A Brahmin in Meditation
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This is the daily journal of a Fat Old American Man (hereinafter referred to as "the Foam") who visited India in November 2005 with three goals in mind: to meet a long-time Internet pen pal who lives in Bubaneshwar (an hour south of Kolkata); to meet and speak with Ramesh S. Balsekar, an enlightened Advaita Vedanta sage in Mumbai; and to spend two restful, contemplative weeks in a Vedanta monastery at Belur Math, on the Ganges north of Kolkata (with visits to holy sites related to Hindu saint Sri Ramakrishna). The appendix to this journal contains excerpts from a wonderful book discovered in the dining room library of the monastery; PLEASE TAKE A MINUTE TO BROWSE, it's worth it!
Also, THE SECOND-TO-LAST PAGE OF THE SITE contains additional photos and captions. The last page invites your comments and feedback.
NOTE: Navigation of the 8 journal, 5 appendix and 1 extra photo page is funkily handled by this web software. Use the dropdown at upper right to advance or change pages.
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11/6/05 - Sunday
The Ramada at JFK looms large beside the expressway, the left half of rooms dark in observance of cost control. The lobby is Hojo-lavish, an acre of blemished Indian marble to assuage the apprehensions of Taiwanese group travellers.
The halls above are a dustbunny domain, vacuuming apparently limited to 48-hour intervals. Doors to individual rooms are flush with corridor walls, reminding the few visiting Wall Street vendors of their 23-hour daily lockdown in the Secured Housing Unit (SHU) at Pelican Bay State Prison near Arcata, California.
Bernie the barman is curt with California sissies, effusive with indigenous Brooklynites and speakers of other Borough dialects. Cheeseburgers are served indifferently.
Confident but wary cops in mufti occupy the corner of the bar. One, et ux, unctuous; the other square-jawed, one of cummings' "yearning nation's blueeyed pride":
"We don't get any robberies where we live; all the scumbags know that everybody in town has a gun."
On an elevated platform between the bar and the kitchen, a superannuated white couple high-fives itself at the billiard table as Chinese pre-teens gallop at full speed across the lobby to spread the good tidings to friends: next to the pool table standeth a PacMan machine.
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Monastery Tableau
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11/8/05 - Tuesday
Sixteen hours and one Ambien later, the universe south of Bombay's (Mumbai's) Chchatrapati Shivaji International Airport unreels itself before the windows of a rattly, marginally air-conditioned Suzuki taxi. In the northeasterly Muslim district of Mahim, a Brahma calf tethered to a signpost meditates upon the din, dirt and traffic.
Rajesh the taxi-driver has the usual shrine on his dashboard. This one is Christian per several dangling crosses, but the denomination of the guru in the tiny photograph is discernible only the shepherd's hook in his left hand.
An afternoon visit to the Mumbai CST rail terminal and a future booking for Kolkata is dictated by the storied Indian tendency to pack rail carriages to the bursting point several days in advance of short or long voyages. Chchatrapati Shivaji Terminus (like the Churchgate and Western Rail termini within 3 blocks) is a vast, dark, sooty monument to the Raj, swarming with voyagers who guzzle sugar cane juice from lightly rinsed glasses and munch bhelpuri as they rush to their next connections. The administrative wing of the terminal is a Kafkaesque warren of offices occupied by clerks making hand entries in huge paper ledgers.
The tourist quota ticket agent at difficult-to-find Counter No. 52 is surprised by the rare request for a cross-country first class A/C cabin; cost is $97 American (Rs. 4,365), enough to feed the Mumbai taxi driver by 81 days per his own statement of the daily local cost of sustenance. The Foam tenders a crisp $100 bill. With a collusive smile the agent returns the ticket but no change, as if to say, "Change comes from within."
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