Places not my own

Occasionally a person walks into one's life for a short stay only to leave an infinite impression. While hitchhiking in the far North a few years back, I met just such a man or rather entertainer, for Dennis Riordan is better known as "Sancho, the clown that loves you." Anyhow, after pouring out generosity to pack two college students in among his tennis rackets, canoe, kayak and unicycle to drive us to Fairbanks, put us up at his brother's home, and lug us all the way across the state to Valdez, he refused our monetary contribution to the effort. Even as he jumped back in the van to head home as his money had run thin, he gave us only an inspirational story of a man who once helped him out of a jam." Just promise me that if you have the opportunity to help someone else out, do it."

Then in Myanma I ran into an Israeli of similar stature in my mind. His utter calm was not a veil but rather a window to the truth of his deep appreciation for all in this world. When he repeatedly observes that nearly everything is "beautiful," he is not speaking hyperbolically or hypocritically. He truly believes in nature, passion, people. Yet he observed that India challenges pluralism and idealism. It challenges your world.



We thought we could buy train tickets at the station the day of departure; so we ended up riding in between coaches next to the toilets and their foul reekliness (yup). This brought us to Bodhgaya: home of Mahabodhi Temple: home of a Bodhi tree: home of the canopy over the very spot where Siddharta Gautama is said to have attained enlightenment and become The Buddha.

Here we watched a somewhat homogeneous yet completely contradictory sort of intermingling. That is, we watches as many cultures evolved from one reunite. We watched Tibetans prostrate where Sakyamuni pondered Causality. We saw the point where Thai monasteries with golden serpents and tiered roofs mix with boxed Bhutanese architecture and Tibetan prayer wheels. Deep red robes mingle with saffron as we meditated with an Indian for the people of the world to realize "ONE." The tree doesn't inspire much, but the magic of temples and churches to overcome the chaos knocking at their gates and hush the wolrd inside with serenity and significance overcame again. This place is more, much more, than the bricks in its monuments or the grass in its lawns. The power of a people come from so far to be together in the name of the compassion, beauty, enlightenment in which they believe is truly magical. Though perhaps only slightly more than Swayabanath, Swedagon, Sagaing, or even Muktinath, Bodhgaya is powerful.

But while waiting for Japan's contribution to the town to open its doors, we met a teenager eager to share with us. Never able to ascertain the honesty or purity of such quests for friendship, we spend a few hours with him and enjoy every moment. He doesn't leave us, though, before pleading that we buy his English book. The dilemma ensues. We decline.

As we then rush the overnight train to Calcutta, we emerge in a city famous today for, above all, its history of poverty. In fact, on the train we met a volunteer eager to encourage, "in Kolkata, take the time to get into the poverty and learn about the lives of the people - it's actually uplifting to see how they live with what they live with." Thus, images of the city inevitably bore images of diseased, decrepit, poor, handicapped, mangled, disfigured inhabitants lining the streets with arms outstretched for change.

Instead we arrive in a sea of classic cars still operating as yellow taxis on wide streets between modern (for Asia) buildings. There are no more beggars here, and no more of them disfigured, than in other Asian destinations. This is not a city to be pitied above all, but rather a city with goods and bads like every other city. It just happens that the brand stuck to this metropolis is one of need and need alone. The reason, it seems to me after months of the developing world to cloud my vision, that the volunteers see so much more poverty here than in NYC or Chicago is that they come with the distinct intention of finding it.

Yet the limbless, sightless beggars still exist and the dilemma ensues ever moreso. When they beg, do I listen to Dennis' voice in my head? Do I hear Roie telling me to just give and at least then the end is not my fault? Do I lead them around the corner to Mother Theresa's mission, which they surely know of anyhow? Or do I decide that the comparatively wealthy businessman working 12 hours a day, 7 days a week and sacrificing of any social or marital life all for a giant multinational corporation that is absolutely pillaging the Indian workers of dignity and freedom for miniscule pay should be working less and helping his own neighbors more? Do I even decide that such misused money as on the grandiose yet gorgeous monument down the road to honor Queen Victoria (only one measley person after all, no?) who pillaged India before the MNCs is not my fault and they should go bang on its doors for equity?

One question: do I turn a blind eye to the outstretched arms to save a dollar or a thousand dollars so I can continue to live cheaply as I wander the world? So far, yes. I even went so far as to ammend Dennis' straightforward statement to fit my situation - strictly monetary help doesn't count, lest they're in need right here right now. These people have lived as they live for their entire lives - my three ruppees to one of them won't change that, and may encourage them even more to a path of stagnance. Thus, spare change isn't really help. That's what I've convinced myself for now, anyway.

If you can't identify, take a walk down to Harlem or the 'other' side of Chicago or Colfax and get back to me; for India isn't a different Universe, but just the other side of your own.