The Holy Man

I'm still in Delhi until Monday. I will be traveling after that. I have a lot to do in the next twenty four days; I'll keep you posted. But, I only want to write about the last day or so. They have been fantastic hours.

I am currently writing a short story. Some of you already know this. Will it be good? Who knows. Will you like it? I have no idea. Am I enjoying writing it? More than you can know.

I had a whole section on the short story, and how it feels, etc. I've cut it though. I'll just give it to you, and see what you think. It doesn't have anything to do with India, other than I wrote it here.

On a different note, I went to the Lotus Temple yesterday. It's the South Asian equivalent of the Baha'i temple in Evanston, IL. It was beautiful, free, and quiet.

Read the enscription in the next photo. Who doesn't like this? The Baha'i don't ask for donations. They do not prosletize. Their monuments to God are built by beneficiaries and believers that want to give back. Their temples are places of silent meditation, where only religious texts can be read. Reading as the way to God! The written word.



Here is the view from just above that plaque.


And here are a few more pictures:


I had to take off my shoes.


Awkward.


Better.


This is the face I make when the person taking the picture looks like he wants to steal my shit.

As I have told you, I have spent a lot of time without speaking. I spend most doused in what I would call city silence - where your tiny world is quiet, but you can intermitantly hear the noise of the thousands around you. It influences the serenity more than disturbs it. Most of those who will be reading this know what I mean. The traction of a car driving past drifts through your Chicago window. A vegetable wala yells his presence to doors and people from the street below. City silence.

Sometimes it is perfect, but - when you are as alone as I have been - at times it can also be troublesome. You want it to stop or include you. But because I don't fit in, don't speak the most common language, and if none of my friends are free at the moment I am forced to listen alone.

The inside of this temple is as geometrically inspiring as the outside. The center atrium rises to the with interior butresses criss-crossed at lower levels, and the lights shining towards the top of the blossom are positioned to cast perfect shadows. And, no matter where you sit the lights make three shining points on the eight-corn gold star above you all. There are benches that are radially on a given point in front of all of them. But where you expect an altar... There isn't one. It was the first place where the silence around me was one and the same with the silence within. I was welcome. I sat there and stared around. I was happy. I was at peace. I stayed as long as the sensations lasted, and didn't force any more time upon myself.


The building was beautiful. It was a product of love that was meant to encourage love. It was amazing. In there, in its own little way - it worked. I wasn't just the white man. They were not just the Indians. The Tamil. The Punjabi. The Baha'i. The Christians. The atheists. I was just there by myself, and with them at the same time.

I enjoyed that I couldn't speak. I enjoyed that I couldn't take pictures. I enjoyed thinking about the sacrosanctity of rules, the variability of rituals, and the pleasures of community.

I enjoyed that I couldn't take pictures. I enjoyed that if you wanted to know anything about what I was talking about, then you would have to visit yourself.

It made me remember Elementary Forms of Religious Life, a secular bible, and how I didn't care about my secularism all at the same time.

I don't want you to laugh at me, but you can if you want. For a while I was thinking these things, both while in the temple and after I left.

I am the holy man for he knows the majesty of belief. I am the holy man for he has seen the serenity of God.

That's what that silence, and inclusivity did for me. I'll never forget it.

I walked out slowly. My legs were relaxed. It was a like a stroll, but it didn't encorporate the looking. They handed me an informational booklet in English, but asked what language I would prefer because they didn't want to assume. I asked them if they had one in Spanish. "Gracias," yo dije.

But I overheard some Spanish speaking tourists as I was getting my shoes. Their Indian guide's Spanish wasn't very good. "¿Hablantes?" I asked. They said yes. I explained what it was and gave them my booklet. "Tengan un buen día," I told them, and they all smiled. They wished me the same. I think they were from Columbia. They seemed to be a progressive family. You can ask me how I would guess such things if you like. They seemed very nice. I think that matters most.

This is the view from just outside the temple, opposite of where the creepy man took my picture.



I met a nice old man, Mr. Singh, who invited me to join him and his grandchildren at Humayun's Tomb. I got to sit in a van with three wonderfully rambunctious British children. I asked them if they wanted to go to Cambridge or Oxford. The two boys both said Cambridge, but the little girl hadn't made up her mind yet. She was only six. I asked them all which college the wanted to go to, but they didn't know. I recommended Queens and Sydney Sussex for my time there, but who knows where they'll end up.

I don't know why the British accent has been wonderfully immortalized, but it has. These kids shot twinges around the car as fast and as loudly as they could. The grandfather couldn't see me, but I must have looked like the Cheshire cat.

The tomb had just closed when we got there, so we didn't get to go in. I'll got back soon.

The family's driver dropped me off at a series of North Indian restaurants that my host recommended. I took an auto to my favorite bar after that, Cafe Morrison. I had a couple beers, aranged to celebrate the start of Ramadan in Old Delhi with Saad and his friends. He's going to lend me his 35mm for the occasion, so I have to get some film by Friday.

We also made tenative plans to go to Agra to see the Taj on Sunday. Saad is older than I am, and I asked if his daughter had ever seen it. It's a three hour drive, and I want to split the gas with him. I'll let you know if we go.

The last part of yesterday as important a highlight as the Lotus Temple though.

Who got to drive an auto-rickshaw in Delhi? Sam got to drive an auto-rickshaw in Delhi.

Examples of the ubiquitous Delhi auto-rickshaw.

The clutch was a little tricky. I'll get it down next time. I was smiling like a dumb ass. It was 2 AM. Another auto drove by, and all three of the Indian men in the back seat stuck their heads out to look. We got to a police checkpoint, and I asked whether me driving would be a problem. Jeetandar said, "You America. No problem." I got out and screamed, and smiled. I giggled like a gaggle of gallivanting girls. That's how it was.

It made me fall asleep feeling silly. Thinking:

There is good and evil in this world. And only when you are steeped in one - like ripening tea - can you speak about the qualities of one or the other, or of their products, with absolute impunity and traces of truth.

I spat something equally silly about how happiness and melancholy are infectious over the phone to a friend.

I went to sleep feeling so happy.