“The one source of all-encompassing love knows nothing of boundaries; differing customs; geographic divisions; family splits; or differences in race, creed, sex, and so on — it only knows love for all.”

— Wayne Dyer

From out of the Laughter in Southern India

My return from India was disorienting.

Thrust back into modern Western civilization, 20 hours of plane flight had carried me between worlds. From the noise and chaos in the streets of Mumbai; to the quiet stillness of my small mountain cabin.

The silence proved overwhelming.

Switching on the radio, the newsman seem to pick up exactly where he’d left off. That was, with the same tired reports of bankruptcy, unemployment, foreclosures, deep-political divisions, xenophobia, intolerance — war.All of this had me wondering how the world would be different, should those in charge choose the power of love over the love of power.

I had little time to engage.

There were bills to pay, people to contact, work to tend to.

Not the least of which was an article due concluding my three-month bicycle journey across the Indian subcontinent.

So I sat down to write.

Three hours later I sat before an empty screen. A week passed and I’d produced more of the same. Nothing.

I was blocked.

It was as if I’d built some sort of emotional firewall. A type of selective amnesia protecting me from the harsh realities of the world I’d seen, and the comfortable world to which I had returned.

Determined to remove that block, I decided to employ a different strategy.

Continue reading From out of the Laughter in Southern India

 

“All that I’ve hoarded is lost. All that I gave is mine.”

~Gurdjieff

Near the center of Mumbai, between the sparkle of shopping malls, and the sprawl of a rolling slum, there is an intersection where a small girl dances. Perhaps 5 or even 6, she tumbles and twirls atop the pavement in an impossibly dirty dress. When she is done, she weaves quickly through the traffic, extending a small tin bowl toward each driver. As she does, a handful of Indian businessmen in late-model BMWs and Mercedes look upon her apathetically. She is invisible, a Dalit, one of India’s untouchables. When the light turns green, and the drivers race off–she is left empty-handed. This, until the light again turns red, and her audience is replaced anew.

As I pedaled away from that intersection, into the buzz-saw of Mumbai’s mid-town gridlock, any thoughts of that child’s future well-being were instantly replaced by that of my own.

We were pedaling for our lives.

Swept into an angry river of traffic–six lanes deep–we churned our pedals, choking on the chewable clouds of exhaust. Cycling with all our might through this vehicular doomsday, we’d spend the next 3 hours narrowly avoiding mad, swerving cars, motorcycle kamikazes, and the ever-closing canyons between buses and trucks. Looking entirely out of place riding two fully-loaded touring bikes down the middle of the expressway, we were nothing if not rolling roadkill. Damned if I would have my guts squished-out without the proper soundtrack, I pulled out my headset, dialed-in the band Metallica, cranked-up the volume, then prepared to meet my maker.

This was highway 8.

Continue reading Mad in Mumbai

“From our perception of the world there follows acceptance…the person who sees, the screen on which he sees, and the light by which he sees: he himself is all of these.”

~Sri Ramana Maharshi

It was the last place I expected to find myself.

Face down, in the dirt, shimmying beneath a span of razor-wire.

But somehow, I’d become convinced I was nearing the exact spot where National Geographic photographer Steve McCurry shot one of his iconic images. Unclipping my camera bag, I drew my breath, then burrowed beneath a coil of concertina. Scrambling to my feet on the other side, I dashed across a troft of alluvial sand. Reaching the edge of the Yamuna River, I stood amidst the smell of decay and damp earth, awestruck by the scene before me. For there, above the coppery surface; bathed in a band of chartreuse light, soared the vast white domes of the Taj Mahal.

I raised my camera, framed an image, and fired the shutter.

“Hey!” ”You!” ”Stop!” came a call from behind.

Continue reading From out of the Dust in India