Sin and Zen, #1

by S. W. Stribling

  ‘You should give them money.’ He said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They are widows,’ he said. ‘They have no money and no family left. They have no money to buy the wood for their fire and they are here to die.’

  I gave the women some money, and the boy turned back around and kept leading me. He showed me the way to the holy fire.

  ‘This fire has been burning forever.’

  ‘Forever is a long time.’ I said.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘It has burned nonstop for thousands of years and will continue to burn forever. All people brought here are burned with this holy fire.’

  I stared at the fire pit for a while. They built it into a wall with a concrete roof and had its only opening facing the river.

  We walked closer to the river, and from our height I could look down the bank at the multiple pyres burning. There must have been five or six that I could see.

  ‘Hundreds of people are burned here every day.’ The boy said.

  I said nothing for a while, then he continued.

  ‘After they burn them, they throw them in the river. Except for the priest, kids, cows, mommies and other animals.’

  ‘What happens to them?’

  ‘They just go straight into the river.’

  He was a good tour guide, and I knew there would be a price, so before he asked, I gave him a chocolate bar and a hundred rupees.

  I also found myself at the end of a festival. They built the city around the Ganges, and if dead bodies weren’t enough, the people also built small shrines which they then paraded through the town and threw into the river. Boats, music, dancing, fireworks, a bit of artistic fighting, floating candles, and rice being thrown at your face all in this party city. Good times. Without a drink.

  To end my soirée, I met up with a group of people that were traveling around as well and asked me to join them for dinner. A Spanish couple, Valentine, a French guy named Arthur, and a Dutch girl named Lotte. It was strange being so sober, like a diluted, watered-down version of myself, but I still found I could speak all three languages and make people laugh. I felt strangely normal.

  I TRIED TO FIND SOME spirituality given my current location. I bought a bird and released it. It’s supposed to release karma, and I could see the spirituality of that, but I imagined it was just a hoax like most things there with the Indians and tourists. Release the bird, then they caught it and gave it to the next guy. I couldn’t complain too much though since it is all relatively cheap to do and you can’t put a price on good karma and spiritual release.

  After releasing my bird, I went down for a walk on the Ganges; I had already taken a sunrise boat ride that gave me a full riverside tour of Varanasi, but walking past the calm Hindu cows, the holy men, and the average Joe washing his clothes in the river felt like a more real experience. I saw one man bathing in the river and so I went for a swim too. I was with Arthur and Lotte, and they didn’t take me seriously until I was down to my underwear and handed my sunglasses to a kid playing nearby. It was dirty. Almost like they threw hundreds of dead-burnt people in here every day. I found out later that the real reason it was so dirty is because of the industrial plants just up the river. It is considered one of the most polluted rivers in the world. A Frenchman died the previous year after letting some water get in his mouth. I didn’t die, but I found it funny thinking if I had. It also seemed funny that the most holy river in the world was also the most polluted.

  Towards the end of our walk down the Ganges, we turned into town and into a bookstore. I found an English translation of the Bhagavad Ghita. I read the introduction at the store before buying it and felt an immediate connection with the translator, Juan Mascaro. He spoke about releasing birds and swimming in the Ganges and even that synchronicity was not lost on me. More than that, it was his way of writing that spoke to me. I bought the book and looked forward to the read. Afterwards, I talked to the teenagers in the bookstore. Everybody sat on the ground here, which was a pain for my leg, and the injury blocked it from moving the way it normally should. So, I stayed standing and talked to them that way. They spoke English and French. They explained to me that everybody in India either spoke Hindi or English, plus their local language. He advised me not to waste my time learning local languages since there were so many and only apply to such a small amount of people. I still had him teach me a few basics for Varanasi and for a laugh, but he reassured me that most Indians spoke English, and I had little to worry about during my travels.

  20

  Varanasi was a pleasure. It was not nearly as stressful as the first days and provided a bit of the spirituality I came to India looking for. I made a few friends and had a business offer to be a French contact for importing clothes and other Indian made products. I also sat with some Israelis as they lived up their vacation after serving their mandatory military service. They came to India for the cheap drugs. I was still nowhere near where I wanted to be, but I was ready to head that way.

  I had breakfast with my travel friends before seeing them off. I would miss the company, but glad to be on my own again. I didn’t believe I disliked people all that much, but I’ve noticed I like them less and less individually as my life went on.

  BODH GAYA HAD TIBETAN monks and many other Buddhists from around the world. Varanasi was the capital of spirituality for Hinduism, Jainism, and even significant for Buddhism, but it is Bodh Gaya where Buddha himself reached enlightenment and was where I planned to follow in his footsteps. It was the Vipassana 10-day meditation retreat that I scheduled as my only planned stop. It was this course I built this entire trip around.

  On the train, I had read the Bhagavad Ghita, and on arrival, I started my tourism of the mountain where Buddha meditated for six years, where for twenty-seven days he didn’t eat or drink. I’m sure most scientists would find that impossible. I thought going that long without alcohol could starve any soul that wasn’t already dead, but I was looking for life in another extreme with this trip. The destructive phoenix I was trying to create before did not leave me with the wings I had hoped, and I was looking for answers in this Eastern philosophy I had always admired. I told myself that I was worth trying to save, at least worth one attempt, and nobody can do that but me. No amount of alcohol or drugs or feminine affection or psychoanalysis could save a man but himself. It was a battle for my soul. One I didn’t believe would be easily won, but the only fight worth getting bloody for if there ever was one.

  I climbed the mountain, which on its own was as pleasant as climbing any other small mountain or hill. I didn’t see the Dalai Lama, but I saw his room right down the cliff edge from Buddha’s meditation cave. I also saw a lot of monkeys.

  I fed the monkeys and then thought about a little boy I had seen when I was on the bus from Delhi to Agra. He was one of many that stood outside bus stops begging for money through the windows of the bus. He earned his coin not in serving tea or snacks, but with his monkey. He had a monkey that could pull a few tricks with a stick. I was impressed, but I didn’t give him anything. I had been in a bad place with my stomach and fatigue and comfort at that point. I stared at the boy for a long time and he stared back rather than moving on to the next customer. His skin was dark like most Indians there, but his eyes glowed green. It was mesmerizing and entranced me. I wanted to take him home. I wanted to give him a life better than begging for change on the side of a bus. I’d even take his monkey. I had always wanted a pet monkey when I was a kid. The boy seemed to ask me for help with his eyes, and with mine I promised him I would come back for him one day to take him home with me. I knew that was another broken promise made about as quickly as the bus left the station. It made me sad, but also hopeful that one day I could rescue some kid like that. No year waiting for a Chinese baby. Give me one that already knows how to use the toilet and has already had a rough start. And no waiting list, just a homeless orphan I’d kidnap. I’d figure out the paperwork later.

  I rented a motorcycle for my traveling in Bodh Gaya
and started making the rounds of other touristic sights to include the pile of rubble where a maiden offered Buddha sweet milk rice. I didn’t know what the fuck it was all about, but I saw it. Walking the steps of Buddha all right, but I didn’t have a sweet milk rice maiden.

  There was a school nearby, and I visited that. It was the second school I visited, and this one had a building. The other was just kids sitting on the ground with a teacher and board in front. They had a building because they asked for donations and had a website to ask for more Western money. I took a tour like a rich tourist and told her I’d wire some money from home. I didn’t have any intention to do so. I saw sadness and poverty, but I still don’t enjoy being begged for donations. If I donate, it’s anonymous and without asking. I’m an asshole. I know. Jesus save me. Buddha save me. Muhammad? Vishna? Somebody somewhere?

  Driving back to town, Bodh Gaya was a much smaller and quieter town. I looked at all the Indians again. The top heavy buses with people hanging out windows and stacked on top. The young men with their young ladies riding side straddle. How classy I thought. It reminded me of some medieval movie where the princesses and ladies of the time would ride like that on the back of the horse.

  I went back to my new home as that orange sun started to settle. I had my tea on a community balcony at the hotel, along with a few cigarettes and a book.

  The next day I’d be off to see the famous Bodhi tree and temple and whatever else I could find to do in the actual town now that my outer excursions were done.

  AFTER CHECKING OUT an 80-foot statue of Buddha, I found an internet café in town and figured I’d check up on the missus. I had kept my promise to myself and to her about the space, but there was a part of me hoping she had written.

  Claudia wrote. She seemed okay. She told me she went out drinking and dancing one night with a mixture of my friends and hers. Good for her I told myself. And then I wondered how things would be when I got back. Would there be a change, and if so, a positive or negative one? I can only imagine a positive one, but even positive change can be painful or hard to accept.

  After reading her email, I went to Facebook to look at her. Past the age of wallet photos, I had been on a year-long break from owning a cell phone and any other social media. My way of telling the world to fuck off. My bosses didn’t like it too much though.

  So Facebook was to look at the photos of my lady that any random guy could look at without an account. She was still claiming my dog as her own. She did that a lot in an annoying way. If the dog shit in the house, barked, did anything not to her liking, it was my damn dog to look after. Go to the beach or the park and people come up to say how cute he is, and it is all hers. Not mine, not ours, but hers. I once reminded her she never wanted the dog, and I got him without her and against her wishes. She said nothing, and I never mentioned it again. I had also just left her with the dog for two months while I chased phantoms of peace and solitude.

  After her doggy posts and comments, she had more pictures of her ex. Not remaining pictures, but new photos of him on his rock-and-roll tour. A Romanian rock star. I guess a rock star is a rock star even if he is in a country most people can’t find and he isn’t quite a star yet. But he’s only forty. He’s still got plenty of time to figure out the part about how to be famous. She was never shy to remind me I was nowhere near his level of excellence, but it’s okay, she loved us in different ways.

  I have always questioned for different reasons whether she truly loved me, assuming I knew what true love was. One of the main reasons would be because of her ex. She had always stayed in touch with him and even put up pictures of him on her Facebook. Facebook itself means nothing. Keeping in touch is okay with somebody you were once close to. But is it too much to ask that she posts a picture of me instead? Of her current boyfriend who is far away in a distant land rather than her ex-boyfriend who should be far away from her thoughts. I couldn’t help but think when seeing her post these pictures it meant something more than an ‘old friend’. She posted them because she missed him, not me. She thought of him. Looked at his photos. Thought of him more. Thought of him fondly, proudly, ... lovingly. So much fondness, pride, and love that she must display this to all her friends and family through what is the most popular broadcasting social network there is.

  I tried to give her all my love. I was not sure if it was not all received or not all appreciated. Either way, I had to be honest with myself and face a truth I had known from the beginning with her. A truth I had always known, but refused to accept.

  Claudia was not the one for me to fight for. She will not love me. Perhaps she is shallow in the sense that I am unsuccessful. Perhaps we are just too different in spirit. Perhaps I was not good enough for her. Maybe I didn’t treat her well enough. I had my moments where I was not the best boyfriend, but looking back, they all stemmed from the anger I felt by not being loved and appreciated the way I wanted to be. The way I did for her. I know to mention these things with her; she will only point out the childishness in getting upset over photos on Facebook. Demeaning the true intent of the argument.

  I could respond to her email now with a note saying that things are definitely over. It would give me the time to get over her while I’m away, to meditate and walk it off. Six weeks of solitude would put me in a good place coming back, but making that decision on an emotion would be just as immature as making every other decision I had made in life. Plus, she had my dog. Her dog.

  She may or may not have loved me, but I did not want to end things badly. She was a good person and was never purposefully wrong to me. Unfortunately, her heart was not in India with me. It was with another man and has been the entire time. No amount of fleshly sins can compare to that kind of hurt. A hurt I have felt for two years. I had hoped and waited long enough. A change was necessary, but I planned to make this decision with a calm heart to not be betrayed by raw emotion.

  These signs were small, but to overlook signs is to ignore the soul of the world. Was it selfish to want all of someone’s love?

  I continued to drift through positive changes that were painful and hard to accept. Here I was in India looking for some answer to the emptiness in my life. Just a few years before, I had made the move to Europe with the same goal. Was I closer now than then? I didn’t even know if I believed half the shit I told myself about the world, about creating, about fighting, about loving, about living, or about my being. If there was some answers, I thought I would be closer to finding it now.

  I wrote a bad poem for Claudia and didn’t send it.

  21

  I woke up the next morning feeling a lot more at peace with my feelings for Claudia.

  I read the poem I had written for her just to see what all the anger and tristesse was about. It seemed ridiculous. Pathetic. Morning me despised evening me. Strong me hated weak me. Iron me hated vulnerable me. I took myself as a man of mercy and gave myself a condescending yet concerning pat on the back. I took the poem, shortened it up and rewrote certain parts to make it seem more like a poem rather than a child crying for his mommy.

  Whereas before my imagination left me wondering what she was doing and thinking, I now didn’t care. Something broke. It broke often. I often just didn’t care. I thought of a word I had read in a book once. Actually, I had read it more than once. It was everywhere in the book. Abusively, but it made sense.

  ‘Maktub.’

  CLAUDIA REPLIED TO my poem.

  Twice.

  The first was to say that the poem was ‘nice.’ It was the best I had come to expect from her, so I was happy with the result. She followed up by saying that she still needed to clear her mind and think about things. The love between us could conquer worlds. I didn’t get too upset about it. It was a bit heart-breaking, but not at all surprising, and I was still in my ‘Maktub’ feeling.

  The second email was a poem. Written by some guy named Matt. It seemed irrelevant to me. I didn’t like it. It seemed too easy, too fairy tale for my taste, but it was a nice thought
.

  I didn’t say it; I didn’t act, but I needed my space too. After these few emails, the space was driving us apart, and I just wanted to say ‘fuck it’ and let it happen. I would soon be locked away for ten days meditating. Then I would come out as a super buddha who flew above all these human sufferings. I’m sure Buddha said ‘fuck it’ too. The untold story.

  Six weeks left. I was anxious about the meditation; I wasn’t sure if I would kill myself in there or come out nice and clean like a newborn baby. I almost wanted to get it over with so I could go for a walk in the mountains. Nepal was becoming more and more the focus of my trip rather than India.

  I WAS SITTING ON THE second-floor balcony having my tea and cigarette, staring at the setting sun. A guy came up from behind me and sat at the table with me. He had the long dreadlocks and baggy pants. I saw their type everywhere in France too. I was never sure if they were artists, homeless, or both. I suppose uniqueness was their aim, but it never seemed all that unique to me. It wasn’t as bad as the hipster saga that was so popular though. Hipsters. People that find themselves unique while blending into the crowd. Into a crowd. A group. Every monkey has their troop.

  The guy smiled.

  I gave a nod and half-wave.

  ‘Beautiful out, isn’t it?’ he said.

  Damn, I knew I shouldn’t have made eye contact.

  ‘Yeah.’ I said.

  ‘I noticed you up here last night. You in town for a while?’ He spoke with a Spanish accent, but spoke English well.

  ‘Where are you from?’ I asked.

  ‘Spain, well, Mexico and Spain.’

  ‘How’s that?’