An ashram in Rishikesh, India: Morning Darshan, June 2, 1993

Darshan (loose definition): Being in the presence of a holy person

This morning's Darshan was a combination of business, burlesque and blessing. The Swami – tall, portly, hooked nose – has the bearing of a Roman emperor ruling an outpost populated by skinny Indian underlings. He strode into Darshan swathed in the usual orange robes, the orange bonnet on his head transforming him from dignified statesperson into toga-sporting babushka. As soon as he sat down a string of skinny Indian underlings came in with papers for him to sign. Then a man at the front started singing and clapping his hands. The Swami closed his eyes and swayed from side to side, side to side. After a bit a mother pushed her daughter forward. The girl began dancing, and after the dance finished the Swami presented her with a pumpkin (perhaps he had planned an orange-themed day). Then he engaged in some idle chit-chat with a girl in the audience. A woman told a story of how her mother had lost her memory and thought Rishikesh was Trichy. But she (the daughter) had given her mother some tonic and now her mother was constantly badgering her for a ticket to Trichy. She asked the Swami what she should do. He was short on specifics, counselling her only to be a dutiful daughter. The phone on the dais rang (Krishna calling?). The Swami answered and rapid-fired something in Hindi. He appeared angry, but when he got off the phone the benevolent smile was back in place. He put his palms together, held them in front of his heart, and bowed. We did the same. Thus ended morning Darshan.

Hairy legs and rhinoceros (rhinoceri?)

One of my fears in life is having to reveal my legs when they haven't been waxed for a while. I'm quite willing to take whatever risks are necessary and whatever abuse is hurled at me to avoid doing so. In Nepal, we spent a day in Chitwan National Park. I'm not sure if we were really cheap (quite likely, since we were young and rather broke) or if the guides pocketed the entrance fee (also quite likely), but we entered the park illegally. To do so, we had to cross a river. We had, at that point, been travelling in Asia for quite a while, mostly through places that were unlikely to have salons where one can get one's legs waxed. So mine were rather hirsute. I stepped into the river. Immediately the guides started yelling at me. “Roll up your pants!” I looked at them, pretended not to understand, and kept going. “Roll up your pants!” “Roll up your pants” they continued to screech. Then T and J joined them. At some point I think they all started to swear at me. I decided not to stoop to their level and hurl execrations back at them. Instead, I ignored the cacophony and regally continued on to the opposite shore. When the rest of them had crossed the river they spent some time glaring and yelling at me, and I was basically persona non grata for the rest of the day*. Apparently, the park rangers hand out large fines and possibly throw you into a Nepalese prison if you are caught entering the park illegally. The guides were worried that my soaking pant legs would give us away. To me, a large fine or prison seemed preferable to showing anyone my hairy legs.

Sometimes, of course, one can't avoid this sort of predicament. I was cross country skiing a few winters ago, and, as I careened out of control down a slope and barely managed to avoid being tripped up by a severed deer leg in the middle of it (who says cross country skiing isn't exciting?) I suddenly became concerned about the fact that I might fall and break my tibia or fibula or femur or do in a patella, and then how could I possibly avoid showing my hairy legs to the doctor? Fortunately, nothing of the sort happened. A coworker advised me that if such a thing should ever occur, I should fake a European accent. Brillante!


*Fortunately, something rather exciting occurred later in the day that caused everyone to forget the ugly incident of the morning. As we were walking through the jungle, one of the guides suddenly herded us over to a tree and told us to climb it, quickly. (He helped by unceremoniously pushing and shoving on various body parts.) He followed and held a finger to his lips. Out of the bush wandered two of the rare one-horned rhinos that Chitwan is famous for. They came over to the tree and stood right under us, and I mean right under us. A mother and baby. The mother peered up at us, but rhinoceros (rhinoceri?) don't have good eyesight, so her ears were twitching and she was no doubt smelling our fear and excitement. They stood there for maybe five or ten minutes. I was of course snapping pictures like crazy. I kept snapping and snapping, and at some point thought to myself that I must have taken 36 pictures. As it turned out, I hadn't loaded the film properly, and so never got a job with National Geographic and have absolutely no proof that I was once only about three feet from a mother and baby one-horned rhino. But I was.

Goals

I've finally finished my take home exam, which has pretty much been my only goal over the past two weeks (that and phone E, which keeps getting scratched out and rewritten in next day's list of things to do in my Daytimer). Thanks to Susan, I now feel inspired to write my own pink slip of goals. Here it is, in non-frivolous black and white:

- Phone E.

- Convince Susan that beets are not sentient beings, and as such, make lousy conversationalists.

- Write something other than a blog post, a pink slip of goals, yet another list, or a Daytimer entry.

- Spend more time doing things I like and less time doing things I deem necessary. Or try to re-program my brain to the following equation: doing things I like = necessary.

- Each month do at least one thing I wouldn't ordinarily consider doing, to try to overcome the feeling that my feet have been encased in cement shoes and I've been dropped into a stagnant swamp. Or try to re-program my brain to the following equations: cement shoes = cutting edge of fashion and stagnant swamp = low maintenance.

Comfort food

Your blogs are the literary equivalent of grilled cheese sandwiches. Not the kind made with Kraft slices and white bread. The kind made with smoked gouda and aged cheddar and possibly Saint Albray on Pan Chancho's olive rosemary bread, anointed with grainy dijon mustard and sundried tomato paste. In other words, the grilled cheese equivalent of [Alain-Fournier/Clyde Edgerton/Vikram Seth/Kate Cole-Adams/Jonathan Alderfer... fill in the name of your favourite non-trashy writer here].

I am writing this because of a comment Mali made on a recent post of hers . She was questioning whether she should continue as a blogger. I hope she does (I hope you all do). Your blogs are comfort food with an oh-so-savoury twist.