Earlier last week, flushed with the success I had experienced traveling though Koregan Park---- discovering this charming little store, that sweet old couple----- I got too bold and wandered off into a dangerous part of town. There I had full-blown-out-of-the-bag-foreigner experience that sent me quivering back into my little hovel in room 509 at the buffed bronze Central Park Hotel. All afternoon I could hear my mama's words echoing in my ears. A twelve year old Meggie, and an eight year old Cora, all covered in freckles and bubble gum, holding tiny hands, and listening with tiny ears about the larger than life world. Mama packed our bags, zipped our jackets and said:
"Always have a buddy."
"Watch your things."
"Trust yourself
and you'll be safe."
I returned home, panicked and furious with myself, my mother's words whispering like a conch shell in my ears. The next few days, it was back to my comfort zone. Explore the park, go shopping, order tea. A few days after that, I felt comfortable leaving my head scarf at home. I was resolved to wrap myself up in India, learn her rhythm, be safe inside her. Still, I was tenuous. Big me remembered little me, wading out into the icy waves of Lake Superior, gripping grey sand with my toes, arms stretched out in the waist deep water. Steady Meg, steady, breath in, you've got this.
So, I readied myself. You've got this. Back into a rick shaw. You've got this. More than three attempts to pronounce name later, a small dot on the map turned sideways, upside down and finally abandoned, the cabby pulled a lever, started the engine, and we were off to Chaturshringi Temple. Now, my first expereince at a temple with Lucky had been amazing. That being said, Lucky carried us completely, and now I was an empty little hand, holding my cheaply colored map, trusting myself.
In India, I can usually keep track of the direction we are heading for about three turns of three minutes, which ever passes first. We traveled for a bit, and then a bit more. Longer than I had imagined the tiny dot on the map was away from the tiny dot which is my room 509 home. As we traveled, I watched the signs of westernization fade. First bill boards, then jeans, then exposed shoulders. It's interesting, that little voice inside you. The expression is, "on your shoulder." I think my little voice lives in my chest.
We arrived. I stepped out of the rickshaw and looked up at Chaturshiringi, a red brown temple with a white crown. Brown steps up to a white gate. Brown earth around the sides, brown buildings, brown beautiful women with bright scarves. I was bare legged and shinny white. Brown earth on white toes, red hair on a white face with no red third eye. It was clear I had traveled outside of the western comfort zone. There were no beggers, no plywood shantys selling cheap Chinese flip-flops and glossy cards of the Taj. No off-putting Osho guests---- just me. White legs under a brown arch. Other places we had been had travelers, guests you could say. Chaturshiringi is owned by the locals, so there was nowhere to buy tickets, no way to purchase my right to join. You've got this. I slipped off my shoes, held onto the brown sand and waded in.
I walked around puzzled for a few minutes before I was approached by a lovely old woman in a crinkled sari. She was an Brahmin who stayed at the temple. She spoke no English, but looked me in the eye with a toothless smile and gestured to my exposed knees. Every so often, I have a dream where I am out to dinner and not wearing a shirt. In my lucid sleep I secretly hope no one notices my nakedness, my exposition. This was not dissimilar. In no words and very few gestures, it was clear that my crooked little knees were a problem here, and I was ushered back out the gates. I found another rickshaw, climbed inside and sat there for a full five minutes. My little chest pounded, and tightened.
Okay. You've got this. I made up my mind I was okay in India. It was okay to learn, to try again. I had the cabby take me to a clothing store, where I purchased an over priced pair of jeans, a t shirt, scarf and the store clerk assuring me "looking so Americans" headed back to the temple. I was greeted at the gate by the same old woman who was unmistakenly happy to see me. She ushered me in and once again, shoes off, scarf on, wade in.
I purchased a large plate to offer. One coconut, one bag of rice, three wreaths and something folded in a swatch of cotton. Now Chaturshringi temple is unlike the temple we visited with Lucky. Over 100 stairs unfold under the three arches. Little avenues of prayer skirt off periodically traveling to little buildings tucked into the side of a giant hill. Lacking the knowledge of grace, I peeked in as I climbed, to see groups of Indians sitting on the floor praying to small altars. I reached the top of the stairs. From the crux of Chaturshringi I could see just above the tree line, staring out onto the meadow of all of Pune. I stepped inside the small building set high atop the hill to find a knotted man sitting on a stool eating peanuts and reading. He was likely 100th on the list of things I expected to find in the temple, so I stood and stared like a guppy.
Guppy Meg, little hands, holding a big plate with an offering to anyone who would take it. The man gave me a side mouth smile, as if he were trying not to, and pointed me to the adjoining room. Inside the main temple was a set up very much like the kiosk for buying cinema tickets. Three rows to form lines leading up to a counter. Three altars with deities situated behind them. The few individuals also visiting the temple slipped past me, not unpleased but entirely ignoring my presence. Eventually, a man behind the counter gestured me forward and sheepishly I brought my big guppy eyes and big fumbling plate to the front. I mimicked other young women place their offerings. Wreaths here, rice there. The man behind the counter stopped me about half way, and helped me touch each offering to my head and temples before placing it. On each of the young women he placed a small red dot between the eyes. When it was my turn, the man took my hands and held them. He looked at me and I looked back. I looked up into his eyes and found them white and cloudy. He was completely blind. When it came my time to receive my dot, I thought I would slip out. Instead, he just held my hands. Then he opened a piece of folded news paper and for lack of a better word, painted my face. One long white stripe across my hair line, one yellow dot between my eyes and three red stripes, stretching from brow to cheek, like a stilled sunset strung across my guppy brow.
He smiled, as though proud of his work, then turned away from me and I was on my own. I was given back a plate of roughly half the contents of what I had originally brought. I gathered up my blessed objects, slipped back on my slippers and headed back to the hotel feeling clean and calm. I decided not to take a picture of my face, it felt invasive, but instead washed it with a ponds wipe I had in my bag. I clambered into a rickshaw and headed off to Bund garden. I have written about the second part of my day in the post before this, surprised that, that had been an easier situation to process.
Today has been my third and again uniquely different temple experience.
"Always have a buddy."
"Watch your things."
"Trust yourself
and you'll be safe."
I returned home, panicked and furious with myself, my mother's words whispering like a conch shell in my ears. The next few days, it was back to my comfort zone. Explore the park, go shopping, order tea. A few days after that, I felt comfortable leaving my head scarf at home. I was resolved to wrap myself up in India, learn her rhythm, be safe inside her. Still, I was tenuous. Big me remembered little me, wading out into the icy waves of Lake Superior, gripping grey sand with my toes, arms stretched out in the waist deep water. Steady Meg, steady, breath in, you've got this.
So, I readied myself. You've got this. Back into a rick shaw. You've got this. More than three attempts to pronounce name later, a small dot on the map turned sideways, upside down and finally abandoned, the cabby pulled a lever, started the engine, and we were off to Chaturshringi Temple. Now, my first expereince at a temple with Lucky had been amazing. That being said, Lucky carried us completely, and now I was an empty little hand, holding my cheaply colored map, trusting myself.
In India, I can usually keep track of the direction we are heading for about three turns of three minutes, which ever passes first. We traveled for a bit, and then a bit more. Longer than I had imagined the tiny dot on the map was away from the tiny dot which is my room 509 home. As we traveled, I watched the signs of westernization fade. First bill boards, then jeans, then exposed shoulders. It's interesting, that little voice inside you. The expression is, "on your shoulder." I think my little voice lives in my chest.
We arrived. I stepped out of the rickshaw and looked up at Chaturshiringi, a red brown temple with a white crown. Brown steps up to a white gate. Brown earth around the sides, brown buildings, brown beautiful women with bright scarves. I was bare legged and shinny white. Brown earth on white toes, red hair on a white face with no red third eye. It was clear I had traveled outside of the western comfort zone. There were no beggers, no plywood shantys selling cheap Chinese flip-flops and glossy cards of the Taj. No off-putting Osho guests---- just me. White legs under a brown arch. Other places we had been had travelers, guests you could say. Chaturshiringi is owned by the locals, so there was nowhere to buy tickets, no way to purchase my right to join. You've got this. I slipped off my shoes, held onto the brown sand and waded in.
I walked around puzzled for a few minutes before I was approached by a lovely old woman in a crinkled sari. She was an Brahmin who stayed at the temple. She spoke no English, but looked me in the eye with a toothless smile and gestured to my exposed knees. Every so often, I have a dream where I am out to dinner and not wearing a shirt. In my lucid sleep I secretly hope no one notices my nakedness, my exposition. This was not dissimilar. In no words and very few gestures, it was clear that my crooked little knees were a problem here, and I was ushered back out the gates. I found another rickshaw, climbed inside and sat there for a full five minutes. My little chest pounded, and tightened.
Okay. You've got this. I made up my mind I was okay in India. It was okay to learn, to try again. I had the cabby take me to a clothing store, where I purchased an over priced pair of jeans, a t shirt, scarf and the store clerk assuring me "looking so Americans" headed back to the temple. I was greeted at the gate by the same old woman who was unmistakenly happy to see me. She ushered me in and once again, shoes off, scarf on, wade in.
I purchased a large plate to offer. One coconut, one bag of rice, three wreaths and something folded in a swatch of cotton. Now Chaturshringi temple is unlike the temple we visited with Lucky. Over 100 stairs unfold under the three arches. Little avenues of prayer skirt off periodically traveling to little buildings tucked into the side of a giant hill. Lacking the knowledge of grace, I peeked in as I climbed, to see groups of Indians sitting on the floor praying to small altars. I reached the top of the stairs. From the crux of Chaturshringi I could see just above the tree line, staring out onto the meadow of all of Pune. I stepped inside the small building set high atop the hill to find a knotted man sitting on a stool eating peanuts and reading. He was likely 100th on the list of things I expected to find in the temple, so I stood and stared like a guppy.
Guppy Meg, little hands, holding a big plate with an offering to anyone who would take it. The man gave me a side mouth smile, as if he were trying not to, and pointed me to the adjoining room. Inside the main temple was a set up very much like the kiosk for buying cinema tickets. Three rows to form lines leading up to a counter. Three altars with deities situated behind them. The few individuals also visiting the temple slipped past me, not unpleased but entirely ignoring my presence. Eventually, a man behind the counter gestured me forward and sheepishly I brought my big guppy eyes and big fumbling plate to the front. I mimicked other young women place their offerings. Wreaths here, rice there. The man behind the counter stopped me about half way, and helped me touch each offering to my head and temples before placing it. On each of the young women he placed a small red dot between the eyes. When it was my turn, the man took my hands and held them. He looked at me and I looked back. I looked up into his eyes and found them white and cloudy. He was completely blind. When it came my time to receive my dot, I thought I would slip out. Instead, he just held my hands. Then he opened a piece of folded news paper and for lack of a better word, painted my face. One long white stripe across my hair line, one yellow dot between my eyes and three red stripes, stretching from brow to cheek, like a stilled sunset strung across my guppy brow.
He smiled, as though proud of his work, then turned away from me and I was on my own. I was given back a plate of roughly half the contents of what I had originally brought. I gathered up my blessed objects, slipped back on my slippers and headed back to the hotel feeling clean and calm. I decided not to take a picture of my face, it felt invasive, but instead washed it with a ponds wipe I had in my bag. I clambered into a rickshaw and headed off to Bund garden. I have written about the second part of my day in the post before this, surprised that, that had been an easier situation to process.
Today has been my third and again uniquely different temple experience.
Meg
ReplyDeleteLife sometimes comes down to risk/benefits. Most of the time we do not do a great analysis ahead of time, rather after an unpleasant experience, we wonder why we proceeded that way. Your experience at the temple with the coconut milk reminded me of an experience Wayne and I had in rural Mexico in a very bad part of a slum area…we had been invited to the home of some poor children we had met on the street…….why did we go? The walk down twisting, pitch dark alleys made me nervous…what were we doing here?? The home was a shack with a dirt floor, we spent perhaps an hour there, being offered food and drink…you feel ashamed, and do not want to refuse….we did limit ourselves to hot beverages without seeming rude…we made it back to the hotel without loss of life or wallet…so it all ended well….was it worth the risk? If I had considered everything ahead of time I would have not gone down that path….but now when I look back it was probably the most real and revealing part of our whole trip!! Meg, may you continue your adventures and hope that the benefit always works out to overcome the risks taken. Being completely safe means such experiences will never occur….but a buddy system sounds like a good idea!
Thank you again for sharing these personal moments!