India: A Lesson in Non-Attachment

The following is a depiction of an actual conversation. The names have been changed to protected the innocent. Though not verbatim and undoubtedly omitting what I deem superfluous commentary, it does convey a discourse taking place shortly after my arrival back home.

It had been approximately a week following my triumphant return to the States before my mother approached me. “You seem different” she said. “Your sense of humor has improved, you seem more relaxed, and I’ve never seen you smile so much. What happened to you while in India?” “A lot,” I responded nonchalantly. My mother looked as though she had had a very difficult day at work. She appeared tired and overwhelmed. “Are you sure that you would like me to explain it to you?” I asked, hoping that she would say yes. I was delighted to hear her reply in the affirmative. The opportunity to try and share what I had experienced, not to mention to try to impart some of the lessons I had learned, seemed a great one.
“Well,” I said with a grin, “I didn’t find enlightenment, but I realized some things that have really taken the load off.” With a nod, she prompted me to continue. With great excitement at being given the opportunity to hear myself speak, I initiated an hour long rant recounting the highlights of the trip and the lessons I learned from these experiences. And so I began.
“When I was packing for the trip, I was surprised by how little I planned to bring. A few outfits, some bug spray, suntan lotion, a journal, and a sleeping bag- that was it. All of my possessions fit into only two small bags for the duration of the trip. I wasn’t sure how I would live even remotely comfortably given so few possessions. When I arrived in Delhi, India’s capital city, I felt spoiled. The poverty there was staggering. Practically everyone was homeless. They slept on the sidewalks, in the park, on rooftops, and a few on weathered mattresses. Most everyone was filthily garbed in tattered clothing. Beggars lined the streets and the underground bazaars. At the sight of their gaunt and often crippled bodies, I was struck with pity.” “I told you that you would come back with a new appreciation for America,” sounded my father from the next room. “You were right,” I replied, “but it was deeper than that. I also realized how little you really need. To quote Fight Club, what you own ends up owning you.” I felt my credibility diminish with the utilization of a movie reference, so I quickly moved on. “I’ll admit that it was nice to have so much money at my disposal, but aside from buying gifts, I really didn’t need much. All I needed was enough to buy food, water, and rent a room. Truth be told, I didn’t desire any more than that. Well... toward the end I didn’t, anyway.”
“Unfortunately, not everyone in India was fortunate enough to be able to buy food, water and/or rent a room. Seeing that I was a foreigner of relative financial stability, most of the people I met were less than interested in having in-depth conversations and more interested in acquiring my money. After a month of merchants and beggars, I realized that the relative wealth that I possessed was actually hindering potential relationships. I think that it’s far worse here. People get caught up with not mere survival, but with possessing an array of luxuries, often at the expense of another. So, I guess the first thing I learned in India is that you don’t need much of anything. Quite the contrary, possessions often wind up detracting from the richer things that life has to offer.” I hesitated for a moment, debating whether or not to drive home my point ever further. “Like your leather couch, for example. How many arguments have we gotten into because I’ve accidentally left the family room door open. I realize that my negligence might result in the cats destroying it, but is it really worth an argument? Is it worth injuring the quality of your relationship with someone else just to ensure the well being of an inanimate object?” My mother’s eyes looked a bit teary. Worried that I had made my argument a bit too personal, I proceeded to recount a story from India.
“One day, after everyone had left Delhi, and I was left, for the most part, alone, I came upon a Hindu man who claimed to possess a position of religious significance. He approached me on the street and struck up a conversation with me. We proceeded to a restaurant where we spoke about Hinduism. After some time, he began to ask me for money. I asked him why a religious man, such as he would need money. He replied that it was to be given to the poor. I told him that I gave my money directly to the poor and wouldn’t need him to facilitate the transaction. Shortly after I said this, he got up and left. I’m not entirely positive whether or not his intentions were dishonorable, but I suspect that they were so.” “Do you see what I mean?” I asked my mother. “Life isn’t about money or possessions. It is about relationships. Money just gets in the way.” My mother conceded to the validity of my point, and so I moved on.
“Attachment to possessions isn’t the only thing that I found to hinder relationships with others. I found that the attachment to my own way of thinking, my own biases also inhibited my ability to understand and commune with others, thus reducing the quality my relationship with them.” My inability to perceive things from an alternate perspective was brought to my attention in the Hindi Holy City of Kedarnath. After a night or two in this frigid pilgrimage sight, we visited the temple in which a sacred relic, the hump of Shiva, was kept. After seating myself before the beloved idol, my attention was drawn to a hoard of pilgrims pushing and shoving each other in a desperate attempt to catch a glimpse of the leopard skin-covered relic. I was utterly disgusted by the actions of these people. They seemed to no more than animals.”
An hour later, I remained enraged by the sight of the zealous Hindus, I proceeded to speak with my companions about what I called a ‘perverse cult.’ I discussed my reactions with various students, yet it was Professor Betul Basaran who convinced me to try to abandon my biases; to perceive the event objectively, or better yet, from their perspective. Later that night, I meditated on what I had seen. I considered it from my perspective, objectively, and from their perspective. I won’t claim to fully understand what I saw, or the significance the idol really had to the Hindus, but I did recognize the limitations of a purely subjective perspective. I recognized the limitations imposed by such attachment. From that day forward I tried to resist the urge to analyze everything I saw. As a result, I think that I learned more during the trip than I would have otherwise. I had deeper conversations with people I met and, as a result was better able to commune with them.”
During my lengthy rant, my mother sat attentively. To my surprise, she offered me her full attention, never once objecting to or commenting on my lecture. I paused for a moment to take a sip of my Diet Coke and debated whether or not to speak about the most personal and important lesson I learned in India. I had been taught about the Buddhist precept of non-attachment man times throughout my Saint Mary’s career. I understood that it induced suffering due to universe’s state of perpetual flux, but I never considered the ramifications this state would have on a relationship to which I was very attached. The final lesson of non-attachment I learned while in India involved interpersonal relationships.
And so I continued. “The main reason for my contented demeanor involves Sarah.” My mother’s expression changed from attentive to confused. I hadn’t spoken about my ex-girlfriend of two years since my departure six weeks before. “While we were staying in this Tibetan Buddhist city called Dharmsala, a monk who was giving us lectures on Buddhism put my mind at ease regarding the relationship.” “How so?” my mother asked. “Well, as you know, things had been really rocky for a while. Neither of us was pleased with the relationship, yet neither of us wanted to break up. Well, a friend of mine posed a question regarding attachment and romantic love to this monk. His response was that attachment causes suffering unconditionally. He went on to explain that it need not be present in a relationship, that love and attachment are very different things. He said that attachment was a kind of affliction, a disease, while love is merely the desire for another’s happiness. After hearing this, I thought long and hard about Sarah and my relationship as well as relationships in general. I concluded that the monk was right. Attachment was the source of our suffering, and for the sake of love I had to end it in order to ensure her happiness. So, you see the reason I seem so relaxed is because I have stopped being attached to material goods, a single, narrow perspective, and the desire for static relationships.”
With a smile, my mother said, “Well, thanks, but it all seems like too much for me.” And like that, the conversation was over. I suppose that I didn’t really expect her to understand the changes that I had incurred as a result of going to India. I imagine that they are even more difficult to understand than to explain. Even if no one else can understand what I’ve learned, I can still carry around the truths I unearthed during out magnificent adventure. And this smile has failed to fade from my face.

How's this for a summation?

I went Blind
My eyes were opened
By beauty
By ugliness
By the snow-capped Himalayas
By the Ganges in all of it's divine glory
By the filthiest of streets
By the blank faces of gaunt children


Though time has passed,
The scents of stale urine, incense and burning trash
cling to my nostrils


My eyes remain open.

A Revelation in Dharamsala

I had departed from the States hoping to acquire answers. This seemed a daunting task considering that even the question to which they belonged were unbeknownst to me. Though hidden from my conscious mind, an uneasy feeling in my stomach and a congested mind revealed the presence of these quandaries. During the past couple of weeks the answers have remained hidden; the questions, however, are becoming more and more clear.

Perhaps the most poignant of these unearthed questions is “what went wrong?” For fourteen months, everything had seemed so perfect. Our time was always spent together. Our two names were spoken as if they were one. Recently, though, we had become uneasy, jealous and unhappy. These feelings led to conflicts, conflicts to breakups. I had always thought that the love we shared would be enough to sustain a happy, healthy relationship. Why hadn’t it? What went wrong?

The answer to my question came in the tranquil city of Dharamsala. Fascinated by the ascriptions of Buddhism, I have been looking forward to visiting this beautiful Tibetan settlement for months prior to our exodus from Dulles Airport. Surely, if I was to clear my cluttered mind, it would be here. Sure enough, I found my much-needed answer.

During our stay, the group had met thrice at the Buddhist Institute of Dialectics. The lessons taught to us by the English translator to the Dalai Lama and The Director of the B.I.D. consisted of a fairly rudimentary introduction to Buddhism. They guided us in meditation, spoke about Buddha Nature, suffering, attachment, and the empty self. Though I had been introduced to such ideas before, I attempted to perceive them without prejudice. After the first two early-morning lessons, I removed left the group in order to mull over what I had heard. I walked and meditated for hours. Ultimately, I devised yet another question: “How can love exist within a romantic relationship without being accompanied by attachment? How can you love someone and not be attached to them?” This question seemed a breakthrough in deducing what went wrong in my relationship. It can not be denied that I was and am still much attached to my ex. Yet, with so much love between us, I failed to see how either of us could be free from attachment to the other.

After much contemplation, I relayed my confusion to a few of my male companions, a conversation that would prove advantageous to resolving my quandary. During our third and final lesson at the Institute of Dialectics, one of my friends asked the question that had been plaguing me. The answer, though simple, struck me as a kind of revelation. We were told that love, quite simply, is the desire for another’s happiness, while attachment is the desire for (in so many word) a static relationship and ultimately leads to suffering.

I took one final walk to consider and reconsider the monk’s words. I decided that I had to embrace the love that I felt while extinguishing my attachment. I had to try to ensure her happiness at the expense of my attachment. It no longer mattered “what went wrong.” All that mattered was that I make it right. Moments after my revelation, I called her. I explained that I did not want to be the source of any more suffering. I overcame my attachment for the sake of love.

Visions of Rishikesh

In light of my harsh reaction to the Hindu Temple in Kedarnath and the heated discussion that followed between Betul and myself, I have made a considerable attempt to observe the behaviors of the Indians I encounter without allowing hasty judgments or generalizations to obstruct my view. This attempt culminated today on a bridge overlooking the Ganges in Rishikesh.

For two hours I gazed at the natives crossing the bridge. Admittedly, by Western standards, this behavior is a bit peculiar. Yet, there I sat. I saw the old and the young, the wealthy and the poor, the merchants and the beggars, the religious and the lay. I watched them all. Nestled in the bit of shade I could find, with a bottle of lukewarm water in my hand, I watched utterly objective. I had nowhere to be, no work to do, no friends to see. Alone, I sat on the outskirts of daily life.

Completely aloof, I came to realize, with each passing second, that though the peculiars of their culture differs greatly from those in the States, there is a kind of universality in human experience. Perhaps it was the subtle differences in their culture that allowed me to lose myself. I forgot my own troubles and worries. I forgot about my travel companions, my bills awaiting me at home, my family, my life. I no longer compared the streets with those of the U.S., nor did I scrutinize their sanitation or religious practices or marriage customs. Stripping these inane particulars I glimpsed at life in miniature, and began to empathize with the people that I had judged.

Life consists of the beautiful and the ugly, the rich and the poor, the stench of excrement and the scent of incense, of turmoil and peace. These things are not specific to India. Prior to our departure, John said, “India is a land of contradictions.” I would argue that India merely points out the contradictions universal to all of human experience.

Kedarnath Quandary

The trek to Kedarnath was a treacherous one. For most of the fourteen-Kilometer journey the sun beat down on us. Native and foreigners, we both suffered from the heat, exhaustion, blisters, and filth. The smell of mule urine and feces saturated the stifling air. Still, despite the horrid conditions of the pilgrimage, people everywhere wore joyous smiles. We had all come for one purpose: to cast our eyes on the magnificent shrine that sat 13,000 feet in the sky.

Despite the sense of comradely, I was surprised at the working conditions of those whose livelihood depended on the sacred pilgrimage. The horses and mules that carried so many were routinely beat with bamboo polls. They were, however, not the only animals responsible for bearing others' weight up the mountain. The elderly carried the young; the young carried the elderly. The fortunate ones had company for their grueling work. They and three others bore long poles that in turn supported the weight of a pilgrim. The phrase "Side! Side!" resounded as these, often-barefoot individuals, made their way through the crowded path. The less fortunate animalic men bore the weight of pilgrims without the aid of any companion. With a strap attached to the brow of their heads, they were surely doubly blessed in making the ancient spiritual journey.

Upon reaching Kedarnath, the once grueling heat turned bone-chilling cold. The temple appeared, from the outside, absolutely magnificent. A combination of merchants, pilgrims, and greedy Sadus occupied the streets of the mountainous village. The surrounding mountains were absolutely breathtaking. Many wore crowns of snow that seemed to amplify their already abundant magnificence. The temple, I found less than elevating.

Moments after I entered the temple and took my place before the Hindi Idol, swarms of worshippers entered the temple. Their cries to Shiva and to each other seemed desperate. The comradely that I had witnessed during our ascent seemed to dissipate before my eyes. I was filled with fury. I wanted to raise the temple to the ground. I wanted to melt the brass idols that seemed to prompt the disintegration of harmonious social relationships. "Isn't religions supposed to bring people together?" I asked myself. How can it be that a frail elderly woman could have been pushed to the ground so that a couple of youths could engage in another millisecond of Darsan? "Love your neighbor as yourself..." -this biblical phase repeated in my mind. I dismissed Hindi as a thoughtless, perverse cult.

Fortunately, I did so only temporarily...

That night and into the next day, I thought only about what I had witnessed during the trek to Kedarnath and within the temple. I spoke at length to my comrads. I came to realize the importance that the idol had to the pilgrims. I was told that personal space was of little importance in this particular culture. I began to understand the mindset of the jostling Indians. Still, I disapproved of what I saw in the temple. I remain, even now, infuriated that something as sacred as religion could result in the injury of a human being. I realized, however, that religion is a kind of double-edged sword. Though it had resulted in selfish acts, it had also brought together thousands of people. Religion had provoked a kind of intimacy between these strangers. Surely, a "thoughtless, perverse cult" could not be capable of such a feat.

I continue to learn about Hinduism. I am convinced that my initial reaction to the religions' practices was fueled by ignorance. With the aid of various temples, holy men, and religious scholars, I hope to better understand the beliefs, and practices of Hinduism, thus permitting me to engage it objectively as well as subjectively

Delhian Eyes

I have seen impoverished people before. Filthy, thin, garbed in tattered attire- they clutter the streets of Baltimore. Their stories are familiar: “My car broke down just a few blocks away. I just need a few bucks for gas. or “I’m a veteran. Could you spare some change so I can grab a bite?” An accurate translation of such fictitious tales my read “I haven’t had a drink in six hours. Allow me to waste your money in order to seek temporary refuge from my dreary life.” or “I dropped out of school when I was young. I was lazy I guess. Now I can’t find a descent job and municipal work does not appeal to me. Care to support my lackluster lifestyle?” I very rarely have difficulty brushing off such irksome beggars.

Walking the streets of Delhi, India, my conception of poverty undergoes a hasty transformation. These are not thin men, but gaunt, emaciated women and children. They range from two year olds to the elderly. Many are crippled or missing limbs. My heart fills with compassion and I am urged to give them money. I want to given them not one meager rupee, but hundreds. There are too many. I can’t possibly give to them all. Even one meager rupee apiece would leave me bankrupt. I feel both inspired to do good and utterly helpless. Is there anyone who can look into the eyes of a three year old, emaciated, crippled, filthy girl and not want to give them the world. To see such a youth smile or, dare I say, to laugh could elevate one’s spirit to pure exuberance.

In addition to money, I have taken to giving some of these children origami. Many seem like automatons. They do not frown. They do not cry. They do not smile or speak. I suppose I understand. What can a paper crane or five rupees (12 cents) do? Can it possibly improve the quality of their lives? John says that we needn’t feel guilty as such. It is not our fault. It is the fault of the Indian government, of their entire economic structure. I wish this made me feel better. No, I don’t. The guilt verifies something. It ensures me that I am not just a cold-hearted, despicable American consumer. There is something more. Then again, this is of little comfort. The blank eyes of those poor children continue to haunt my thoughts and dreams.

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