Final Thoughts on India

One week ago today I returned home from one of the great trips of my lifetime. I went without children or my wife. I missed them greatly while I was away, but I was consistently aware of the great gift of time that I was given. I know how difficult it was for Jodi to let me go, but she knew that I needed to experience this trip alone. I will never be able to share any of the experiences I had there with my family directly, but only through documentation and recounting.

Since I’ve been home many people have asked, “Why India?” The answer is “Because.” Because it’s there. Because it’s foreign. Because in my mind it was a place that held mostly stereotypes. I wanted to erase all of that. I wanted to feel like an alien for a while.



After all, that’s why people travel; to feel foreign. Having now been there, I can say this, there isn’t a place on Earth that I’ve been to that can make someone more keenly aware of oneself than India. The structure of things is vaguely familiar, but everything feels, tastes, and sounds infinitely different. Even the voices of old friends you see along the way, like James Hackman in Varanasi, feel profoundly different. You travel to change the context. I don’t do it enough. I’m having trouble shaking the feeling, but I’m also terrified of shaking it.

The other reason I went to India is that Mike asked me to go. After all, it was his trip. So maybe when Mike gets back on Monday I’ll ask him, “Why India?” I’m pretty sure I would have gone with him to Patagonia, Vietnam, or The Congo, and maybe someday we will. We make pretty good traveling companions. I had a tendency to plan the things that Mike never thought to, and he had a way of getting me stop caring about the plans I had made. I remembered to pack the things he didn’t, especially the things that we ultimately didn’t need anyhow. I nagged him to stay in the moment, and he documented the hell out of everything, which was annoying at the time, but for which now, at least a week later, I am incredibly grateful.



I am forever changed by that place. I would go back tomorrow if I could, especially if I could bring my wife and children with me, but I know it would be a very different story. Being there alone, and at this stage in my life, meant everything. I am still overwhelmed with gratitude to my wife and in-laws for supporting me on this trip. I hope to someday be able to return the favor, or even share with them first hand the amazing, and now somewhat less mysterious, subcontinent of India.

A few other people have asked about the title of this blog. The answer to that is a little more complicated. I'll say this, life is complicated. Mike's had a complicated couple of years, and it doesn't look like things are going to get less complicated anytime soon. I think he is learning to embrace that uncertainty. There's a photo by Yves Klein that Mike saw a while back that struck him. It's titled "Leap Into The Void." I've posted it below. Mike reworked the phrase a little recently and had it tattooed on his inner arm. It's written in the same font as the the Declaration of Independence. It's a strong statement, and it was consistently in the back of both of our minds during the the whole trip. It resonated loudly as I left him in Kolkata.



Mike returns on Monday. I can't wait to hear about his week. It will be interesting to tell him about mine. Life is slowly calling us both back. I think we are ready.




Leap into the Void, 1960
Yves Klein (French, 1928–1962); Harry Shunk (German, 1924–2006); Janos Kender (Hungarian, 1937–1983)
Gelatin silver print

10 3/16 x 7 7/8 in. (25.9 x 20 cm)

Source: Yves Klein, Harry Shunk, Janos Kender: Leap into the Void (1992.5112) | Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History | The Metropolitan Museum of Art

In Search of Marble Palace

In the morning, Mike was battling some gastrointestinal distress, so I decided to venture out on my own in search of the much talked about Marble Palace. When I say “much talked about”, I’m largely referring to what foreigners and guidebooks written by foreigners have talked about. With the exception of the lady in the India Tourism office the previous day who provided us with the “permit” required to be able to visit the site, it seemed that almost nobody that I came into contact with in India had any clue what I was talking about…beginning with my cab driver.

I left the hotel and crossed the street to a line of waiting taxis. I was in a take-no-prisoners kind of mood when it came to cab drivers. I walked up to the first car. “Marble Palace?” I said. The guy stared at me with a blank expression. I quickly moved on to the next car. “Marble Palace?” I said.

“Marabelle Plants?” he said attempting to repeat what he thought I said. I walked on.

Finally I approached a car with a youngish looking driver behind the wheel.

“Marble Palace?” I asked.

He muttered something.

“Marble Palace.” I said louder and slower.

“Ohhh, Marble Place. In, in.” he said, still not getting it quite correct, but it was close. I jumped in.

The driver proceeded one block north and made a sharp left turn through The Maiden, the park that runs through the center of the city. I jolted forward. “Hey, where are you going?” I shouted. "It's the other direction."

“Marble Place…Marble Place…” he said, as he made another left turn.

"What are you doing?” I yelled. “Pull over. Pull over.” He continued down the road. “Stop!” I screamed. He stopped his cab in the left hand lane without pulling off the side of the road. I braced for a potential impact from behind while simultaneously pulling my map from my bag. I showed him where the cab was and where I wanted to go and also, how I wanted to get there. “Ok, Ok…I drive.”

He made two more lefts and proceeded past the exact spot that I first met my captain. I considered hurling myself from the moving car and starting all over again, but instead I decided to go with it. After all, today I had a map.

Within a few minutes, it seemed as though we were near the neighborhood of Marble Palace. My driver had already stopped three times along the way to ask for directions: one cabbie and two policemen.

Apparently most the confusion lies in the diction. Marble Palace spoken by an American sounds like Marble Place to the ear of a Kolkatian. Marble Place is the enormous marble and stonecutters district that surrounds the neighborhood where Marble Palace lies.

The driver kept pulling over and pointing at a marble shop, “Here, here,” he would say. “No,” I would say. “That’s not it.” He thought he was so close. Again, in typical Kolkata fashion, we circled my hoped for destination at least four times before I caught a glimpse of the building two blocks down a side street. “Stop!” I screamed. I pointed down the street. He insisted on driving me all the way to the front door. He also demanded full fare. I relented realizing that the full fare amounted to a dollar and a half. I figured it was worth the ride around the neighborhood. Plus I got some pretty good pictures from the car.

A small wooden sign near the enormous gate and next to the guards read “Marble Palace”. My bizarre commute was about to be severely upstaged by the destination itself.

In the guidebooks, and on several websites that I had visited when researching the palace, it said that bribes where expected by the guards inside in order to see any of the house. I assumed that meant that I would be allowed to walk around and take pictures of what was inside. I was mistaken.

I quickly realized why there were practically no photographs of the interior of the house: photography is strictly prohibited. Strictly. No matter how much you attempt to bribe the guards. The one photo of the inside of the house posted here was found on random website.

At one point, before entering the house I attempted to get my camera out to take a picture of the exterior. I was swarmed. The same happened when I tried to get my super small Flip video camera out. “Cell phone, cell phone,” I lied. The guards wouldn't relent.

Plainly put, the house is enormous. It sits on what I estimated to be a five-acre site in the middle of the city. Lush overgrown gardens stretch away from the main covered entrance designed to receive horse-drawn carriages. Balconies hang from the sides and front of the building itself, which is in complete tatters. Vines and brush have grown up on all sides of the house. Parts of the facade are visibly crumbling.

The main gate sits on the north side of the house, but the entrance (the photo above) is on the west side of the house. When you get there, you realize the structure is twice as big as it seems from the road. The covered carriage entrance is probably 200 feet long and 40 feet tall. There are probably fifteen columns three feet in diameter that support the portico. Its colonial presence is oppressive as you approach it - even for Kolkata. On either side of the front door there are two taxidermy moose heads (labeled with antique brass plaques as “Moose Deer”) next to an armed guard and a handful of “tour guides” waiting for their bribe to start the “tour.” Let the weirdness begin.

I signed a waiver, handed over my permit, was asked to remove my shoes, and was led inside. An open courtyard in the center of house revealed a huge fountain more than 20 feet across. The crisp blue sky overhead cut through the devastated central interior of the building. Balconies surrounded the courtyard. I was slack jawed both at the building’s size and its condition.

My guide shuffled me into a parlor just off the main entrance. It’s hard to keep the order of the rooms I visited correct, but I’ll give you the gist of what I saw. The marble floors in each room mimicked the design of an over-sized Oriental rug; the ornate patterns were magnified to match the scale of the room. Each room had a unique design and there had to be 10 to 20 different kinds of marble jig sawed together.

The rooms, including the “simple” billiards room, each measured at least 100 long by 20 to 40 feet wide with ceilings that soared 20 feet up. Almost all of the coffered ceilings had intricate hand-carved wood or plaster moldings. Their complexity made the rooms feel even bigger and more confusing. Then I noticed all of the stuff.

The tour guide wasn’t a whole lot of help in the "stuff" department. “This is a lamp,” he would say straight-faced. “This is a chair. Louis the 14^th. This is a bird cage.” Now granted, the cage he was talking about was almost 15 feet tall, but I could damn well see it was a bird cage. As for the chair, I could not figure out if he was saying it was in the style of a Louis the 14^th chair or if King Louis himself sat in it.

This went on and on, room after crowded room. Sheets covered much of the furniture, and some of the rooms were so full that I found myself backtracking just to make it to the other end. The walls of each room were covered with countless paintings hung salon style.

There were elephant tusks in glass cases, collections of “gifts”, as the tour guide put it, including rare books and manuscripts, china and silverware. I think I even saw a gorilla paw ashtray. There was a huge wooden sculpture probably 10 feet tall that the guide pointed out was carved from “one piece” of wood. At the either end of the ballroom were identical single pane mirrors that stretched 25 high and 10 feet across. They had to have been 200 years old and were built into ornate hard-carved gold leaf frames that in places were two feet wide and housed even smaller and more intricately cut mirrors.

He showed me to a staircase and we climbed up. When we got to the second floor I noticed a few more cages at the end of the balcony. When we got there I could see that there were actually live birds in most of the cages. The guide said they were carrier pigeons. I balked. Looking back, he might have been right.

I soon learned that descendants of the family that built the house still own it, and they live there. Of course there is a three story servant's and cook's quarters adjacent to the palace, and from what I could gather, that is where the owners spend most of their time, but I was also informed that they were at home during my tour.

Despite the lack of depth in the tour, he did manage to point out the home’s supposed Ruebens painting, albeit without much fanfare. He simply turned expressionless and with a small sweep of his hand said, “And this is the Ruebens.”

We made out way downstairs and out the front door. I sat underneath one of the looming moose heads and put my shoes back on. I was in shock. Two other tourists approached. They could sense my disorientation and asked what I thought. I tried to explain to them in brief what they were in for. The guards who spoke English laughed. I wished them luck, and went out to tour the gardens.

It was at this point of my visit that it started to lose it. A series of fountains led to a path that I followed down to a row of caged fencing. Out of the corner of my eye I saw something run. It was large. It was an antelope. The next few cages held several different kinds of deer and hoofed creatures several of which were sporting impressive racks. Then came the birds.

There were peacocks and toucans and pheasants. There were jungle birds, desert birds, and forest birds. The cages went on and on. There had to have been 250 different rare birds on the property. Eventually the cages stopped. I walked a little farther and reached the back of the property.

There was an apartment building full of tiny open rooms and people were outside cooking over open fires and bathing half naked near a hand-pumped well. There were a couple of small children who looked at me and cocked their heads, but nobody said a word.

I looped back around and headed toward the house. I came to another building. This one had enormous cages with thick bars on the windows. After seeing everything that I had, I could tell what this building was. This is where they kept the elephants and the tigers.

I wandered toward the exit, and walked out of the gate. I made a short video once outside. I think I know what I was trying to say when I said "Going into the house felt like walking into Europe." What I wanted to say was that the house reeked of Dickensian decay. It was overwhelming, ornate, and falling apart. It was pretty much perfect.

Untitled from Ryan Schulz on Vimeo.

Kolkata: Worlds Collide

If I could mash a few cities together that would add up to Kolkata, it would go something like this: New York + Havana + London (with an occasional hint of Paris). But it’s decaying…quickly, and almost before your very eyes every second of each day. But it's a beautiful decay. One I easily and quickly got used to.

Our prepaid taxi sped from the airport and through the city headed for our hotel. A word here about taxis in India: most drivers have no idea where there are going. Like schools of fish moving in unison, the taxis swarm and weave; streets aren’t marked, there are no real traffic laws, people use horns not signals. And if they stop and ask someone directions, it’s important to understand that almost nobody knows where something is unless they are standing down the street from it - and even that's not true all of the time.

Our driver stopped and asked at least 5 people for help. We soon realized that we had circled the hotel several times. We finally found one young guy who spoke pretty good English. He could tell we were frustrated. He understood our taxi driver was lost, but, and happily, in accordance with my earlier rule, we happened to be less than a block from the front door of our soon to be oasis.

“Where you from?”

“The States…Chicago?”

He grinned (as if to say “Get used to this kind of cab ride”), “Welcome to Kolkata. Your hotel is down there, around the corner.”

We pulled up to the hotel. If our trip up until this point had been about stark contrasts, we were about to be blown away. After being whisked into the lobby of the Oberoi Grand Hotel, we quickly realized that we were way out of our element.

Out bags were scanned, we passed the through the medal detector. Everyone placed their palms together and bowed to us. We were whisked into the lobby, asked to have a seat on one of the many well-upholstered couches and told to wait while our paperwork was readied.

Finally in this environment we realized something all at once. We looked like shit. Like the lights coming on at the end of a long party, we were disheveled, to say the least. Mike’s beard had grown into a tangled mess, his hair was tussled and misshapen, and he was wearing some indigenous Indian clothing that had never been washed with two sets of prayer beads. We both smelled awful. My hair had begun to curl over my ears, and I was beginning to think that our decision not to shower that morning was ill conceived.

As these thoughts raced through my mind, a suited manager carrying a cocktail tray approached. “Some refreshment sirs, I can tell you’ve had a long journey.” He handed us some fresh lime soda and two cool rolled washcloths. He may as well have baptized us. We were reborn.

We were shown to our quarters in short order. The tour was concise but thorough. The balcony doors were opened to reveal a view of the private garden and the pool surrounded by towering palms. I could here the chatter of pigeons and other birds as the blue sky emptied of light.

We exhaled.

The attendant asked if there was anything else that we required. I said no, and in typical American fashion shoved a wad of faded rupees into the man’s hand. He looked at it as if I had just placed a large wet used tissue into his palm, “Sir, we do not accept gratuity for individual service here at the hotel. At the completion of your stay you may hand a sealed envelope to the hotel clerk and the proceeds will be distributed evenly among the staff.”

“Oh.” I said.

We gorged on room service from the world-renowned Baan Thai restaurant downstairs and passed out watching Bollywood on TV.

In the morning, we were again blown away by the food at the hotel. The breakfast buffet consisted of nearly everything you could want no matter your country of origin: exotic fruit imported from Thailand, cereals and muesli with fresh curd, homemade yogurts and potted creams, French pastries, fresh squeezed juices, and on and on and on…and then we ordered the actual breakfast. Most mornings in India we had Poori Bhaji; soft fried dough similar to fresh tortillas served with a potato stew. The Oberoi’s version was hands down the best. Although their Idli was also really pretty great.

We returned to the room, showered, and decided it was time for Mike to shed the Allen Ginsberg/Che’ Guevara look he had been carefully cultivating. The concierge told us of a place where we could receive such grooming. We walked a circuitous route through the streets of downtown Kolkata and eventually arrived (after another confused cabbie experience) at AN John Salon.

We had seen places in India to get haircuts before; usually they were little hole in the wall places where I would feel comfortable buying a candy bar, but this place looked like any western salon in any city in the US. We went in. A men’s cut was 400 Rps. (about $8) the beard cost and extra $100.

I went for a walk, when I returned, Mike look refreshed. I realized that I needed one too. Thirty minutes later we emerged both looking like a million bucks, or at lease 1000 rupees. Either way, it was worth it.

We walked up the street both continually commenting about how much we loved Kolkata. In retrospect, Delhi is LA without any of the glam or Hollywood aspects to it. I almost categorically dislike LA. Kolkata has some amazing depth. The architecture is an amazing blend of centuries old colonialism, retro 70s high-rises, and new construction.

Then there are the buildings that are nearly impossible to place in any time. They are decrepit, barely standing, and fully occupied. Ten story buildings stand leaning (visibly - see below) as if you can almost see them tipping over. It makes one nervous to walk next to them.

We grabbed a Hot Kati Roll (Kolkata’s version of a hotdog – and my new favorite food) and walked to the Maiden (Kolkata’s Central Park). After watching a bit of a cricket match and peeing in public for the first time (everybody does it…even the police) we walked south through the park. We soon came across a heard of goats grazing. The family that “owned” them lay in the shade nearby. We continued along past the 150 young women who seemed to be training for the military. They marched in formation. We also saw a fair number of incredibly high-powered machine guns laying in the grass.

We continued south in search of a Toursim office where we told we needed to pick up a permit in order to be able to tour a place called the Marble Palace on the other side of town the next day.

In the stuffy bureaucratically intense office, we were shown to a desk whereupon we observed one of the most intense arguments between two people that I've ever seen. It took place between the manager and an employee. I was sure we were going to see someone disemboweled with a stapler. Mike was pretty sure the subordinate was just fed up with being yelled at all the time. I think he was right.

Permit in hand, we jumped in a cab and headed to lunch at a Lonely Planet recommended place called Kewpies for authentic Bengali food. We walked. I assured Mike that we could find it. I promised.

One sweaty hour later, Mike was looking pale. We needed food. And shade. After asking seven shop keepers, we soon found the restaurant in a small alley only a block from where there had begun circling and asking directions. It was one of the best meals we had during the whole trip.

If Mughal and Southern Indian food is a freight train of spicy flavor, Bengali food is trolley. It’s subtle and balanced. Not too spicy. Not too salty. It's even a little sweet. I could eat at Kewpies twice a week and not tire of it. After filling ourselves with two enormous Thalis, including my new favorite dessert (a sort of custardy sweet cream served in a small terra cotta pot) we reemerged into the daylight.

We relented into another cab and eventually made it back to the hotel and straight to the pool. After a light dinner, we crashed…and went to the room to watch Slumdog Millionaire. And I can say this after finally seeing the movie, yes, India is like that, almost exactly like that, but also a lot more.

Kolkata By Air

After a noisy night, we woke at 5am with a Buddhist prayer service happening at the tree across the street. It was actually quite beautiful, and as I lay in the dark, I could hear hundreds of devotees mimicking the chant coming through the loudspeaker.

Untitled from Ryan Schulz on Vimeo.

Mike soon woke up, and we hung out in the room looking at pictures and videos from the previous couple of days. We left the room in search of something to eat. Vishnu Café was next door and open so we went in. We ordered food and went back to the plastic tables and chairs out front. You could just barely see the temple from where we sat.

Breakfast was a multicoursed feast. A bowl of mueslix and curd (think chunky yoghurt) with honey soon hit the table along with our Chai. We added a little extra pepper to the chai, and devoured the cereal dish. It was great.

As our omlette came out, we noticed a surprisingly nice dark sedan roll into the parking lot about 15 feet from our table. It looked like the Indian version of an Audi. A very hip teenage or college-aged man got out of the driver’s seat followed by a very distinguished looking white bearded man wearing glasses. He sat down near us and struck up a conversation.

Throughout the course of the conversation we learned several facts:

- The man’s name was Lama Shree Narayan Singh.

- He spoke nearly perfect English.

- He received a very thorough Western style education in Bihar.

- His was very aware of the United State’s political and economic situation.

- He was married to an American for one year. She took their baby back

to the US when they divorced.

- He loves Obama.

- His family was one of the wealthiest families in Bihar and at one point had the

great distinction of having the largest cash reserves on hand of any landowner in the region.

- They were tax collectors.

- They lost one of the “old” buildings (built in the 1700s) on his property

during the 1932 earthquake.

- He has since turned his family compound into a liberal humanistic Rimay Buddhist

- Center called Bodhi Kunja – Jang Chuub Ga’ Tshal Ling.

- He invited us to come.

- He found out we were interested in meditation and offered to drive us to a

nearby mediation center.

We went with him. And I’m glad we did. He had so much knowledge and peace and gentleness in him, I was deeply sad that we couldn’t go to his home. Meeting him was one of the best parts about Bodh Gaya.

He took us to the International Meditation Center that was founded by the Venerable Dr. Rastrapal Mahathera. Although Rastra died in 2009, his successor was there, and offered to talk with us a while. It as so quiet and peaceful. in stark contrast to the previous 24 hours. The monk was generous and gave us about 30 minutes to ask questions. Then he offered to let us meditate for a while in one of the main mediation rooms.

He called for an assistant who took us to the second floor of a large guesthouse, down a winding dark hallway, and into a spacious room with windows and large carpet. There were pillows on the floor, he quietly bowed and left.

We spent about 30 minutes in complete silence. It was heaven.

Somewhere during the day, we told several people that we were taking an afternoon train to Kolkata. They looked at us in confusion. “They added an afternoon train?” they would say. We soon realized that our train, along with our first class AC cabin had departed the station at 4 in the morning. Being stupid Americans, we neglected to pay attention to the international timetable.

Instead, we are now sitting at Bodhgaya International Airport waiting for our flight to Kolkata. I saw more goats and cows on the way into the airport that I have seen staff at the airport. It’s actually quite nice. They have the same Buddhist chant echoing softly in the background that I woke to this morning. It’s been a long day.

Gaya to Bodhgaya

The train slowed a mile or so out of town, and we coasted into the Gaya Junction, about 17km from Bodhgaya. It’s a small poor farming town that happened to be lucky enough to be in line with the train that went in to Kolkata. As I gathered my things, the guy in the bunk below me said, “Hello sir, you are going to Bodhgaya?”

“Yes.”

“Take care sir. That place is safe, but this place is not safe. The touts and beggars and drivers will take your things and money. Be very careful.”

“Thank you.”

“Namaste.”

The dread that we constantly held in our guts throughout Delhi returned. We got out of the train car and headed straight for the stairs and over the tracks. As we got halfway over the tracks a man approached.

“Bodhgaya?”

“Good guess,” I thought.

“How much,” I said.

“150.”

“Let’s go.” As we continued down the other side of the bridge another driver approached and our driver and the other driver entered into an argument that resulted with our driver slapping the other driver and the other driver swinging back. I think they were arguing about money.

We got to the rickshaw, loaded our bags and jumped in. Our driver pulled out a long rope. Several thoughts came to mind. He rounded the back of the vehicle and ducked underneath. A minute later he emerged and pulled his arm away as hard as he could. Our carriage roared to life.

We tore out of the “parking lot” and turned onto a busy street. Horses, pigs, rickshaws and people on bikes raced by. Enormous trucks carrying haystacks the size of buses squeezed by us on the narrow lane.

Every city has some of the same features, with varying degrees of difference. Shops almost all have rolling garage doors to shutter up at night. It Gaya, the garage doors were the storefronts and an open sewer ran along the fronts of each side of the street. It was probably about 20 feet from the front of one of the shops to the front of the other shop directly across the street. It was tight.

Sleeper Class

The trains in India are an experience unto themselves. Sleeper class kicks it up a notch.

The alarm went off at 3:15 and within a minute James came bursting into the room and flipped our light on. "Wakey, wakey!" he snarled. We sat up, oriented ourselves, pounded a cup of coffee and jumped in the autorickshaw for the 45 ride to the train station. On the way we dodged cows, monkeys, pigs, goats, and the occasional pedestrian or bicyclist in complete dusty darkness. We made a few turns, bounced our way through what seemed like a industrial park, and turned onto the bridge that crosses the Ganges to the north of Varanasi. The city was still completely asleep. It was a nice way to say goodbye.

Mughal Sarai Junction was once the largest railway junction in Asia. There are about 4 platforms and 8 tracks. Our driver helped us find the platform, and we waited. One hour went by. Two hours went by. Three hours went by. We asked for the fifth or sixth time. We were told it would only be 30 more minutes, but consistently assured it would arrive at the platform we were on.

We passed the time by buying cookies for the kids they hire to clean the platforms -- although I'm pretty sure they live there -- and trying not to get crapped on by the pigeons above. The platforms are filthy and the air is filthier. The trains rolling in and out looked more like cattle cars than passenger rails, and we were growing increasingly uneasy about the next four hours.

Suddenly another train pulled into the station, and I noticed a dirty sign on the side that read Sealdah Express. Our train...three tracks over. We grabbed our bags and ran up the stairs, over the tracks, and down the ramp to our train, found our car, jumped on, and made our way to our seats. They were taken, but the overhead beds were open, so we hopped up top.

There isn't much room up there, but it's cozy and feels ancient and kind of quaint. Ceiling fans dot the entire surface of the roof of the car making it hard to see too far from your perch, but we settled in, put on some music and zoned out. I fell asleep for a little while and Mike started a book.




When I woke up, I jumped down and looked out the window. The countryside seemed lush considering how dry it was. We passed small towns full of squat angular brick buildings all centered around an incinerator. The train stopped for a little while and we got out on the tracks. It was just starting to get warm. It felt good to be out of a city again. It was quiet.


The train started to move and we all jumped back on. Mike and I climbed back up, bought some chai and a couple of samosas and within an hour or so we where in Gaya, a small town about 25 minutes from Bodhgaya. Once we were out of the station we boarded a rickshaw that barreled out of the city and onto the country roads.

We seemed to be driving along a ridge that separated a dry river bed from some incredibly green farmland. It was just a another simple reminder of the stark dichotomies India has been dealing us since we arrived.

I saw a sign that read "Bodhgaya 12km". The Bodhi Tree awaits.

The Dip

When Mike called and first told me about this trip, I'm pretty sure he said this: "I'm going to India to wash myself clean in the Ganges." Of course there were other reasons for the trip, most of which seem largely unimportant at this point. The food has been good, but I've had good Indian food. The people are certainly interesting, but there's plenty of interesting people everywhere. Each day we seem to find new reasons to have come here. Reasons that we never expected. Feeling such a constant sense of "place" can be exhausting, but it does some pretty crazy things to your head if you let it.

The best part about Mike's swim was that although it's been planned for about three months now, he didn't know it was going to happen until 15 minutes before that toe touched the water. As we sat at lunch and munched on Indian Korean Japanese food (yes, there is such a thing), I looked at him and said, "Are you ready?" "For what?" he said. "You're going in. Now." I said. "OK."

He went into the bathroom and changed into a dhoti he had just purchased and emerged a warrior, a nervous warrior, but a warrior nonetheless. As we walked down to the river our friend James said, "Now Mike, you have to promise me something. Please, do not put your head under the water. A tourist got an infection in his head last year and died."


With that helpful advice, Mike stepped down in to the river. He seemed relieved and elated. He swam out to a boat, turned around, and swam back. It didn't last long. We took video. We took pictures. Mike got out, toweled off, and dressed in some other clothes that he just bought. Nothing had really changed. Or maybe everything had. I didn't get in. Our friend James who has lived here for four years has never been in. Mike went alone. I think he needed to.

When he was dry and changed, we climbed the gahts and found a perch with a handful of boys flying more of those small paper kites that we saw on the first day. It's seems impossible, but these small square foot pieces of paper climb nearly 300 feet up. It's incredible. And they are able to keep them up for hours at a time.


It was a perfect way to spend our last day here. I think we all felt like something had changed. Even if it hadn't.