What is Work?

I've been back home from India for about five months now. Although I have been asked by many caring friends and family how the trip was, what happened, was it all I hoped...I have been unable to say anything but that it was lovely...secretly knowing that it was also hard, depressing, enraging and also completely enlightening.

The hard parts weren't just the field visits to rural villages where I experienced real poverty first-hand. Mainly, it was the sexual repression of women that I was well-prepared to encounter, but not numb enough to remain psychologically untouched by for 90 days straight. Still, that's life in Rajasthan. No big deal. It's obviously worked for them for thousands of years, so who am I to complain?

As the weeks went on after arriving home, I began to see that this trip really did have some significant effects.

For example, I no longer drink on a regular basis. I can't drink; my insides seem to have been irreparably altered by being on Doxycycline for three months straight. Even the occasional evenings of a few glasses of red wine with friends requires me to take the next day off and remain relatively close to the bathroom.

My desire to have a child increased dramatically. I had been randomly taken to two separate Shiva temples and couldn't help but make that one...last...prayer...

I've lost all the Hindi I learned, although for some reason I still know how to say, "I'm going to take a shower."

I've come to some peace about being a global nomad, but I battle with my obligations to home and family. This last trip to India nearly killed them; how can I keep leaping off to some foreign country without worrying that I'm letting them down?

What life-work, then, is the right path for me? Am I supposed to concentrate on finding a life partner, settle down, and procreate (finally)? Or am I supposed to follow the other bliss and travel, write, learn from and share with others in the world?

In the Pink

There really was no purpose to seeing my hair stylist before leaving for India; I’ve had a very nice color job done here, for free, during the festival of colors called Holi. I probably wouldn’t have preferred my hair to be pink, but that was the color most thrown on me by the locals in Vrindavan. No matter how much I wash my hair, there’s still a chunk of fuchsia just at the back. I’ve begun telling people I did it on purpose.

I’ll back up a bit.

On the official weekend of Holi, 3-5 March, FSD Program Coordinator Anna and I took an overnight train to Mathura, the birthplace of Krishna. This, we were told, was the place to experience the holiday. For those who don’t know, this annual festival is celebrated by “playing Holi,” which is something like a country-wide paintball game. Fistfuls of brightly-colored powder are tossed at, thrown on, rubbed into, anyone you encounter in the street. Other methods of dispersing color are in watered form, using cups, buckets, jugs, these huge bazooka-type propelling guns made of plastic, and good old water balloons (usually dropped from rooftops on unsuspecting targets).

Anna and I stayed in the neighboring town of Vrindavan, and had a two excellent tour guides/traveling companions, Ram and Vishwajit. The former is a friend of FSD Host Family Coordinator, Namrata, and the latter is his best buddy from school. We were lucky to have them; I cannot imagine how much worse we would have gotten hit if we’d been alone. (Although I can’t really imagine it being much worse. Did I mention I have pink hair?) The plan was to visit as many temples as we could cram into an afternoon. Within seconds of getting into our respective autorickshaws (Ram and Anna in one, Vishwajit and me in another), Anna and I looked like a couple of Jackson Pollock paintings. White women are a delicious target.

My first assault was, as I mentioned, a burst of hot pink that went directly into my face. Of course, I was laughing at the time, which meant all the way to the first temple I was spitting in Technicolor. So, there we all were: Ducking in and out of places of Hindu worship only to be besieged by gangs of men and women screaming “Radhe, Radhe!” and “Holi hai!” as they gleefully and mercilessly splattered us.

And don’t think that being inside the temples offered any refuge. In one of them, Ram wanted so much for me to get up close to the Krishna idol that was, as most idols are, on an elevated stage-type thing. Crowds gather behind a rope or partition to pray and receive blessings from the priests. So, I stepped up, placed my palms together in reverence...and got a faceful of fuchsia from the priest. Apparently, this is a huge blessing. I felt more like I was in a W.C. Fields film, but there you go. I got a lovely freshflower garland for my troubles, so all was well. Plus, I could use the damp flowers to wipe of some of the colors and clear a small airway...

Oh, but it gets better.

Ram took us to a grove where apparently at night the trees turn into Gopis (holy consorts of Krishna) and dance with their lord. We were warned not of this supernatural transmogrification, but rather of the monkeys that will attack you. (I immediately started humming the Wicked Witch theme from “The Wizard of Oz,” but no one got it. Sigh.) Undaunted, we went into the temple amid the Gopi/trees, where we all knelt and lowered our heads. Of course, we had to lower our heads, since the priest at this temple decided to hose us down with a warm yellow liquid that had a vaguely familiar smell.

“Is that what I think it is?” I whispered to Anna.

“What do you think it is?”

“What does it smell like to you?” I asked.

Pause.

“Oh, my god,” Anna said.

Now, I know that cow’s urine is considered holy here. I’m even open-minded enough to accept a small anointing of it. But please understand: The crowd was being soaked with this stuff like we were on the floom ride at Magic Kingdom.

As soon as we left, Anna blurted, “Ram! Was that cow’s urine?”

“Yeah,” Ram said casually. “Why?”

Anna stopped in her tracks.

“Keep moving!” I yelled. “The monkeys! And don’t make eye contact!”

Of course, Ram was joking. The liquid was a concoction of yellow flowers steeped in warm water. Just after he and Vishwajit finished laughing at us—me trailing behind unconvinced but still using my wet sleeve to wipe my eyes—everyone stopped short and backed up. “What now?” I asked, plowing ahead.

That’s when the monkey got me.

It was a polite attack. She just leaped up and grabbed at my neck, tearing the flower garland in half. She even looked sheepish as she ate the only marigold she scored. I removed the rest of the garland and tossed it to the pack, “with my blessings.”

After that encounter, I got the nickname, “Saint Rachel.” Not bad. I hope it sticks—maybe even as long as this pink hair does.

Love Letters From the Universe

Greetings from Udaipur.

I seem to have made it through FSD (Foundation for Sustainable Development) Orientation. We four interns shared two rooms at Rang Niwas Palace Hotel, had daily three-hour Hindi classes, informational meetings, and tours of the local culture, shopping spots, and restaurants. Our three Program Coordinators took wonderful care of us, and will continue to do so for the duration of our term with FSD.

On Saturday, we all got picked up by our respective host families – like a litter of puppies being adopted. My ride did not arrive, since my host mother had an appointment. So, the other PCs drove me to my new home: Shahnaz Hussain Beauty Clinic (Exclusively For Ladies). I’m living in a Muslim household, in a Muslim neighborhood, just off Fateh Pura Circle, one of the three or so shopping clusters in Udaipur. When I arrived in the stunningly beautiful Hussain house, we soon figured out that Shahnaz is not so much a host mother as a host “didi” (sister), as she’s only a year older than I. She has a very kind husband, and two children: a son of 14 and a daughter of 8. My room is on the first floor of the house, where the salon and receiving room are. The family lives upstairs. There is a painfully sweet young servant, Laloo, who is apparently at my disposal 24 hours a day.

This will take some getting used to.

After living in NYC alone – carrying my own 35-pound bags of laundry and hauling bags of groceries home to cook alone – it’s hard to deal with a knock at my door offering a tray of chai or dinner or the bag of the clothing I, excuse me very much, was urged to have him send out for ironing. (This service costs roughly 60 cents. I’m just saying.)

And when I feel myself wanting to protest, I remember that the world is different here. Having someone else iron my clothing means that someone else’s business is getting work. If I’m here to help in some way, then patronizing businesses is one way to do that. (Although I admit I still clear my own dishes. Poor Laloo has to get a little help!)

Of course the real reason I’m here is to work. Which brings me to the next point: I know I told everyone that I was coming to work with Mahan Seva Sansthan to help develop community theater projects toward education. Apparently, my supervisor, Rajendra-ji, had a better idea: He wants me to write a film script.

You read that right.

I have been employed to write a script for a documentary film covering MSS’s major projects over the last 10 years.

Now, let me explain how the title of this blog factors into the story. I call serendipities – or life’s coincidences – “Love letters from the universe.” When they happen, I see them as guideposts. Something like, “You’re in synch; the universe has your back.”

Most of you know that the way I have been able to afford this volunteer excursion is by taking a decent portion left to me from my father’s estate. My sisters have families, so their portions allowed them to provide for them by putting money down on new homes. I have no family of my own, so I wanted to do something that would make a lasting impact.

The first “love letter” came when I received the news that I would be working with children. In other words, since I don’t have my own children, the universe said, here: Have India’s... (My friends say I don’t have a family yet because I’m married to my work. I’d contest that, but I’m too busy...) But no, now I receive the rest of the love letter that says I get to be in India to apply the work I love most in the world for people in need. It’s almost too incredible to believe.

Of course, now I have to learn all about rural education systems, tribal politics, watersheds, vermicomposting... I’m doing a lot of research, asking a lot of questions (in English as well as broken – shattered, actually – Hindi), and reading stacks of project reports. Hopefully, it will sink in.

If not, I’ve cleared it with Rajendra-ji that I can add musical numbers and turn the whole film into a Bollywood extravaganza (a la “Swades”). At least I think I cleared it with him; my Hindi is so bad...

Evermocha

One of my favorite sayings is, “When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.” When applying this to my morning rituals, I’m like Bluto in Animal House. I’ll just hang out where it’s comfy as teachers come and go and someone has to threaten me with expulsion.

In Bombay, my morning ritual has always been to have my coffee at Café Mocha, a short walk from my hotel down Veer Nariman Drive. I know the walk by heart: where the sidewalk dips, where to step over broken cement blocks into patches of dirt, the paan vendors, the massive shading trees. On the first day I was back, city workers were cutting down one of these trees.

I think it was a sign.

Mocha is no longer the café I once knew. Instead of being able to find a quiet outdoor table among the few travelers and students, the place is packed almost exclusively with young students – four and five to a tiny table – alternately puffing on hookahs and talking into their mobile phones.

The word “evergreen” is typically used to describe something that is timeless. It’s a word many Indians use to describe film acting legend Amitabh Bachchan. Interestingly, he’s been in the news lately – not just for buying his son Abishek a Bentley for his 31^st birthday this Monday. The Big B has been in a largely media-fueled feud with Bollywood mega star Shah Rukh Khan over statements that SRK was trying to fill AB’s shoes.

SRK fired back this week saying, “I’m not saying he’s old, but I am young... I’m hip and sexy.” Mr. Bachchan responded that everything SRK said was “absolutely right.” He added, “I’m old. He is young. I’m not sexy. I just play sexy...” He said it wasn’t fair to compare the two men; he’s twenty years older than SRK. The media should wait until Shah Rukh is 65 and see how he fares against the current Bollywood box office hero.

Well played.

So, yesterday, as I sat in my ever-favorite Mocha, squeezed in between a pack of giggling students as I tried to form complete sentences to write in my journal, I finally came to the realization that I may have outgrown Mocha.

I think I’ll call The Big B my teacher on this one.

P.S. My iPod is on shuffle and just broadcast Joni Mitchell’s “Chinese Café/Unchained Melody”: Nothing lasts for long, nothing lasts for long...

You can’t plan that.

In My Solitude

Before I begin my nine-week stint of volunteer work at Mehan Seva Sansthan in Udaipur, I thought it would be wise to spend a week unwinding in Mumbai. It’s a city I am beginning to know, having been here twice.

Because I’m a creature of habit – which explains why I’m uprooting myself from my comfy New York life, right? – I’m staying at the same Churchgate hotel where I stayed the previous two visits in 2003 and 2004. I’m remembered (positively!) by the staff here, which is enough of a blessing that I shouldn’t need anything else...except, if I may say it, a bathroom in my room.

I mean, when I first checked in, I had one. But I was asked to move to another room since the one I was originally put in was designed for families. I was happy to move. In fact, this was the exact same thing that happened to me in 2003 – same room, even. So, I moved. The room is gorgeous; the view is excellent. But, as it happens, my new room is the only one on the floor that does not have a bathroom in it. I have to use the one in the hall.

Hey, fine. I’m used to that. When I first moved back to NYC in 1998, I lived in a cheap hotel on Third Ave. that was occupied by a revolving mass of partying Europeans. I lived through bed bug infestation and got used to tip-toeing over splattered puke to use the toilet.

By comparison, this place is heaven. But this morning I was locked out of the hall bath at, shall we say, an urgent moment by some other guest who decided to use the convenience (!) of taking care of business outside his own room. (Probably out of respect to his wife. That’s admirable, right?)

Now, despite the flexibility and open-mindedness that my Buddhist practice tries to get through my thick skull, I cringed. For obvious reasons, yes, but also the fact that the maintenance guy was at the end of the hall watching -- with great interest -- this woman in her little robe holding a plastic baggie of toiletries as she tried to slip inconspicuously into the bathroom, only to go slipping back to her own room.

In a silent frustration that shamed me even as I raged through it, I packed up. For the second time. I went to the front desk and respectfully asked for a new room. I was shown one or two, and then decided to stay where I am. I mean, really. This was silly. What did I expect?

Look: My original idea was to come to Bombay so that I could make a gradual transition back into India from the complete solitude I’m used to in my apartment in New York City. It’s not that I’m some freakish recluse, it’s just that after one lives alone for so long, one tends to forget things...like how to live among other people. I figured I’d need gentle re-immersion: apartment to hotel to host family... Instead, the universe gave me a crash course in assimilation. Not to mention tolerance.

Ah, well. Maybe my slow human brain will finally get it one day – whatever happens is meant to happen, when it happens. Bodily functions included. I just hope for better timing tomorrow...