My recent trip to Rajasthan India had a positive start. My husband and I were met by our guide, Munindra, and our driver Pradeep. As I relaxed and reached out to India, I felt immersed in sea of humanity, yet without a sense of stress or uncertainty. One memorable experience linked to yet another, like luminous pearls on a silk cord.
But when we left New Delhi and drove towards Agra, I was surprised to notice that my feet and the lower part of my legs seemed to be much larger than usual. I never had this problem before. ‘Perhaps it’s the change of climate?’ I thought. The next day my legs were more swollen and I had discomfort walking. However the charms of Agra distracted me so I just walked more slowly and occasionally massaged my legs. I also tried taking aspirin, elevating my legs or spraying them with cold water.
But soon my legs and feet were more than double their normal size. I began to feel worried, as we were moving on to the countryside where we would spend a few days in the guide’s rural village. I called my doctor in France and his voice came in waves of broken sound over the phone. Possible blood clot in my legs...hospital for tests? I felt both laughter and panic rising in my throat. As I looked out the car window, I could see people walking along the dirt road and fields. A camel moved past pulling a cart.
“There are no hospitals here,” I said and I heard my doctor give a small sigh. I thought of the pharmacy located just 5 minutes from his office, a treasure chest of modern medicine with every imaginable kind of pill. But not for me.
When we were in Munindra’s village, I eagerly drank in all the new impressions. A gentle 80-year old woman who spoke in Hindi to me but said so much more with her eyes. The shy but excited children, the beautiful ladies in their vibrant clothing, the dignified look of the respected older men with their turbans. I sat at sunset, sipping a chai tea and enjoying the quiet beauty. Yet my legs ached.
Munindra got the idea to make a bath using leaves from a neem tree growing outside the house. Neem has so many qualities, both medical and spiritual, that they can’t be properly described here. Soon my legs were soaking in the neem-infused water. Munindra gently massaged my legs and then rubbed them with an aloe vera leaf.
Despite the temporary relief, my legs continued to look like sausages. We left the village to drive toward Mandawa. During a stopover at a peaceful and historic hotel, the Castle Pachar, the owner’s wife took pity on me and one of the employees massaged my legs with a lotion made with camphor. "Another night, another massage!" my husband joked.
But the next day, as I limped to the car, it wasn’t funny. Munindra sensed my anxiety. ‘I need a doctor,’ I said and he replied ‘yes’. At that point I also knew the Indian cultural habit of hesitating to say no to a request that may not be possible. ‘Yes’ could mean a polite acknowledgement rather than a firm agreement.
The countryside transitioned from fields to dunes. Women walked alongside the road carrying water gourds or bundles of dried grass on their heads. A bus rolled past, filled with people inside and hanging onto the roof.
“Here we can see an interesting place,” Munindra commented as the car stopped in the middle of nowhere. To be honest, I was irritable and uncomfortable so I didn’t listen to his description. The place looked like a cross between an ancient auditorium or a gigantic circular water reservoir. I slowly climbed down the steps under the watchful eyes of Munindra. ‘See the beauty,’ he said with a touch of uncertainty.
We were alone in this hot, open space. My husband took photos. Munindra walked off to wait at a short distance. Climbing up the stone steps I noticed some eucalyptus trees ahead. They seemed to beckon to me with the promise of shade and perhaps something else?
As I painfully walked up the last step, I found myself in front of a temple. An old man was standing in front of a small dome-shaped building which had a thin line of smoke curling from the top. He bowed and said Namaste and looked at me with quiet curiosity. I returned his greeting and stared back. Munindra appeared and began speaking with the man in Hindi.
My husband joined us and we discovered that this holy man’s job was to keep a sacred fire burning. The perpetual fire offered prayers and protection for the village. Munindra asked me to raise my long skirt and the man observed my sad big legs. He walked into the tiny temple, which looked like a large-size beehive of sorts, and Munindra told me to follow him.
I’ll describe what happened next in logical terms, because I am person who is more comfortable with practical answers. But you will see how this approach fails to really explain what I experienced.
The interior walls of the building were pale blue and the ceiling was darkened with years of accumulated smoke. The air was cool yet warm at the same time as I sat down on the stone floor. The man took two small metal sticks and began to pray and move the sticks in and over the fire, then sharply tap them on the floor near my legs. Time seemed to slow down and then speed up. I saw the man gather ashes and put them into a folded piece of paper, which he gave to me. I got up and walked outside. I was quiet as I walked to the car, unsure of what to think or feel, yet I was surprised to feel tears running down my face. Not tears of sadness, just tears of release.
No one said anything in the car for a long time. Then we arrived in Mandawa and we all started talking at once, feeling thirsty, wanting fruit, and eager to walk around. At one point I stumbled and my legs felt weak for a moment, yet also energized. My stomach area also felt energized, similar to the way I feel after an acupuncture session. Munindra smiled and said, “things are moving.”
I hesitated to lift my skirt and look at my legs for the rest of the day. Fearful that they were worse, the same...or completely better. Finally that evening as I got ready for bed I took a deep breath and looked down at my legs. The swelling had vanished. That night I had a deep, dreamless sleep. And for the rest of my 17-day trip, my legs were perfectly fine and returned to their normal size and vitality.
Back home again, I was eager to share this story with my doctor. He listened with interest and respect, then shared a story of his own. His teenage son had a long-time skin problem with his hands. No amount of medication or therapy helped. While the family was on vacation, they stayed in a village where locals told them of an old woman who knew cures. By chance, the doctor and the boy met this woman while hiking. She talked to his son and held his hands as they spoke, then gave him some leaves of a plant to rub on his hands. “The next day the skin on my son’s hands was clear and healthy, something that I could not do!” said my doctor, shaking his head.
I write this text, sitting at my desk in France and miles from India. I think of the holy man, sitting silently in the shade of the eucalyptus trees and tending the sacred fire. I imagine Munindra and his smile when he saw that my legs were better. I walk over to the shelf in my office and pick up the small paper packet of ashes and I hold it tightly in my hand. Some things cannot be easily explained.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Cold days, warm hearts
So what did I do on Christmas? I joined my husband's family for a big dinner – 19 of us in total. The young people did a great job of decorating the table and serving the food. My father-in-law (previously described in "Smooth Stones, Shiny Stones") remains in a mental cocoon of Alzheimer's, but he was affectionately cared for by all of us and seemed to be happy. After dinner when the group played a game together, Pierre walked around the table, watching us. He was like a friendly silent planet, circling the sun of family warmth and activity. The two youngest members of the family, aged 2 and 8 months, were the center of loving attention too.
I have two special memories from this holiday time. One afternoon while I was staying with my in-laws, I felt very tired from all the celebration took a short siesta. When I woke up, my mother-in-law Jeannine was sitting on the bed, smiling at me. She gently touched my face and asked if I was OK. She was concerned, because in France, to say you are fatigué (tired) can also mean that you are depressed. What we said was not important, for me it was her motherly warmth and caring that touched my heart. This gentle woman made me happy, made me cry, and made me feel loved.
At the end of the holiday celebration, all of us said goodbyes and prepared to leave. Of course it was still freezing outside (literally -3 C). The wind rattled the branches of the bare trees and sun was starting to set, but the sky was still blue and clear. Then Gwenelle, a woman in the family, ran up to me to give a final goodbye. I expected a bisous on my cheeks, an airy, lightly impersonal French social kiss.
Imagine my surprise to get a hug – something that isn't very typical in France. I grew up in a culture where hugs are typical, so I like hugs a lot! I returned the hug and it was a good one – I could feel the energy exchange and emotion. When I looked at Gwenelle's face she looked vulnerable, happy and energized, all at the same time. In my mind, I can still see her face framed against the cold sky and feel the echo of her hug.
It's still cold outside, but I'm warm inside. In 2009 may the light of love warm your heart too.
I have two special memories from this holiday time. One afternoon while I was staying with my in-laws, I felt very tired from all the celebration took a short siesta. When I woke up, my mother-in-law Jeannine was sitting on the bed, smiling at me. She gently touched my face and asked if I was OK. She was concerned, because in France, to say you are fatigué (tired) can also mean that you are depressed. What we said was not important, for me it was her motherly warmth and caring that touched my heart. This gentle woman made me happy, made me cry, and made me feel loved.
At the end of the holiday celebration, all of us said goodbyes and prepared to leave. Of course it was still freezing outside (literally -3 C). The wind rattled the branches of the bare trees and sun was starting to set, but the sky was still blue and clear. Then Gwenelle, a woman in the family, ran up to me to give a final goodbye. I expected a bisous on my cheeks, an airy, lightly impersonal French social kiss.
Imagine my surprise to get a hug – something that isn't very typical in France. I grew up in a culture where hugs are typical, so I like hugs a lot! I returned the hug and it was a good one – I could feel the energy exchange and emotion. When I looked at Gwenelle's face she looked vulnerable, happy and energized, all at the same time. In my mind, I can still see her face framed against the cold sky and feel the echo of her hug.
It's still cold outside, but I'm warm inside. In 2009 may the light of love warm your heart too.
Monday, December 15, 2008
The River Road
The River Road
I grew up in a region with green forests, quiet valleys and rolling mountains. For a while I even lived on an island. Today I live in a populated suburban area located outside of Paris. At times I miss being close to Nature and feel a primitive longing for it. The closest substitute to Nature that I can find is the river road -- a narrow pedestrian road that runs along the river in my town. I can easily walk there from my apartment and I enjoy going there several times a week.
As I go down the public stairs, I avoid looking at the graffiti and the scattered litter. My destination is the river -- ever changing in appearance and waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. Sometimes the water is dark green and moves with a slow, hypnotic current. Other times the water is brown and turbulent from heavy rainfall. There's plenty to see on the river road and my favorite time of day is at twilight, just as the sun is setting. The sky is a blend of blue, purple and orange highlights and the sun briefly electrifies the surface of the river with a iridescent glow.
I share the road with others, who drift past at varying speeds. Sporty joggers speed past, staring straight ahead, their legs moving like pistons. An older woman walks past at a careful but energetic pace. Her face reflects a long life, well-lived. I imagine that she knows this road very well. She has seen the trees grow through countless seasons, their branches inching skyward and their roots twisting into the earth. She has seen children learn to ride a bike and then become transformed into teenagers who come in summer to self-consciously sit along the edge of the river, kissing or listening to music. When her eyes touch my face I can feel wisdom, humour and strength coming from her. I silently wish her well.
In the darkening sky, birds move quickly and hunt their nesting places for the night. They call to each other and move unseen in the trees. I often see small bats (chauvres-souris, literally bald mice!) wildly zigzagging above me. They live in the cracks of the walls along the road or under the old bridge. I like bats and seeing them reminds me of when I was a teenager. I would throw a small stone straight up in the air near pine trees, and if bats were nearby, they would quickly zoom up and circle the stone. Their amazing radar would track the stone and detect if it was something to eat or not. My intent was not to hurt the bats, only to play with them. I can still imagine the tall, dark trees and the keening sound of the bats as they danced in the air.
As I said earlier, I live far from forests now. My walks are limited to short strolls, sometimes interrupted by my portable phone or nagging responsibilities that call me back to my desk or home. But I still toss up small stones sometimes and eagerly watch the sky. If you walked along this road in the early evening, you might see a woman smiling and tossing stones up into the sky. Don't worry, it could be me, and I'm quite harmless. When the bats answer and swirl in quick circles above me, my heart sings and fills with a joyful laughter.
I grew up in a region with green forests, quiet valleys and rolling mountains. For a while I even lived on an island. Today I live in a populated suburban area located outside of Paris. At times I miss being close to Nature and feel a primitive longing for it. The closest substitute to Nature that I can find is the river road -- a narrow pedestrian road that runs along the river in my town. I can easily walk there from my apartment and I enjoy going there several times a week.
As I go down the public stairs, I avoid looking at the graffiti and the scattered litter. My destination is the river -- ever changing in appearance and waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. Sometimes the water is dark green and moves with a slow, hypnotic current. Other times the water is brown and turbulent from heavy rainfall. There's plenty to see on the river road and my favorite time of day is at twilight, just as the sun is setting. The sky is a blend of blue, purple and orange highlights and the sun briefly electrifies the surface of the river with a iridescent glow.
I share the road with others, who drift past at varying speeds. Sporty joggers speed past, staring straight ahead, their legs moving like pistons. An older woman walks past at a careful but energetic pace. Her face reflects a long life, well-lived. I imagine that she knows this road very well. She has seen the trees grow through countless seasons, their branches inching skyward and their roots twisting into the earth. She has seen children learn to ride a bike and then become transformed into teenagers who come in summer to self-consciously sit along the edge of the river, kissing or listening to music. When her eyes touch my face I can feel wisdom, humour and strength coming from her. I silently wish her well.
In the darkening sky, birds move quickly and hunt their nesting places for the night. They call to each other and move unseen in the trees. I often see small bats (chauvres-souris, literally bald mice!) wildly zigzagging above me. They live in the cracks of the walls along the road or under the old bridge. I like bats and seeing them reminds me of when I was a teenager. I would throw a small stone straight up in the air near pine trees, and if bats were nearby, they would quickly zoom up and circle the stone. Their amazing radar would track the stone and detect if it was something to eat or not. My intent was not to hurt the bats, only to play with them. I can still imagine the tall, dark trees and the keening sound of the bats as they danced in the air.
As I said earlier, I live far from forests now. My walks are limited to short strolls, sometimes interrupted by my portable phone or nagging responsibilities that call me back to my desk or home. But I still toss up small stones sometimes and eagerly watch the sky. If you walked along this road in the early evening, you might see a woman smiling and tossing stones up into the sky. Don't worry, it could be me, and I'm quite harmless. When the bats answer and swirl in quick circles above me, my heart sings and fills with a joyful laughter.
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