Baby Pillow

Today I heard a 'story' from a Tourist. The Tourist was upset. He had seen an Indian woman using what he thought was a dead baby for a pillow. The Tourist didn't want to look but he couldn't help but stare. The woman jumped up and grabbed the baby pillow by the legs. She approached him signaling for food with one hand while dangling the baby pillow by the other. The baby pillow wasn't dead – yet. The Tourist described the baby pillow as having bones for arms and eyes which were only half open: as if waiting to pass back into the oblivion from where it came.

The Tourist backed away and then walked as fast as he could away from the woman and her dangling, dying pillow of a baby.

What could the Tourist have done? What would you have done?

A New Perspective: bent necks and singing bowls

I haven't written for a long time, I know. And the time has been weighing down on me as if it were tangible and could be held and accumulated day by day. But as the weight increased it became even harder to write. Articles sat hidden, somewhere inside the invisibility of my lap top. Each time I would think about searching them out in order to complete and post a blog, I found an excuse to distract myself and yet this only added to the weight. The thing is that these last few weeks have been as busy as they have been heavy – but not necessary busy with yoga, or even with learning, but with strange events...

After the large Volcano under my arm had erupted, I resumed my yoga training. All was going well, until on my day off I was tempted into a plastic tent offering Ashtanga Classes. The teacher of the Ashtanga Class was not actually a 'trained' teacher, but that is besides the point. The point is that after the first Sun Salutation where the untrained teacher began picking up students and pressing their feet against the wall (to achieve what exactly?!) I should have taken my rainbow coloured (thanks Dan!) yoga mat and walked. However, a mixture of stubbornness and curiosity prevailed and before I know it I am in asanas which I should not be in for many more months. Two days later, my head is hanging onto my right shoulder, my neck is bending in direction it really should not be bending and my right shoulder far far away from my left shoulder– the top three vertebrate of my spine have moved. This combined with a neck crunching shoulder moving massage for a trained yoga teacher, meant I was once again, in unimaginable pain and the yoga course was on hold. Now previous experience of the local hospital meant that I didn't even bother with the beautiful walk down the hill, instead I revisited the Alternatives, and along the way found an incredible Tibetan Doctor of Massage.

The Doctor of Massage is actually the cousin of the Doctor of Acupuncture (who helped to rupture the Volcano), and coincidently, their uncle, is a famous Tibetan Doctor, who rumour has it treats the Dalai Lama (that is of course when he is not in a private Western hospital). I took my bent neck and hanging head to the Doctor of Massage who over the course of three sessions has managed to realign my spine, as well as providing some 'free' advice. This advice goes something along the lines of: “You have a body of a Princess!” Meaning: “Your body is very weak, you should be a gym instructor not a yoga instructor”. As well as: “You have an acid body!” Meaning: “You should not eat Japanese food” etc etc. However, I have never had a treatment like the one the Doctor of Massage gives, and I recommend to anyone in the vicinity that (even if your head is not handing and your neck is not bent) you should make an appointment for a completely surreal Tibetan 'massage'.

The treatment goes something like this:

Strip to your underwear and sit on the bed. Within minutes the Doctor of Massage will have 'read' your body, and be ready to manipulate it back into its original place (even if its been several decades since your body has been there). He does this with a combination of deep tissue and chiropractic techniques. Then he will place hot hot HOT pouches of herbs all around your body: One on the sole of each cold foot, one under each clammy palm, one on your forehead (leaving a fake bindi mark for a whole 24 hours after), and (if you have a bent neck) innumerable amounts of hot hot HOT pouches under and around your hanging head. Next the Doctor of Massage places a row of Tibetan Singing Bowls (identical to the ones used in Buddhist monasteries) on top of your body. He then begins to play the bowls – sending waves of vibrations filter through your body, reverberate through your tissues and settle in your bones. Waves of bright blue electric transpire through your body and mind creating colours behind your closed eyes. The combination of the vibrations, the singing sounds and the hot hot HOT heat would be overpowering if it were not so addictive. Even the most subtle of vibrations seem to reach the most forgotten part of flesh, ringing through your blood and carrying with it all that needs to be carried away – awakening the most dormant of stressed filled tensions and hidden emotions; singing them to silence.

Of course, my straighten neck was not the last of my 'health' problems over the last few weeks. It was immediately followed by flu, and then by a chest infection, which the Doctor of Acupuncture tried to treat by sticking needles in my face and even through my thorax (perhaps he was just trying to silence my endless questions?). In fact, after my initial reservations of 'Alternative' medicines, I would now describe myself as a triast – as I take both prescribed decongestants and aryuvedic formulas all with a face full of needles.

Luckily, I have the time to be 'ill', which is what is needed when one is trying to finish a two month long yoga teacher training course. Moreover, it is virtually impossible to feel sorry for yourself in India. As soon any thought of self pity attempts to seep into your mind, an unknowing beggar, (usually with leprosy eaten hands) will offer a smile and a wave, and the attempt of self pity will immediately transform into a mixture of Gratitude and Guilt.

What is more is that perhaps the cause of all of these infections and illnesses lays right in front of me. With such intensive yoga practice, it is hardly surprising that toxins are finally rushing from my body, which leaves me with no doubt of the Power of Yoga.

Anyway, I feel much 'lighter' now after finally writing an update....more to come!

For more on the Doctor of Massage visit his website: http://www.tibetanmassage.com/

Reincarnation

A place in the mist, fog.

High but not high enough.

The eagles soar above the rats which scurry below

A race around the urban

The urban which is localised, spreading, extending, unseeing

The urban which is simultaneously Forwards and simultaneously Backwards.

Backwards to a place far and near

Forwards to racing and dirt, pollution of the mind, the body, our, your, their land.

Blinded.

Educated.

Streamlined.

Full of histories, personal, unified, extreme and mundane.

Conversations, Commerce

Actions, Meanings

The repetition of History

The re-Creation of the old

Round and Round until the dizziness takes and hides the Reality

Land divided by borders and by sea,

People divided by languages, labels and assumptions

Escaping one exploitation to join another

Re-Education

Exhalation

Living dreams while destroying others

Division within Unification

Confusions.

Round and Round

Different, Similar

Generations continue, faster and faster and faster

Smaller and smaller and smaller.

Explosion?

Compassion

Yesterday the Tibetans left the streets of Mcleod Ganj. Every Tibetan shop, hotel, restaurant, cafe, Government offices, school and street stall remained closed. The streets were eerily quiet. Finding food was difficult, as the majority of cafes are Tibetan. Even the women squatting on the street corners, selling their four rupee circles of fresh bread never appeared. The Holy Cows wandered around with more room to maneuver and to graze. The zooming booming bursting cars, driven by Happy Hindi pilgrims had even more motivation to speed. Tourists walked around with nothing to buy but space just to stop. By the afternoon groups of local Indians had gathered to watch minstrels, talk, watch and I guess just to enjoy the temporary emptiness. Yesterday Tibetans left the streets of Mcleod Ganj so that they could fast and pray and do so together. They were going to begin a 12 hour fast in memory of the many Tibetans who have been martyred in the past few months. Tibetans who have died in prison, Tibetans who had been slowly tortured to death, Tibetans who were shot during the March demonstrations, Tibetans who stabbed themselves and hung themselves because they 'could not live one more hour under the Chinese Occupation', Tibetans who have disappeared.

Their 12 hour fast lasted from seven in the morning to seven in the evening. The fast did not take place hidden from view, within houses, or behind locked doors, but in the grounds of the Dalai Lama's Temple. They were joined by many tourists and by many foreigners who live here. I didn't meet any Indians who were fasting. As I walked to yoga at eight o'clock in the morning I walked through a river of robes: monks and nuns all drifting down to the Tsuglagkhang Complex. Small square cushions in their hands, and an almost jovial atmosphere in the air. In solidarity people gathered together, and it was the grouping of people acting peacefully, sitting in memory of friends, family and country wo/men who they may have never met, and taking a very personal action to feel they are 'Standing up for Tibet'. It was the 'communality' of the fast which really made an impression on me. In Oxford I had taken part in fasts for Tibet in the past – but I had done so on my own. Indeed, the 12 hour fast was called for by the Tibetan Solidarity Committee, and took place across the world. However, by sitting together and sitting publicly a statement was being made. I thought of all the people around the world fasting in silence, continuing their daily life, working, talking and thinking with few people to share their thoughts of Tibet, and few people to give them support. Yesterday, once again, demonstrated the strength and resilience of the Tibetan people in exile. While observing fasting, the Tibetan exiles and supporters simultaneously offered prayers for the wellbeing and long life of the Dalai Lama, world peace and, for freedom from oppression for all sentient beings but especially in China and Tibet. What was even more striking was the address made by the Kalon Tripa Samdhong Ringpoche; The Chairman of the Tibetan Cabinet stated that the aims of the fast was not a protest borne out of hatred and anger but an effort to strengthen the Tibetan commitment to non-violence and to create compassion in the minds of the oppressor. It was a statement which left me feeling amazed, and which continues to reverberate through my mind. A powerful thought.

Making Magic: An Ode to Musicians

I am listening to an album entitled “Dhramasala 2008”. I copied it from a man I met only briefly and yet was so intrigued by that I wished I could have met him for longer. But this man didn't want to be met by me. He just wanted to practice his yoga and to play his music. He was a peaceful man, who believed in the energy and life-force of all nature's beings. He lived in Israel near the border of Gaza. He rocked backwards and forwards while he played his guitar and sang of 'Shanti'. He was with a woman from Turkey. A beautiful woman with a voice so mesmorising it would be impossible to talk or even to think while she shared it. She rocked forwards and backwards as she sang. They fitted perfectly together. I told them so. They agreed, but said it would be for a short time – only – incredibly.

Next to them sat a dark man with a red shawl – like a wolf under a thick bright cloak. His hair was shaggy, his face lined, his voice deep and his fingers manipulating locally crafted bamboo flutes. Flutes which he brought to life, producing a sound so smooth that they dragged you towards their sound, taking you with them, towards a place neither of you knew. He was from Australia although described himself as a man of this world, but living parallel to society. He had once tried to escape from this 'society' and managed to do so for many years, but decided there were certain aspects he needed to continue to grow and to learn. So he is picking and choosing – in a limbo between a life within himself and within the wild world, and a life shared, urbanised and globalised. In replies to the songs of 'Shanti' he would bellow of 'Passion and Romance' and words which make no sense but are full of meaning.

Then there was a man of few words but of so so many sounds. A man from Argentina. He played the tabla, he played the table, he played the plates and the glasses, the spoons and the floor. He stood on the small wall and played the stone pillar. He played everything and anything. His rhythms seeped inside your own fingers, and made them want to join. There was another man who also tapped the same personalised unified beat from a different tabla. A quiet Indian Man who expertly and loudly banged his drum. Most presumed he was from Israel. Maybe because he was always with Israeli girls or maybe because he just looked 'different'; with long shiny straight hair, never speaking, always smoking.

Then there was a German man. He played the Hang. Like an upside down steel drum, or a shiny wok. It made the most incredible sounds. It is one of my most favourite instruments, and yet strangely I have no desire to try to learn to play it. Perhaps because it is too Magical. Not from this world. Echoing within itself, reverberating all around. It is one of the most fulfilling instruments I have ever heard. Fulfilling – until it stops, and then it leaves a new space, which was not there before it was played, but which lingers for some time after. It is a space which can only be filled by its own creation. The creation of something which cannot be felt, or touched, which cannot be smelt or tasted, which cannot be bought or sold, which is invisible to everything but our ears. Around these magical musical people sat a collection of their wares. Some small rounded maracas, which could be shaken and thrown, banged and tapped. A solid brass bowl, borrowed from the Buddhist monks and producing golden rings of sounds, deep to high, softly steady.

These are a few of the musicians who met by accident in a small simple restaurant in Bhagsu. Who did not know the name of those they played along side. Who joined rhythms which they could not resist and which left their dinner growing cold, forgotten in front of them. Who made introductions after deciding scales, if at all. Who began romances knowing the day they would end. These are a few of the musicians who are of different nationalities, of different cultures, of different beliefs, of different languages, of different lives, of different occupations. They played the same music – deep and true, pure and addictive. From within. Poured out. Beautiful to hear. To be shared. To enjoy. Impossible to explain. Impossible to remove from the moment. The healing, peaceful energy giving power of the invisible audible language of what we call “Music”.

To you talented instinctive passionate performing people, who came together for only a few nights: Thank you for your gift which you created from nothing, and which you gave so freely. Thank you for 'the vibrations running through my body that they multiple, that feel so right.' Thank you for those few nights of blissful sounds, where my head could not stay still, but where my mind was freed..

Keep Travelling - Keep Playing – Keep Sharing.

If you would like to here some spoon tapping, table banging, impromptu singing and moving beats, I have a recording of 'Dhramasala 2008' – although as one of the performers reminded me – Magic cannot be recorded....

Holy Cows

Cows lay in the road at night. I guess because the concrete holds the warmth of the day longer than the grass. They take night drivers by surprise. They refuse to move. They are the Holy Cows. The Holy Cows walk along the road during the day, facing on coming traffic and nonchanclantly refusing to budge. Horns beeeep, Holy Cows stand motionless. If it rains they find shelter under a shop tarpoline. Staring straight ahead – still, as if a wooden antique waiting to be purchased. If a passing curious tourists stops for a stroke, a reaction is rare. Occassionally, a grunt escapes. Or a turn of a horned head, which can appear more threatening than the intentioned curiousity behind it.

When they become hungry, the Holy Cows stick out their thick rough rolling tongues. They slowly lick spilled sauce which has bubbled over pots and now sticks to the gasoline stoves which wait to be washed outside of the chai shops. The Holy Cows graze on the street garbage – on the wooden boxes discarded, on pieces of plastic impossible to digest but possible to munch and to swallow. Often, the Holy Cows can be caught pursuing an empty packet of crisps along the road – nudging them forward with each attempted lick, and never becoming bored or frustrated and yet only being fully 'satisified' when the salty greasy foil bag is inside their Holy stomachs.

If the Holy Cows are feeling in the mood for a feast then they wander up towards the Bhagsu road, where the massive rubbish containers explode with waste. They move their heads instead the rusty openings, and feed from the trough of filth. Monkeys dance around them, sitting and swinging from the rusting frame, dropping their picked fruit stones back into the pile of rotting debris.

Occassionaly the Holy Cow can be seen assuming its Holy role. A hindu shop keeper will tempt it towards their shop. Waving fresh chapati as if it were a red cloak. If successfull, the seduced Holy Cow will stand patiently as the devotee will pray in nameste and hand feed it chapatis. If the Holy Cow accidently drops its fresh chapati, the devotee, will devotedly repeat the exercise, until the Holy Cow is fed, and therefore she is blessed. Although the blessings appear to a foreigner to be receprocal, as Holy Cows can often been seen wandering the roads with a bright red bindhi in the middle of their Holy Cow head.

When the town becomes too busy during the day they move towards the quieter areas. A favourite haunt of the Holy Cow is the pilgrim road which runs around the outside of the Tsuglagkhang Complex. The Holy Cows meander around the outside of the Dalai Lama's house oblivious to his carnivious tastes. They stroll passed the mani stones, and graze upon the mossy stone walls upon which the craved prayers lean. Pilgrims try not to be miss a Om, by preempting the direction the Holy Cows will take. Despite their Hindi roots, I have yet to see a Cow walk the pilgrimage anti-clockwise.

In fact they don't seem to be naughty Cows, for they are not disobeying anybody nor anything. The Holy Cows are Holy after all, and Holy things cannot be naughty. Can they?

Full Power?

So despite yogic energy and trillions of needles, herbs and antibiotics, the second Lump continued to grow – like a red hot volcano – under my arm until it took over my consciousness. I took the hint from the thousands of Tibetans walking around telling their prayer beads, and brought myself a set. A strange type of meditation, but with an uncanny ability to pacify, and therefore to save the few brave Indian boys who were vying for my attention from the lash of my overflowing temper. Eventually, the volcano erupted, but it did so through the first incision. As pus leaked out of my arm Bruno led me to Mcleod's Community Health Care Clinic. I could almost see the same friendly Nepali nurse sigh, as she realised that she would have to – yet again – deal with the woman with her personal volcano of pus. I was instructed to lie down, while she wrestled with The Lump. And wrestle she did. I was wishing to be unconscious. Meanwhile, the friendly Nepali nurse kept apologising for the pain she was inadvertently directly causing. I tried to muster the strength to a reply 'no worries, thank you' and let her continue to pump the volcano. About a fistful of pus was extracted. In the end she held up a swab to my face and said 'ah it looks like chocolate'. I was thankful for Kolkata for giving me the strength needed not to throw up over her.

With the extraction of so much of the infection the pain subsided a little but The Lump was still hard -like a stone- and I was still worried. I went back to the hospital. Experience had taught me that after paying my ten rupees it was necessary to bypass the enormous queue and to head directly upstairs to another doctor, who for some reason never had any waiting patients. My lump was inspected by yet a new pair of eyes and I was told that I was still on the wrong antibiotics. Hmph! This might explain why this had been going on for nearly three weeks. Now I am taking tablets every six hours, even waking up in the night to religiously swallow the little blue pills (and no they are not viagra, but cephalexin – which coincidently sounds like a suitably complex match for Staphylococcus Aureus) and something seems to be working. However, the hours of queuing alongside entire Tibetan families and entire congregations of monasteries was not totally avoided, and the doctor at Delek Hospital sent me to have my blood sugar tested to see if there was a link between The Lumps and diabetes and, unlike Vijay, try to find out if there was a physiological reason why I had developed two infected lumps in succession. After three hours it was concluded that my blood sugar was 'normal'.

The other 'something' was a meeting with a man from England who lives in Denmark and who has just received his 'masters in Reiki'. This does not mean that Master Reiki has studied Reiki for years at a special university for slightly 'alternative' people, but it means that here in Mcleod Ganj he has done one of the fast food courses in alternative training. (On a side note, Mcleod Ganj has made me see 'trained' alternative therapist a little differently. I am amazed at how anyone can apparently learn an ancient healing art, based on intuition and age old symbols in just seven days.) Anyway, Master Reiki kept appearing in my days and kept offering his healing hands so I decided to give Rieki a go. After one and a half hours of 'healing' the pain had certainly reduced, even if it was only temporary, and I felt much more relaxed. Master Reiki asked me to lift my arm and asked me if I still felt pain – I assured him that of course I would feel the pain, after all I still had a big infected cut under my arm and on top of a large hard as stone Lump. Apparently I also gave Master Reiki my headache – or rather shared it with him - as this was still very much on top of my head. I have no idea to what extent the Placebo Effect had to do with my pain barrier, or indeed if there can be some more 'scientific' explanation for how the placing of hands on a body can bring relief but, ultimately I was still left with a large burning hard as stone Lump. Still feeling incredibly sorry for myself, all that had really changed is that now I had too many new old questions such as – what exactly is an aura, how can some people see them and others cannot, why does Rieki apparently work for some people – or rather how? Master Reiki told me my arm was healing.

However, gradually the volcano simmered down into a hard plate, which is still under my arm (under its daily padding of Tibetan herbs – the smell of which I am actually becoming fond of; perhaps I'll suggest Dr Palden starts his own 'Tibetan Herbal' range of strong smelling sticky brown pastes? ) I revisited Delek Hospital today and a smart Tibetan doctor (with an American accent and wearing rangi changi multi coloured yak wool socks) told me that I need another 5 days of blue pills. This is going to make a total of 22 days on antibiotics. Dr Palden Tsering is still determined to bring up the hard lump to the surface, although he has stopped sticking needles into me. Every day he still tells me 'not to eat sweet' , 'no drink milk' and 'no eat onion' and a strange word which we eventually worked out (with the help of his vegetable tray) was 'garlic'. This advice echoes the concerns of the Western Tibetan doctor who tested my blood for high levels of sugar. On reflection I guess sugar is food for Staphylococcus Aureus. Perhaps the avoidance of milk is because of its mucous forming potential. And as for onions and garlic- I have no idea, but the link between food and illness and treatment is certainly very interesting. In fact The Lump has indirectly taught my a great deal. During my many acupuncture sessions Dr Palden has been indirectly been held hostage to a barrage of questions. I have asked him everything which popped into my head: how do you find acupuncture points, what are meridians, what are the herbal medicines made from, are they home made or bought, and if so from where, how long he has been in India, what is the difference between Chinese medicine (453 pressure points)and Tibetan medicine (157 points) and so on and so on. What has fascinated me is his holistic way of viewing the body. He told me that he once visited Italy and was amazed to learn that they have a doctor for every different part of the body: “they even have a doctor just for the eyes” he told me. In fact Dr Palden was so shocked by the 'eye doctor' that he went to visit one and told him that his patients need to have their liver tested and not their eyes. I used this opportunity to ask him if my sore knees (which I blame long distance cycling for) had any connection to my organs? He replied that my stomach was too cold and I needed to heat it up. What about sickness? “A cold stomach” came the reply. And Insomnia? “A sad heart”.

So I apologise to You and to Bruno for being so self absorbed and 'serious' and although I am still not 'full power' I am certainly 'half power' and with Master Reiki sitting next to me offering me another 'healing', Dr Palden's compress of herbs under my arm, a new prescription of blue pills and medical advice over flowing my gmail account, I guess I am in safe hands after all.

Hopefully – not to be continued.

Beating the Bacteria: The Alternatives

Wow. What a roller coaster of internal emotions and temporary physical pain. I can now write this blog because finally my head is clear enough too. This in itself is disconcerting, because it reflects that in the past two weeks I was unable to think of anything other than myself. This is a state I do not like to be absorbed within in.

So for my sister, friends and doctors who I have never met but am so thankful for here is one final spurge of self absorption before I leave behind (insh'Allah) all thoughts of Lumps, bacteria, pus and pain. For anyone else, please bare with me and I promise that soon my writing will return to discussing far more important and interesting topics...

With the appearance of a second Lump, I began to become scared. The fallacy of living in a spiritual Indian oasis, was quickly replaced by the thought of what on earth I was doing here, or more rather what on earth would I do if I became very sick very quick? The absence of reliable accessible health care does not matter in times of health, but with the volatility and fragility of our bodies such a carefree mentality can disappear very quickly. Soon I began to hear horror stories of people dying overnight for lack of adequate medical treatment. Obviously I did not think that I was about to die from a Staphylococcus Aureus infection multiplying underneath of my arm, but I was scared of the thought of the infection spreading to other organs of my body.

I decided to consult the internet as a way of gaining reassurance that my treatment was correct. My sister replied with tales of septicaemia. While a welcome email from one of Magic Man's million doctor brother's told me that not only did I need a histogram, but that "TB was much more likely". Help!

Unreassured and scared I continued to trust the doctors at Delek hospital and the other voice in my head, which was Bruno, both of whom insisted that I had a Staphylococcus Aureus infection.

The new lump continued to grow, and with it came a new pain which danced around my chest and seeped through to my back. My entire left side was swollen and tender. I was even allergic to the medical tape used to stick the dressings over the wound. It was impossible to sleep, and with such a combination it meant that my mental strength quickly dissipated. I saw a second doctor at Delek hospital and I was told that my first set of antibiotics were no use to beat this spectrum of bacteria, and so I was put on a different set. The lump was too hard to be cut out, so I would just have to wait for the hard like a stone lump to rise to the surface.

Because the only result so far from visiting the Western hospital was a new wound and a new lump, I decided to give the Alternatives a second chance. I visited a recommended Tibetan doctor, and for the last seven days Dr Palden has stuck needles around the lump and at various incidences along the invisible connecting meridian. Consequently, I have had wobbling needles sticking out of my elbow, hand and even opposite knee, for fifteen minutes each day. Apparently my body is 'weak' (which I prefer to redefine as 'sensitive'), and this is why I can not tolerate more than such a short time of being a breathing pin cushion. Although this was not a pleasant experience it was not painful, more 'uncomfortable', as I waited for Dr Palden to find the appropriate meridian by wiggling the needle a little deeper into these various parts of my body. What was even more 'uncomfortable' was the compress of herbs which he continues to strap under my arm each day. The aim of the compress is to help the hard like stone Lump to mature – to become soft. The herbs apparently do this by producing a heat which grows in intensity as the day progresses, so that by the evening the burning has grown into a ball of fire, from which there was no escape unless I removed the compress – which I guilty did on two occasions.

Dr Palden's English is not great, but his knowledge of Tibetan medicine is clearly extensive – he trains monks, and this knowledge of traditional medicine has been in his family for as long as can be remembered. I asked him if he had a son, and if so was his son learning this ancient healing? His reply was that yes he does have a son, but at the age of four perhaps he will wait a few years before trying to pass on his knowledge. In fact I am not even sure if Palden is the Doctors first name or his surname, as in Tibet the order of the names are placed in the reverse. When I asked him if his first name was Palden or Tsering he just replied 'yes'. Anyway, Dr Palden Tsering's explanation for the new Lump was that the first Lump was cut before it was mature. Therefore the blood was still unclean, and the bacteria still needed to find a place to settle.. He warned that although he was strengthening the meridian in order to prevent a third Lump, if the second Lump was cut before it was mature, a recurrence was more or less guaranteed. This made me weary of the doctors at Delek hospital who kept 'offering' to cut it out. Another interesting explanation which Dr Palden shared was that both of The Lumps were on my heart meridian, which would explain the pains in my chest. The heart meridian also controls the emotion of Anger, and therefore I would now be feeling very 'angry'. Indeed, for the past two to three weeks this 'anger' has been steadily simmering along with the volcano.

Obviously hardly been able to lift my arm meant that my yoga practice was still on hold. However, as it was my left arm that was invaded, it meant that I could still hold a pen, so although I was unable to do any physical adjustments I could still attend the theory part of the Ashtanga Teacher Training course. Vijay was concerned. Firstly I had visited a Western doctor, taken Western antibiotics and had a Western operation. In his eyes – this was clearly interfering with my natural healing capacities (which in my eyes had clearly gone on holiday). He spent the beginning of the session philosophising on how everything had a cause – even if it was not obvious to our human understanding, which lead him on to karma and karma and karma. Message received – this was my bad karma, and there was nothing I could do about it apart from ride it out. However, Vijay does not like any living being to suffer, so despite my apparent unexplainable explainable cause of my own misery, he offered some healing. He told me not to tell anyone. So all I will tell you about his fifteen minutes of magic was that the Olympic Games was playing on the television, it was wrestling, and his assistant was forced to watch it in silence – apologies Balu.

To be Continued...

Dreamings

I keep having dreams about Gita. They are disturbing dreams. I dreamt that I returned to Kolkata and went directly to Sishu Bhavan. I began to look for Gita among the running children. I couldn't see her anywhere. I asked the Sister in charge where Gita was and she pointed to a blind child – but it wasn't Gita. She insisted it was I who was mistaken. Doubting myself I approached the child and began to speak. She didn't recognise me. But something was strange about her. Like Gita she had no eyes. And yet unlike Gita she seemed to know the World. She knew about the invisible – about colours, about shades of skin, about the size of the world, about the air and about the enormous space above and around us. She knew because she had just lost her eyes. Her eyeballs had been stolen from her. I tried to tell the other volunteers, the Sisters, my friends, but no one would believe me.

Last night, once again, I dreamt that I returned to the orphanage, but this time I took Bruno with me – I wanted him to meet Gita. This time I found her easily. Although she was much younger – she was a baby. As soon as I walked into the room she sensed my presence, and once my wrist produced a jingle jangle she came tottering towards me. Immediately I sensed Bruno was thinking something. He whispered to me that Gita had down syndrome. How did I not know? I told him he was wrong and that he just had to spend more time with her. I picked her up and insisted that we sleep at the orphanage. Both Bruno and I crawled into her cot and slept. I woke in the middle of the night to find out that in our sleep we had suffocated her. I had killed Gita.

In real life, I woke up upset. I told Bruno of my dream – he replied that he had also dreamed of Gita.

Can any sense be made of these sub conscious dreamings?

Today I really miss her.

A Walk Around

Walking along Mcleod Ganj today and I realised that I don't See as much as I used to when I first came to India. I am not totally sure why. Perhaps because the daily life – the colours, sounds, noises, interactions have become too normalised to be noticed. Or perhaps because their is not so much to 'See' as in Kolkata. Yes there is poverty and destitution here, but on a much smaller scale. In the next few days I will write a blog specifically for those I am now implying are 'insignificant'. In response to these confusions, today I tried to look. To See around me. I began by watching a monk. The monk was sitting on a park bench, but without the park. The bench was perched on the side of the peaceful pedestrianised pilgrim road behind the Tsuglagkhang Complex. The monk was moving his prayer beads – one by one – rapidly, silently, noticeably. I wanted to sit beside him. To see what he was seeing. Knowing my desire was impossible, without intrusion, I continued walking up the road. I walked behind an old stooped Tibetan man. He was toothless, but with his mouth gaping. His wrinkled hands clutched his mobile prayer wheel – spinning. I strided past him, trying to leave his meditation undisturbed. To my left the hill of Mcleod Ganj sloped down to the larger town of Dharamsala, but in between stood rows of green lush pine trees, bushes and granite rock. All fresh with cold water. To my right rose the wall of the Tsuglagkhang Complex, next to which piled rows of mani stones – a representation of peace craved with strength and perfection and decorated with painted colour or by nature. As I walked further towards the bottom of the town, the noises of human life began to grow louder. I plugged music in to my ears. Today I wanted to See – not to hear. I wanted to try to be an observer, and not distracted by self consciousness. I selected my most calming tunes: What I usually play when I know I am going to have to pass a gang of men, or when my nerves are too tense to fight the traffic and stay calm. But today was different, I just wanted to See, and not to be part of what I was seeing. So just as a man who wants to choose which parts of his daily life are 'real' and therefore dresses each day for a performance, I also wanted to block out part of the reality around me in order for other parts to become more obvious. An unaccompanied cello playing Bach was to be my soundtrack.

The entrance to the Tsuglagkhang complex is lined with Tibetan stalls. Tibetan women, wearing pale silk blouses and pinned to criss-crossing plain dresses, dripping with green, red and cream stones. They gather together on their backless plastic stools. Cups of steaming chai in one hand, and broken yellow Tibetan bread in the other. Dunk – Drip –Swallow. I paused at a stall which had a pile of tiny golden cylinders – for holding blessings which are then hung around necks. The stall holder looked up, I diverted my eyes and continued. Directly outside of the complex were a new collection of banners showing recently tortured martyrs. I know they were martyrs because their torture had been so severe that the photographs showed dead bodies, only enlivened by names and ages. The burning of The Lump under my arm seemed to miraculously disappear. Next to the banner showing the young faces of the Tibetan monks who had been on the 'infinite hunger strike' where internet print outs, showing their same faces, after eight days of starvation.

A chai man/ weather man ,who disappears whenever it rains, and who offers you a seat on his sloping pack of slippy concrete was pouring glasses full of boiling flavoured milk. A Tibetan woman wearing a cowboy hat was unpacking strings of prayer beads made out of stone, wood and horn. Two monks passed in front of me. One with a colour coordinated maroon and yellow back pack. The other with his hands clasped behind his back. One wrist wrapped in solid prayer beads, the other hand holding a large screened mobile phone, enhancing the weak noon sun, and reflecting it towards my watching eyes.

My walk up the hill towards the centre of Mcleod Ganj slows as I am caught behind a crawling man. The man is walking on his flip flops, one on each hand. Around his knees he has strapped caps of plastic, tied to his dirty jeans by pieces of string. A skinny foreign woman with threaded dreadlocks comes into my eye line and motions to me to remove my headphones. I obey – out of curiosity. “Do you want a new hairstyle?” She asks. Expectantly. “I am fine with this one.” I reply. She waits for an explanation as surely my plated mess of curls is crying out to be dreaded and bound? I smile and replace Bach. As I take a step forward I quickly have to dodge the crawling man just in front of my blind feet. I offer an apology to him, but his face is staring intently on the concrete close to his face, and his internally tuned ears more closed than mine.

A old nun, shaved grey hair, curving shoulders and working fingers stood by the side of the road. She was staring intently at a colourful postcard display of Buddhist deities, including the smiling peaceful face of the Dalai Lama. I seemed to pass her many times. The same face – a different woman. Another woman walks past. An Indian lady. She is wearing a kurta, with a scarf wrapped around her head. She is balancing a gas cylinder on top of her shoulders. She walks steadily. Surely. Oldly.

A tall Tibetan man caught my attention. He caught my attention because he didn't 'fit'. He was wearing a maroon coat. One arm through one sleeve, the other long sleeve fashioned to fit around his waist, and stuffed with yak wool. His hair was black and shining. It was long, but plated and looped around his skull. He had enormous rings of silver through his ear lobes, and a necklace of turquoise strung around his neck. He stood erect, with a posture so perfect and so 'controlled' that just by 'being' he seemed to acquire an external respect. He was curious and stopping at nearly every shop – never entering but standing near the doorway, pursuing their wares and then striding quietly to the next. I felt rude to watch, pretending to look behind him, or to the side. I felt the curiosity which the Indians who follow me must feel, only with more respect.

The road was too small for the four wheel 'tourist' or 'pilgrim' jeeps which honk their way through, mowing down all that is in their way – except of course for the Holy Cows, which had already lift their splurges of cow shit, now trodden into the road. The Holy Cows had already roamed away from the busy street, and would probably not return until the evening. In the meantime, they would probably be grazing in their favourite spot of the local rubbish dump – which isn't really designated as such, but which piles up between Bhagsu and Mcleod Ganj.

The ladies selling their re-heated momo's stood on the corner as I crossed from Temple road to the adjacent Jogibara road. Ten rupees for four, spicy pot luck potato pockets – mouth burning chilli sauce included. Woks waiting to heat, boxes filled with pre-made pastries. Opposite them sat the fruit sellers. A row of cardboard boxes and upside down plastic crates. Symmetrical from one end to the middle, showing shared space between two separate merchants. A Tibetan woman holding a steel bowl runs after a rolling apple as it bumps over the wet road only to be caught by a filthy grate. I wonder if she will buy it or return it to the pile to be bought?

Packs of Indians, Packs of Tibetans, Packs of Tourists. Intermixing through commerce and through the English language.

I walk past the box. The man is not there. I purposefully walk close to his house. The tattered yellow sheet of a door is partially opened and I look inside. It is filled with the fluffy multi-coloured shawls all tourists walk around wrapped up in, rain or shine.

To my left is the imaginatively named Main Temple. Easy to miss, only obviously visible when standing next to its walls of prayer wheels. Clockwise only – people and traffic. Indians and tourists alike squeezing anti-clockwise, anti-Buddhist, through the corridor of prayers, to the quieter parallel road.

I notice a man walking next to me. He is so close he could be holding my hand. He is not looking at me but staring. I should ignore but before I can control my instincts I look up and look directly into his eyes. I see his mouth instantly move. His words remain silent to my plugged ears and I am able to comfortably walk by. I gaze into one of the many Tibetan cafes with an Italian name, which line the road. Small tables packed closely together. Boards outside advertising every type of cuisine – from Tibetan to South Indian, from Israeli to Mexican. Just by looking at the clothes and hair styles I pick out a cafe filled with Israeli tourists. The only local people are the ones serving. I think of the cafe's in Israel. I never noticed any groups of Tibetans in any. Although I met plenty of Philippin0 domestic helps at the Internal Security Office in Tel Aviv.

A women with one finger and a bandage wrapped around her stumps of arm offers me a namaste. I reply with my own 'fingered' hands. She smiles. I smile outside and feel the seeping guilt spread within.

And this is a ten minute walk through Mcleod Ganj. A small view from behind my eyes.