So even when I have passport and exit visa I have another problem which is that I don’t actually have any money. This doesn’t seem such a big deal in India where clearly you are among the thousands, the millions who also haven’t. It gets to the point that I work this out; if I pay my rent for the next three days it leaves me with 77 Rupees a day. Now there’s never so much point in saying that a pound equals seventy five Rupees because a pound doesn’t equal seventy five Rupees it is exchanged at seventy five to one. It is not quite the same thing. Let’s be clear about this 77 Rupees is not a lot. It only takes one item to dent a hole in a daily budget like that. (Like when I bought a bottle of water at 35 Rupees and I’d thought “Grief I can’t even afford to drink the water here”.) However I suddenly become much more adept at bargaining, in fact market traders lighten up and seem to back off as if they can see the absence of money in  your eyes when I say “no”.

I decide there really is not much point in staying in my lightless room at the back of the Pahaganj market so I decide to venture out and do things even if it means walking everywhere. The first day went remarkably well apart from having a headache all day and not enough money for a paracetamol. It’s true that walking noisy streets with a pain in the head is not really my idea of fun but there were compensations. Firstly people kept feeding me. Admittedly an odd assortment of food but at least I was eating. I’d decided I’d best check out the local temples and I’d headed off to find the Jhandawala Deviji Temple nearby. I still don’t know if I found it but I did find somewhere where Hindus were chanting with zeal. There were quite a number of people going in there and they were all quite happily following various rituals. I sat myself down in what I thought wasn’t too awkward a place and started my morning meditation. The only interruption was when someone touched me and pushed some food towards me and I was told to take it with both hands. I did. Now eat it, the same voice said. I did. It looked like a boiled potato, I think it was some kind of sweet but it wasn’t oppressively sugary.

After that I walked down to Jhande Walan where this giant Hanuman figure looms up above the dual carriageway and the overhead Metro line. Impressive as this building seemed from outside it was curiously irreligious inside although Hindus all bow and make offerings and receive blessings. In fact it was more like the sort of spectacle I’d expect at an English seaside town. You could walk into the mouth of a tiger to enter the temple and inside you could walk into caverns and grottos where devas battled with demons. It was all a bit tawdry, not that this made it any less impressive so much as it didn’t seem to have any particularly spiritual content more an entertainment value.

I then had quite a long walk to the next temple beside rather dusty rather decrepit parkland. I decided to lash out 10 Rupees and buy some bananas from a roadside trader.  As I walked along I realised that most people bought bananas for  the monkeys loitering at the roadside it made me feel eccentric when I sat down to  eat my bananas. Anyhow eventually I reached the Laxmi Narayan Birla Mandir Temple an impressively large temple with pleasantly peaceful gardens alongside. Next door I found the headquarters of the Mahabhodi Society which I had read about in Sangharakshita’s various memoirs. Actually it was a particularly spiritless shrine but on my way out a Sri Lankan nun descended on me. She positively chirruped when she spoke and fed me sweets, an apple and a cup of boiled water. When she offered me ‘apple’ it sounded more like a chiming sound. She asked me about my stay in Dharamshala and told me she thought the Dalai Lhama would be the next Buddha and I had to admit that I didn’t know.

I thought about this. I could tell bullshit and people wandering around pasting colours on their foreheads and supping sacred water clearly didn’t do much for me even if it did keep them happy. Back in the Paharganj I ate a measured meal in Madden’s café that evening. There was this woman. Fiercely attractive with fine chiseled facial features and jet black hair. She had a timidity that suggested an Asian upbringing. However, whenever she caught my eye she smiled at me. There was however something frantic about her disposition, some unresolved issue that lurked there I sensed.

I noticed she let this evasiveness lapse when she was asking somebody about the location of various temples. I noticed the conversation because she was asking about some of the temples I had visited that day. Her accent was hard to place and I realised she couldn’t read English and needed to enlist the help of this guy to find the location of those temples. By now I’d decided she was Asian, possibly Indian but I wasn’t altogether sure. However she was a traveler and that was unusual for an Indian woman. She was another traveler who was a spiritual seeker. I nearly said just another tourist who was a spiritual seeker but after all wasn’t I just such a seeker too?

Then another day there was a saddhu in Madden’s. I was only passing by so I saw him when I was walking by. He did look quite distinguished of course; ashen robust body half naked, orange robes, tangles of hair in knots that tumbled out like dreads at the back and a stave with a Hindu trident at the end. As I say I didn’t see much of him so I was only left with my first impression of him. Which wasn’t  particularly bad. Whenever I meet Hindu sadhus I am conscious that there are ardent practitioners, others with more mercenary motives and those that fall between those two poles, rather like when I meet ordained Buddhists or Roman Catholic priests. The correctness or the wrongness of a doctrine tells me nothing about the qualities of the practitioner. And as I say I did not get a particularly bad impression of him and thought no more about it.

Until the next time I saw him. He was talking to the Indian traveler in Madden’s. Even then it wasn’t him that impressed me it was her. She was beaming with enthusiasm as she talked to him. The light of enthusiasm positively filled her up and seemed to flow out of her. Now I might not know a Buddha when I saw one, I could certainly spot bullshit but when I saw that woman’s face I realised that I was witnessing something I hadn’t quite grasped before: that she had accessed something that had been evading me in my own spiritual practice lately which was that while my practice had become rather dry her practice - wherever that was taking her - was gushing with this benign energy and fecundity that was lacking in mine. Her religion might be wrong, was wrong, but she was flowing into mental states that were denied me.
Meanwhile my money which had a way of evading me had been mailed me initially in an internet bank but the sender hadn’t realised I had no valid bank card so I couldn’t access the money. Then many emails and phone messages later he had sent me money but sent it in my professional name not in my passport name.  I’d actually started counting the money at the counter that time. Well more emails and eventually forty eight hours later I  picked up my money. Although my spell of being broke was dramatically at an end I felt it had brought me closer to that spirit of India that can be so close and so elusive at the same time so it sort of made it easier to handle. At least I had arrived before I left.

Delhi
12th December 2009

The worst day to lose your passport is a Friday it seems. Embassies are closed on Saturday and Sunday. Packing bags to leave Himachal Pradesh for Delhi I realized my passport was missing. I hastened to the out of town police station and rushed back to catch the overnight bus to Delhi. Arriving at Delhi the bus spilled out its contents at the Tibetan colony a 30 minute rickshaw ride from New Delhi Station. The bus had been 2 hours late arriving and I was now two and a half hours late to meet my contact there. The phone had gone too so I couldn’t call him as I’d said I would. Still suffering the effects of overnight travel I emailed various to explain I’d failed to meet Manoj my contact. In fact Ayraketu in Nagpur got on the case and called Manoj’s number and made the call to Manoj. So I was exhausted and dispirited from overnight travel and finding myself isolated and down. However I was rescued from the cheap and incredibly decrepit Camram Lodge Hotel in the main bazaar of Paharganj. They took me off to a family friend’s house in the south of Delhi near Rajouri Gardens. I was safe for now and surrounded by babies, cousins and uncles and aunts.

On Monday after seemingly endless phone calls I presented myself at the British High Commission - in the other Delhi of avenues and lawns. Bland expressions when I explained I wanted to get back as I had planned to visit my mother who had been hospitalized. Several times I heard “I’m sorry to sound unsympathetic but you must….” Nothing started until I came back the next day to pay 10,000 Rupees (about 140 pounds sterling.) My passport would be ready in ten working days. In fact it was ready in four working days and this would have hastened my departure but for the clerical omission of one of the accompanying photocopies of my visa. The omission of this meant that three more days were spent in Delhi two of them at the Indian Government Foreigners’ Office for Regional Registration near Doula Kaun. There I joined the queue to join the queue for the main queue to deal with my case. After what seemed a very, very long time the Officer in charge (at the head of the fourth queue) took away my growing dossier and said “Come back in two days”. Two days later I repeated the same type of process and eventually my papers were tossed to one side by an overwrought clerk and I was told “Wait”. This I did reflecting on the omissions and the bad kharma accumulated in this life and in others. I assumed I’d been pushed aside and that I was powerless to do anything except wait. Eventually I was awoken by someone saying “You are number 23 aren’t you?” I am forever indebted to that stranger I might still be sitting there otherwise. By then I was saying yes to anything so I said yes again to being number 23 and he pointed to the counter where the clerk was doing the final touches to my growing sheath of papers. I remembered that at one point we reckoned there were several 23s. To my astonishment she was processing my 23, my replacement passport was being stamped and then after a short queue initialed by the Officer in Charge and I was free to go. My only problem then was that I had no money for the flight change form Mumbai to Delhi. And I still waiting for some money as my stock of money is progressively diminished in day to day expenditure.

Faced with the prospect of waiting ten working days in Delhi I had gone off to meet Lokpal, Manoj’s father, in Rajistan. This was a wonderful trip. Lokpal, a former political activist, had me address five meetings in four days. We got on well. He was my translator and he got better at translating as he recognized the direction of my speeches while I got better at delivering rhetorical flourishes that worked despite having the speech translated. Sometimes speeches written to be two hours long were cut to forty minutes then cut again to twelve minutes on the day. I stopped working from notes and handed over my notes to Lokpal so he knew what I’d intended to say anyway.

Travelling was incredibly tiring from being incessantly jolted by the pitted roads. But Rajistan was the hero of this trip. On the roads I saw the healthiest looking camels I’ve ever seen racing along pulling two wheel carts, from buses I climbed onto Jagars, farm vehicles with unclad engines, built I was told from spare parts. I ended up so far off the beaten tourist trail by now. I stayed in house on packed mud floors in villages only marginally changed in the last five centuries. I was received into the endless embrace of the Indian mainland. It felt – after five months of travelling - as if I had arrived at last.

No emails were effective in this domain and I made a phone call to the British High Commission and felt disappointed when they told me they’d have my passport ready by Monday next. That Sunday I was one of the speakers who addressed the hundred or so celebrating Dr Ambedkar’s demise in December 1956. We were all ceremonially presented with special Rajistani turbans. I realised this meeting represented an enormous feat for my friend Lokpal who earlier had been talking about someone being the first Buddhist convert in Rajistan (apart from himself). I couldn’t work it out but I think I may have been the first Western Buddhist to visit Bharatpur. There were a lot of speeches - so assuming I wasn’t the only person who was bored - I made a short hard hitting speech. Lokpal was ecstatic.

That night I arrived back in Delhi and I went to a guest house in Paharganj only to realize that although I was picking up my replacement passport next morning I actually had no documentation with me at all. They had said go and see the room and I had taken it and flopped down on the bed. I didn’t go down after ten minutes with my money and my passport because I had no passport. I got out of bed and slid the bolt inside the room and fell back on the bed. There was a lot of banging on the door but I’d decided I really did need the sleep so I ignored it and did what I must – which was sleep. In the morning I found the hotel management had slid the bolt on the other side of the door (as you can do on an Indian door). I had locked them out but they had locked me in. I was imprisoned. I checked the window. There was the Jackie Chan option – I could easily grab cables and shun onto neighbours’ balconies and descend to street level several yards away even if – in true Jacki Chan style – the last twelve feet represented an unknown. However could I come back for my bags? Plan B omitted the Jackie Chan style exit. I tapped on the wall to the neighbouring room and a German tourist answered promptly saying something like, “Even if no passport you still a man”. He must’ve heard the kerfuffle the night before. He slid the bolt I was out the room but not yet out the hotel. With that sixth sense that Indians have I was eventually confronted by six staff. They would call the police -“No passport”. They wanted 700 rupees, then it went up to 1,000. I got the drift. Ignoring the Jackie Chan option of fighting my way out I picked up the morning paper and read my horoscope (horoscopes are always good in India) it recommended tact and diplomacy. “It’s ok I’ll wait for the police,” I said nonchalantly. “You sure?”now they looked uncomfortable. “I might have no passport but I’ve done nothing wrong.” I haggled and in the end I was out 500 rupees lighter (the room was 200 anyway). At the roadside I bought two cups of chai and smoked a single cigarette. Then lugging my bags I set off for the British High Commission.

Delhi 09.12.09

As if inoculations weren’t enough there were anti malarial pills to be taken. These pills actually make me feel sick. I stopped taking them because I feel sick anyway. The current complaint is the sore throat. Everyone has it. Everyone includes me. It’s passable until I try to use my throat. Even speech is uncomfortable. I have become the laconic teacher, grumpy and surly with it. Living in Indian quarters means accepting the physical presence of others around me perpetually as I am rarely alone. I have trained my flatmates into accepting that I need mental space before class. I simply say “I am moody before I teach”. Some days I am actually in a state of pain during lessons and sometimes I lose my voice. I just rely more heavily on my translators when this happens. The power supply is back to normal now the election is over so there are power cuts again but I carry on teaching

The house is nice in the morning because it is cool. Bird song greets us in the morning and the colony is not too noisy yet. By eleven it is starting to get too hot again. I like our neighbourhood. The monsoon rains have washed off all the dust on the heavy leaves of the trees and plants look fresh and alive rather than dusty and dead. So visually and climatically it’s a better time of year than my last trip. Ours is one of the many houses that doesn’t have running water upstairs and ours is the first floor. This means butts and containers have to be filled daily. I guess our house could be a slum but we don’t have the right mentality because we don’t feel poor. The young men are all embarking on animation training at the Aryaloka Institute so they are optimistic and energetic. The same house for elderly people who would struggle bringing heavy water butts could become a slum. So we live a simple life. They don’t mind because they have never
known any different and things can only get better. I found out my district is called Laghuwetan Colony which means low income colony. I laughed - it’s certainly apt in my case.

At one point the air was getting particularly polluted – it often stinks of petrol fumes at this time of year – this was particularly gross. I discovered one of those little trash fires at the roadside and children had been dropping plastic on it to watch the flames flare up. Unfortunately the fumes were wafting into our first floor flat. How do I explain about pollution to nine year olds or do I just chase them off? The latter probably. Pollution doesn’t bother mostly we are too busy creating it. The district high street – Amdedkar Marg – is so full of activity that it is a delight to many travelers. At the crossroads traffic comes at you from any direction as you cross. Fortunately everyone goes slowly so accidents are not always so bad. There are motor bikes galore, cars, bicycles, rickshaws, pedestrians and occasional cattle. Accidents are curious because Indians do not seem to do outrage or righteousness and do not appear to expend too
much energy arguing about something as mundane as an accident. After all it’s already happened. I think also that when the heat gets devastating it is not unusual for people to seriously loose their concentration. Some of them never really recover it seems to me. So going into the district post office it appears that clerks are doing several tasks at once and concluding only some of them. People are pushing money through the window on the counter band calling out in Marathi even as I am buying stamps. Pushing in is considered fair play here. This is no place for the bad tempered! If however I do get too hot and snap at someone they just smile charmingly and apologise and carry on.

Saul Deason Nagpur 15th October

We now know from physics that everything is made up of atoms and that atoms are made up of nothing more than electrons moving within them that these electrons are themselves measured as waves or as particles because they are so insubstantial that they can be measured by our own perceptions and tell us only about our perceptions because they are so completely insubstantial. I’m tallking about the Heissenberg’s Uncertainty Principle. In Buddhisdt scripture it says if it is becoming it is also unbecoming, if it is being it is also unbeing. The heart of all matter is nothingness.

Which was one hell of a revelation to be having at the heart of Mumbai’s teeming rail terminal. I became aware of how I felt. I felt I wanted to cry. I could have gone for a cigarette. A cigarette would stave off this flood of feelings and sensations. My next problem was I am a non smoker and if I smoked I became a smoker again. I decided to bite back the tears and stick it out. Think your way out of that one kid!

So I did. I began to think that at the outset of a spiritual quest – and presumably that’s what this was – there is just so much uncertainty all one can really do is cry. Faced with so much uncertainty the human spirit cannot stand it. In desperation we strike out for certainties. So we create spiritual family so that we can communicate this existential angst. The next thing is we end up creating a religion to go with it and at the very point we are at our most perceptive we are also at our most vulnerable and open to suggestion. At our most perceptive we are also most likely to make the same mistakes as everybody else.