From Brahma to Buddha, Fall 2008

Suraj-- He is this sleek, street-smart, wise-ass little bugger who hangs around up here in McLeod Ganj. He lives with his grandmother in a tent in Lower Dharamsala (according to what he told me the first day I sat with him). He's lived here all his life, doesn't have parents, and has never been to school. His English, though, is pretty darn decent. He says he speaks Hindi and Tibetan, too, and that he taught himself on the street.

He's ten years old, wears this silky black button-down shirt and matching pants which complement his darkish skin tone, round face, and slick shaved head. His family is from Maharashtra, and when I asked if his grandmother takes care of him, he replied that he takes care of her. I don't know the whole story-- where his parents are or went, if he really taught himself English (a difficult feat..). He says he's been begging for two years. He is really independent. Really self-directed and self-sufficient in ways I am not even.

But the thing is, he's a total player. And he's totally playing with me--
I mean, I envisioned this project (refer to my previous entry from Amritsar), thinking about the value of connection, and genuineness, and the intersection of lives and the importance of attention and care. I thought about getting to know kids, share at least a little bit of friendship. But a few days ago I was feeling just generally sort of crappy, and I realized that what stung is that, to this kid I am nothing more than a wallet. An opportunity to get some money. He answers my questions, trying to give me the answers I'm looking for to get a good "story," telling me things that will make me feel sorry for him-- tug at my heart strings and earn my sympathy. He knows how to play with people, knows what to say. He calls me his "friend," trying to make me feel a simultaneous kinship and responsibility to him.

After our initial sit-and-talk, I bought him a bag of milk, and once he had what he wanted from me he had to go, had to hide from the police who he said beat him when they see him. I immediately regretted it, wondering what precedent it set. And I think it did.
I felt bad, like I'd messed up. I sat and journaled for a while, thought about what this implicated and what role I was putting myself in. But I decided it's okay. I can't blame myself-- I'm making mistakes, and figuring it out as I go along, and in that reflection, and by processing the process I'm going through, I figure I'm learning as much about myself, and how to interact with people, and approach them, and present myself, and create a self-directed investigation of a topic not in a library but in the world-- learning all these things from this project as much as what I'm seeing in the kids.

The next afternoon, around the same time, Suraj found me on the way to Hindi class-- shouted at me from across the street, and came over with a smile, addressing me as his friend and asking me what I was doing today. He said he had a present for me: made me hold out my hand and deposited a little piece of a broken earing that he had found. (The day before, when we were sitting, I found a broken zipper and decided it would be way cool to make a necklace out of). I was really excited he'd thought of me, and sat with him for a few minutes before Hindi started. He asked me for 100 rupees, "and then I don't ask you again for ever." I told him I couldn't talk today, maybe tomorrow.

He bumped into me the next day, too. Asked me for one bag of rice, and then he won't ask me again, "for ever." I told him I already bought him milk, I'm here for another week, maybe a different day. I sat with him and asked him about the police-- he said they come to his neighborhood 2-3 times a week, that they hit him. That he feels scared.

And I totally realized-- he's taking me for a run. He's giving me answers to make me pity him. He's trying to get all close, buddy up to me, but not because he respects me or cares. He just is looking for a chance for a payday.

And that sucks. I'm a tool. I hate being seen so one-dimensionally. I hate not existing to him.
And it's a world to which I'm totally foreign-- I'm not street smart, nor good at putting up fronts and faces. And I don't want to Have to prove myself to him to gain his respect. And I hate and resent environments that demand that of a person-- I hate the situations that demand that of him. That make it impossible for him to be genuine, rob him of that freedom: to trust and be trusted.
I hate having to mistrust and second-guess everyone I meet, and the life that teaches him that the world is something to be mistrusted and fooled, a game to be played.

Okay, and I'm totally assuming. I have no idea what his life is like, who his friends are. Maybe there are people he's totally fallen in with and opened up to, he totally trusts and who know his deepest secrets, his sadnesses and his fears, his vulnerabilities.

Maybe if I were here longer, maybe if I could actually earn his trust and respect. But I hate having to prove myself and put on faces to do that-- to have to seem tough and callused and immune to his accusations and lines and tricks.

That same third day, I ran into two young girls, by the names of Misha and Mushi, and an older beggar girl named Arthi, probably about my age. They were asking me for milk, and rice. Expensive things. I offered them instead a bag of 10 rupee potato chips. They said no, milk milk. So as I went to go, the chips suddenly didn't seem so unappealing. They followed me to Hindi, insisted I share the bag of snacks. Called me, "mera dosti," (my friend). The older girl, Arthi, made me take one of her bracelets (I have a big collection), and her younger sisters starting playing with my wrists, admiring the bracelets I have and trying to take them off. I told them no they couldn't, this one's from Leh, this one is from my friend. I tried to give her her orange one back, but Arthi hit their hands away when they tried to reach for my jewelery, and insisted I keep it.
It was nice.. except I felt so weird afterwards, as I sat in Hindi class (and later discussed this with Tracy and Justin.. more to that), but it sucks: they put on a smile and make me their friend, but really I feel like it's sort of an investment, not a gift. Like, they're banking on seeing me again. They're banking on it coming back multiplied.
...meh.
I hate being a walking dollar sign.
I feel devalued and dehumanized.

Although, the funny thing is, I haven't seen her since. I wanted to give it back to her, to make sure she knows I'm not her pawn or tool. But she hasn't turned up or tried to find me, like Suraj did for the next few days. She probably hasn't been working in McLeod Ganj, most likely... but I'll let you know what happens. I have no idea what what means or where I lie.

The thing is though, when Suraj puts on his "poor, look at me" face and makes me his card, I can't blame him. It's what his environment necessitates. It's how he HAS to be, to survive. And that sucks.

But again, I'm assuming. I have no idea how he really feels: if he's secretly lonely or entirely happy. I think it would suck, because I treasure my friends so dearly: the people who know and love me "warts and all" (to use a phrase that our Tushita nun teacher often employed). It took me a long time in... you know... life, to learn to trust and really open up to the people around me: I can only imagine trying to learn that in an environment that demands self-interest and putting up fronts as a necessity of survival. His livlihood is manipulation: it's emotionally wearing enough just itneracting with him once a day. Living his life would take such a mental toll on me, I think.

But that's just me. I don't know the crevices and corners of Suraj's mind.

The other community I've come to know is this cluster of three families, living in tents made of garbage, pitched in a lot below a road down these stairs from the bus station in Lower Dharamsala.

The Tibetan population lives pretty much exclusively up the hill in McLeod Ganj (where we're staying). Dharamsala proper is populated by a fairly pure Indian population. I'm not sure exactly how much is native Himachali, but to my perception, most of the people are darker and have immigrated from the South. All three families I talked to, anyway, were from Uttar Pradesh, and are migrating around, staying in a place for a few weeks at a time (by my understanding), selling woven mats and other goods in different markets, and then returning to UP for the winter months. There were about a dozen children, living and traveling with their families, who we went to see three times.

I can't introduce you personally to each one, but I was struck, mostly, by their smiles; they're happy.
Okay, so I shouldn't generalize: some of them told me they didn't like it here, that there were things they would change if they could... but they still lept about with joy and immitated animal sounds when I sang them Old McDonald.

But I'll talk about one girl in particular. Her name is Cila. She's probably about six or seven years old. She has the biggest black eyes, that take up about half of her face (I exagerate, but not by much..) and which absolutely light up with her smile.

She has three sisters. In particular her older sister, Puja, absolutely stunned me with her maturity. She's sort of short, has a traditional-looking nose ring, wavy black hair tied back in a pony tail, and wears a floral black shalwar kamiz. She carried around their baby sister much of the time, holding and taking care of her, and was not enthralled with Peter and I the way most of the younger children were: she came and went, sitting in the tent with her parents cooking lunch for some of the time, but also sitting with me and Peter and very coherently and articulating answering questions (when a lot of the younger kids were easily distracted, got up and ran around, and whom it was difficult to interview with any continuity). I thought she was maybe 15 or 16, but it turns out she's 10.

Anyway, there was one point I was sitting with Cila. I asked her whether she would want to go to school, if given the opportunity, and she told me cheerfully that no, she wasn't really interested. I asked if she liked it here, if she was happy. She nodded, point-blankly. A ridiculous question almost. I asked if she's ever sad, if she's ever scared here at night, and she seemed genuinely baffeled. And it made me realize: this is her life. This is her home, and her family. It's not bad or good or better or worse, it just is. This is where these children will grow up, and what they'll be doing when they're older. Simple fact, and it's okay with them.

I asked to Rakha, a bald girl in a green kamiz: what will you do when you're older, do you think? She'll cook, she replied. And clean, and take care of the home. How will you make money and buy food?, I wanted to know. She replied she would marry a husband, who would make money. Maybe go to market and sell woven carpets, like her older brothers do. Puja, too, told me she would probably make and sell things in the market. She also was uninterested in attending school, said she likes it here.

I marvel at that kind of existence: you work hard and labor, only to be able to survive and thrive in an environment we would consider hellish. But to them it's not: it's just life.
Cila particularly-- when she told me she was happy, when she was confused by my inquiries about fear and sadness. And it's back to that Maria Montessori comment: the words are valuless, really, because you can completely see it in her giant, bright eyes.

It brought to life a comment Lobsang made when I was with him in Delhi this summer-- he was talking about this giant trash dump, and how he'd passed it one day, and seen kids picking the garbage for plastic and things to sell. They were climbing around amidst crap and shit and dead things. He referenced the carcasses of a few cows, said it smelled the rankest of anything he'd ever had the displeasure to encounter, beyond description. The worst human existance he could dream up.

But what really was the hardest to see, he said, was that the kids there were so happy. Amidst their menial chore, climbing around what he described as hell, they were throwing things at each other and laughing and smiling and playing. They were still so full of light. Absolutely radiated it.
And I heard him talk, but now I get it. This isn't the same Hell he described-- there were no decaying carcasses lying around-- but they have so little, live in houses made of trash. It was an existence I can't even comprehend living in, yet they were so content. They had each other. They had their lives. Really, that's all they needed. They let themselves enjoy it.

It made me think about how I see and interpret and label the world, about goals and striving and contentment. In some ways, having high hopes and big dreams-- striving for a bigger house, a better job-- is futile: no matter what, there's always something more to want. And when the shit hits the fan, happiness is not about what you have, but about being content with what you have, whatever that is. Making the most of where you are. When I think to my own life, and my own happiness, I find myself rooted in my friends and family, who really ground me, even when I'm far away.
I look at Cila, with her big sister Puja, their little baby sister, and their portable family. They have each other, and that makes a home more than the place you're situated.

Anyway, it was just a reminder to myself: find it where you are. Happy isn't about getting, so much, as being happy with what you've got.

And again, I shouldn't group and generalize: some of them said that they don't like moving around, or said they want to go back to Uttar Pradesh, find it too cold up here at night. Some of them said they supposed they would like to go to school if they could. But it's simply evidence that mindset is as important as the things you're setting your mind around, and happiness isn't directly correlated to material poverty and wealth: people in America can be upset and depressed, completely unrelated to the comparitively comfortable environment they're surrounded by. And childern in a slum can skip down a hill and smile like suffering doesn't exist in the world at all.

Every kid, I believe, deserves a chance at the same opportunities. Deserves a chance to learn, and know how to read and write, to have doors opened for them, and to empower them with the faith that they can open their own doors. But I guess what I'm realizing is, while you deserve that chance, a happy life is completely accessible without it. We put a lot of emphasis on progress, being able to move up in the world, to go better and further than the generations that have preceeded us. But really, for thousands of years, people have lived, and worked, and fed themselves, and died. (cue: Circle of Life). What I know of Native American culture, for instance, or thinking about the life of a rural farmer in a village like Domkhar. What matters is finding the time to be happy in between--or while-- you're earning or growing and eating and surviving. And education is a blessing, but it all depends what you teach. Learning to believe in yourself, self-confidence and independance, how to resolve conflict and exist together: those are vital skills. But you can learn those from life too. It's all about the environment. And being happy in the one you're in.

At the same time, one last observation/thought about what I saw in their little community. Even as I was there on three afternoons, every day I would hear crying off and on. And it would fall into the air without a second glance or thought or attention. When I took out my camera, they would be so excited, but would smack each other, push, and shove to get in front or get people out of the frame. I was totally taken aback by their physicality, and sometimes they would get upset and start to cry. But the crier went ignored, hardly uncommonplace I guess, and a few minutes later it would subside and they'd forget their qualms.

The mom asked me to take a picture of her, I went over and she stood stoic and unwavering. A couple of the kids came and stood next to her, or behind, and she absolutely whacked them out of the way. (I secretly took video of it before I took the photo... shhhh). It was exactly the behavior I'd been watching in them, slapping each other out of the way when they wanted something, and not paying any attention or giving a second thought to the way they were being treated by their friends, or that they were treating each other in this way. It was simply how one got their point across, how one resolved conflict. No question about it. No one to think to question. Plain and simple. That's just life.

Anyway, that was unendingly interesting to see, their interaction with each other and with conflict. There was no question I could ask "how come you hit each other?" I just watched.

And I think it's sad, a situation that makes them fight. That teaches them to guard their possessions, second guess, and cling. Living with so little, it's natural to hold tightly to one's stuff, or to take my pencil when one afternoon I left it unguarded on top of my notebook. It's not an act of aggression at all, or offence, but how the world has taught them to be in an environment where you have to fight for survival.

But it gives me faith, too: in the power and endurance of the human spirit. That even in the midst of all this, they can smile so excitedly, unabashedly, and unscriptedly. They can appreciate their homes, their families. They can have each other.

It's watching Puja carry her little sister and not push the other kids for a chance at candy, for instance, that gives me hope in that. That way of being, of loving, really is what it's all about. And it can flourish in slums as well as rich areas, just as easily as I've seen it can be withheld in either. So really, I realize, happiness does not correlate to how much stuff you have or what your house looks like: rather, it's about how you view the things you do have. how you treat the people you're with

And I don't know what to make of those thoughts and speculations, how to correlate environment to those qualities of contentment and trust and love. Or how to really judge happiness, even, when this research is so surface.

i wish i had time to really know: to spend months with these kids, to know their lives, to be part of it- like that girl in Born into Brothels.

But those are my thoughts and notes and jottings for now.
au revoir mon freres,

<3 sandy

p.s. doug, i'm happy to hear about your bowels. i'm proud of you.
p.p.s. Ajka Hindi kaksha, aplok-ke liye (Today's Hindi Class, for you-- though don't hold me responsible for whatever butchered hodgepodge is to follow-- I'm not quite certified to teach yet. But anyway:)

Mera nam Sandy hai. Mere pariuar-me, mere pass eck mataji, eck pitaji, or eck choti bhai. Wo meh-se lamba hai, mugger tikh hai. Tees bandar mera chai pi rahe hai. AAAHH!!! Muje jana chaiye.

My name is Sandy. In my family, I have one mother, one father, and one little brother. He is taller than me, but that's okay. Thirty monkeys are drinking my tea. AAAHH!!! I have to go.

Namaste, loves.