Right now, the crack Indian and Pakistani cricket teams are competing in a World Cup semifinal game, and this nation is riveted on the game.

Regardless of who wins, a couple of things I've noticed seem to me to highlight a widespread open-heartedness that I find so typical of Indian people in general, and that I love.

First, Indian Prime Minister Singh (whom I like a lot in any case) invited Pakistani Prime Minister Gilani to watch the game with him. Happily, his inspired invitation was accepted, and Google News is presently displaying a nice photo of the two leaders chatting together.

Second, the following article (abbreviated a bit by me) appeared in the Times of India today. I found it so heartwarming that I'm going to use it as a class reading exercise tomorrow:

THEY GAVE UP THEIR TICKETS FOR PAK FANS

Chandigarh: They have all done a good turn for Pakistani cricket fans, but for different reasons. They are Indians who have given up their prized Match tickets so that enthusiasts from the neighboring country can be at Mohali for Wednesday’s big match.

A case in point is theater personality Sudesh Sharma. Inspired by a short story by Mohan Rakesh about a Pakistani hockey spectator’s search for his roots during a match at Amritsar, Sharma donated his son’s and his own tickets for Wednesday’s match to Pakistani peaceniks. Sharma also said that India gains from the visits of Pakistanis as they will aspire to achieve what India has already done.

Ranjai Sodhi, an 18-year-old from Hardiwar, felt a touch of spirituality while persuading five college friends to hand over their tickets to Pakistanis. He said, “Offering your seat or possessions to somebody whom people have branded your enemy is a journey to destroy stereotypes to explore peace, friendship, and love.”

A manager of Union Bank of India, Dileep Khanna, gave up his tickets to salvage India’s corrupt image, caused by black marketing of the semifinal tickets and a number of scams. Khanna said that by offering tickets to Pakistanis, “I’ve sent a message that India is not just a home to black marketers and scamsters but also to those who adjust for somebody who wants to see the match and promote peace.”

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I'm near the end of a busy day. I took over the Intermediate English class this week, and my students are whizzing expertly through the verb tenses review that I thought would take much longer. I can see that they will have me hustling to keep up with them for the next two months. I am very much appreciating their energy and enthusiasm, and their geniality. All are Tibetans, and about a third are monks.

I'm now at a busy internet cafe up the road from my guesthouse, packed in between a young German having a tearful heart-to-heart talk via Skype with her partner, and others emailing and blogging. Even in the shadow of the Dalai Lama's palace, the human condition is alive and well in Mcleodgang, in all its manifestations.

My weekdays now start with breakfast at a rooftop cafe with my Swedish friend E, and then a half-hour walk down the hill to the Library of Tibetan Works and Archives, where I'm taking my morning classes in Tibetan language and Buddhist philosophy (E is also taking the language class, so we walk down together).

I walk back up the hill when my classes end at noon. Today's noon walk reminded me that an essential aspect of life in India is that the sublime can appear in one moment, and the devastatingly tragic in another. One can never predict which will appear, or when. Rounding an uphill bend during my walk, I noticed a line of stopped cars above me, and then heard police sirens. "An accident!," I first thought, with alarm. It would be too easy for a car to strike a pedestrian or motorcyclist on this narrow, winding road, or for cars to collide.

But that wasn't why the cars were stopped. Seconds later, a police car swept past me with a line of cars following behind. And of course, there was His Holiness in the passenger seat of the second car, smiling gently at the many people--including me--waving and bowing to him as he passed. He must have been on his way to a meeting somewhere. A highlight for today!

And now, an update on the "old man" I wrote about in my last post. I've since learned that he's actually just 3 years older than I (hence I'm leaving the "old" off my descriptions of him from now on), and his name is A. His situation is now very much improved, thanks to my Swedish friend E. She went to see him late last week, discovered that he'd had to spend a night on the street, and went into action to find a better solution for him. She called her various contacts, and some of her Tibetan men friends proved especially helpful. "They're my heroes!," she exclaimed to me when we met over breakfast on Monday. A longer-term guesthouse stay was soon arranged for him, and one of the Tibetans will stay overnight with A for the next month, in return for modest remuneration from A. He now takes A over to the Green Hotel in the morning--where A generally prefers to spend his days--and picks him up in the evening.

So we're all relaxing a bit on this score, but the experience of trying to help A is making us all reflect. Further, my Calcutta friend P asked a very pertinent question in a comment on my last post: "If the man was a poor Indian, would you have helped this much?" Though I don't like to think it, I suspect I wouldn't. The difference mainly has to do with how one naturally feels more hesitant when crossing language and cultural barriers, and what I'm even able to notice or figure out about a person's situation, given that very few poor Indians speak English and my Hindi is still poor. It's simply far easier for me to communicate with an English-speaking Westerner who uses the same cultural cues I do.

The difference also has to do with the fact that I've only encountered a single Westerner who needed significant help, while in contrast, each day, many Indian people ask for money from me, or appear to be in possible distress. I try to be intentional when I'm asked for money, typically giving money mainly to older women who seem to be alone and to physically disabled people. It may seem paradoxical, but I've stopped giving money to mothers with young children who are asking for money to feed those children (this is common here). That's because I've been told by development volunteer friends that at least here, there is subsidy money for parents who need food money, and that children are often kept out of school in order to be used for begging. One friend who helps out in a slum in lower Dharamsala knows a very attractive and bright little boy who's being kept from school because his parents make so much money by having him beg. I certainly don't want to encourage the removal of children from school! P, I would be especially interested in your thoughts on, um, my thoughts. Encountering the destitute while recognizing my relative prosperity is easily the most deeply disturbing kind of experience I've had in this country. But then again, I've had the same experience among the homeless population back home in Seattle...

It's a beautiful Saturday afternoon, with big black kites soaring in the thermals above the forested ridges across from Mcleodganj, a few rumbles of thunder sounding behind the high peaks, and yellow butterflies flitting among the potted flowers on the balcony of the Green Hotel, where I just had a light lunch. I just returned from a day of hill-walking: I made my way up to the village of Dharamkot, explored some higher trails, then walked across the hillside to the village of Bhagsu, and then walked the road back around to Mcleodganj. All in all, a lovely day out in the sunshine, among flowering fruit trees and new spring growth in the terraced farm fields.

Sometimes, I feel that I'm a temporary resident of Shangra-la. Other times, I'm reminded that even this lovely town is part of the human condition.

On Thursday, Geshe-la, the very wise teacher of my Buddhist philosophy class, quoted a comment by His Holiness to the effect that we typically find it easier to show compassion if the object of that compassion is attractive. I dutifully recorded that comment in my notes.

That evening, while having a late dinner in the Green Hotel, I noticed a disturbance behind me. An old man, white-bearded, sunken-cheeked, and bent over, was fiercely arguing with the taxi driver who had just brought him here from New Delhi. The man, who was quite angry, would not back down during this argument, and the driver eventually gave up and left.

I turned my attention back to my dinner, thinking no more of what I'd seen. Later though, I realized that the old man was still sitting, still bent over, in a restaurant chair behind me. A young German couple joined him to find out whether he needed help. They had to bend very close to his face to hear his weak voice.

I eventually asked the Germans what the situation was. It emerged that the old man has traveled independently for many years in India, and perhaps no longer has a permanent home, though he's originally from New York. The Germans had gotten to know him last year in Goa. He has Parkinson's, the old man explained to me himself, and he came here in search of a cure. As best the Germans and I could make out, he had simply hired the taxi and arrived here alone. He had hoped to get a room in the Green Hotel, which is a popular guesthouse, but they had no rooms and he had no reservation. The proprietress called several other guesthouses to see whether they had rooms. None were available, however, and the hour was now late--the restaurant would soon need to close.

Conversation with the old man revealed that he would much prefer to go home with either the Germans or myself, but the Germans live in Dharamkot--an impossible uphill walk for the old man, especially at night--and I have a small single room in a guesthouse at the lower end of town. I did not want either to share my bed or sleep on my cold floor, and didn't want to spend my night helping the old man, who cannot use a toilet during the night without assistance. I also didn't want to become, overnight, his defacto caregiver. I asked a party of Tibetan monks at a nearby table whether a space in a monastery for the night would be an option, but they had just arrived from South India and did not know. Someone thought that the Tibetan Welfare Office might be able to help, but it was closed for the night.

The German man and I went off to search for a room for the old man in nearby guesthouses, and finally found one, though it was reluctantly offered. We effusively thanked the guesthouse owner, and returned to the Green Hotel to retrieve the old man and his baggage. He was reluctant to leave the Green Hotel--he clearly would have preferred to stay there, plus someone had gotten him a slice of cheesecake that he was very slowly eating--but though the proprietress was sympathetic, the hotel needed to close for the night.

Finally, as the lights were going out in the restaurant, we moved the old man and his baggage to the other guesthouse. The Germans decided to spend the night with him in his double room so that they could help him during the night. I gave them money to cover that night's lodging, and left for my guesthouse. I knew very well that leaving as I did freed me of the responsibility of helping the man find longer-term lodgings and personal assistance the next morning. I felt relieved but also thoroughly guilty about not doing more for him, given how helpless he seemed to be.

I still felt guilty the next morning as I walked down the hill towards the Library of Tibetan Works and Archives for my morning classes. I ruminated about how, yes, it indeed seemed to be easier for me to help more attractive beings, such as my Tibetan English students, than someone old, sick, helpless, and a bit grumpy.

Once at the Library, I found my new Swedish friend E. I recounted my experience to her. "Oh, the old man is back!," she exclaimed happily. She was able to fill in some history details for me. He has spent many months, perhaps years, here over the course of numerous visits, and has an extensive social circle. E remembered that he typically has stayed at the Green Hotel, and that she often saw him in the restaurant there, usually attended by friends helping him with his exercises, or otherwise keeping him company. Her point of view was that I had given the man help when he needed it, and that I should expect that many others would also be helping him out, as they'd done before. She felt that it is very beneficial to the old man to be back here.

My heart felt lighter then, and became lighter still when another friend later confirmed E's observations--she had photos from years ago that included the old man before he had become ill.

After my guilt-filled evening and my following morning conversations, I reflected that so often in life, we encounter situations--including tragic ones like this one--where all we can do is muddle through moment by moment, while trying to keep our hearts as open as possible. Somewhere in another dimension, there may be people who can consistently ride to the rescue like the Lone Ranger, consistently knowing exactly what to do. Not hardly in this dimension. But the good news that I take from my experience is that we probably are not as alone as we may feel in the middle of a difficult and confusing situation, that we may be doing a better job than we give ourselves credit for, and that ordinary people are quite capable of finding their way through the confusion to a good solution, even when the likelihood of such as solution looks especially minute.

Since I last posted (last Friday; it's now Wednesday), it's seemed that so much has happened in my own small life, as in the larger world.

I've seen His Holiness twice, for one thing. On Saturday, I attended his half-day public teaching on the Jataka Tales. That morning, I rose well before dawn and joined a small flow of people headed for the Tsuglakhang Temple Complex where he lives and sometimes teaches. I was early enough to gain a spot just a few meters in front of his seat. I then waited quietly for about an hour and a half as others filed in, before His Holiness arrived. While waiting, those of us who are not Tibetan speakers were guided to tune into a temporary FM radio channel set up to carry the simultaneous English translation of the teaching.

Finally, the Dalai Lama, along with many attendants, slowly walked out from the back of the Temple to take his seat before us. As he arrived, we all jumped to our feet to salute him. As with any very famous face, one feels a physical shock at seeing his face in person. In the Dalai Lama's case, it also is a special feeling to be in his presence, especially in the company of so many of the Tibetan people whom he leads (there also were plenty of foreigners and journalists present).

Although the stated subject of his talk was the Jataka Tales--ancient teaching tales used to make Buddhist points meaningful to ordinary people--he spent relatively little time on that topic, and instead addressed what he knew were concerns of his own people and the world at large. As you probably know, he recently proposed to devolve his political authority and retain just his spiritual authority over the Tibetan people. As I understand it, his close advisors have agreed, but the exiled Tibetan Parliament is discussing the proposal and some members remain reluctant to approve it. The Dalai Lama pointed out that it was not until the Fifth Dalai Lama (he is the 14th) that the Dalai Lama was given political power. He also pointed out that "China has a Dalai Lama problem" and that there could be more opportunities for fruitful negotiations with that country if discussions were not tightly focused on him. He also emphasized that "independence for Tibet is not an option at present," encouraging his Tibetan listeners to think in terms of working for greater autonomy for Tibet rather than independence.

After he finished speaking and retired back into the Temple, I found myself with my usual mental chatter completely silenced, and mind spacious and calm--such is the effect of being in his presence. I made my way slowly out of the Temple along with the other attendees, and then just continued walking, up the road to the village of Dharamkot, and then higher and higher up into the hills on another winding road until I finally arrived at a Hindu temple a few kilometers uphill, where I found beautiful views in all directions and a little tea stall with refreshments (wherever you go, there's always a tea stall in India!).

I returned back to town in the late afternoon and then strolled over to Llamo's Croissant Cafe, where you can watch a Tibetan-themed movie in an upstairs room each evening. I decided to have dinner there and watch Seven Years in Tibet. It was a through-the-looking-glass experience to have seen the present Dalai Lama in the morning, and then to watch a depiction of his much younger self on screen in the evening.

Monday, I breakfasted in one of my favorite cafes (Gakyi). It's become a favorite because for somehow it's easy there to have conversations with other diners. I learned from someone at the next table that a new series of English-language classes were starting that day at the Library of Tibetan Works and Archives. So I hurried down the hill--the library is about half hour's walk below McLeodganj--and signed up for two classes. I'm now taking a 9am class in Beginning Tibetan--at the very least, I thought, this experience should help me empathize with my English students--and an 11am class in Tibetan philosophy. The latter class is focusing initially on Nagarjuna's Letter to a Friend, a classic Mahayana Buddhist text. In this letter, Nagarjuna, a great Indian sage, writes to his friend, a king, to offer guidelines for successful Buddhist practice as a busy layperson.

I adore both classes. The teacher of the philosophy class is erudite and makes his points humorously and kindly, so that each class feels like a particularly wonderful Dharma talk (a fellow student told me that our teacher is the Director of the Library). The teacher of the Beginning Tibetan class is an Ani (nun) who drills us patiently and energetically each day in the fundamentals that we need before we can begin to learn words and grammar. So far, we've been learning to read and sound out the letters and vowels correctly, via drilling over and over. She has a remarkable ear for hearing when our pronunciation is a bit incorrect--often the case, because Tibetan includes some sounds not found in European languages.

This morning, as it happens, I saw His Holiness again, though very briefly. As I was walking from Mcleodganj downhill towards my morning classes, I noticed many people along the sides of the road. Huh, I thought, they must be waiting for a bus, and I returned to my own thoughts. A few minutes later, though, a young Tibetan hesitantly greeted me: "Good morning, Madam!" I returned his greeting. After a pause, he added, "Do you know His Holiness is coming?" He explained that the Dalai Lama was traveling that morning to lower Dharamsala. I realized that I was the only person walking along the road, and that everyone else was standing and waiting. I stopped to wait with my kind informant by the roadside. Within a minute or so, we heard sirens, a police vehicle then passed by us, and then we had a brief glimpse of His Holiness in the passenger seat of the next car.

So my morning is spent in my own learning projects. Then I walk back up the steep road (it's great exercise!) back to Mcleodganj for an afternoon of English teaching involvement. I'm still observing and sometimes assisting in the intermediate English class that I'll begin teaching next week, and I'm beginning to prepare the initial lessons I'll teach. Happily, Lha has a library with many good references for English teachers and students. A difference from the volunteer English tutoring I do at home in Seattle is that while the goal of the Seattle tutoring is to help people to communicate effectively--with grammatical correctness being a lower priority--grammar is heavily emphasized in the classes here. I was given a list of grammar topics to cover, and in some cases (e.g., the perfect tenses) have been quietly reviewing topics to be sure I can teach them accurately. All in all, it's been a good review for me.

So much happens here in the course of a day or two, even though I have so few of what I might ordinarily consider to be responsibilities! I thought I'd capture some of the highlights from the last two days before tomorrow morning, when His Holiness is scheduled to give a teaching that I plan to attend. He teaches in Tibetan, so if you're an English speaker, you bring an FM radio and tune it to a particular channel to hear a simultaneous translation. New friend C just loaned me a tiny radio, which I'll bring with me early tomorrow. Right now, the narrow streets of Mcleodganj are clogged by taxis and other vehicles, which must be bringing in other people who want to attend the teaching.

This morning, following a suggestion from my friend K, I walked out to the nearby village of Bhagsu and then continued to a waterfall that streams down a narrow gorge up above the village. The path from the village leads past stone bathing pools where families were relaxing and swimming, then up along the side of the gorge towards the waterfall. Rhododendrons are now blooming, creating blood-red splotches of blooms on the hillsides. Walking further up the path, I saw below me a group of village women doing their laundry in the river. Farther up, a group of monks were doing their own washing and relaxing in the sunshine on the boulders by the water. At the falls, I sat on a bench at a drinks stand and watched a group of young Indian men having fun posing and taking photos of each other with the falls in the background. Two asked to have their photos taken with me--a very common request. My photo must now be in hundreds of albums all over India. I'm not sure why people so often want my photo. Perhaps because I'm strikingly taller than most Indian women, or because I'm wearing a traditional salwar kameez rather than Western dress. I encounter many mysteries in India...

On the way back, a family of musicians were performing at the side of the road, with a donation bowl in front of them. Their music sounded very like Rajasthani music I'd heard at Ranthambore and Jaisalmer weeks ago--perhaps they are Rajasthani. I offered them some money. The young son began to playfully dance to the music. Inspired by the beauty of the music, the place, and the spring flowers, I joined him, and we danced together for a few minutes--each with one hand on hip, the other held up to the sky--before I continued back to town.

This afternoon and yesterday, I've been sitting in on the Intermediate English class that I'll begin teaching at the beginning of the month. I've been so glad of the chance to get a sense of the students' English proficiency and to compare notes with the teacher I'll replace. I can tell that teaching the class will be an enjoyable challenge.

Both yesterday and today, I joined in on the daily afternoon Conversation Cafe, which remains a highlight of my time here. Yesterday I talked with two Tibetan exiles and a Ladakhi (a native of India's Ladakh region, which borders Tibet). Though all three are ethnically Tibetan, their lives are quite different. The cheerful young Ladakhi, whose English is very proficient, works as a trekking guide and is a citizen of India by birth. The Tibetans, who are studying English now, are classified as refugees, and therefore hold ID cards rather than passports. They explained that for them and for Tibetan exiles generally, it's hard to find good employment here in India--Indian citizens have a big advantage generally, and without passports, exiles can't hold government jobs. Yet they can't return to Tibet, at least as matters now stand, since they left illegally. I asked whether they are in contact with family and friends, and learned that they can talk by phone and also exchange email. We talked about Tibet's future, and I asked about relations between ordinary ethnic Chinese and Tibetan people in Tibet. One of the exiles reported that ordinary people get along quite well, and that many Tibetans are learning Mandarin Chinese in order to better communicate with their Chinese neighbors. For him, the future of Tibet lies in Chinese and Tibetan people getting to know one another and becoming friends, despite government policies, and he feels that this is what's indeed happening on the ground in Tibet now. A heartening point of view to hear!

During today's Conversation Cafe, I talked with S, who is one of my soon-to-be students, and a Tibetan geshe, i.e., a distinguished teacher of Buddhist philosophy, who is from a monastery in South India. Both also are Tibetan exiles who had walked here (which seems to be how everyone arrives here from Tibet). The teacher had been asked by the Dalai Lama to spend a year here studying English, and he's now working his way through the beginning courses. With the help of S's interpreting now and then, I learned that the teacher has already taught in a few Asian countries including Singapore, Hong Kong, and Taiwan, where he taught in Chinese at monasteries in those countries. I thanked him for taking the trouble to learn English in order to bring the teachings to the West, and I learned that he enjoys teaching in different countries and looks forward to eventually teaching Westerners. Perhaps he'll teach in Seattle one day!

Each morning these days, like millions of people around the world, I've been reading the latest troubling news from Japan. Yesterday, the Times of India carried a story from the New York Times newswire about the 50 (or so) people who have chosen to remain at the damaged nuclear facilities to try to control the emergency. How sobering to think of them and the dangers they are facing, as well as the people who love them and must be terrified for their safety right now.

Saddened by this news story, I walked down the hill to the temple complex where the Dalai Lama resides. Inside on the ground floor, I watched monks debate points of philosophy, driving home their arguments with theatrical flourishes and foot stomps. Upstairs I found a particularly peaceful area--more in keeping with my somber mood--where many monks meditate and chant while others circumambulate the inner temple area. I remained there, sitting on a step, watching the meditators and walkers, who also included pilgrims and tourists.

A row of very young monks were sitting on cushions trying to meditate. But like the young monks at Bodhgaya chasing the leaves falling from the Bodhi Tree, they were greatly challenged by their task. Suddenly, a small water pistol skittered out from under the skirt of one of them. It came to rest by the foot of one of their teachers, who kicked it away dismissively, and then addressed a few stern words to the hapless little monks, who instantly recovered their meditation postures.

As I sat, my mind and spirits gradually calmed, and I reflected on where I was in that moment. As the ancient story goes, Avalokiteshwara, one of the Buddha's own students, became the Bodhisattva of Compassion: a being who, though having become enlightened, chooses to defer entry to nirvana in order to help other beings. Many bodhisattvas are seen to exist, but Avalokiteshwara (in other traditions, Kannon in Japan and Guanyin in China) is especially associated with compassion. The Dalai Lama is thought by many to be his current incarnation (though he does not claim to be).

So perhaps I was sitting in the very home of Avalokiteshwara, I thought, and probably only a few yards away. Considering that, and with my mind and heart eased by the calm of the temple (perhaps excepting the restless little monks), it was the natural thing to offer a metta prayer to the workers at the reactor site, as the Buddha had taught so long ago:

May you be safe and protected.
May you be healthy and strong.
May you be peaceful and joyful.

May you have ease and well-being...

I've had a couple of slow days in Mcleodganj (upper Dharamsala): His Holiness was holding public teachings and the volunteer office was therefore closed (it also was the last day of Losar, the Tibetan New Year). I just missed being able to hear the teachings, but he'll do a half-day teaching on Saturday, on the topic of the Jataka Tales (Buddhist teaching tales). I'm hoping to be able to hear that teaching. Today, the volunteer office reopened, and I've now begun my English teaching work.

During the slow days, I was glad to have some down time to rest and recuperate--it's been two months of steady travel, after all--and to get to know the lay of the land. Getting geographically oriented is especially important for me because I have little natural spatial awareness (as all who've traveled with me know). At this point, I've walked all the streets of Mcleodganj, circumnavigated the great temple complex where His Holiness lives, and taken a couple of walks out of town to nearby villages. Because everything is built on steep slopes, one necessarily gets lots of exercise going anywhere in or around town. And that exercise is all gotten in beautiful country: paths winding up through verdant forests and out across open slopes with views in all directions. I should be in great shape by the time I return home!

Nevertheless, having nowhere to go, nothing to do, and nobody who knew my name was surprisingly unsettling, even in this lovely, intriguing place. I'm struck today by how much more comfortable I feel already because I've now accumulated colleagues and acquaintances, and a role here. We humans are deeply social animals!

As for my role, I'll be teaching a daily intermediate English class at the office of Lha, a Tibetan-run social service organization. I've only had one day of interaction with the staff, and am already very impressed with their efficiency and professionalism. They run a series of English courses, from complete beginner to advanced, as well as courses in other languages, including Tibetan (geared for travelers; I'm hoping to learn some Tibetan) and French. They offer a range of other social services for Tibetan exiles as well (I think they're all exiles themselves), as well as some services for visitors, such as homestays with Tibetan families and language classes, which generate an income stream for their social service work. (I'm giving some thought to a homestay, though I'm happily situated in a pleasant, inexpensive guesthouse right now.)

Beginning tomorrow, I'll be observing the volunteer who's now teaching the intermediate English class, and then will take over from her when she leaves at the end of the month. I also committed myself to participating in the daily (M-F), informal, open-to-all "conversation cafe" held from 4 to 5pm. I participated in today's cafe, and realized that it's likely to be a highlight of my time here. The conversationalists were a very international group, weighted towards Tibetans (including two senior monks) and native English speakers like me. We divided into pairs or small groups and talked in English for an hour.

My conversation partners were A, a university student from Tokyo (who reports that family, friends, and colleagues there are all fine), and M, a university student from the region of Tuva in Russia (Tuva neighbors Mongolia). Both are on spring break right now. A is studying international relations and M is studying journalism. A is here to participate in a work camp, creating murals and fences for a nearby children's village. For M, this is his third visit to Mcleodgang: he feels a strong affinity with the Tibetans, as does his sister, who is a local Tibetan cultural scholar. What lively, inquiring minds they both have, and how internationally aware they are! Our conversation ranged very widely. Judging by the sound level in the library where we were all gathered, everyone else's conversation was equally engaging. Now I'm looking forward to tomorrow's gathering.

Another opportunity for me would be one-on-one tutoring of English students on weekday mornings, which I will also try to do as time and energy allow. When I first entered Lha's office this morning, I encountered S, a Tibetan student of English who's deeply interested in improving his English skill. Talking with him, hearing a little of his personal story (he left Tibet relatively recently), and seeing the eagerness in his face makes me inspired to do as much as I can to help. The only challenge is that there are many other fascinating activities here that interest me. Life, as always, refuses to stay in perfect, uncomplicated balance!

I've just arrived in Dharamsala, a day earlier than I'd planned, mainly to be sure I could figure out the bus connections (I also realized that an extra night of rest before beginning my volunteer duties wouldn't hurt a bit). I needn't have worried about the buses. Everywhere, people helped me to find the buses I needed and to know when to get off each bus.

And what spectacular rides I've had since leaving Shimla three days ago! First I traveled from Shimla to the town of Mandi, then yesterday up to the town of Rewalsar and back, and then, today, from Mandi to Dharamsala. Much of the way, the buses travel on narrow roads high up on the slopes of huge hills, now and then dropping down to cross a valley or river--we crossed the huge, dark blue Sutlej River soon after leaving Shimla, which I remember being mentioned in various mountaineers' accounts. Views in all directions are superb, the whole way along. On one side, you can see someone herding goats, children heading to school in their crisp uniforms, or farmers in their terraced fields, while on another side, you can see hills rising higher and higher up to the huge, white peaks in the distance. Every moment of these bus trips has been entrancing.

I could say that these bus rides aren't for the timid, because the buses move briskly along on narrow roads edged by huge precipices in many places. Large vehicles pass and overtake each other frequently with literally inches to spare. Generally, I'm a bit unnerved by heights when I'm a passenger in a vehicle (though not when I'm on foot), but for whatever reason--perhaps just too distracted by the beauty, perhaps because the drivers seem very skillful--I have calmly enjoyed these rides.

Yesterday was an especially enchanting day, among the many enchanting experiences that India has offered to me on this trip. I had arrived at the town of Mandi the evening before, via a government bus from Shimla. From Mandi, Lonely Planet advised me, it's easy to catch a local bus to Rewalsar, from where one can visit its holy lake as well as the cave where Padmasambhava, the founder of Tibetan Buddhism, had meditated before leaving India to travel to Tibet. And Lonely Planet was right. Early in the morning, I walked to Mandi's bus stand and just asked around: "Rewalsar bus stop, kaha hey [where is it]?" (English would have worked just fine, but I like to use my little bit of Hindi.) Soon I was taken to the correct bus, and we climbed up the winding road to Rewalsar.

Rewalsar is a small town that apparently exists mainly to support pilgrims visiting the lake and cave. The lake is holy to various faiths, as my Calcutta friend P pointed out in a comment on my last post (he also noted that in this dry region, essentially all water is holy--I love this idea). Once I arrived, I did what everyone does: walk around the lake in a clockwise direction. I already knew that this is always the right direction to circumnavigate any Buddhist stupa or holy place. Other holy places, too, I gather: a few weeks ago, a guide at the Jain temples at Jaisalmer had explained to us that walking clockwise encourages peacefulness, while walking counterclockwise creates disturbance and disharmony.

I wasn't the only walker: many locals and visitors, including Hindu holy men and Tibetan monks and nuns (and a few other Westerners), were circumnavigating the lake as well. At various locations around the lake, people had stopped to offer prayers or to feed the probably quite overfed fish. Buddhist monasteries and Hindu temples (I think Sikh gurdwalas, too, but am not sure) overhang the lake on all sides. It was a peaceful, companionable scene.

After a few circumnavigations, I turned to the task of finding the trail up the hillside to Padmasambhava's cave. Lonely Planet had alerted me that the trail begins from the lakeshore, but I didn't see an evident trailhead. So I started asking: "Padmasambhava, kaha hey?" Someone understood me but gave me Hindi directions I couldn't follow; others didn't understand what I was asking, and I couldn't elaborate.

I eventually found a likely trail, and headed up it. It wound up through open woodlands, then broke out into terraced farm fields and past small farmsteads before it took me up to a dirt road leading further uphill. I decided to continue up the road. After a few bends, I encountered the owner of a small drinks stand, who confirmed that the road was taking me to the cave. How far?, I asked. Five kilometers, he replied; three if you take the shortcut. I later learned that the real trail to the cave leads straight up the steep hillside via a long staircase of stone steps. I'm so glad I didn't find it! My road took me gradually, painlessly up and over a ridgetop to expansive views out towards the white mountains and through more terraced fields and farmsteads, then back around to the lake side of the ridge. What a joy to be out walking in beautiful, open country on a sunny day! I stopped to watch people working in the fields and chat with goatherds before my road eventually intersected with the stone trail not far below the cave. I huffed up that trail, happy to have had a less steep alternate route for most of my way.

At the parking lot just below the cave, long strings of Tibetan prayer flags were flying in the winds blowing towards the high peaks in the north. A drinks stand owner explained to me that if I liked, I could buy a set of prayer flags (there are a couple of stands there), write the names of my loved ones on them, then string them up, in which case the flags would send prayers and blessings to those named people and the world at large. As it turned out, he explained, yesterday was a very auspicious day to do that, and there was a special puja (blessing ceremony) going on in the temple by the cave. So I bought flags, and wrote on them the names of family, friends, the people of Japan as a whole, as well as President Obama (reasoning that he surely needs all the help we can give him). Then the drinks stand owner helped me to string them up. He took a picture of me with my flags, and then I enjoyed watching them streaming out their prayers and blessings far out towards the white peaks.

After hanging my flags, it was time to climb up to the cave. Earlier in this blog, I've talked about feeling the spiritual power of a place. I find it hard to describe just what I mean by this--it's essentially as though it exerts a steady gravity-like pull on my heart and body, gently extracting negative emotions and calming my mind. As I neared the cave, I felt its power, which strengthened when I entered it. Another pilgrim explained that it's OK to sit for a while in the cave, so I did so, first in its innermost recess, and then in a larger grotto where a huge statue of Padmasambhava, its base covered with offered katas (silk scarfs) looms over the pilgrims gathered below it.

As I sat quietly before the statue, I reflected on what Padmasambhava's experience might have been like. It came to me that we had in common the experience of being solitary travelers in a strange land, and that he, like me and all who travel alone, must have felt uncertainty and confusion, and sometimes fear, loneliness, and doubt. Before I entered the cave, I had been able to see the country he had had to cross to reach Tibet. It's so rugged, with the hills and ridges so high and the distances so vast, that it would have been a great endeavor just to cross it. Yet after that journey, he had only come to the beginning of his main task of bringing the Buddha's teachings to a new land.

As I sat below the statue, in the space where he had meditated to ready himself for his journey, I felt great gratitude for Padmasambhava and all the other arahants (enlightened people) who had been willing to spend the rest of their lives traveling alone (as the Buddha had directed his first crop of arahants to do: "No two of you together..."") to spread the Buddha's teachings to the world. Had they not done this difficult task, those teachings would surely have been lost.

As I was reflecting in this way, a small stone dislodged from the roof of the cave high above me (it's a very tall, narrow cave), fell, and struck me on my breast directly over my heart before landing on the cave floor. People gasped and began to talk; one person quickly grabbed the stone, which she'll surely cherish as a holy relic. Though I felt the impact clearly, it hadn't hurt at all (perhaps thanks to the folds of my trusty dupatta scarf). Of course, I don't know why the stone fell just then and as it did, or why it wasn't a larger stone that might have broken a rib or worse. But the truth is that in that moment, it felt like a blessing.

Afterwards, I left the cave and walked down the long stone staircase, winding down through hamlets and terraces where new wheat, mustard, forage grass, and fruit trees were growing, down and down to the shore of the lake, where I made one more circumnavigation for good measure, then caught the bus back to Mandi.

This morning, guided by various bystanders, I caught a series of two buses and then a taxi to McLeod Gang (upper Dharamsala, home of His Holiness the Dalai Lama), and checked into a guesthouse. It's a stunningly beautiful place--winding narrow alleys filled with interesting shops, restaurants and guesthouses, with the complexes containing His Holiness' residence and the Tibetan government-in-exile offices below. It's located high on a steep hillside, with higher white peaks visible above. And I can see intriguing foot trails winding out in various directions and up onto the ridges. I'm hoping to explore them soon.

I'm in Shimla today, having arrived late yesterday afternoon.

Since I last wrote, I spent another wonderful, fruitful day and a half meditating at the Mahabodhi Temple, and left feeling that I want to return sometime soon (though not on this trip) for a longer stay. Some call it the Navel of the World, and I can see why: I experienced it as a place with tremendous spiritual power. I felt so clear-minded and heart-opened by the time I left! Uh, I had acquired several more Bodhi Tree leaves, too (they all fell either directly on me or right in front of me, honest).

To get to Shimla, I took an autorickshaw ride back to the railroad station in the nearby, larger town of Gaya. While in Bodh Gaya, I'd been somewhat dreading my return to Gaya, since I knew that I ought to get there during daylight hours (I arrived about 4 pm), and then would need to wait at the station until my train arrived at 3 am the next morning. I had feared that I'd not have a moment's peace, between the railway children (who live at the station and beg for a living), ill-intentioned men (I'd thought I'd get a pass on this problem now that I'm middle-aged, but no), and the touts. I followed a suggestion from B to request a retiring room. There are a few of these rooms at Gaya station, and they are common at Indian rail stations. They're meant for travelers who have a long layover. I asked at the enquiry office and learned that all were full. So I asked for their advice about a safe place where I might wait for my train. They kindly led me to the First Class Ladies' Waiting Room (though they could see that my ticket was for 3rd class). That waiting room was a real haven, thanks to a stern lady stationed by the door who chased out all intruders. I wasn't bothered by anyone (except mosquitoes) and had some pleasant conversations with others in the room. I even was able to stretch out a bit for brief rests, along with everyone else. The long wait for my train that I'd been dreading ended up being a companionable and not so uncomfortable experience, after all.

The next challenge was to manage to find my train's platform and my train car in the middle of the night in the dark. I'd been concerned about that, but it proved to be easy: my train pulled up along the platform just outside my waiting room, and my train car was nearly right in front. I found my own berth without too much trouble, and stretched out for the remainder of the night. So much for worrying about things in advance!

From Gaya to Kalka takes you across a long swath of north India, so it was a long ride. I spent the rest of that day and the following night and early morning in that same train compartment, along with five other people and lots of luggage. I had a good conversation with one of the women in the compartment who spoke some English and was glad to have the opportunity for a conversation. She has a son in New Jersey and has visited him there (the U.S. is so clean!, she commented; she enjoyed her two months there).

She asked about me, and learned that I'm unmarried (the U.S. and India are quite different in this respect, I commented) and that I have been working as a scientist (my shorthand for how I describe the interdisciplinary job I recently left). She greatly approved of how I'm living my life, unlike many who've been a bit shocked to get this same information. It's essentially unheard of for a middle-aged Indian woman not to have been married. She excitedly passed along my information to the two other women sharing the compartment with us (I can't follow Hindi conversations in any detail, but sometimes I can pick up some of the general topics). And she wistfully commented to me that she wished she could have had a life like mine--the first time I've heard that response. She also reflected that India's biggest problem is "too many people," and that for some not to have children should be encouraged. Long after she had left the train at her station, the others in the compartment were still discussing what they'd learned of "Madame" from the U.S.

Finally, the train pulled into Kalka station late morning yesterday. I readily found my next train: the Shivalek Express, which is the most deluxe of the several versions of the "toy trains" that travel from Kalka up the steep hills to Shimla. It cost all of $6 for a 6-hour train journey, including a nice midmorning snack and lunch--I'm glad I splurged. Even though I'd already spent so many hours on a train by then, it was fun to travel slowly up and up into the hills in this train, as it chugged through dozens of small tunnels and over a few bridges. In places, the outer track came within inches of high dropoffs, which added a certain frisson to the experience. As we climbed, we could see farther and farther across the hills and valleys surrounding us, and the terraced fields and small towns that cling to the hills. And it was interesting to watch the vegetation change as we gained height (Kalka is down in the plains, and Shimla is at more than 7000 feet). I especially appreciated a zone where palm trees and pine trees grew together on the hillsides (though I didn't capture a good picture of them).

By the time we had reached the elevation of Shimla, though our pleasant, sunny day had been replaced by thick, dark clouds, sleet, wet snow on the ground, and a cold breeze. We shortly pulled into the Shimla rain station, and I descended. My mood had darkened a bit by then, along with the weather, and I was realizing how tired I was. I'd been warned by Lonely Planet of the hotel touts that wait for tourists at this station, and indeed, I was soon targeted by a few, each of whom followed me closely, inveigling insistently, until each in turn finally gave up. Burdened by my luggage, I plodded obstinately up the steep streets into town in the sleeting rain, intending to look for a particular budget hotel, but confused by the twisting streets and unwilling to slow or stop to review my map for fear of drawing more touts. Eventually, I recognized the sign for another budget hotel listed in Lonely Planet, and headed straight for its door.

The front desk staff were a bit dour, but a room was available for a good price, and I asked to see it. I laughed when I was ushered into it. Lonely Planet describes this hotel (Hotel Gulmarg) as a honeymoon hotel, and indeed, the room contains mirrored ceilings and walls and a big circular bed--decor that Lonely Planet characterizes as "gloriously chintzy." I was clearly not the target demographic. Still, a sodden German motorcyclist traveling alone didn't hesitate to check in, and other guests going in and out the front door looked normal, so I checked myself in. I enjoyed a hot shower in my over-the-top room, and when I couldn't find BBC on the TV, I settled for watching the second half of the Fellowship of the Ring and then The Andromeda Strain on HBO, happy to invoke the "any port in a storm" clause.

After a few hours of deep sleep, I awoke ready to get breakfast, visit an ATM, and make my onward travel arrangements. I was less interested in seeing Shimla itself, though I'd been looking forward to it before. When I left my windowless room and went out the hotel's front door, though, I was surprised by a brilliantly blue sky and crisp rather than chilly weather. With my spirits brightening with each step, I found my way up and up the pedestrian walkways that make up central Shimla until I reached the Mall and the Ridge, the narrow pedestrian streets that top the ridgeline that the town occupies.

Finally, I was able to look across to the opposite side of Shimla's long ridge, and I was surprised to see, stretched out along the entire northern horizon, the high peaks of the Himalayas, which shone starkly white against the blue sky. This was my first-ever view of this range, though I'd occupied much of my teen and college years reading accounts by the mountaineers who first climbed these peaks. I am impressed by the size of these mountains. I've lived in mountain country nearly all my life, including summers spent working at Denali National Park in Alaska. But these mountains--even seen from a distance and even compared to Denali (Mt. McKinley)--are enormous, and many of the highest peaks looked remarkably steep and sheer. I can easily see why they've haunted mountaineers' dreams for decades.

After a pleasant breakfast in a restaurant on the Mall and a read of today's Times of India, and then a visit to the bus station to book a bus for the town of Mandi tomorrow morning, I was ready for some walking. I decided to hike up Jakhu Peak, directly above Shimla on the same ridgeline, to the Hanuman temple at its top. I'd been mulling over whether to do this hike since first planning to visit Shimla. Its main challenge isn't the elevation (though the peak is more than 8,000 feet high) or the length (it's less than an hour), but the resident "monkey menace": hundreds of rhesus monkeys who live on the peak and can harass walkers. They especially like to steal glasses, I was warned by Lonely Planet, other guidebooks, and later a concerned lady selling prasad (offerings for the temple) along the trail. I went anyway, and was happy to rent a stout walking stick from a vendor at the bottom of the trail, for use in fending off any glasses-snatchers. Cost for this little bit of peace of mind: 10 rupees (about 20 cents U.S.). I also tucked my best pair of glasses into the bottom of my pack, wearing my spare pair instead, and I pulled my wide-brimmed Seattle Sombrero hiking hat securely over my ears (further secured by its chin strap) to further repel invaders.

Up and up I walked through the pine forest and increasing numbers of monkeys large and small, breathing hard at this high elevation, to the top, where there's a pretty temple, and enormous statue of Hanuman under construction, and marvelous views in all directions. I sat on a bench examining the Himalayan peaks and surrounding ridgelines with my binoculars (wrist strap firmly around my wrist), while carefully keeping an eye out for any monkeys moving in for the kill. One in particular seemed to have noted that I was the only glasses-wearing person on the peak, and silently followed me as I made my way from bench to bench to admire the views. My own furry Gollum! But neither he nor his colleagues managed to snatch my glasses, and I made my way back down the trail to the Mall, where I've (obviously) found an internet cafe.

Tomorrow morning, I head for the town of Mandi, which is about half-way to my ultimate destination of Dharamsala. From Mandi, either tomorrow afternoon or early the following day (depending on bus timing), I'll head up to the nearby town of Rewalsar, where I hope to spend a night or two. It is a holy place for Tibetan Buddists (who call it Tso Pema) because it was there that Padmasambava, founder of Tibetan Buddhism, meditated in a cave before travelling to Tibet. I hope to visit his cave and explore that area. On returning from Rewalsar, I plan to catch a bus on 15 March to Dharamsala.

I'm in Bodh Gaya now, where I've spent the last few hours under the famous Bodhi Tree (under which the Buddha sat when he attained enlightenment). What a remarkable place this is, in both expected and unexpected ways (like India as a whole)!

I spent my last day in Sarnath meditating (alternating sitting and walking) among the ruined monasteries and stupas in Deer Park--the only Westerner meditating there that day, though through the day I did have the company of one or two other meditators, especially a steadfast young Tibetan monk. Whenever shade was available, I sat with my back against a wall of the shrine marking the site of the Buddha's hut--it felt like such a welcoming and supporting spot, and is a little out of the way of most visitor traffic, besides.

Because many picnickers, tourists, and souvenir vendors wander through Deer Park all day, I took to covering myself with my duppatta. This is a long, wide, sheer white scarf that makes up part of the salwar kameez, a typical outfit for an Indian woman that conforms to local standards of modesty (much more modest than in the West). I've been wearing salwar kameezes throughout my time in India, and appreciating this loose, cool, becoming attire (easily washed and dried in a guesthouse bathroom, too!). My duppatta is large enough that I can wrap it over my head and around myself, which both keeps off the sun and insects and also discourages interruptions. I did hear many suppressed giggles, approaching footsteps, and camera clicks when picnickers encountered me, but that's OK--I know I was an unusual sight.

Many groups of Asian pilgrims came and went through that day, generally travelling in large tour buses with their guiding teachers. Generally, they chant the teachings, with their teacher leading, rather than meditate. I loved listening! At one point, as I rested on a bench under a tree overlooking Deer Park, a Korean teacher sat down next to me. It emerged that he wanted one of his students to take a photo of the both of us together. I had the impression that he was interested and approving of my solo retreat practice.

That evening, I visited the Mulagandhikti Vihara, a temple adjacent to Deer Park where the Buddha's first teaching is recited each morning and evening. A monk waved his arm to invite me inside, so I found a sitting space among many other women pilgrims, whom I towered over. It eventually emerged that they are from Sri Lanka. With lots of smiles, shared laughs, and explanatory gestures, they made me feel welcome among them--thereby helping me to expand my personal understanding of "sangha." After the chanting, we were invited to go to the front in a long snaking line to receive a blessing, protection cord, and small bottle of holy water which had been blessed during our chanting service. So now I have a second protection cord, this one saffron, which goes nicely with the brown one C tied around my wrist just a few weeks ago in Seattle.

The next day, I uneventfully took an autorickshaw back to the Varanasi train station and boarded the train to Gaya. The train ran late enough that I began to be a bit concerned about getting to Bodh Gaya, 13 km from Gaya, before nightfall. The state of Bihar, where Gaya and Bodh Gaya are located, had long been India's most violent state, though in recent years it's been much more peaceful.

The train pulled into Gaya before 5 pm, however, leaving a comfortable time margin for getting to Bodh Gaya before dark. I emerged from the train car a bit frazzled--the compartment had been full of all sorts of extra luggage (why was someone toting 3 giant jugs of plain water?), people coming and going and moving big suitcases around, and one charming but cranky baby. Before I'd taken more than 10 steps along the platform, I was suddenly surrounded by a big scrum of ragged children, who live at the station and beg for their livelihood. So many small hands suddenly reached for me and tugged at my clothes and backpack that I nearly fell. Someone helped disperse them, though, and I emerged from the welter of children--but only to be surrounded yet again by a horde of hyper autorickshaw drivers, all desperately competing to be the one to drive me to Bodh Gaya (they all knew where this Westerner must be going). I pushed my way through the most aggressive, and jumped into the autorickshaw of a somewhat more mellow driver, even as his competitors tried to jump in front of me and grab my backpack. My Lonely Planet guidebook characterizes Gaya as a "raucus town," and it isn't kidding! My ride to Bodh Gaya was bone-rattling, but otherwise uneventful.

In Bodh Gaya, I asked the driver to take me to a guesthouse recommended by Lonely Planet. He either misheard its name (I'm learning that my American accent is often difficult for people unused to it) or had a commission arrangement with another guesthouse--in any event, he took me to a different place, without my realizing it in my frazzled state. I arranged for a night there (they did not have a room for the other nights I'm here), then happily dropped my luggage in my room and headed out to find a room for my next two nights. It was then that I realized I hadn't even been to the guesthouse I'd wanted. A boy led me to that one, and I reserved a room for my remaining two nights.

All room reserving done, my young helper led me to the restaurant of my choice for dinner (he was hoping to be a tour guide for me the next day, but I gave him a tip for his help and disengaged myself as firmly yet kindly as I could). After dinner, I made my way to the Mahabodhi Temple complex. There, I've mostly remained during my waking hours, except for brief periods to transfer luggage, eat, and write this post, since my arrival day before yesterday. When I first arrived, I was frazzled and tired. Almost as soon as I entered, I felt calmed, and my tiredness soon disappeared. Others have reported essentially this experience, and now I see that it's true for me, too.

The temple, which sits on the site where the Buddha became enlightened, with the huge Bodhi Tree right next to it, is beautifully illuminated at night and towers over its surroundings. Streams of pilgrims enter and exit the compound's main gate after dropping shoes off at the big Shoe House. Among them are many Tibetan Buddhist monks and nuns in their maroon robes, Thai (?) teachers in light brown, southeast Asian pilgrims from various countries (I infer from travel bags), usually dressed in white, and many others, including just a few Westerners (this late in the season, the number of Westerners has dropped off dramatically). I joined the stream, entered the compound, and spent the rest of my evening quietly circumnavigating the temple along with many others, before catching a cycle rickshaw back to the guesthouse.

The next day, after packing and moving my luggage and getting breakfast at the same simple tent restaurant, I went back to the temple compound, this time with my meditation paraphenalia. I'd decided to bring with me an inflatable Thermorest sitting cushion to use as a zafu (following a suggestion in my Along the Path guidebook). After some experimentation, I'm also using the one thick pair of hiking socks I brought on this trip, and my Along the Path guidebook itself. These items all together constitute my makeshift zafu and zabuton. I sit on the inflated cushion with the guidebook tucked under my rear for a bit of extra forward tilt, and then I tuck one sock under each foot to keep my shins comfortable on the marble flooring. This arrangement works pretty well, though I did have a brief episode of Wanting Mind when I encountered a Western meditator toting a full-blown zafu and zabuton.

There are many places to sit inside the temple compound, and many people are meditating there so one blends right in, in contrast to Deer Park. I've taken to mainly meditating in the innermost part of the compound, immediately adjacent to the outer wall of the temple. My favored spot has become a big marble courtyard directly under the spreading branches of the Bodhi Tree, just a few feet from the Diamond Throne, believed to be the exact spot where the Buddha sat.

As in Deer Park but more so, the spiritual power of the place is very palpable to me. One outcome is that I'm finding it easy to meditate (alternating sitting with walking and brief breaks) despite innumerable distractions. I'd read that others typically find this to be true, and was glad to find it true for myself. I'd been quite tired, worn down from weeks of traveling, when I left New Delhi, but these past several days have left me quite recharged.

Yesterday, late morning (after moving between guesthouses), I first took a seat facing the Diamond Throne, in among about a dozen other meditators, mostly southeast Asian (I'm guessing a bit about nationality, of course).

Observations from Days 1 and 2 (so far):

After my first sit yesterday, I realized that a stray dog (ubiquitous in India) had snuggled itself against the back of my cushion. I reached back to stroke it gently. It stayed through another sitting, then moved off.

I've learned that it's never silent at the temple; being here is very unlike participating in a meditation retreat back home. There are quieter spaces on lawns further from the temple, but I like being under the Bodhi Tree and find that here, I'm unbothered by sound that might make me a bit crazy if encountered back home during a retreat. Partly that's due to being in another cultural setting, realizing that it's not my culture that makes the rules here. (Partly, I think, it's due to the powerfully calming nature of this place itself.)

There's constant chanting, for one thing. Beginning early in the morning, the Tibetans gather to chant very close to my favored sit space, and I find that here at least, I absolutely love this. They break for a while at midday, then resume in the early evening. The various groups of southeast Asians also gather to chant, so I often hear chanting from different directions, in different languages, at once. lt all mingles beautifully together, along with the rustling of the leaves in the Tree above us.

Morning and evening are the calmest times, though you do need your mosquito protection. Midday yesterday, a Sunday, was crazy (today there are fewer people present and it's been somewhat less crazy). A big sign before the Diamond Throne explains that this is a sacred site and asks for complete silence. This injunction is totally ignored. Early and late in the day, the main sounds are chanting. Midday, you might as well be in the middle of a crowded bazaar. You hear cellphone conversations (at top volume), Bollywood ringtones, children yelling, laughter, loud conversations, and so on.

The biggest reason for the midday craziness, though, is that the breeze rises at that time of day, and leaves start to fall from the Bodhi Tree. Everyone wants them, and many people, including monks and nuns, hurtle themselves onto each that falls. The most charming, today, was a group of young Tibetan monks who piled onto each falling leaf as though playing American football. A clear case of Wanting Mind, but tolerated by the adults, even the uniformed temple guard. Regarding the leaves, I also experienced strong Wanting Mind, and had to develop clear rules for myself. I allow myself to collect a leaf if it falls directly on me or directly in front of my feet, OR so close to me that there's no question that I have dibs on it--except if someone else is clearly gunning for it. In such cases, I pick it up and hand it to that person with a gentle smile (I really do--I'm quite proud of this). Despite these self-restrictions, I have collected several leaves. I turned my Lonely Planet into an on-the-road herbarium, pressing my leaves between pages about places I'm not visiting, with water bottle on top at night as a weight.

Here, personal space rules are just not the same as in the West. I'm sometimes jostled by other meditators taking their spaces or getting up to leave; sometimes I'm asked to move when groundskeepers need to clean the area. Yesterday evening, I was suddenly surrounded by an incoming sea of meditators arriving for an evening chanting session. Within minutes, I was hemmed in on all sides by teeny meditation tents made of mosquito netting, with the corner of one tent in my lap. I moved, but inadvertently into the men's area, I soon learned--this group of meditators keep sexes segregated. I moved to the other side of the temple. Back home, I might have felt irked by this, but here, it seemed charming and amusing.

As far as portable meditation equipment goes, the Asians seem to have it all over U.S. meditators. I've seen a couple of really nice models of lightweight folding meditation chairs (Wanting Mind again!) along with the teeny tents, which looked pretty attractive last night when the mosquitoes were beginning to gather (I used mosquito repellent along with my duppatta wrapped around me, and made out pretty well).

Despite all the fascinating distractions, the experience of spending time under the Bodhi Tree feels like a powerful, compressed meditation retreat. The frazzledness and fatigue I brought with me was quickly dispelled, and I find myself able to drop readily into quiet, spacious mind each time I sit. But this is only one part of the experience of being a Westerner at Bodh Gaya. Each time I leave the temple grounds, mind calmed and opened, I'm beseiged by people begging for money (which brings up all sorts of difficult thoughts and emotions), selling me things ("Madam, postcards?" "Madam, Buddha statue?" "Madam, CD?"...), wanting to be my tourist guide, or wanting to take me somewhere in a rickshaw (I've taken people up on that, but most often am taken to the wrong place and have to find my way back, perhaps because my accent makes place names sound unfamiliar). Then irritation arises.

So there's a natural cycle here: I go into the temple grounds and experience calm, spacious mind; I go out and almost instantly experience irritation, confusion, alarm, etc.; I go back into the temple grounds and within moments re-experience calm again, and so on. It feels like life as a meditator, in which "real life" is punctuated by personal practice and retreats, but vastly speeded up. Some say that even a short time spent meditating here can have the effect of a much longer retreat. If so, maybe this very time-compressed switching between meditation and life in the outer world--bringing up irritations and rubs, then providing an instant chance to release those habit patterns, bit by bit, time after time--is the reason why.

I'll be here in Bodh Gaya until late afternoon tomorrow, when I'll take an autorickshaw back to Gaya to catch a 3 am train to the town of Kalka, from which I'll take a "toy train" up to Simla, the old summer home of the Government of India during the time of the British Raj. From there, I'll head further on towards Dharamsala.

B, K, and I had two rewarding but challenging days in New Delhi before we parted ways two days ago when they flew home and I caught the train to my next adventure.

Rewarding because we were able to see some of the highlights of that city, such as the Rajpath area, where the big government buildings and the Prime Minister's home are located. This area was beautifully laid out by the British not too long before they had to relinquish it all to the new nation of India (one can imagine, and forgive, India's freedom fighters if they felt a bit smug about that). Now it is inspiring to see, with India's flag flying high over all the buildings, lovely gardens and greenery around, and the city of Delhi spread out below in all directions. In scale and layout, it reminds me a bit of Washington, D.C. We also saw some of the ancient monuments, such as Humayan's Tomb, a Mughal emperor's tomb that later inspired the Taj Mahal. The resemblance is unmissable. And we all loved visiting the National Museum, which contains wonderful collections of miniature paintings, sculptures, and other works.

Challenging, because we were constantly and inventively inveigled to go shopping, something we weren't interested in doing at all. Generally, I think that was because taxi and autorickshaw drivers earn a commission whenever they succeed in bringing tourists to a shopping site. Hence, they tried very hard to drive us to shopping locations, using every trick in the book, and in some cases just driving us to a shop without first telling us that's where we were going, then pleading with us to "please, just spend 15 minutes!." When our last autorickshaw driver tried hard to take us shopping, he heard such a loud, heartfelt chorus of "NO SHOPPING!" from the back seat that he really did give up. I'm left wondering whether such hard selling is usual in Delhi, or whether it's because the winter's stream of Western tourists is beginning to dry up and people simply need to work harder to make money now.

After all that, B and K came with me to the train station to see me off, and I boarded my overnight train to Varanasi Junction, which serves both the city of Varanasi and town of Sarnath. Originally, I'd planned to stay in Varanasi and make a day trip to Sarnath, which is the location of the Buddha's first teaching. But not long ago, I realized that I'd become too tired to handle the frenetic experience of being a Western tourist in yet another major city, and that what I really was looking forward to was the more peaceful experience I expected in Sarnath. In the end, I cancelled my guesthouse reservation in Varanasi, and caught my train (P, I'm so sorry to miss the opportunity to visit such an important and historic city, but I'm saving the list of wonderful suggestions you emailed me for my next trip.)

Once the train arrived at Varanasi Junction yesterday morning, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and caught an autorickshaw to Sarnath. For much of that 10 kilometer drive, we inched our way along through a throng of agitated young men, who seemed to be involved in an organized protest march, though I never inferred its purpose. Often, some of them smacked the rickshaw nearly hard enough to dent it, and even the driver seemed to be a bit scared. When you're a visitor to another country, there's always so much you don't understand! I kept my fingers crossed that the situation wouldn't escalate, and we eventually made our way through the crowds to arrive at Sarnath's taxi/rickshaw stand.

I'd asked to be taken to a part of town where there are guesthouses and temples to stay in, but the driver and I didn't share enough language for me to get that goal across, so I just picked up my pack and walked in that direction. As I trudged along, a chorus of voices followed me: "Hullo, Madam, rickshaw?," "Madam, give me...!," "Hullo, Madam, do you want guide?" I wearily turned everyone down.

Before long, though, I found myself looking through a wrought iron gate into an entrancing garden, and then realized that the location was a budget guesthouse recommended in my Lonely Planet. I booked a room there and haven't regretted it. I put my pack in the room, intended to head out for a day of explorations, but before I knew it, I was flopped out for a long, deep afternoon's sleep.

In the late afternoon, I set out to explore a little, though I really was still too tired. I made my way through Sarnath's wonderful archeological museum, gazing wearily at dozens of beautiful statues of the Buddha and bodhisattvas, as well as a famous lion capital that used to top Emperor Asoka's towering pillar here and is now the national emblem of India. Then I wandered into the Mulgandha Kuti Vihar, a lovely sandstone temple containing beautiful paintings of scenes from the Buddha's life.

But I was so tired yesterday that only one thing really registered, out of that whole afternoon. In the museum, when a Japanese Zen teacher turned his head to answer a student's question, I noted his utter mindfulness--just his student's question, nothing else attended to--and his compassionate face. Oh, yeah, I thought, THIS is what it's about, just day by day, slowly-slowly trying to become like that--I'd almost forgotten.

Finally, I headed back to my guesthouse, stopping to buy some bananas and biscuits for a simple supper.

A long, deep night's sleep, and breakfast in my host's stunning garden, shared with many singing birds and a pair of honeymooning Ukrainian travelers, went a long way towards rejuvenating me this morning. I headed immediately back to the monastery ruins at Deer Park that are Sarnath's main tourist draw. It's late afternoon now, and I recently left there.

Nearing the ruins, I weaved my way past perhaps a dozen huge tourist buses towards the entrance gate. I had to wait a couple of minutes to enter, as streams of tourists along with disciples and their teachers exited the grounds,and then I finally made my way in, guidebook in hand (I'm using "Along the Path," a guidebook to India's Buddhist sites, written for pilgrims).

Inside, small groups of students and teachers were scattered among the ruins of many monasteries and stupas. The Deer Park is the location where the Buddha gave his first teaching on the Four Noble Truths, the eightfold path, and the Middle Way. From various locations, I could hear groups chanting that teaching in Pali, the language the Buddha used.

Soon I found myself standing before the foundation of the Dhammarajika Stupa, ruined many centuries ago. Many say this stupa was erected to mark the exact site of the Buddha's first teaching (others say a nearby stupa marks that location). I felt drawn to slowly circumnavigate it in walking meditation. I've been much neglecting my meditation practice while I've been traveling, and it felt good to return to the familiar practice of mindfully feeling the weight on my feet, the lifting and lowering of my legs, and the feel of the breeze and sun on my face and hands. Soon, my long-frazzled mind had calmed considerably.

Calmed as I was, I then began to slowly realize where I was, and the importance of this place. When the Buddha came to Sarnath, the ancient story goes, he had made a choice. He could have simply enjoyed his enlightened state and entered nirvana--no doubt a powerfully attractive alternative. Instead, he chose to remain to teach what he had come to know through his enlightenment. He taught faithfully for 50 years.

I have known this story for years, but it had not felt viscerally real until this morning. Perhaps I was a bit of a sight as I made my slow way around and around the stupa. All the other Westerners present were acting like tourists, not meditators, and all the meditators were faithfully grouped around their teachers. But I was beyond minding how I looked. I felt a slow, powerful wave of gratitude fill me as I made my way around and around the stupa, and tears filled my eyes. I also felt the deep holiness of this place; it exerted a steady physical pull on my heart as I walked.

I went on to spend the rest of the morning exploring the other ruins of Deer Park, including the site of the hut where the Buddha habitually rested and meditated (I meditated in the shade of the ruined shrine that marks it, at one point hearing the sound of footsteps walking towards me, then the click of a cellphone camera as someone took my photo), the ruins of many monasteries that were active here for centuries and then abandoned, and the tall Dhamekh Stupa erected by Emperor Asoka to commemorate the Buddha's first teaching. Alternatively, I sat in meditation at various locations, and did walking meditation, as a sort of self-retreat. Meditation comes very naturally here!

I'll remain in Sarnath through tomorrow, and then head on to Bodh Gaya, the site of the Buddha's enlightenment.