Thanking Brahma

[Video: Aamir plays with slum kids from Delhi on the slide.]

Sloughing through culture shock this month has almost, just almost pushed me so over the edge I had to lock myself in the room today and sit numb on the verge of tears wondering if I shouldn't take up a medical drug addiction. My son screamed bloody accusations of abandonment and ripped at the door, and Abbass was yet again dumbfounded at my maternal incompetence, which is becoming more commonplace every. passing. hour.

I'll tell you what culture shock is like. First off, it goes in waves. It will hit you the first couple weeks in a new country, which is phase one, and to be expected. The cells in your limbs, and something in your neocortex, just feels like its been - need I say it - sitting on the toilet for just a little too long. It's an uncomfortable place to be, and the symptoms are pretty recognizable. (1) scream at husband for breathing and turning on tv (2) hate the sight, smell and taste of Indian spices, which means I can't really eat anything and nothing beats American chocolate chip cookies (3) complain bitterly about the weather, the traffic, having a baby, the heat, the cold and every single aspect about doing the laundry. (4) feel you might as well be dead when your Apple computer dies in the middle of the Himalaya.

Experts have culture shock mapped out in the books. In this era of globalization, thousands of expatriots, Fulbright scholars, pedophiles on the run, drugged out backpackers with bitter family ties, and diplomat families have all undergone it. Culture shock contains all the stages of death: anger, resolution, forgiveness...blah blah blah...it's all thrown in there as my self-identity becomes annihilated and the world demands to define myself anew.

Then month six hit. It's the worse. Why? Because I keep telling myself I've been here for six months and everything is familiar, and yet I'm still as uncomfortable as I was when I first landed and coped with every aspect of living. I'm back sitting on the toilet. Phase one is an expected catch. But phase four - who knows when that's going to swipe you? Or phase five? It's like that horror film The Cube, where the characters are trying to escape the traps within the machine only to find themselves back in the room they started in after going through hell to survive. It really sucks after all that effort.

To illustrate how horrible culture shock is, here's a couple situations that I've faced in the past few weeks while residing in Ladakh and the glittering, rocking city that the world embraces as Bombay:

- To stare out at the Arabian Sea amidst dancing pink candy floss, flashing spirals being tossed skyward, monkeys performing feats and dozens of children screaming in delight at touching the ocean for the first time and feel numb.

- To look at the crumbling walls of century-old Buddhist mani walls and their Bodik stone carvings on the stones - blessings for the world - and feel empty.

- To gaze at Bombay's slum cities surrounding our neighborhood where children, old women and men live, wash, play, rest and die in 5 square foot rooms facing the streets, and feel ordinary.

- Screaming with raised fists "I don't speak Hindi!" during our second attempt at getting train tickets while shoved up in the woman's line fighting some fat woman's elbow while trying to complete the purchase. Kind of needed to remind myself British English has only been around for a couple decades in this country.

It is the ultimate Curse in Self-Centredness, because as everyone knows, traveling to a world like India puts things in perspective. Versus living in LA, for example. And when you've lost all perspective in India, then the situation is bad. Really bad. There's an old woman holding out her crumbled hand begging for a coin and all I'm thinking is," Don't bother me. I can't do this today." Or actually feeling like I could slice someone if I have to eat dahl and rice again.

Perhaps that is the problem, that my culture shock has, to an exactly equal degree, inversely enacted itself in response of having missed celebrating Thankfulness in my hometown. So here is a little exercise I'm going to put myself through now. It is now 2:33am. I am here sitting in front of the computer while my son and my hubby, and my father-in-law sleep silently under the hum of the air conditioners in the next rooms.

I'm in a country of one billion people. Of these people, a majority live hand to mouth, on a few rupees a day. That means for their labour, they spend that money on food, and nothing else. Only to feed their families, and that's it. And what do I mean by labour? Try imagine riding a bicycle carrying people from one place to another all day in 110 degree heat, pounding rocks to break them up for building, wiping the floors of a restaurant as patrons walk upon them again and again, sweeping the streets of dust and grime. The Indian saying goes, and applies to most lives, that why polish a lump of coal if it is to remain black? I was born into a life that remains in the light. We have had everything we needed, nothing more, and nothing less, and for that I am, from the deepest part of myself, thankful.

Aamir recently visited a playground where three young boys from the slums joined him. Their eyes were bright, and the eldest showed a strong sense of responsibility and caring toward any boy who was smaller than him. Their father, a rickshaw driver, and their mother, a sweeper. All three sons could not afford any education, and so they spent all their passing hours in the playground, becoming experts at swinging and balancing. Two of the boys had their hands wrapped with a single strip of cloth as a way of coping with burns suffered on their hands from playing with firecrackers. One boy did not have any shoes. Soon they were racing with Aamir, coaxing him to try new tricks, sliding down the slide with him. They were all experiencing a joy together. For this moment, I am thankful.

Today Abbass brought me to a bookstore where I bought a pad of paper, a single pencil, a pen, and some paints. And that's all I need to know how to begin again. I filled one entire page with drawings and sketches tonight. Palms together in gratefulness for my little muse, who is weak at times, but still knows how to pay me a brief visit.

When I first visited India, all the pages of the Wisdom of the Ages originated here. There's the Bhagavad Gita for one. And the teachings of Yoga. And the enlightenment of the Buddha and how he got there. And ayurveda. It all happened here, and these reams of wisdom are sitting on the shelves, being piped over the tv, within entire shelves of ayurvedic products in the stores, and being manifested in meditation retreats in every town. And I realize, how wonderful to know that these things have been known for centuries. Happiness, death, suffering and forgiveness, all mapped out and understood. There are a thousand fingers already pointing the way. Thank you Lord/Allah/That Monkey God for exposing me to this, for giving me the means to travel and know this firsthand. Now if only exposure could bring on enlightenment.

Thank you for giving me happiness each time my child laughs.

Thank you for giving me a year of travel and respite so I could live and spend time with my son.

Thank you to the rain falling in a torrent on the Bombay pavement and the lights dancing off the streets from the passing autorickshaws.

Happy Thanksgiving Mom, Dad, Karin and close friends. I miss you all.

p.s. Brace yourselves for the Christmas entry.