Chaturshringi Temple

I started off the day simply. Yogurt and egg breakfast after a mild case of "Delhi Belly" has set me back two days. Not long after breakfast, I realized Matt had forgotten his malaria pill, so I called the front desk for a car and headed off to Magarpatta City. Matt had told me about his trip to work, the dycotomy of traveling though East Pune slums into Magarpatta City which is bold, new and clean. Indian slums are interesting because they are unquestionably slums, genuinely destitute economic situations. There dirty and lively, full of goats and kids and abandoned tires, all held together with painted corrugated metal. Though the protected gaze of the car window, they did not feel violent, but quite the opposite. Calm microcosms: mini societies taped together though time and the left overs of other's lives. There is a simple beauty, a distinct lack of anger, of feeling shorted. In America, the closer you get to riches, the tighter the social stratosphere, the more vodka and prosaic soaked are the lives are behind closed doors. The slums of India are out in the open, without shame. I guarantee no nights are waisted here on worries of cellulite, getting into "the right club" and a fear that homosexual marriage will taint the mortar of "family values."

These societies are entirely beyond my universe, too far even for empathy. It is elitist of me to "admire," and no more a personal romanticism than the deluded members of the Osho, searching for the "truth of the East." Still, I cannot help but notice how bikes are left alone on the street, how unattended carts are undisturbed, how the elderly are helped dress. I do know Chicago, I know it wouldn't happen there.

We drove, and I chatted with the driver, who loves Beyonce and managed to get me amazingly car sick. A quick stop to drop off Matt's pills and I jumped in the front seat. The driver and I chatted about the nature of the slums and poverty of the mind versus poverty of the world. Here in India, spirituality (not religion) is right on the surface. The driver was impressed I had gone to Chaturshringi and knew the Ganesh statue on his dashboard. We drove though the dirty lanes to the melodies of Eminem until unexpectely the driver pulled over and told me he wanted to show me something. I have lately adopted the the "why not" philosophy, so I got out and followed him. Passed a few slumbering cows, some giddly school children who jumped and pointed, under a woven curtain and down a narrow corrugated hallway. In one little room sat another little old lady, next to an altar. Painted like an exotic bird, hung in garlands and shrouded in bowls of food, it was beautiful. I don't understand Hinduism, but I understand love and hope, so I know enough. My driver knelt and said a small prayer. I mimicked as best I could. I was dotted on the forehead and offered half a coconut full of what I was told was coconut juice pulled from a great metal bucket in the corner of the shack. My driver drank the coconut and I held mine to my mouth as a gesture of symbolic appreciation.

This was not going to satisfy the woman by the altar. She started speaking rapid Hindi and I attempted to explain though flappy hand signals that I could not actually drink what she had offered me. I looked over at the bucket and my imagination took hold. All I could see were tiny cartoon illustrations of dancing parasites like the personified buckets of popcorn dancing before old silent movies. The bucket was a pool of little jin demons, dancing, dancing. I thought, "you incredible liar: "the beauty of the rural, the simplicity of it all... your'e afraid of the water." Afraid.

 I pulled the coconut to my forehead in an attempt to signify earnest thanks. But still, no good. She took the coconut back from me noticeably offended. I was trying to explain myself in any words I could think of, then, in one perfect movement, she poured the coconut juice into my mouth. Once again, I had speed right past my comfort zone, and in an involuntary reaction, I spit the piss tasting juice out. Onto myself. And the woman. And the altar. Let's say it was the social equivalent of swearing at the Pope. A pretty big "no-no." We three sat there for a second, my eyes shifting nervously back and forth like one of those 1950 owl clocks. Mind says: "shit."

Eventually, my driver, turned his back on me and headed to the car. He opened my door and stated formally, "I will take you back to the hotel madam." One silent ride back, I realized that guilt feels the same in every country. With images of tiny animated germs still dancing ring-around-the-rosy while weaseling there way into my gullet I sprinted from the car desperate to vomit in my safe little home at 509. After a panicked g-chat with Matt, I realized we brought medicine for this type of thing, and decided to sit down and write. You've got this. Or had this. Or did you? One very long blog entry, two pots of black tea with raw ginger (for their anti-microbial properties) later the tight little panic in my chest relaxed. Now, I am going to head out to the market in search of some raw garlic. After a few cloves, I should be good, stinky, and ready for the next adventure.

  

Me at the gate of Chaturshringi Temple, Pune