and capable as she was, who would love me just as she loved my Nana. And just imagine what heights I could rise with that type of support!