Time again to post something for the fiber artists in the audience.
Here in Rewalsar, just about every woman who can knit starts seriously wielding her sticks around September or so. That gives her enough time to churn out some sweaters for relatives, or a bunch of socks for sale in Delhi. Joy and I actually brought along our fiber tools and a stash of yarn each (yes, they do have yarn in India, so yes, you can laugh). Since we’ve been here long enough to be considered locals, the sight of Joy or me knitting away in the sunshine fails to surprise other Rewalsar residents. For the most part, since socks are a small project that’s easily portable, they’ve been the main knitting projects we’ve been working on.
Now, I’ve been knitting a number of years on socks. I’m at the point where I have a basic sock pattern memorized, and then simply adjust for the yarn gauge and any pattern stitches. Simple, yes? Among the various knitting tools and paraphernalia was a pair of socks I had started a lot earlier in the year, when I was in the States. My weapons of choice at the time were Lorna’s Laces sock yarn and a “tangy” pattern from Knitty.com called Crusoe. Before traveling to India, I’d managed to get one sock done:
Of course, any knitter worth his or her NaCL immediately begins the second sock, so as to avoid the dreaded Single Sock Syndrome. I usually do this, but as I might have mentioned in my last post, normalcy and a consistent environment in which to accomplish this have been in short supply for the last couple of years. Crusoe #1 languished in my knitting kit for several months, while my digestive system, my laptop gear and I all had various adventures getting accustomed to the chaotic living standard that is India’s. Recently I dug up the project and began Crusoe #2, blissfully unaware that something was seriously amiss:
The problem’s not really evident in the two pictures, is it? After I discovered what went wrong I took a third photo to illustrate the situation in all its mismatched glory:
Yes, I used the same needles. Yes, I used the same yarn. I even carefully counted rows to make sure the patterns turned out even. However, there’s this little thing called “tension” most knitters are familiar with. The tension with which you hold your yarn and needles directly affects your knitting gauge. And your gauge is what makes the difference between a sock suitable for a Nyondo and a sock appropriate for, well, this guy. Apparently, while I was in the States, I was under a lot of stress, spent a lot of time being very tense, and as a result knitted everything all tensed up. Once arriving in India, where there were a lot fewer stressors, I relaxed a bit. A month or so into my stay here, I developed a pinched nerve in my right arm, which makes it nearly impossible to grip anything with any considerable tension. By now I’m a much more “relaxed” knitter, with obvious results.
November 23rd, 2006
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And so it was, a few months back, that I found myself in room 315 of the Lotus Lake Hotel in Rewalsar, being supportive of this fairly ill Tibetan Buddhist nun from the UK, while at the same time encouraging her to not puke on my shoes. I’ve had more than a few chances to reflect on the experience since, and the only conclusion I can come to is that I’m just one of those folks who, early on in life, cut a certain deal with the Powers That Be.
With Jews, it’s the Covenant. With Christians, it’s the acceptance of Christ. With Zoroastrians….well, I really don’t know. Maybe some day, someone will enlighten me about that. The Deal, in its most basic form, is an agreement with [insert name of Higher Power here]. You get what you want from [insert name of Higher Power here], and in turn you agree to certain conditions. Recently I read what I consider the best description of the MommyWizard version of the deal, written by the infamous Subservient Worker of Wide Lawns and Narrow Minds:
Apparently I attract the bizarre in all areas of my life, for craziness can be found not only in my current employment but in my personal life as well. I believe that before I was born that I was up in Heaven trying to figure out a plan for my next incarnation. When God asked me what I wanted to accomplish in this life I said: “I want to be a writer.”
“Are you sure?” God said.
“Yes. I am positive. My previous lives as Romanian artistocracy and Hindu Brahma were great, but in this life I’d prefer to be a scribe.” I said, imagining myself wearing tweed and scratching away at Modernist poetry in the library at Harvard.
“Ok, but be warned that if you want to be a writer, that I am going to give you something to write about.” replied God.
That pretty much sums up the MommyWizard life as we know it. I remember as a youngster in Inglewood wishing over and over for a life that would be as interesting and weird as the science fiction novels I read. I guess I got my wish. Few things are stable or predictable, and the situations one finds oneself in are certainly nothing like the suburban normalcy of the American dream. We’ve been homeless for two years; become grannies twice over; survived revolution in Nepal, got through the dot-com bust, and been mobbed by dozens of Indian school girls all wanting to try out their English language skills. We’ve certainly been given “something to write about” over the years. If you don’t believe me, check out Joy’s blog…
We never did find a reasonable cell phone plan. I guess some things are beyond the skills of even [insert name of Higher Power here].
So, anyway…the whole point of today’s particular screed was to discuss the unpredictability of the MommyWizard life. Just a week or so ago, I had definite plans to return to the States in early December. And I mean definite: itinerary figured, flights selected, the works. I needed some plan in place because the clock is ticking on my visa. American visas to India can be issued for time frames up to ten years, but one can only stay in-country for only 180 days at a time. So this particular MommyWizard figured once the visa expired, it was time to go back to the Oakland ‘hood and scare up some more dead Presidents by doing the IT thang.
You’ve probably guessed that that plan’s kind of not happening now. Instead, Plan B involves my staying in and around Rewalsar for another few months. But since the visa runs out in early December, this MommyWizard has to depart India for a little bit. What to do? What most people do: wander over to Nepal for a little while, and wander back. This after emailng all and sundry that I was mos’ definitely on my way back come first week of December, and mos’ definitely available for work come second week of December. As you might imagine, Plan B involves rather a lot of new emails, all conveying the idea of “Oops. My bad.”
Such is the Mommywizard life….
November 21st, 2006
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The Lotus Lake hotel, which has been the MommyWizard base of operations here in Rewalsar, is situated right next to an enormous mani stone that is almost as tall as I am.
What’s a mani stone?
Well, at its most simplistic, a mani stone is a stone that has had the syllables of the mantra om mani padme hung carved into it. The Guru Rimpoche statue is surrounded by walls and piles consisting of nothing but thousands of mani stones in different sizes. But there are also much bigger ones, stones that were once part of Rewalsar’s natural landscape before the town came to be. These stones poke up out of the asphalt, or form one entire wall of someone’s house, and have manis carved into them in sizes ranging from miniscule to gigantic, and painted for maximum legibility. The mani stone I’m writing about, the one in front of the hotel, is such a stone, and sports not only manis but a portrait of Guru Rimpoche painted in vibrant colors, over a mani with syllables a good 12 inches tall. The stone participates in town life as much as any living being:
People touch the stone as they pass by it on kora;
produce-wallahs sell vegetables next to it;
other people set bits of burning incense on it;
monkeys clamber over it on the way to stealing fom the produce wallahs;
taxis race by it on the way to dropping off or pickingup passengers;
cows dump piss and shit near it as they graze the produce-wallah’s moldy rejects;
vendors sell malas and buddhist jewelry next to it;
motorcycles and mopeds putt-putt by it;
folks passing to or from the bus stand walk by it on the half hour;
and, for this blog entry, most importantly…
dogs sleep near it.
It’s impossible to doubt that the amount of karma stored up in this particular bit of rock is enormous. Which caused me to wonder about something the other day.
The karma of an animal’s life in Rewalsar is necessarily complex. Cows, for example, are holy beings, pretty much allowed to wander wherever they want, stand wherever they want, sleep wherever they want. With, of course, the exception of the produce-wallahs’ fresh wares. Then what you have is people coaxing a holy being into being holy elsewhere with a few shouts and slaps on the rump. Cows regularly wander the roads, where they have the right of way. I’ve been told that, should some fatal mishap befall a cow on the road–for example, a misstep down a particularly steep embankment–there are people who will collect the body, and treat it with all of the respect and last rites a human corpse would receive, including a formal cremation. In the States a cow might also receive a formal cremation, but the proceedings are less spiritual, and usualy accompanied by cole slaw, barbecue sauce, and plenty of paper napkins. But I digress…
There are also four or so monkey tribes living around the holy lake of Tso Pema. They live for the most part on puffed rice fed to them by pilgrims, stolen produce, and whatever they can harvest from the surrounding hillsides. In Hinduism Hanuman, the monkey king, is revered as a holy symbol of loyalty. In Buddhism, since one’s prayers are usually devoted to the salvation of all sentient beings, it’s only natural to send a few blessings directly toward any beings in sight, including the monkeys as they sit in the sun and groom themselves. After years and years of receiving blessings around the lake, the average Tso pema monkey has probably received an incredible amount of good blessings and karma. The monkeys tend to imitate their human neighbors, sometimes with startling results. It’s common to see monkeys moving bricks and stones around unattended construction sites, as if they were workers. After a big celebration of the His Holiness the Dalai Lama’s birthday, the public green where the celebration took place was taken over by monkeys, who arranged themselves into a group except for one monkey who would caper in front of them. After all, we humans had watched individuals perform songs and speeches the previous day, and been rewarded with food, so the monkeys attempted the same thing, with somewhat less success. Doubtless the monkeys copy human spiritual practices too: I have seen a monkey gently lifting and turning the pages of a Buddhist text while the monk who had been reading them went on break…
Then there are the dogs. Dogs in Rewalsar–and in much of India, for that matter–are not pets in the traditional sense. As in Mexico, most dogs are outdoor dogs that happen to get their sustenance from a combination of friendly handouts from townspeople, and judicious garbage diving. The dogs live their lives alongside people, but not necessarily interacting with them beyond what’s necessary. For the most part, the dogs are found sleeping in the street, walking along the kora path, and having the occasional squabble over dominance. The other day I spotted one deliberately stationed in front of the caretaker monk for the Guru Rimpoche statue, standing quietly while it receved a blessing.
But that’s not the dog this post is about.
The dog this post is about is a very young puppy who had the misfortune to be run over not three feet away from the big mani stone. By the time I came on the scene, the accident had already happened. The pup’s mother was by its side, gently giving her offspring little mommy-can-fix-it licks with her tongue, interspersed with encouraging whines meant to get the pup on its feet again. It was a heartbreaking scene. On the other side of the puppy’s body, out of its mother’s sight, was the glistening pile of intestines untidily spread along the asphalt.
Eventually someone took the puppy’s body away, and the poor mother went back to care for her two remaining pups. But I’ve been thinking about the incident ever since. it was one of those situations that always makes me want to go to the deities in charge, and say, “HEY! That wasn’t FAIR.” But then again, it all happened in the shadow of the town’s most powerful mani stone. Was the whole thing just kind of random and meaningless? Was it the puppy’s fate to be have such a short life, just so it could die with a huge boost ‘o’ buddhist juju at the end? Was that ugly death an expiation of karma for a previous, less savory human life? If so, what kind of rebirth is the puppy in for? I can’t help imagining that the puppy got reborn as some accomplished Buddhist practitioner, somewhere. Or maybe it managed to escape the great wheel of death and rebirth completely…
November 8th, 2006
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