A Poem Excavated from a Summer in India: "Pilgrimage"

"Pilgrimage"

Follow me, walk these paths, step where I step.
The rocks under your feet are ancient,
Worn by the bare feet of pilgrims before you.
The city's noise is worn away by your steps; today
You are the pilgrim. And I, the spirit guiding you
Up the mountain and then down the other side.
Pay your respects--press rupees into the palms of
Beggars who ask for chocolate, "namaste" the sadhus,
Touch your forehead and then heart as you pass
Smaller mandirs, feed peanuts to the monkeys.
Good karma, madame, good karma.

The holy water from the Ganges
Pools up where the steps meet, where monkeys swim,
Where pilgrims bathe all filth away,
Redefining baptism for the pale-faced visitors
Who snap inauspicious pictures of monkeys
And jokingly call it the "bandir mandir."

Assume this: every Indian is a Hindu.
Assume this: every American is a Christian.

Sadhu, darshan, prasad, puja, pandit--
Wonder at the context of your textbook Hinduism
Here in the corners of these mountains. The cave
Wall is painted orange and silver--Hanuman, the
Monkey god, found in the cave and brought to life.
You too are brought to life, but not by the exchange
Of gaze, of sight (darshan),
But by the journey (yatra),
And by the people who approach you (pandits, sadhus, bakhari, tirthyatri).

"You believe in God?"
Certainly, but which one?

We are moving from angry tears
Cried on second floor balconies with our hands
Pushing into our eyes to mountain top temples
Made of painted cave walls and millions
Of muttered prayers. I am trying
To imagine myself as a mountaintop temple
Wearing marigold garlands and perching
Barefoot on the crags, toes curled protectively.
I catch sight of everyone else perched on their
Mountains and wave, stretch arms out
Like a crucifix and take flight.

A Day Out of Jaipur

Sunday adventures strike again!

I got up early and caught a rickshaw and then a bus with Coco, Sara, Catherine, Liz, and one of my host sisters, Aastha, to a small town about 100km from Jaipur. The bus ride itself was quite the experience because it was crowded, not air-conditioned, and quite bumpy. With my knees jammed into the seat in front of me, I stared out the window for the entire hour and a half, watching as city became countryside when we went through a tunnel cutting into a mountain. My eyes picked out of the green fields women working and wearing orange scarves. When we got off the bus, I breathed in the cleanest air I'd breathed in almost a month, which isn't saying much really. A nearby shopkeeper gave us directions to the Mehandipur Balaji Mandir, the exorcism temple dedicated to Hanuman which was our intended destination, and we began the 3-4km walk. It was my first time out of Jaipur, and I was a little surprised at how much more attention we attracted in this rural area than we do in the city, which is saying a lot because a group of foreign women turn a lot of heads even in the big city. 

After getting some water and exploring the main street of the city, we got in line to enter the temple, and I couldn't resist comparing it to waiting in line at Carowinds. I was covered in sweat as we packed into a lane divided by metal fencing and the overhead fans oscillated so quickly they threatened to spin out of control. I let my hand wander along the pieces of thread and padlocks people waiting in line before me had attached to the fence. Within the first fifteen minutes, the atmosphere of the line shifted from calm and casual to aggressive and surging. I lost touch with the fence, and found myself surrounded by people--a writer's dream come true! There was so much to see and overhear. I noticed for the first time how much "visual" diversity there is here among the people. Chanting broke out frequently ("जय बालाजी!") and the two hours that we spent in line were almost more eventful than our actual experience in the temple. It was so intriguing to be part of the crowd, although as a distinctly non-Indian, I will never be truly part of the crowd it seems. At one point, one of the women in my group got overheated and almost passed out, swaying slightly as she tried to maintain her ground in the river of people. We got her cooled down and seated for a bit, but people around us frantically told us to go ahead into the temple, thinking that she was possibly possessed. It was an exorcism temple after all. 

Inside, the temple was smokey and fairly dark. Now, it all feels like a blur--the unexpected hallways, the dust on my feet, the dizziness I felt because of the smoke filling the space around my brain, the murti that was (to my surprise) painted with silver and yellow wiggling stripes, the coconuts brought as puja piled up behind the fences that contained the visitors, people stooping to touch their foreheads to the ground along the way. The crowd ushered us through a hallway and back outside where we climbed some stairs to enter a large room. Inside the large room, a couple exorcisms were taking place, and I was overwhelmingly curious about the women who were screaming and gently tapping their heads against the floor, supposedly spirit possessed. People sat on the floor around them either watching or participating. I wish I knew more, could have lingered in each moment for longer...but suddenly I was back in the sun waiting for the rest of my group. As I waited, I watched goats eat rice and a little girl carefully imitate her mother's kneeling outside the large room. I don't possess the language to accurately talk about all that I experienced, but it was definitely thought-provoking and memorable. 

After the mandir, we got some rocking food from a street vendor with a sweet face and a little girl helping her. For what felt like the hundreth time that day, we drew a crowd. Other street vendors teased the woman who was making our food, saying how it must be her lucky day and asking if she was running a five-star hotel now. It's so interesting to be a foreigner here but also be able to understand a lot of what people say about and around me. 

Reenergized and overly full, we got a rickshaw. The rickshawala took us about 10m and told us that we had reached the bus stop. Nope. We hadn't. It became a rather vicious argument, yet again drawing the crowds. But we walked away and found a better, more respectable rickshawala to take us to the actual bus stop. From there, we got a bus and had a peaceful ride home. I couldn't tell if it was the overwhelming amount of newness in my experience or the overbearing sun that made me sweat through so many layers of clothes, but I was more exhausted than I've been in a long, long time when I finally made it back to my room. I was also dirt-encrusted. We weren't supposed to bring our shoes back but leave them at the temple. Probably needless to say, we still wore our shoes home. And so, as my teacher explained to me, we brought back twelve spirits. One shoe, one spirit. Ek joot, ek bhoot.

Leave your shoes on the stairs

To enter into the auspicious air.

My feet bare find flowers crushed in the dust.

The locks left on the fence now sealed forever by rust

Ward off the spirits and entice my wondering fingers.

Chants push the crowds forward, closer, and singers

Catch nasally melodies with their smokey voices. I fend

Off nasty men while the surging devotees send

Puja sweets to the image, wave smoke over their heads.

I feel connected to the screaming women by the threads

Tied onto the gates and the piles of rice dumped in the streets

For the goats while children nearby beg for something to eat.

On the stairs, leave your shoes

Or bring the spirits back with you.

A Poem for Monday Morning (looking a little differently at God's love)

My Inheritance

You were there when I found you—

that dark, wet place in the earth.

Your skin purpling around one eye,

The blackened blood connecting

Paled lips with ringed nostril.

You were grabbing at your heart,

Bent over in pain like

palms in a hurricane.

There were murderous cuts on your wrists,

scaling your arms. Your neck

had been marked by a choking hand,

But your chest still moved so slightly.

I watched as you took in short breaths of air

Clotted by your own life flow.

Naked, you had been raped

by this world I placed you in.

I watched you try in vain

to slice apart the ribbons attached to your heart,

            But your life belongs to Me.

The earth must have been so cold

on your back, the wind blowing

goosebumps onto your exposed breasts.

Blood under your chipped nails.

My beautiful bride,

I scooped you up from the stain

of your own life and staggered

a moment under your burdened weight.

With a soft cloth and warm water,

I washed what I could

from your skin and kissed gently

pried open wounds

I couldn’t erase.

You were there when I found you.

But now you are here in My arms,

waking up to My warmth

which imbues you with color again.

I am astounded when you look up

into My eyes.

My bride, My breathtaking bride.

My soul proclaims colors and light

And the world is somehow transformed

Because your arms have wrapped themselves around

Me. In this moment, I am made complete.

I sacrificed my own son for you, and,

Stunning bride, my radiant bride,

You are worthy.

A Poem from San Buenaventura

"Rest"

Thundering rain
On a red metal roof
Calls us outside
Away from a bowl
Of our freshly chopped salsa
Towards the smell of fire and renewal
We yell over the reverberations
But it is in vain
The heavy black clouds
Release their raindrops
And become a muted gray
Anger released
Turns into a moment of pure happiness
In the feeling of
Wet hair, goosebumps, salty avocados
And peace
The world is hidden away
In metal-roofed houses
From oppression and sadness
Song breaks through with the sun
It seems like dawn
Yet it's three in the afternoon
Thundering rain
On a red metal roof
Calls me to remember
God's power and grace and compassion
Rain is rest

A Poem for Easter Weekend

This Holy City

We paused under the overpass
Begging shelter from the rain,
The hail, the despair.
Remarkably overcast,
The sky like a stain
Seems vaguely unfair.

The sky shatters
And I audibly pray my windshield won't.
This is the beginning of a journey.
People like cars are bruised and battered.
You'd think they feel remorse, but they don't.
We are still learning.

The world is a flood.
Recycling bins float by me
Tainting the streets with good intentions.
Our only hope is holy blood
To pay our ransom fee.
We each seek redemption.
Set us free! Set us free!
From this city of mud
And human inventions.
Rain pours down as I stand beneath a tree,
Enveloped in the filth of this Holy City.