Because Dolly was a retired army officer, the government gave his family a small house in a military compound twenty minutes from downtown. All of the buildings there were the same: square, cement block houses. The inside walls and floors were also made of cement, streaked white from being washed clean. The furnishings were simple, but tasteful—polished, carved wood with richly colored, sequined pillows on the couches and chairs. There were only two bedrooms, one for them and another for their two adult sons. I offered to sleep in my sleeping bag on their living room floor.
“No, no, no!” Kamla said, horrified. “Only servants sleep on the floor!”
“Absolutely not,” Dolly said, “You’ll sleep with Kamla and me.”
I strongly preferred to sleep by myself on the floor, but they wouldn’t hear of it. After protesting three more times, I finally had to give in.
For two months I shared a bed with the sixty-five-year-old Indian couple and their big, farting dog. I didn’t mind sleeping with Dolly and Kamla so much, but that dog almost killed me.
Among the many things I learned while living with my Indian host family, I discovered that Indian fathers can be extremely protective of their daughters. Dolly, who called me “his American daughter,” wouldn’t even let me go downtown by myself for the first two weeks. When I told him that I soon wanted to explore other parts of India, he insisted on doing a test run, agreeing to let two servants drive Kamla and me on a day trip to the Taj Mahal.
As I stepped out of the car and approached the mammoth white structure, my mouth dropped open. For the first time in my travels, reality exceeded my expectations. The huge marble dome, with its towering minarets and mosaics of iridescent jewels, was even more impressive in person than it was in pictures.
“It’s stunning!” I turned and said to the first servant, Chedi. He lowered his eyes politely to the ground.
“I mean really, I’ve never seen anything like it!” I exclaimed, stepping toward the other servant, Baghwan. He took a step backward so that he was again two steps behind me.
I couldn’t get the hang of the Indian caste system. I was trying to respect the local culture, and I understand the history behind it, but I didn’t feel comfortable treating anyone as less than equal. I never understood why certain groups were supposed to be “higher” or “lower” than others. It’s not that I don’t respect someone’s accomplishments or position in life; I just don’t believe there’s a hierarchy of human worth.
When I interact with people, the only “level” I note is the depth of their communication. I’ve always viewed interpersonal interactions like a stereo equalizer. People are capable of relating on many different levels, from the most superficial to the most profound. Depending on my “relationship goal,” I might choose to match their level or nudge them up or down the equalizer.
For example, if someone is just “shooting the breeze,” and my goal is simply to connect in a fun, lighthearted way, I’ll match his or her level and chitchat in return. However, sometimes I can sense that people want or need to be pushed to go a little deeper, such as when they’re struggling with a relationship problem and can’t articulate the real, underlying issue. Or sometimes I sense it’s best to bump people up on the equalizer, like when they’re getting stuck in fear or depression, and I can help lift them back up to a lighter, more hopeful place. Just as I adjust the bass and treble levels to maximize my music, I make adjustments up and down the communication equalizer to make the most of my interactions with people.
My Way, Not Your Highway
Find the Courage to Follow Your Own Spiritual Path
“Taxi, lady?” “Rickshaw?” “Hotel?” “I love you, baby . . . green card?” As soon as I got off the train in Varanasi, I was swarmed by pushy hopefuls. Gripping my backpack tighter, my only thought was “I hope to God I don’t get sick.”
A few feet ahead of me, I saw a man pinch a female tourist on the butt. She was about five feet tall and looked like she weighed all of ninety pounds. She turned around and walloped the man behind her with an echoing slap. The man she hit looked completely shocked.
“Um, excuse me . . .” I said.
“What?” she snapped.
“You just hit the wrong guy.”
“I don’t care!” She stormed off down a side alley.
I was on the Ganges River at dawn. The smell of burning wood filled the air in the inky, chilly darkness. As the sun rose and my surroundings became clear, I realized that what I’d thought were pieces of driftwood were human body parts floating past the boat.
“Why are there . . .?” Cutting me off, the oarsman pointed to shore.
Along the banks was row after row of thickly smoking funeral pyres where dead bodies were being ceremoniously burned.
In front of the pyres, thousands of people were wading in the river, washing their bodies and clothes and drinking the same water. I watched a man push a floating leg out of the way so he could continue to splash his hands in prayer. I was mesmerized and horrified at the same time.
I’ll never eat chicken again. After being cooped up on a bus for two days straight surrounded by chickens in baskets and their high-pitched, non-stop squawking, it was enough to put me off poultry for life. I’d just come from Dharamsala, where the Dalai Lama lived. I had traveled all the way to northern India to meet the Dalai Lama in his hometown only to discover that he was back in mine, giving a talk in Boston.
I decided to make the most of it, and I ended up having a powerful experience at his monastery, listening to the monks chanting. Each baritone “OMMM” seemed to penetrate directly into my heart, swirling and reverberating inside my chest until the sound became part of my cells. When I left three hours later, I felt completely calm and at peace. If that stuff could be bottled, it’d put Xanax and Prozac right out of business.
After another twenty minutes on the chicken bus, I arrived in Rishikesh, a well-known Hindu religious hub. The Beatles had studied there with their guru, the founder of Transcendental Meditation. I chose a different ashram not too far away.
I knew several people who’d had life-changing experiences at ashrams, and I hoped I would find enlightenment too. I decided to stay for at least a month.
That spiritual venture lasted exactly three days. In the words of a California Valley Girl: “OMG, hated it!”
From the stories I’d heard, I was expecting an environment of joyful, ecstatic prayer within the fellowship of a friendly community. Instead, the atmosphere at that place just felt oppressive. Nobody greeted or interacted with one another; everyone was somberly absorbed in their own prayers and tasks.
Once, I made the mistake of smiling and saying hello to a man who was pulling weeds from the garden. He glowered at me.
I felt absolutely no union with something higher, just tension and a sense of my own resistance to following someone else’s rules. We had to eat at a specific time, clean our dishes a certain way, and pray in a designated manner with precisely dictated words. I wasn’t hungry for breakfast at 4:00 a.m. I didn’t always feel moved to pray using someone else’s script. While I enjoyed some of the communal chanting, I began to appreciate what Robinson had written in Honest to God about being allowed to communicate with your Higher Power on your own terms, on your own schedule, and in your own way. I confirmed what I’d discovered in college: My spirituality was an eclectic blend of various world religions and my own unique practices and beliefs. Although the details