A Brief History of Hair

I’m eating macadamia nut Cadbury chocolate. Someone is trying to learn the F chord. A few others are playing Uno and another is making tea. I think I’m getting green tea, but I can’t be sure. It’s Sunday night, I’m feeling relaxed after my day off and I eagerly await the arrival of the majority of those coming on Action for Life. They’ll be here at 4am this morning. Excellent.

As for this entry, it has nothing to do with that. It’s about haircuts.

My hair, at least what’s left of it, has taken on a number of styles in the years. I probably topped out in second grade when moms put me up to a so-called “spike”. It put me about ten years ahead of the same look that became popular in New Jersey when I was graduating high school (and which made you distinctly and easily recognizable as tri-state). The cut, combined with missing my two front teeth, made me a hot target for the females in Ms. Tretter’s Parkway Manor Elementary class. That all changed when I actually moved to New Jersey later that year and found that I was ten years ahead of the curve and the “spike” had lost its magical touch.

Regardless, hair grows and so did my adventures with it. Mostly parted to the side through junior high. Getting longer and stranger in high school, including a go at bleaching during my senior spring break with some guys on my baseball team (this included getting my ear pierced at a Wal-Mart…which is another story). In college I shaved my head for the first time. Actually, Andrew shaved my head. First taking it to a one blade before convincing me that I needed to go all the way. He bicked my head in Base Rich and I’m still sure that this marked the day that my hair began its official retreat for the rest of my life.

From there, it got long, it got short, I shaved it again and finally realized once and for all this spring that I will probably keep it very short for the rest of my life. (Unless I get cool like one of those old dudes who rocks a kind-of half-bald ponytail. It’s not that it’s a good look aesthetically, but it symbolizes a point that those men have reached – becoming completely detached from all need to impress anyone.)

When I got to India three years ago, I fought the inevitable haircut for a long time. There’s a lot of variables with a haircut in India. Will they understand what I want? Will they cut my ear with rusty scissors? Will they do anything…gulp…unexpected?

Most of these fears were allayed when I looked around. Almost every man in a city or town in India is immaculately kept from the neck up. Perfectly coifed hair, neatly trimmed beards and mustaches so nice that they make clean cut boys green with envy.
Once I crossed the first Indian Barber Shop threshold, I never looked back. The tidiness of the trim and the fact that they will give you a proper facial shave (with straight blade) make it an experience not to be missed on any trip to the sub-continent.

With relish, I hopped in the back of Sumo and took the 3-minute blast down to Panchgani town. Out the back door, I first bought a volleyball for a game later in the afternoon and then took it next door to the local barber shop.

The shop itself only measures about 6’ by 15’, three chairs for the chop and the regular six for the random dudes who always seem to find their way into a barber shop but don’t do anything there. The proprietor welcomed me in and offered me a seat. “How much for the haircut?” I asked. He returned with the most classic of all Indian male gestures. This being the regular head-waggle along with hand move that looks like he is gently back-slapping the air in front of him. In short, this means, “don’t worry about it, we’ll figure this all out later.” I fell for this move once before and thus the reason I asked for the cost out right. Still, I decided to roll the dice, seeing what he would give me and try to bargain post-cut.

I sat down and looked for a place to put the volleyball. It could have gone anywhere, but we oddly settled on the basket on the vanity – which he actually used for his combs and scissors and would need to access more frequently then any other part of the entire store. Surprised and slightly amazed, I focused on the work ahead hoping he would understand my single directive: “short”

He trimmed and I made small talk with one of the other patrons who wanted to take me on a tour of the neighboring town. I also took the chance to survey the room. A remarkable collection of old stuff including a radio from the 50’s, an beautiful set of drawing of popular Indian haircuts from the 30’s and a TV playing satellite movies. I sat back and enjoyed, this, one of my true guilty pleasures of living in India. I sighed out. It would be my last moment of peace.

With the haircut looking in hand, he asked me if I wanted a shave. Excitedly, I agreed. When one is born in the 80’s in America, the likelihood of having one’s face shaved by another person rates so low on the probability scale that it’s more like impossible than improbable. So when I have a chance to relive the greatness of days when men got a hot shave on the regular, I seize it like with vigor. It comes along with the same strange feeling I get to want to wear a cool three piece suit and hat and walk on the dirt-trodden street of turn of the century New York City. With a smirk of his clean-cut face, he broke out a fresh blade and went to work.

First, he smacked some shaving concentrate on my check. Wetting the brush, he began to build a lather, which eventually covered my three-day-old beard. Soon, the blade hit my face and began to scrape away the scruff. He worked it pretty fast, cleaning off my beard before doubling up for a second go-round. After, he pounded my face with some aftershave and then went in with some moisturizing lotion, massaging my face in the process. (Well, massage is a loose term that he would have used. I would use something like “getting my face smacked a bit, kneaded with lotion and then smacked a bit more.) By the end I’m knackered and he prepares his hands for round two with another bit of lotion. My face was feeling like it might actually begin to swell – as well as being smooth and shiny. This carried on for another two minutes before I finally had to ask him to stop. Surprised, he looked at me and said, “head massage?” Knowing my limits, I said, “no thanks”. As his head waggled in response (read: I am about to massage your head whether you like it or not) I leapt from my seat and reached for my roops to settle up.

I pulled out a 50.

“Is it fair price?” I asked.
He looked away from the bill.
My tour guide friend said, “You should pay what you feel is right.”
“I always pay 50 rupees for a haircut and shave. Isn’t it about right?” I said, doubting myself even though it was the truth.

The hair-man looked away again. The tour guide said nothing but gave me a gentle head-waggle (read, 50 is okay). Feeling strange, I looked at my cash situation discretely: A 50-note, two 100-notes and a 500. I didn’t want to go much higher than 50, but I saw my 100 as a weak play in a bargain for 70 rupees. With another thought I handed him the 50 and thanked him, telling him that I would be back. He looked disappointed. I took my volleyball and left.

I felt a bit bad, but I got redemptive backing from my storekeeper friend next door who said 50 was middle of the road for a cut. Still, I second-guessed. I will need to have my haircut in Panchgani again…and, it was a good haircut…hmmm…I put it out to you all. What’s my next move?

An Elephant-Sized Festival: Day Two

After a quick breakfast (well, lets be honest, “quick” does not describe Indian sit-down meals well, but after breakfast nonetheless), I hopped on the back of Anand’s moped and cruised down Tilak Road. We bounced the potholes over to Laxmi, the true heart of Ganpati.

We popped off the bike a block away from the main drag and immediately encountered the throngs, throbbing. Even before noon the street swam with people and music erupted from the asphalt. Pushing through the five-person deep crowd, we spilled into the main action, only to be restrained by a string of men holding hands and creating a human fence. On the other side of the human chain a 30-man drum line crashed down the lane, thumping, clanging and cracking in time. Shimmying down the crowd, we shot into any open space and slowly made our way down the street to our destination.

As if the Lord Ganesh had come down himself to deliver a blessing to us on his special day, Anand just happened to have a “sister” (reads as 2nd cousin in Pune-speak) with a flat one floor up from the street. Not only a nice flat, but a perched balcony a perfect 15 feet above the parade.

Her family welcomed us as their own, relishing the opportunity to teach us their holiday rituals. They sang the aarti at their household shrine. We watched them put the coconut-fried dumplings at the elephant feet. We shared them afterwards and walked out to the balcony to survey the goings on.

I’ve never been to a big parade before so all kinds of ideas came up as I watched this one unfold. For instance, the success of a parade depends on the street size and surrounding buildings and their relative scale to the parade. Just like the NYC skyline fits the Macy’s Day balloons perfectly, so did Laxmi Road complement Ganpati. A street wide enough, but not too wide – able to accommodate, two cars, two rickshaws and two sidewalks. Buildings shot up five stories on each side, staging the street as a true theatre. Balconies full of onlookers watched as the endless stream of people and floats flowed down the avenue. An epic arena for an epic event.

Over the course of the previous night, the neighborhood men had moved their Ganesh idols from their localized stages onto individual floats. In the wee hours of the morning, the floats gathered in a queue to parade down Laxmi. From there they begin their parade down the many mile parade path. At some point en route, the float amasses an entourage: the neighborhood youth, a drum and dance troupe, a tractor, a generator truck and another float that holds a concert-worthy stack of speakers with a DJ. So we aren’t talking about single float anymore, we are really talking about a five or six part processional that easily stretched up to 600 feet.

First, the drum and dance troupe. Drilling out percussion on 30 bass drums and six or seven snares. Usually in call and response. In lock step came a posse of dancers, tapping out traditional rhythms with their feet and shaking their hips to the voluminous drumline. Following them came a couple hundred partygoing youth, jamming at full-throttle as the tractor behind them towed a mass of speakers that peeled paint off the buildings. Finally, at the end (and sometimes almost as an afterthought to the fanfare preceding it), Ganesh would appear.

After a few mandals passed by, my friends and I really began to embrace the possibilities of being the few random foreigners enjoying this very Punewalla festival. We also held the premier spot above the madness to do so. Already, the pulsating music stirred our bones into action, keeping us up and dancing on our perch. We must have been some sight because we attracted heaps of attention. The minute anyone in the parade processional peeked up from their Bollywood dance moves or drum thwomping and caught a glimpse of our crew, they would start smiling and laughing. When they realized that we were dancing with matching energy, they would lose it and begin to absolutely rip out. Waving and dancing, this went on and I began to feel like the celebrated and honored guest of Pune’s Ganpati. How else to explain this lavishness? We spent hours leading the dance party like parade royalty. I laughed and danced with that intoxicating concoction of feeling when loud music, masses of people and once-in-a-lifetime experiences mix.

Thankfully, we settled into the kind of rhythm over the hours. In fact, the day itself slowly began to feel like a family holiday or a vacation at the beach.

Essentially, there are four important steps to truly enjoy Ganpati.

1) Watch/Participate in the parade
2) Eat/Drink Chai
3) Say Prayers
4) Sleep

Repeat as needed. No particular order. If one prefers to watch the parade, say prayers and then eat – fine. If one prefers to sleep, wake for a sip of chai and return to sleep – as you like it.

It took me some time to truly grasp the freedom within this structure. At first, I wanted to enjoy the parade only; then I felt the need to attend to my hosts and their requests. But as my danced-out legs, over tired smile and music-blasted brain fatigued, an inevitable rest brought me inside. Within minutes, I went horizontal and completely embraced Ganpati.

When I awoke, I found the Indians looking at me in a new light. As if I had finally understood some important truth or attained some low-level enlightenment, I emerged from the slumber like a new paduan, gently returning to overlook the ongoing street-level madness.

Night had fallen and I still hadn’t made it to dance with the people at street-level. I’d given three newspaper interviews and been broadcast on television, but I hadn’t yet seen the action from within the parade itself. It was time.

To think that some parades are not fully participatory is now a bit shocking to me. Given my Ganpati experience, I stand firmly in the belief that parades should be so open that one can literally walk down from his flat and enter the parade immediately to open arms and dancing feet. So we did. I flew out the door and into the parade. At first, I hit a wall. Men and women do most of their public dancing here separately and I had landed in bird central. Disappointed, I stepped back again to avoid any over protective uncles and I sought out the next mandal and my opportunity to dance with the stars.

It didn’t take long, another Ganesh came into sight two blocks down, so we hustled up to the Maharashtran beat and quickly found ourselves at the center of the attention we had only till now felt from the balcony. With music blasting behind us, we started to dance-walk up the street. The best part about dancing with Indians is that they are keenly interested in you enjoying what they are enjoying. They also have a style where pretty much two people just mimic each other as more others watch on. Otherwise you can flail around as you like. Since I found myself in the middle of it all, I had plenty of dance partners and found myself playing the mirror to their hectic moves. In full swing, it now looked like I actually knew a step or two (or at least tried) and this brought on heaps more encouragement from the sweltering and crushing crowd. Even after two blocks I found myself completely out of moves and energy, I felt only too happy to see the apartment starting to pass by. Darting out of party city, I breathed deep as I hustled up the stairs.

We returned to the flat only to get find ourselves on the receiving end of a massive powder storm. The next mandal, a particularly exuberant group, doused in the pink stuff, found in us a due target for their blessings. The usual smiles and jubilation quickly turned colorful as clumps of the stuff sped up from the street to meet us, like snowballs firing on higher ground. In the dark, I couldn’t pick up the stuff fast enough to dodge it and caught the first of the grape shot splattering on my check and shirt. A second round found my mouth and I dove inside to take cover and spit out the harsh material. One of my other friends didn’t fair so well, catching the brunt of the mortar. The apartment also sustained major damage, the balcony coated and a new interior design thanks to a couple of open windows and doors. The hostess assured me this onslaught should be considered good luck, as a blessing. The host looked less certain, grumbling quietly as he looked over his spray-powdered family room walls.

It seemed like a fitting end to our stay. After 10 hours of parade (and the promise that this would carry on well into the next day) we decided to scoot home for some rice and dal, dodging through two more paraded streets before we reached the door.

At midnight we gave the carnival another shot, staying this time on Tilak Road, home of my host. Itching for another street-level dance, we found a young crowd, playing Ganpati to the hilt. But when a number of overly aggressive dancers tried too hard to keep us in their dance party, we felt the strange discomfort of being at the mercy of a mob and muscled our way out of the parade (believe it or not, at 5’10” I actually tower over most Indians, a particularly helpful trait in this situation) before dashing back into Anand’s apartment entrance.

Opting instead for the rooftop view, we rocked up the stairs and watched the madness unfold from five stories up. All across the city, fireworks blasted off, illuminating Pune in a celebratory radiance. At about 1:30, a float came down Tilak Road shooting off its own fireworks. For the second time, we came under fire, this time with actual exploding projectiles. The smallish fireworks would only go up about 70 feet before erupting and so we were only a mere 20 feet away as they popped and displayed their stellar variety. The first time I literally dove for cover. Each subsequent time I welcomed the blast, easily the closest I may ever come to fireworks in my life.

After another hour we tucked in, sipping hot water to ease the fatigue and chill from the steady night mist of the monsoon. The last I remember of the day rang the clang of bells, like an alarm clock as I slipped uncontrollably into unconsciousness.

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Oh Ganpati, if only you finished there. Instead, I woke up to your siren blasts, still walloping the walls of Tilak Road at 7:30am.

Exhausted and somewhat delirious, I walked outside to see the street. Unlike the previous night, the floats were now against time and stuck in a complete and utter traffic jam. The 10-minute rests between entourages had disappeared completely. Now one float literally came on the direct heels of its predecessor, music intertwining as if some drugged up DJ had just gained control of the levels, mixing a laced cocktail of Banghra and Bollywood.

Choosing breakfast over the beats, I ate up and prepared my bag for the walk to the train station. What I really needed was a pep talk and some strategy (knowing full well from the past day that white skin meant joyful target for a powder toss or a rowdy dance routine). I thought to move quickly and camouflage under a low profile and a disinterested face. We hit the road on the march, moving at speed past the ragged-looking paraders. They all looked too exhausted to cause much trouble, so I cruised along. A gentle mist started to fall again on Pune. I thought we would be in the clear in no time. Still, the rhythm started to drag me back. My head began to waggle. My hips began to shake. My hands started to twist and move in time. My face, so touched by my constant vision of the epic happiness before me, started to shine again. Soon I found that I was no longer covert, in fact, I was again standing out.

At first this attracted the dancers, who reached for my arms and tried to drag me in. I have learned a few good moves of escape (first from wrestling with my brother as kids, second from a year of wrestling in middle school and most notably from the previous night) so I handled those efforts well. The ones I couldn’t handle were taken care of by Anand, who swept in and calmly blasted the young ones with a stern word and decisive action. It all looked good to escape unscathed when at last I saw a float so wonderful and faces so joyful that I just looked up and beamed a glorious smile to them. They smiled back and then promptly rained down two bolts of orange, catching my left side in full. In an instant, I realized the foolishness of my resistance and the futility of escape.

You see, India is a place where you join in, where you participate, where you embrace the relationship between people. Embrace their humanness and your own humanness. Feel the dirt, the air, the rain. Eat with hands. Sit on the ground. Take long chai breaks. Get blasted with orange and mist and take a 3 hour bus ride standing up on the way home. It’s the philosophy of participation that makes India a special place.

Ganpati, the most wonderful parade in the world, not the most beautiful or the most decadent, but the place where all are welcome to participate and celebrate being alive.

An Elephant-Sized Festival: Day One

When your country holds over a billion people, it makes certain things possible. One option that becomes available is the chance to do something big.

Since I arrived here, a talkative administrator offered me a weekend at his place in Pune, the city about 3 hours bus ride from Panchgani, a fairly remote hillstation. His frameless glasses and multi-colored hair cast an interesting shadow on the man, suggesting a history more curious than his current stead. When he added that I ought to bring my friends and visit with him during Ganpati, the annual Ganesh festival, it seemed starlit. I arranged the trip, eager to get some face time with India outside of my humble abode in the hills.

Cutting out of work on Saturday afternoon, we rolled down the road in our Asiad bus, watching as the mists of the tabletops evaporated at lower altitude and warmer temperatures. The ride to Pune, familiar like the trip to summer camp, winds down to Wai, a classic stop which always takes too long for its size. (My only hypotheses have revolved around good looking store merchants and a sensational chai stall). While there, I catch my first glimpse of Ganpati: An overstuffed vendor in the bus ticket booth sits caked in the orange and pink powder, Ganesh’s favorite party accessory. Too perfect, I imagined. The man, who many probably grumble with day in and out finally got his due, -- locked in his small box, indefensible against the marauding devotees, fully loaded and ready to deliver twin handfuls of the lord’s blessing. Surely, I thought, this will be a great weekend.

Passing through the countryside and the second of two tunnels, Pune emerged and we drew in to the city.

Following a beautiful pure veg feast at a local retaurant, we drank chai at Anand’s house, engaging with his wife’s parents and two of his children. We celebrated the birth of his second grandson, which occurred over our hot cups. At midnight, we learned that Anand would celebrate his birthday just one day after his grandson and we again toasted the occasion. Gaining strength from the sweet pick-me-up, we took to the streets to explore the festival on the eve of exuberance.

As an event, Ganpati started quietly. Families enshrined the elephant god in their homes, praying to the diety on the festival day. Offerings of sweets and nuts would lay at his feet as children and parents would sing songs together, remembering the greatness of their god. In its quietness, ganpati reminded me of my family, setting up the small nativity scene in our house and singing carols by candlelight. These intimate spiritual moments often happen best within a small family setting.

Of course, that all changed with the work of one visionary politician. Inspired to bring the people together as one, Tilak arranged the first Ganpati festival in Pune at the end of the 19th century. Seeing it as a chance to demonstrate the collectivity of a society often divided by caste, he suggested a parade. The revolutionary hoped that a visual manifestation of Indian unity would aid in his bid to bring independence to his people.
Sadly, Tilak passed away before seeing Gandhi and his colleagues walk through the promised gates of freedom. Still, the life of the long-mustached Maharashtran burns in the memory of the state’s people.

Walking through the streets of Pune, I thought might be surprised by the size and scope of what now happens at Ganpati; just as the man who invented the Christmas tree might be stunned at the 21st century yuletide.

With a gentle, floating rain falling, I took it in with joy. We emerged from Anand’s flat with the contagious enthusiasm of concertgoers en route to the venue. You see, during Ganpati, each neighborhood in the center city pulls their statue of Ganesh out of the proverbial attic and builds a home for it during the course of the festival. Home usually means a massive stage, a big PA system, a highly decorated idol and anything ranging from singing and dancing robots depicting scenes from the Bhagavad Gita to life-sized dioramas of Ganesh in action, smoting his demon-enemies. These epic stages take up sections of the street every two or three blocks. Over 400 exist throughout the city.

We strode along the streets, checking in on the various spots, chatting up the local neighborhood craftsmen, so proud to share with us their exhibit and passion for Ganpati. The bejeweled Ganesh held a similar charm to the faded porcelain of another. The grandiose stage for one statue took place just a block from the quieter quarters of another. Interested foreigners, we found attention wherever we walked, often getting snapped into photos on the omnipresent Indian city cameraphone.

Each turn on the streets brought with ith familiar reminders of Indian cities. Sweet smells of jasmine and fried puri rubbing up against aging refuse being picked over by the stray cats. The bumping party music of carnival mixing with the gentle call of the saddhu asking for a donation. The shriek of children’s laughter tied in tandem with the conversation of the neighborhood elders. India’s city returned to my senses.

The last stop, through a night market converted into another staging ground made them tingle again. Hundreds of people filed up to statue to place offerings – coconuts and flowers in a steady flow towards the deity’s feet. Hawkers showed of their wears, GyroSketches and books. Women sat on their haunches, needling fresh tattoos onto their customers. Orange flowers and white tubers adorned Garlands hanging from vendor wagons, ready for the purchase and drifting magnificent fragrances through the air. Fresh made dosas crackled and fried. We waded through the sea of people, taking in the remarkable sight of night festival and a final Ganesha mantel.

Like Christmas eve, I tucked into bed. As I slept, I knew all the Ganesh statues would be placed on floats and then queue in anticipation of the upcoming parade. Nodding off, I smiled a child’s smile…

I woke up to a bash of music. Has it already begun? Alex and I threw on our clothes and scurried outside, just in time to see the first float pass by, 25 young men parading in front, dancing and singing, covered in pink residue. My eyes lit up. The small idol of Ganesh came into view, sparking the event. Before I could realize it, a lean, bearded Indian man approached, covered head to toe in the pastel powder. Without asking, he drew his thumb through the crush clumped in his hand and with a single motion slung an upward line from the bridge of Alex’s nose to his receding hairline. He looked at me and quickly delivered the same blessing with vigor. Anand, standing at the end of our three-man line took the last. I smiled at the initiation and thanked him. He seemed not to notice, as his eyes darted back to Alex in a fit of mischievious-seriousity. In a bolt, he took the remainder of his handheld blessing and crashed it against Alex’s forehead with a powder-caked smack. Pink dust flooded the air. Knowing the progression, I dashed inside, laughing.

This is going to be a great day.

Going to the Country, Gonna Eat a Lot of Chipatis

On each of the past two Sundays I’ve taken a day off to cruise the Maharashtran countryside. The town of Panchgani sits about a mile above the earth on the top end of the Western Ghats. The Tabletops of the Deccan Plateau more suitably describe the area here. In the dead heat of summer it is beautiful and amidst the monsoon, the scenery drips with unimaginable green.

There are five stunning plateaus in the immediate vicinity – to which I’ve only climbed on two. Two weeks ago my friend Alex and I spent the morning hiking to the farthest of the five, a tiny island in the sky about three miles from Panchgani.

India isn’t really one of those places where you have a proper hiking trail to a plateau. You just walk along the road until you get close and then you walk overland to it. Typically the road carves its way through the major passages, which means they tend to butt up on the side of the buttes. Alex and I packed up our gear and took to the road, trusting our eyes and our instincts to guide the way.

We weaved through village after village, garnering the stares of many, the attention of a number of English-ready schoolboys and the occasional farm animal that blocked our way.

I’ve never experienced anything like an Indian country road. The pot-holed dirt pathway, puddles and all, works like an artery, bringing the life of the area here and there. An old man walks with two cows, a donkey and two goats in tow. A young boy labors on a rusty, full-size bicycle. A teenager screams by on his moped, his mate on the back chattering on his Sony Ericsson. Behind them a bumblebee jeep, half truck half-taxi, rattles along stuffed beyond capacity with people and product galore. A dalit woman, clad in a magenta sari, brushes the litter off the road. Three middle-aged men sit at the local storefront and chat endlessly over chai and pan. Mother washes the clothes as the children run after chickens in the yard.

A village comes into view. We pass through. Again and again.

Finally we reach the plateau. We climb overland to find the top. Pictures will do it greater justice than my words.


A week later, my friend Suresh organized an afternoon jall out to a waterfall, flowing mightily with the rainwater of the monsoon. I’d seen it from distance a week before and persisted with my Indian uncle that we take a closer look.

We set out at midday in the white Tata Sumo, a massive sport utility vehicle able to hold nine comfortably and about 20 in a jam (I myself have never been in one that surpassed 12, but I saw one today that held about 17). We packed in along with a massive picnic spread and set off towards Mahabaleshwar.

I’ve been on a few Indian picnics and they are worth some description. In the States, we tend to picnic with food that serves the function of the event rather than the other way around. In India you don’t pack a picnic per se. It’s more like you make lunch and then carry it to wherever you are going. But lunch in India isn’t cold cuts, chips and a coke. It’s a pot of dal, several hot curries, a steaming stack of chipatis, a massive thermos of rice and non-disposable bowls, silverware and plates for the lunch itself.

Surprisingly, this works really well when you drive directly to a picnic spot, but in order to enjoy the waterfall, we needed to walk a mile in with our supplies. I myself championed the chipatis, a stack of 50 tortilla like pieces of flat-bread that Maharashtrans use to scoop up curry. They were held in an insulated plastic container, light brown with a dark brown trim. Alongside my khakis, brown shirt and rainbows I was thrilled to declare it the fashion accessory of the year (plus, everyone loves the keeper-o-chipatis). My friends made strong bids as well, one lining his pockets with silverware and sounding like a trail-blazing grunge 7th grader with a massive chain wallet. One walked patiently with stacked metal containers filled one-top-of-the-other, carefully balancing the main course. Another simply carried 15 metal plates.

In general, I just had to laugh. In almost every sense, we couldn’t have packed more inappropriately for this picnic. No bags, a lot of metal and most everything resembled a soup except for the fried fish (another questionable picnic item) and a massive load of bananas. In the same moment, everyone had something to carry and no one was overburdened. We walked to a gorgeous spot, had a glorious picnic and walked out with big waterfall-curry smiles on our faces.

In some ways I figure this provides a pretty good glimpse of how India works sometimes. At first glance the process seems ill-thought out and ill-prepared. Yet in the doing, everyone plays his part. Even though it may never really make sense the whole time it’s happening, sensibility often has nothing to do with the eventual outcome. We share a nice meal, a good view and a nice memory for the rest of our days.

Vajra Guru

When I returned from the Far East in 2005, I immediately stepped into a role as coordinator for a program much like AfL. Following the massive cross-country expedition, I returned to Washington, DC, pretty spent and unclear where my next step would take me. It was the moment I had put off for about 5 months and it finally crashed on me hard. I began a slow crawl to the job search market, exploring the development field with a heart to continue some kind of service to humanity.

One day, I walked through the old Initiatives of Change office in Washington (where I worked for two years after college) and bumped into an old colleague. She asked about my plans, where I was headed and what I wanted to do. I had no response other than to say that I had been chasing up some leads at development agencies in town. Without any further prompting, she looked at me and said, “Chris, you are a natural teacher. You love learning, you love people and you can communicate ideas effectively, creatively and with passion. You should look into teaching.”

It hit me like Dearest Sree’s breakfast cart on my flight to Mumbai. Stung awake from a vocational slumber, it took a breath for me to grasp it. Teaching. She planted a thought I’ve been unable to leave since that day. The next morning I plotted a new course.

In retrospect, I’ve never been able to place that moment – when it happened, who said it, why she said it. But I knew why it happened. And from that point on I’ve always been interested in the people who seem to come in and out of one’s life so gently, but say the small things that seem drafted more from the universe than from the human conscience.

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My pursuit of education brought me full circle to join in the coordination and training of my current program. The bulk of the training will start in October, but recently I got a very welcome invitation to begin my tenure as a guru a few days early.

I met Prabakhar the first day I arrived at Asia Plateau. I felt his generous smile fall easily on my face and I returned it with my own. There are few things better than a good smile, the kind that comes more from the chest, or even the stomach, than the brain. His steel-rimmed frames brought focus to his gentle eyes and his graying goatee matched his hair, in a slow fade into old age. With his name, he shared his beautiful baritone voice, one well-practiced on the radio stations and theatre stages of Kohlapur. It saturated my ears with riches as I soaked it in like a small boy drinks in the call of his doting grandfather.

His name popped like a poster. I’d just finished reading Shantaram this spring (a recommended epic tome by Gregory David Roberts about life on the lam in 80’s Bombay), in which the protagonist makes his first friendship with a warm-eyed Mumbaikar. The endearing man went by Prabhakar. My favorite character from the book, I couldn’t help but be taken with my new friend.

A couple nights later, my friend Suresh asked me to play a few songs for a small group here in Panchgani. Prabhakar attended and followed me up after I finished. He suggested that I teach him to play the guitar. Clearly, I am like putty in Prabhakar’s hands by now, so I agreed, planning a time. He asked if we could start a day later.

“Why?” I asked.
“Because,” he responded, “If we start the next day, it will be Vajra Guru. The day in India when we honor our teachers. It’s a most sacred day and fortuitous for my pursuit.”
Perfect.

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When we sat down for the lesson, we both did our best to fill our roles. He took off his shoes and touched my feet in a sign of respect. I blushed and almost shooed him away before recognizing his sincerity. In turn, I sipped chai and lent him my guitar for the lesson, which he cherished with careful hands. We worked the basics and made slow but steady progress. His patience struck me. It’s unusual for a grown man to take slow growth with such grace and unwavering persistence.

We concluded the lesson. He was concerned my chai had run cold. I assured him there would be more chai to drink later. He apologized that my focus on the lesson drew me from enjoying my tea. I laughed. Recognizing my sincerity, he laughed too.

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The next day he asked me into his office, a small room with painted cement walls and one medium size window made just a little too high to be enjoyed while sitting. We had just finished a lunch of roti, dal and aloo gobi.

“I want to share with you my favorite music,” he said. “This is Ustad Bismillah Khan. He’s a famous Shehnai (like an Indian oboe) player from Bihar. He spent his study in Varanasi, playing in the Hindu temples along the Ganges.”

We listened for several minutes, the tables providing the steady background for the instrument as it floated from the long strides of introduction into the furious ornamentation and flash of the finish.

“Prabhakar, what does Ustad mean?” I asked.

“It means maestro. But unlike for Hindus, who use the term Pandit, Muslims typically use Ustad do denote a true master.”

“So if he was a Muslim, it was still okay for him to play in the sacred Hindu temples in Varanasi?”

“Ha. Yes. You see Chris, music can transcend even religion in India. It is common for students to take gurus of different religions. In their study, they will learn the songs the master knows. Often, this religious music will have been passed down from his guru. Hindu students will learn songs in praise of Allah while the Muslim students will learn devotions to Shiva. The music operates both inside and outside of religion in that way.

The power of music can even reshape the sturdiest walls of identity. Ustad Bismillah Khan learned his craft and preformed at the foot of the Ganga, the most sacred river in Hinduism. At the time of partition, he was encouraged by his fellow Muslims to move to West Pakistan. He refused, saying, “If I were to leave India for Pakistan, I may gain you as my neighbor, but who could replace my Varanasi? Who would be my sacred Ganga?”

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In my pursuit of education, it’s always wonderful to learn the old lesson that I am always in the learning, even when I teach.

Wild Dogs Redeemed: The World Conspires

There is breaking news with regards to my last entry.

You remember the story of the wild dogs stealing my sneaker. In this tale, I revealed that I had reached the peak of my own ridiculous behavior/decision-making by putting a mothball in my shoe as means of deodorization. Well, I didn’t actually tell the whole story. In fact, I left out an important chunk. But because of the eventual outcome, now I can and will tell it with some degree of pride intact.

The reason the moth ball made sense to me as a potential solution to my problem was because when I arrived to the Jungalow, I opened my closet and crashed backwards with the hectic and unmistakable stink of mothball. The odor, so pungent its still on the tip of my nose, seemed the only smell big enough to crush the wild dog smell. Say what you will, but that was my reasoning.

Now, since the mothball smell was that strong, you can understand why I tossed them out immediately, knowing that otherwise they would stink my whole wardrobe. I tossed them into the small garbage can in our room without a second thought. Well, here comes the more revealing part of my idea to eat the shoe odor with mothballs. As you can now see, in order to actually follow through with my idea, yes, I had to dig through the bin in my room. It actually had a fair amount of trash in it (my roommate had just unloaded his paperwork from previous travel) so I crouched down and began to sift it.

Quickly, I identified the mothball at the bottom. As I yanked it out, I actually took some papers with it and they flopped out onto the ground. Nigel, my Australian roommate, curiously observing my American problem solving in action, exclaimed, “Hold on a minute mate!” In a singular act of redemption, a small hologram had flown out along with the papers and came to rest with them on the floor. He reached down and picked it up, lifting it into the range of the Jungalow’s bare light bulb. “It’s the code! It’s the code for Windows!”

You see, for the past two weeks, Nigel had been laboring over his computer. In a last ditch effort to save it, he reformatted. Unfortunately, the codes he had for the Windows program didn’t match up with the disc he was trying to use for installation. It had been slowing our work and frustrating him beyond belief. Without any knowledge of where it was, he was staring down a bill to buy a new license and a trip down to Pune, 3 hours away and the nearest city for that kind of software. Now it seemed to drop right out of the sky. Later that night, he came back to me and said that the codes worked flawlessly and his computer was back in action.

It was an extraordinary and absurd turn of events – the kind of completely unlikely chain reaction that actually happens in life and helps me to believe in the unbelievable.

Morning Jewels and The Prodigal 992

Every morning I wake up at about 6:00. The morning light still distant, I can see the sky through the jungle leaves, painted grey-blue like the storm clouds over the sea. Birds fly and sing. The first ones. The birds that remind the other birds that the time has come to sing and talk and be awake. I am not a bird. So I turn over and go back to sleep.

At 6:55 I get out of bed. My feet hit the stone floor of the bungalow. I’ve grown accustomed to the fact that it’s not cold on the ground but rather warm and cozy. Not like the rock lining a fireplace, but more perfect for an early morning. (Wow. I just remembered a project I completed for Miss Blackstone’s 4th grade science class. We had to invent something [in theory] and advertise it to the class. Oddly enough, I invented a floor heater so you never had to have cold feet in the morning. Man, that’s still a good idea, and here I am just writing on a blog ☺). Now I can join the birds by giving a shout at my roommate Nigel and telling him to get a move on. He must think I am like the first bird, so he rolls over and goes back to sleep.

I take a look outside. The bungalow, a simple three-bedroom house with a small kitchen and two bathrooms sits in a patch of jungle (should start calling it the jungalow) and far removed from the majority of the center grounds. You have to traverse the thicket to get through from the back or down a gravel path from the main road. It’s secluded and getting there at night can be quite a challenge and dodging the odd snake makes for a good adventure. For now, I’m mostly surveying the area to make sure that the wild dogs and monkeys haven’t snatched anything else from our stocks. Already we are down a bath towel and one of my New Balance 992s. (as a side: I did find the shoe eventually, but it went for a pretty good ride and I’ve had to seriously consider what risk I might run by wearing it again. In a brutally honest demonstration of my denial in dealing with this problem, I will say that when I found it, I brought it inside and couldn’t figure what to do with it. In a move of desperate procrastination, I put a moth ball in it to see if it would eat the smell of wet leather. Writing that now and quite apart from the moment, I can truly see just how ridiculous that choice seems, though reasonable at the time. Wow, I just made myself laugh. And I haven’t checked back yet…Oh boy…on we go – and this was supposed to be a more thoughtful blog and here I am writing about shoes, foot warmers and mothballs. I am praying that this entry can be redeemed from here.)

When I return inside, I take a seat just inside the window that lets in the light. I take my morning quiet. Reading a passage from the Bible usually and then spending most of the time to write and think about life the day and questions I usually don’t take the time to consider during the course of the day.

It’s not something I often do with my crew at home, but my mates here do the same (in their own way) and we get it together after 30 minutes or so to share with each other whatever’s been going through the heart and mind. My teammates here think and live thoughtfully and creatively and I’m grateful to hear their insights on life. Sometimes mundane, sometimes funny, sometimes profound and powerful, they all bring a special kind of light to the beginning of the day. When we share, they inspire me and I get down what I can. Here is a collection from our first weeks together.

• Emotions are our teacher. But they are one of many teachers. They are important, but they are not my sole guide.

• When the lips of heaven address you by name, pause and listen closely.

• The greatest enemy of humanity is half-truth.

• When I say to someone – “I am too busy” – it places the doubt in his mind: “Do I matter?”

• Being a good potter is not just knowing how to work the clay. One must also work the clay with the right spirit

• If you have clarity, share it. But share it in love. Love should be a pre-requisite for opening one’s mouth.

I write this and ask for your jewels. What’s been the thought or phrase or reminder that’s been coming to you lately. One little gem that you can share with the small community that visits here from time to time. Share with me and I’ll pass on the good word back to my crew here.