Thursday, December 30, 2010

Splendor.


I’ve almost never done the Christmas thing in Canada.  Not having a family, I’ve been more on the far side of the experience, whose sole existence was supposed to hinge on feeding the frenzy for fancy jewelry.  That was my job.  I was paid well to ignore winter storm warnings and risk my life driving from Wakefield to the store on Sparks Street in Ottawa, my gilded cage.  I sacrificed my health working seven days a week, sometimes twelve hours a day, for more than a month before the 25th to make sure we reached our sales goals.  It was hard to really get into the right mood afterward.    
One evening, I had to deliver some baubles to a client up on Parliament Hill.  I was quite happy to get out into the air and let the howling wind blow through my nostrils and out my ears.  However, as I took a stroll around those hallowed grounds, a proper RCMP officer came over and asked what I was doing there.  He may have thought I looked a bit weird, what with my head lolling around as I walked.  Then, I believe he did not entirely appreciate my attitude.  Whatever may be the case, he invited me to take a seat in his cruiser while he checked me out on his computer.   
Eventually, the officer stole a sideways glance at me and began to talk into his radio.  I had a strange, sinking feeling in the pit of my tummy.  I hoped it was merely something I ate but, no, no it wasn’t.  The city police came along to take over, drove me to their headquarters in Centertown and placed me in a less gilded cage than I was used to.  I hadn’t been in one of those for many years.  I had to cool my heels for over an hour and, I have to tell you, it was wonderful.  I had a great meditation, sorely needed and greatly appreciated.  In the end, it turned out there was indeed a warrant out for my arrest.  Apparently, I had neglected to pay a traffic ticket from about six months earlier… for driving my bicycle the wrong way down a one-way street.  You all should feel so much safer today.
A half-hour later, my employer dutifully came, paid my fine and I became a ‘free’ man once again.  And, believe it or not, as I walked through the hall between cells, a rather rough-looking fellow, with cuts on his nose and under one eye, pumped his fist in the air and shouted: ‘Keep the faith brother!’   We drove back to the shop in my employer’s Cadillac.  He didn’t speak a word even after I said that I hoped the fact that I was a known felon wouldn’t have any bearing on my Christmas bonus.  He was not amused.  Oh, but the rest of the staff had tremendous fun with the whole episode.   
I recall my employer asking how I was feeling, during another memorable Christmas time, since I had been clearly falling more and more sick.  My head ached, my throat was closed, my chest hurt from coughing incessantly, I sounded like I had yet to reach puberty and my ankles felt like they belonged to a pachyderm, a large one.  He put his hand on my shoulder and said; ‘Hang in there. Only three days left.’  That’s when I shuffled into the back room, took my coat and went home without a word to anyone.  I spent the rest of that day and evening at the Wakefield Hospital and Christmas in bed with bronchitis that was bordering on pneumonia.
Having lived most of my adult life in India, I was prone to catching the flu anyway if a sick person so much as snorted in my direction.  I was getting the flu two or even three times each winter.  For that reason, I believe it was the third winter I was back in Canada that I decided to get a flu shot.  I went to the medical centre in Wakefield on a typical winter day; I approached a concerned-looking, young lady behind the counter and asked for a vaccination.  She said that, since I was obviously a senior, I wouldn’t have to pay for it.  ouch.  Somewhat indignantly, I told her that I was fifty-one years old.  So she announced that, since I was not in fact yet sixty years old, I was required to pay fifteen dollars.  ‘That’s alright,’ I responded, ‘but, if I get the flu do I get my money back?’  She didn’t seem to find my retort nearly as funny as I thought it was but, clearly, that was not unusual.        
Then came the year I was invited to a friend’s home on Christmas morning.  Greg was the gemologist in the shop where we both worked.  He had been there for many years, even though he remains one of the most highly sought after gemologists in Canada.  It’s hard to get me to go visit anyone at any time, let alone on Christmas.  And I don’t recall what prompted me to make an exception in that case, other than the fact that I had become genuinely fond of him, his lovely wife, caly, and their two charming girls, Sarah and Alexis.  I was glad I went, however, since I left their place just after two in the afternoon having had a whole different experience of Christmas in Canada.
Their gifts are modest, often hand-made, sometimes from second-hand shops, always thoughtful and not just for each other, but for the friends they invite over, like me.  The family has a tradition of making a lot of their own tree ornaments.  And they’ve collected them through all the years the girls were growing up.  They cook their Christmas day meal together, respectful of the vegetarians in the group.  (Tofurky?)  They even volunteer at community soup-kitchens and in other ways.  To me, they represent the spirit of Christmas.
Big snow usually has fallen in Wakefield long before Christmas.  It falls; it drifts and swirls around, landing on the trees, transforming them into a wonder of magical splendor.  Christmas in the village is a classic experience.  It doesn’t matter whether one is alone or with a large family.  One cannot help but feel and appreciate the atmosphere and treasure its potent message.  Christmas in Kullu is not a classic experience and yet it is a tremendously special one.  The hall is decorated, groups perform songs and Swami talks about the true meaning of the birth of Christ consciousness as being the embodiment of love, compassion, oneness and, most importantly, pure, free and forever.    
Happy holidays everyone. 

Monday, December 13, 2010

The Height.

     There didn’t appear to be a lot of life up at the top of the ridge.  Initially at least, sitting there looking down on the valley, the feeling was somewhat desolate, like I had entered into an alternate reality, deserted, very quiet.  There must be some sort of life still, I thought, it was just not apparent.  Aside from the grass and a few trees, there seemed to be nothing.  I felt utterly alone.  Of course, there was that timeless quality that such places possess, where there is no perceptible movement, where change is a foreign concept.  So I sat for a while.  I let the peace and the quietude of the place wash over me.   
      The river moved circuitously through the valley far below.  That’s very familiar.  It’s a furious, fast, glacier river.  Swamiji used to say, way back when the constant, rushing water was virtually the only noise in the area, that its sound washed away our minds.  That was during those days when we ate, meditated and slept to the sound of the river running through our heads.  We’d walk along its rocky shoreline; shoot the rapids on hot days, sit up on the cliffs above it.  We’d never be far away from its influence.
     Once, sometime in the late 70s or early 80s, Jyoti Baba, Manoj and I went down to the river with Swamiji on a hot summer’s afternoon.  We took a dip, sat on rocks and I remember Swami talking about how the river starts with one drop and ends up an ocean, how one drop of water, in fact, contains the whole ocean.  Eventually, we made our way slowly up the side of the cliff toward the ashram.  At a place I never knew existed, not far from the top, Swami led us into a cave in which we meditated for some time.  In that cave, sitting within a silence the river or our thoughts could not penetrate, our minds certainly did dissolve.  Some meditations stay with you through the life.  That was one of those for me.   
     When we came out of the cave and began again to climb up, Swami warned us to be careful because, as he put it, we still were not entirely ‘in our bodies.’  Even still, at a point right near the top, Manoj jumped ahead to help Swami over a rough patch, lost his footing and plummeted literally hundreds of feet down the cliff, all the way to the bottom.  Swami, Jyoti Baba and I stood on the side looking down incredulously.  There was nothing we could do.  Miraculously, after a minute or two, Manoj jumped up and waved.  He’d landed in some bushes.  Had he landed two feet on either side, he would have been into the rocks.    
     The river sound now is all but drowned out by the traffic.  It pretends to have lost its dominance over the years, as the population exploded and buildings sprang up everywhere along the road.  Strangely, one hears the river now more clearly the further up the mountain one climbs.  Up at the ridge, although distant, the river almost seems to remind you very subtly of the simple fact that nature will always be in control.
     I let the peace and the quietude of the ridge wash over me.  And as I sat there, before I drifted further into the surroundings, I recalled something I had read in a book, by David Frawley, called; Vedanta Meditation.  He wrote, and I am paraphrasing, that if one has truly matured in ones meditation practice, one never feels lonely or alone.  Because that man or woman knows beyond any doubt, and in a very visceral way, that life is everywhere.

Sunday, November 28, 2010

The Apple.

     During my dad’s last days, languishing in a hospital room in Toronto, he became even more cranky than usual.  In fact, he became so agitated that my brother scurried out into the hall to look for a doctor, a nurse, a drug-dealer, pretty much anyone who might offer some assistance. 
     At the height of the episode, there were two nurses, a doctor, a social worker, a chaplain, a shifty-eyed fellow with his baseball cap on backward, my brother and I all gathered around his bed.  Ok, I’m kidding about the dealer.  But, in the course of the discussion around my dad, the chaplain said; ‘What can we do, Mr. Vanek? What would you like? Tell us what you want right now and we’ll do our best to get it for you.’  My dad seemed to consider that generous offer for a moment or two and then responded; ‘I want an apple.’ 
     There it was.  It all came down to one apple.  He was ninety-four years old, had three kids, a sixty-three year, somewhat less than blissful marriage, (you get out sooner for murder,) had been a renowned Judge, served in a world war, had enough money to buy just about anything he might want, and his dying wish was for an apple. 
     About a half an hour later, by the way, one of the nurses came back in with a bowl of apple sauce.  Dad took one look at it and said; ‘What’s that?’  ‘This is apple sauce,’ answered the well-meaning nurse.  ‘I may be dying,’ the old guy barked, ‘but I’m not stupid! I asked for an apple!’  ‘But, but, you can’t eat an apple, Mr. Vanek,’ she pleaded.  ‘Did I say anything about eating it?,’ he continued, true to form, never one to lose an argument. ‘Maybe I just want to hold it, smell it or lick it. Did that ever occur to you?’ 
     Anyway, following along the same line of thought, here I sit tonight in my old mountain house, right back where I started, so to speak.  I first came here in 1975 and I left for twelve years in ‘98.  During those years, I worked as a gas jockey, a diamond merchant, a house painter, I bought and sold houses, vehicles, antiques, relationships came and went, (mostly went, actually.)  And here I sit tonight just wondering if I’ll have enough hot water for my bucket-bath in the morning, just like I used to.
     So, what was all that(?)  We’re born naked and we die naked, or so ‘they’ say.  I’m not entirely sure why ‘they’ say one must be naked in the end.  Presumably, if one is hit by a train or a bus, come down with a withering disease or one simply shoots oneself in the head on a particularly bad day, one would almost certainly still be fully clothed, unless one is really unlucky or decides to get kinky about it.  However, that’s another matter altogether and I’m probably taking the naked thing too literally.  You get the point, I’m sure.  We’re born naked and we die naked.  And we’re also assured that we can’t take anything with us.  So what was/is all that; the struggle to achieve something in this life, the hopes and aspirations, the acquisitions, the relationships, all of it(?) 
     That, my friends, is called Maya, in Sanskrit, a magical illusory show.  The ancient sages have likened this life to a dream, a magical illusory show.  It can’t be said to be true due to its very transitory nature.  And we are encouraged; in fact it behooves all intelligent human beings, to awaken from this dream to the true, essential ‘I’ which is pure, which is free and which is forever, the very life itself that animates these bodies. 
     Meanwhile, and in the end, having said all that, I really want to tell you what happened just the other day.  A lady I once knew arrived here.  And she looked really good, as lovely as ever.  She looked so lovely, in fact, that I had to clamp down on my sleeve to keep from swallowing my tongue.  And right after seeing her, what do you think I did?  I'll tell you.  I walked right on over… to the restaurant across from the ashram and I ate a really big piece of their apple pie, with ice cream. 

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Who is Watching the Watcher?

     Yesterday began as it usually does with a cup of hot chai tea, toast with butter, lots of butter, and peanut-butter, crunchy, real men use only crunchy.   I’m a little bit particular about my morning routine, whether in India or Canada or wherever.  The only compromise I have to make over here is the butter, which is not very good.  It actually doesn’t melt or go rancid, which is a bit scary.  Still, I use it every morning. 
     I remember sitting at the breakfast table with my dad, one specific morning several years ago, in Toronto.  He was reading the Globe and Mail as he did every morning religiously for a hundred and twenty years.  I asked him to pass the butter.  He looked at me above his glasses and said; ‘You know the amount of butter you slather on your toast, you’ll die of cholesterol.’  I thought about that for a moment or two before responding; ‘Dad,’ I said, ‘I don’t drink alcohol, I don’t smoke anything, I don’t eat meat of any sort, I’ve hardly had any sex in my entire life.  Pass the fucking butter.’  He gave me a wry smile and slid the dish over to my side of the table without saying another word. 
     I usually sit for a while after I finish my chai and toast, I check my emails, walk in the hillside a bit before heading down to the ashram. 
     The nights are cold at this time of year, but the sun is still hot during the days.  Sages of old have said that the human condition is one of being constantly too hot in the sun and too cold in the shade.  And that’s the way it actually is up here these days.  This is a land of extremes.  So every morning around ten o’clock, while waiting for satsang to begin, many devotees spend their time finding a place to bask in the sun for a while.  Because we know that, once Swamiji arrives, we’ll be under the corrugated tin roof and it’ll soon be cold and somewhat uncomfortable. 
     Hardly anyone complains.  Swami has been holding these meetings at least once a day for the past forty years, rain or shine, hot or cold.  He’s 86 and still cranks it out every day, a few hours that invariably includes a discourse, some chanting, Gita verses, questions and answers, speeches and, of course, meditation.  Hardly anyone complains about the weather here. 
     And so, yesterday, I went to Raju’s chai shop before satsang to sip another cup of chai in the sun.  I was standing at the counter waiting for my drink when a guy I had never seen before sashayed up from the street, handed me ten rupees and asked me to make him two cups of chai.  At first I really couldn’t comprehend what was happening.  I couldn’t quite bend my head around the idea that he thought I was the chai-wallah.  I stood there holding the fellow’s ten rupees, staring at him until he repeated his order.   At that precise moment, Raju came with my cup of chai.  I took it, handed Raju the ten rupee note, told him it was from the guy behind me and went up to the roof to sit in the sun.            
     As I climbed the stairs, I remembered an old story of the enlightened one, Lord Buddha, leaning up against the trunk of a large Banyan tree.  He was in Samadhi.  A drunkard came by and assumed the Buddha had passed out from drinking.  So the drunkard sat down beside him.  A wandering mendicant happened along, assumed the Buddha was a mendicant sleeping and sat down to rest along with him.  And a sage came by, knew the Buddha was in Samadhi, sat down beside him and began to meditate.
     I’ve been a gas jockey, a diamond merchant, an antique dealer and a teacher.  I’ve painted houses and written books.  I’ve been rich and I’ve been poor.  I’ve been loved and hated.  So who am I?  I can’t control completely how people perceive me, what they think I am when they look at me.  However, ever since I can remember there’s been a part of me just watching it all, uninvolved, unaffected, not growing or changing as my body has grown and changed.  I’ve spent most of my life aware of that and tuning into that aspect of who or what I am.  I’ve watched all the happenings in my life, the things I’ve done, the dreams I’ve had, the conscious and semi-conscious states.  I’ve always been the watcher. 
     I’m not going to try to convince anyone that I know exactly where that watcher is watching from, what is that One Source or Creative Intelligence.  I can say, however, that my experience in meditation and samadhi has afforded me the opportunity to firmly believe in what the ancient saints and sages have all said; that one can continue to identify with that watcher, uninvolved, unaffected, pure and free, even as the body begins to break down, even as one dies, and even after that.  Think about it.         

Monday, November 8, 2010

Diwali.


     The festival of Diwali, the festival of lights, symbolizes the conquest of knowledge over ignorance, freedom over bondage.  And to commemorate the occasion, Indians all over the country spend their hard-earned rupees buying up all the fireworks they can handle and subsequently turn their villages and towns into war-zones.
          The reality is, these days, that for some time before and after Diwali, crackers go off at all times of the day and night.  One can be sipping a coffee on ones porch, peacefully contemplating the meaning of life, when a cracker lands at ones feet.  The coffee lands in your lap, your lower extremities dissolve in a fine mixture of substances, your toast lands in the bushes and all you can think of is revenge.  Never mind the meaning of life.  Never mind peaceful introspection.  All you want is to get the bathdurd who threw it, even if he/she is only six or seven years old. 
     I had/have a friend, an ex-Vietnam war veteran, who lived near the ashram here.  We were having some food and a chat at a local outside cafĂ©, (dhaba,) one day several years ago, when a cherry bomb went off nearby.  The next I knew, my buddy was cowering under the table and it took me several minutes to convince him that the Viet Cong had gone back into the jungle. 
     A lot of the local guys find it tremendously entertaining to shoot the rockets down the street instead of up in the air.  The missiles careen along at high speeds, zig-zagging in a brilliant show of sparkling danger.  People of all shapes and sizes dive, jump or duck to save themselves.  One fine year, the inevitable happened.  A rocket barreled down the street, found its way right into the fireworks shop of the area and all hell broke loose.  Everyone literally had to run for the hills, the shop ended up a burnt-out bunker and it took quite some time for life to return to anything that could be considered normal.
     All of this goes on within the context of the true meaning of the festival of Diwali, when it was said that Lord Raam came out of exile to take up his rightful place on the throne of the kingdom.  And Raam, with the help of Hanuman, a rather simian-sort-of fellow who could apparently jump like a son-of-a-gun, was said to have rescued his beloved wife, Sita, from the clutches of the demon Ravana.  

     On the day of Diwali, the people get dressed in their finery.  Some folks still fast on tea and fruit for three days, praying to Laxmi, the Goddess of prosperity, for wealth, good health, a higher sperm count, a good harvest in the coming year.  People still put simple candles all up their steps alongside the paintings, charming drawings of lotuses and mandalas, done with henna and vegetable dye paints, on their doorsteps and in their courtyards. 
     And there are still pockets of people all over India and the world, like here at this blessed ashram in the Kullu Valley, who do take the festival as a time to celebrate the recapturing of our eternal, essential nature, to continue their prayers for and to meditate upon the direct realization of that nature, the eternal life that permeates all, pure, free and forever.    

Friday, November 5, 2010

Skunk Symbolism.

editor's note;  i received this message by email, thought to add it to my blogsite. 

Dear Hansraj Nathan;
Many years ago, I learned the animal symbolism of the skunk first-hand. I was walking through thick woods with my head down (no doubt looking for odd stuff - it's the crow in me). When I looked up to get my bearings I found myself staring directly into the eyes of a very intense looking skunk.
When I say I was siezed stiff in my tracks, you know exactly what I mean. Who among us doesn't know the capability of the skunk? Not many.
Of course a chunk of animal symbolism of the skunk deals with the pungent odor of its spray let off when it's threatened.
Just think what a remarkable defense mechanism: Nonviolent, passive, effective. The skunk sends a message to would-be predators: "Nothing personal, just back off and nobody gets hurt."
This unique method of self-protection and the way a skunk handles its predators is symbolic of:

  • Defense
  • Prudence
  • Protection
  • Confidence
  • Awareness
  • Pacification
  • Effectiveness
  • Good judgement
We would all do well to take this animal symbolism from the skunk: Do no harm. Indeed, as a totem animal, the skunk asks us to defend ourselves effectively, without causing further conflict.
Interestingly, the skunk would prefer to be even less assertive. You see, it takes over a week to reproduce its stinky juices after using them (their glands are only good for about 4 sprays). Ergo, the skunk is 100% sure it must spray before doing so as this defense tool is a commodity in the wild - not to be wasted on false alarms.
In recognizing this, we see the skunk is the ultimate pacifist, and by adopting its peace-loving ways we may obtain the carefree lifestyle this creature enjoys.
Carefree indeed, the skunk has very few predators because most of the animal kingdom recognize its tell-tale markings and know from wildlife scuttlebutt the skunk is not to be fooled with. As such, the skunk goes about its business with aplomb, and has an innocent quality that few wild creatures have the luxury of exhibiting.
Other animal symbolism of the skunk include:
  • Introspection
  • Innocence
  • Assurance
  • Patience
  • Silence
  • Peace


Oh, what happened when I met that skunk in the woods long ago? He didn't spray me, although he was certainly prepared. We just kept our eyes locked on each other (his were a soft yet intensely deep brown, my eyes are brown too - but I'm sure my gaze didn't appear nearly as righteous as his - I was, after all, intruding on his turf). I slowly and quietly took steps backwards until I was at a safe distance to retreat altogether. The whole time we kept staring into each other's eyes. It was odd, eerie, and exciting all at once.


That skunk was so majestic and regal in his stance - holding his ground - fearing nothing, leastly me. I certainly backed away (literally) from the meeting with a new found respect for this creature, and derived a deeper sense of the symbolic meaning of the skunk to boot!

Photo by Charles and Clint

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

I Am Wherever I Go.


     Before I left india, last august, I packed up most of my things and stuffed it all in a trunk with a few mothballs.  I was a kind of sub-tenant, the actual tenant was coming for a couple of weeks and, frankly, I didn’t want him dressing up in my clothing, especially not that little French maid’s outfit I’m so fond of.  The problem is, now that I’m back and unpacked, I smell mothballs continuously.  Everywhere I go, all I can smell are mothballs, which is great when walking past an open sewage drain, but rather terrible otherwise. 
     It reminded me of another time and place and another equally awful smell: skunk!
     It was late at night and I was walking through the woods from my shop to my house in our beloved Wakefield village.  My dog, Gaia, was somewhere ahead.  It was dark.  I couldn’t see, but I knew the path well.  However, all of a sudden, without any warning, I was being sprayed, directly into my eyes, into my mouth!  I couldn’t believe it.  And it was not a little piddle.  It was a strong, full-flowing stream that would make any guy my age envious under normal circumstances. 
     My eyes were stinging, burning.  I thrashed through the brush until I fell over a log, spitting, yelling out for help.  All I could think was; ‘what kind of fucking mutant skunk can spray with a trajectory of six feet and hit the fucking bullseye(!?)’   Eventually Sharman, my wife, came running out and led me to the house where I proceeded to wash out my eyes.  I was at the sink for ages when it occurred to me that sharman had gone away.  I couldn’t blame her, of course.  I called her name and she answered from the office room.  I asked what she was doing and she answered; ‘I’m googling.’ 
‘you’re googling,?’ I said somewhat incredulously.
‘yes, I’m googling.’
 ‘you’re googling.’
 ‘yes.’ 
‘what are you googling?’ 
‘I’m googling; what to do about skunk spray in the eyes.’
     Anyway, my eyes opened up, I bathed with baking soda, my clothes were thrown into the washing machine and life began to return to normal, whatever that means.  Gaia, by the way, was perfectly fine, lying on the sofa, smelling just as she always does which, while many might find distasteful, was not skunky, skunk-ish or skunk-like.  Clearly, she had seen what was happening and slithered away in what I can only assume was a cowardly move of self-preservation. 
     Walking through those same woods one morning, about ten days later, I could smell the skunk(s) again.  I was immediately on my guard.  Everywhere I went, I could smell him or her or them; in the woods, in my shop, in the park across the street, even in the bakery next door.  People in the street, the girl in the bakery, my clients all noticed the smell too. 
     Well, it took me most of the day, not being the sharpest tool in the shed, to figure out that the smell was in fact coming from my shirt.  Even though it had been washed, it still reeked of skunk.  I had been looking everywhere else for the problem when, really, I was the problem.  And that’s the point of this whole story.  The problem was wherever I was.
     You know where this is going.  If we’re unhappy, uptight or upset, if we’re dissatisfied, downcast or dispondent, we will surely carry that all with us wherever we go.  There’s no use in blaming anyone else.  There’s no use in trying to get away from it by buying fancy cars, boats, going on cruises or building big houses, (although I do think a fancy new camper van would make me very happy, but let’s not quibble.)  The problem is always within us and that’s where we need to deal with it. 
     And I like to think that, if we were to google; ‘what to do about dissatisfaction,’ somewhere within at least one of the sites that would bring up, the word; ‘meditation’ would appear.  Check it out.   

Sunday, October 31, 2010

leaving on a jet plane.

     waiting in lineups is not my forte. 
     i know.  i'm supposed to be really good at doing nothing.  be that as it may, as i waited impatiently for the u.s. immigration service at newark airport to process the long que inching forward, my stress level rose steadily.  i was in danger of missing my flight to india. 
     eventually, it was decided that i was not a threat to the u.s., during the ten or twenty minutes i would still be in the country, and i scurried through the halls of the terminal looking for the right gate.  it had been changed and time was running out.  i was practically running.  in every waiting area that i passed, well-coiffed passengers sat reading, chatting or lined up single-file in an orderly fashion.  i noticed one little boy playing with a defibulator before his mom snatched him up, scolded him and whisked him into line with her. 
     then, in the distance, i saw a large crowd all milling around, obviously ready to surge forward, vibrant, dynamic, totally different from any of the other groups i passed along the way.  and i knew intuitively it was the flight to india, my people.  it was like a scene from out of 'my big fat greek wedding.'  nobody waited in single-file or sat quietly, and it was anything but orderly. 
     a couple of the continental airline, (or as i like to call it; incontinent-al,) attendants, were trying to get all the indian people to form a line, which is a bit like trying to train a dog to stop chasing its tale.  it's just not going to happen.  by and large, one has to understand that indian folks just don't do single-file.  the attendants were getting more and more agitated.  watching from a distance, i admit that i thought; 'why am i doing this?'  i even thought; 'why can't i be joining one of the other normal waiting areas for once?'
     every few minutes, one or another of the attendants would start barking at the crowd, hollering things like; 'move back! clear the isle! form a single line!! what's wrong with you people!!!'  actually, i began to find them quite rude, started to even feel protective of the group.  the people would move back a bit each time, look like they were listening, never showing the slightest irritation.  but, within a few moments, they'd again bunch up and shuffle forward en-masse, waving passports, children hoisted on shoulders, ready to surge through the gate and onto the plane to begin the fourteen-hour flight. 
     after several unsuccessful attempts to impose their will on the unruly mob, you could see the attendants begin to give up.  and in the end, as they opened the gate, having lost all control, one even began to laugh.  i laughed.  i was going to india, again.  i was going home. 
     india, at times, can be like that.  india, often, can be like that.  india, most times, can be like a great teacher.  it's no accident that a real knowledge of life, vedant, raj yog, dhyan yog, (meditation,) was born there.  it's like how water can become stronger than rock.  it's like how the fluidity of water can end up cutting through a solid himalayan mountain.  
     and that's just the way it is for me these days.  i have a foot in one boat and a foot in another boat, two homes, loving them equally, though differently.