I recall that Gaya was only about an hour and change by plane from Delhi. I looked out the window- dazed. A lush green river valley thick with jungle mystified below. Soon we were gliding to a lower altitude on approach of Gaya’s simple airport. For some reason the pilot broadcast all sorts of technical data as we descended. Our altitude was this, our speed was that, headwinds were this, temperature was that, the vector of our approach was this… On and on he went. Then he proceeded to gingerly touch us down on the tarmac with the grace of a swan. I can’t remember a smoother landing in my entire flying experience.
pon exiting the plane, just like that, the rich scent of Bihari earth brought the past back. It is said that smell is one of the most powerful memory triggers. I feel that it is a truly underestimated force. The simple reminder of what that part of the world smelled like was more powerful to me than any journal entry, image or sound recording could ever be. Perhaps all along I had needed to physically return, and smell, to truly remember this land.
On the tarmac of “Gaya International Airport,” “Iz,”the operator of the guest house, was there with his nephew to greet me. They held a piece of paper with the name “Lan” written on it. I was woozy but figured I most definitely must be Lan. The two men welcomed me with smiles and without much delay my luggage was placed into Iz’s nephew’s SUV. I noticed that the vehicle was showing a fresh smash on the windshield. As we pulled away I was told the story of the fruit.
it went like this: As my hosts made their way to pick me up a large fruit had suddenly plummeted onto the car. In the telling of the story it was strongly hinted at that the proper thing for me to do would be to pay to replace the windshield. I prickled at the suggestion, perplexed with how I could be responsible for their vehicular endeavors. Was my paying for the taxi service not enough? But just as the scent of the earth did, this scenario jolted my memory back to accuracy. Selective memory had omitted how here, foreigners are viewed as an opportunity to make money. I had only just touched down but the tropical mist was already starting to lift from my eyes.
Iz sensed my apprehension and backed off about the windshield. There was silence in the vehicle for a while. As we jostled along recollections of numerous experiences with hustling tactics returned. I recalled the pressure it could induce, reducing the visiting foreigner to feeling like a domesticated or trapped animal. Then returned the companion piece to this, that part of the deal of being the wandering foreigner is that you never know what percentage of what is being presented is truth, and what is spin or hustle. After these disturbing recollections returned the hard lesson of the necessity to remain pleasant, polite and not lose one’s cool when traveling in Asia. Being overly direct or expressing anger outwardly is extremely offensive. And as it’s practically an American cultural trait to lose one’s cool or be causticly direct, there is a challenging cultural adjustment to make here. But now I remembered. A great part of my “education” in the early days in Bodh Gaya had been about developing tolerance, polite assertiveness and patience. The goal was to achieve a balance as one interfaced with people that perched along the invisible line between overly-trusting and overly-vigilant. I had erred on both sides of the divide in the past, regretting my actions in either instance. Somehow the gilded remembrances of selective memory had omitted that.
A humid breeze flowed through the window. Iz made an attempt at small talk and I did my best to be polite. Looking out the window I did not recognize the landscape. Iz told me all that had changed in the area in the last twenty years. A bridge and many, many buildings had been erected in town. He mentioned as Robert had how the main road through town had been rerouted around the temple. Unfortunately I was too overwhelmed to absorb this fact and would have to later learn this by later getting lost. Anyways, what had been the long, treacherous road from the Gaya station, which during that period was not to be traveled after dark due to banditry, had filled in with sprawl. Now it was hard to tell when you had left Gaya and entered Bodh Gaya. A bridge built over the Niranjana river had created a arterial link with Sujata Village and other nearby habitations to the greater urban area. It is disorienting to return to a place you thought you knew but learn that it had changed almost beyond recognition.
I sought phone connectivity to help me get my bearings. Iz offered to help me and in what was probably a well-practiced movement, we pulled in to a friend’s little restaurant beside another friend’s mobile shop. Again, my memory triggered. There is an amazing swiftness and thoroughness to services in India, even for budget travelers like me. I have not experienced this responsiveness in the USA. From the perspective of the backpacker abroad in India, said swiftness only applies to certain things. For instance, sewing repairs to backpacks, with a shoe detailing thrown in, can be done for less than five dollars during a fifteen minute walk to the bus depot. Medication can be purchased at pharmacies without a prescription. But other things like visa extensions or certain train tickets, or a beer in some states, can prove to be difficult to make happen. It is hard to anticipate if a matter is going to be easy to deal with or a nightmare. This is where the cultural lessons and the necessity to develop patience comes in. I was to have remedial lessons in both.
The three of us sipped our chai in the little tent shop. I was beginning to decompress from the journey and feel just how weary I was. I had crossed the international dateline and been traveling so long my nervous system had kicked-into overdrive a long time ago. The chai gave a little lift to make it through this last leg. Iz told the story of himself, his family and the guesthouse. He was an orphan and had grown up on the street. When you are in Bihar that is really saying something. After coming into adulthood Iz resolved to help other children in the same predicament that he had been in. “It is so hard,” he told me. Through the years he and his wife had taken in a total of 23 children. They were currently caring for 16. They fed, housed, clothed and (I think) sent most of the youngsters to school. The guesthouse/ home was a hybrid entity. It lay in a sort of grey area between humanitarian organization and for-profit hostel. It is most likely that in Bihar such distinctions are not really made. I sensed that there was more to the story but I had to make do with what was presented. My memory triggered and reminded me not to count on people from this part of the world to tell you “the whole truth,” for numerous reasons. These might be to prevent losing face or causing offense by mentioning what is deemed to be unspeakable or not privy to those outside of the “need to know” group. This recollection retold me how the foreign privilege and alienness comes with shades of blindness. With time, more and more is seen and understood, but blind spots always remain.
Part of the delight of being the foreign interloper that does not speak the language is that this allows for surprise and delight, as well as ignorance that can protect you. The foreigner is clueless, and plays the fool, on a daily basis. This can also work to the foreigner’s advantage by not being held accountable at the same level as native Indians. Another bonus to not understanding the language is that you are not bothered by trifling small talk or annoying advertisements. These are big pluses for me. Still, as I mentioned, if the foreigner sticks around and is making an effort, their understanding doubles on a weekly basis. Each week what you thought was [in this case] India peels away, and a new layer reveals itself that usually contrasts with the previous one. After twenty five years of Indian studies, the layers are still peeling for me.
As Iz shared his mission to help people I in turn shared my experience trying to do the same. We both got a little teary-eyed, then drained our chai. With great effort I got up and shuffled next door to address the phone issue. As an example of the previously stated service, the phone matter passed with exceeding ease. A few minutes and $17 dollars later I had complete mobile and hotspot usage for about three months.
When sophomore year ended and I was required to choose a major. I chose religion. This was just the most interesting option and the one that came closest to delivering the truth that I craved. I saw the roots of religious beliefs in world history and figured if I knew the components then I would be able to understand the products of those components- human history and the greater truths in life. It also seemed, at the time, that religion involved people living their beliefs and involving their heart instead of just experimenting intellectually, as in philosophy. Well, my intentions were good but I was clearly very naive. As you might have expected, my degree in religion from The Colorado College proved to be about as useful and marketable as soggy bread, but the whole college effort included one bright light for me.
We hopped back in the car and made the last leg of the journey. We crossed the new bridge and entered Sujata Village. With Bodh Gaya now a bustling and loud place, my plan to find more peace and quiet across the river seemed to be working out. The village had an agrarian feel with many fields and crops along the river. The SUV pulled in to a narrow dirt track and parked on a patch of straw between some weathered brick buildings. A heifer munching hay smiled sweetly toward us. This was Lilly. We exited the car. I grabbed my bags and we wove on a narrow path between two brick buildings. We turned left and up a red walkway of an immense, four story guesthouse. We turned a bend and were confronted with a mangy German Shepard. She was chained to a pillar along the stair case. This was a sad sight to a dog guy like me. Again the old feelings came back. Heartbreak when confronted with beggars, people that have gone without medical treatment, lepers missing limbs, people and animals that are walking skeletons… As a visitor you can make certain efforts but acceptance much be reached. It leaves the heart sore. The emaciated shepard barked and lightly snarled. I eyed the length of her chain, skirted it and followed Iz up to the third floor.
We arrived at my deluxe corner room with cement floor and walls painted green with blue accents. Many windows let the tropical light and warmth into the space. There was a simple wood platform bed in one corner and a battered desk in another with an antiquated CRT monitor. Above was a large, rusty ceiling fan and toward the river was a door leading to a narrow gated patio overlooking the village crop fields. Beyond them what was left of the monsoon rains trickled along the parched riverbed. Far in the distance the tip of the Mahabodhi Temple rose up from the city of Bodh Gaya. I felt that I had done pretty well for $7 per night. I unloaded my things and settled in a bit before Iz introduced me to some of the residents. They all greeted me warmly, each and every one giving me a hug. It was of course a bit contrived but felt nice after all the hassles of the journey, like being given a place of honor in the family. Then, sensing my exhaustion, the residents left me to rest . Once in the room on my own I blinked hard. I was not really sure yet… that I had actually returned to a place I had ruminated over for 23 years.
