About my Husband

While traveling in India, I’ve become comfortable and patient with many things that used to puzzle, frustrate and bewilder me before my trip.  For instance, the question of marriage.  In the US, we are supposed to hold on to our freedom as long as possible, never settle for anything other than the most perfect best, and wait for our Mr. Wonderful patiently and purposefully while entertaining Mr. Right-now to avoid feeling lonely. In India, much like everything else that Westerners tend to hold on to, the concept of dating, choosing your mate and waiting for the “right one” is slowly making in-roads in big cities such as Mumbai and Delhi, but often in secret from the rest of the family, or in “non-traditional” and “modern” families.  The mere fact that the label "love marriage" versus "arranged marriage" exist and are given by the Indian people themselves leads me to believe that the Western approach to marriage is not the norm. 

Instead, on my first bus journey by myself I got the questions: “Are you lonely?  Are you married?” They came from an oversized man squeezed in next to me in the back row of the government (read: cheap, local) bus which I hoped would be empty.  As we continued with our journey, I became aware that I was the only woman not traveling with a man.  While not always the case in the South, where I later enjoyed the same questions again from men invariably wanting to seat themselves next to me, in the North I rarely saw women traveling by themselves, unless they were Western. 

Remembering the one-off stories from friends and blogs about being felt up on a bus, I decided to start the epic of my dear husband in hopes that being another man’s wife may prove to be a deterrent for unwanted advances.  My wedding ring, a gorgeous rose gold band with high quality zirconium, a farewell gift from my Mother, was slipped to the ring finger of my left hand and I began to discuss my one and only:

The man I married, being a very responsible provider, is working hard back home in the US so that we may have enough money to soon have children (thus anticipating the burning question of “where are your children?”).  He just started a company, so he is very very busy and cannot travel with me.  However, he is incredibly fond of Indian food and Yoga, and therefore he sent me all the way to India to learn both before we start a family.  Wise man, that husband of mine turned out to be.  A great provider with a vast network of friends all over India, I wrapped my husband’s tale snugly around me like a protective cloak which came in handy on almost every single long bus ride alone.

The road to Rishikesh alone proved to be laden with lots of questions from my very inquisitive and respectful back-seat companions.  “Where is your bag from?  How much does it cost?”

“I don’t know really, my husband bought it.”  I shrugged my shoulders helplessly.  My sturdy REI travel companion that I carefully picked out before the trip was not the cheapest thing when converted to rupees and I did not want to engage in a lengthy comparison conversation of how much money things cost in the US versus India for the next 8 hours. 

However, my travel mates were of a different opinion: “How much is your watch?  How much is your phone?  Where did you buy it? How much was your hotel in Delhi?” they continued, each one of the group of 4 asking the one English speaker seated next to me to translate.   

“You know, my husband really does not want me to worry about these things.  When I need something, he simply gives me a gift.  As far as my hotels, he has friends all over India who arrange things nicely.”  I realized that was perhaps not the most welcoming answer but discussing the price of everything relevant to my travel and possessions was not the most ideal way to spend the long bus ride. 

After about half an hour, the merits of my husband, the Great Provider grew exponentially as price and origin of the contents of my bag (everything that I would reach for or touch) was questioned and finally exhausted.  A discussion of politics, yoga, culture, music, anything really other than the “story of stuff” would have been welcome, but my inquisitive companions seemed to be stuck on the financial aspects of my travel and belonging, one of the few things I did not with to discuss in detail.  For the very first time in my life I entered the role of the “clueless wife” that I could never fathom, and even began to appreciate some its merits.

 By the time we arrived in Rishikesh, my husband was a polished epic hero whose tale I would continue to carry with me throughout my trip, gaining more comfort and ease with every new “Are you married” question from random male shop owners, hotel clerks, rickshaw and taxi drivers, as well as numerous male bus companions.

 At times the tale of marriage may have distanced me from those who would have otherwise wanted to get a lot closer.  Perhaps it closed the door to interactions and cultural exchanges that would have been very interesting for both sides.  However, contrary to the constant play on words in India, which turned “Are you traveling alone” into “Are you lonely,” I was not.  I was truly enjoying my own company.  I did not need Mr. or Ms. Right-now.  The more I became comfortable uttering the unfamiliar and hitherto scary word “my husband,” the more I was enjoying my own ability and power to take care of myself on the road.  

One day, thought, I will return with Mr. Right, and show him my India.     

Freedom to be Independently Alone

Personal independence is viewed as a positive in the west.  In fact, freedom often goes hand in hand with ones ability to function on her own.  “Be strong enough to fend for yourself.”  “Earn your own living.”  “Learn to enjoy your own company.”  The ability to see a movie by yourself, enjoy dinner on your own, and the ultimate, travel to far away places, is a prized pinnacle of independence achieved by few as a mark of personal strength.  Check, check and check. 

The west’s ultimate freedom to be alone is redefined in India, like everything else, into:

“Are you lonely?” as aptly phrased by the only English speaker I met on the government bus headed to a small town at the foot of the Himalayas.  He was asking whether or not I was traveling alone, and only relaxed when he was showered with stories of my fictional husband and his wide support network of friends, travel agents, and business contacts that were making my solo travel possible.  The truth is that this support network was in fact in place, but it was mine, along with the finances for the trip, which would be impossible and even dangerous to explain (more on that in the “Freedom of the Sex” post).

Being alone is simply not normal, nor desired.  You will be stared at, talked to, sat next to, and asked numerous questions.  Sitting alone on a rock on the bank of the Ganges in the small holy town of Rishikesh, I was approached by a group of young boys laughing and playing.  “Hello Madam, what your name?”

“Sitting quietly,” I answered, in desperate need of solitude, despite traveling to the town by myself with no contacts. 

The boys giggled, and repeated slowly, “Sitting quietly” three times in unison, grinning ear to ear.   They proceeded to go around and recite their own names two times in a row.  Five minutes later, defeated by the language barrier and my silence, they ran off to play, and within a few minutes were replaced by two women and a small child wanting “One photo.”

Eating alone in busy diners in large cities I’ve had whole families sit down next to me to share the meal.  With limited language, we discussed everyone’s favorite topic of “Which country,” because that is the second most important topic to “Are you lonely.”  I was graciously endowed with tips on the right thing to order in that restaurant, often ordering it on top of my poor tourist selection and expanding my belly and taste buds to new dimensions.

Walking with my Indian friend down the ancient streets of her city, she remarked wistfully how she never gets to come here unless she is “playing tourist.”  Shocked, I shared that I scope out hikes and walks in San Francisco regularly on my own. 

“If I come to the old city, I will likely meet someone I know, and they will ask me why I am here on my own,” she explained, implying that being alone is not a favorable state. 

Still, my extreme need to write, especially while traveling, has me seeking solitude, and when I arrived to the Mountain Ridge Bed and Breakfast just outside of Udaipur, I was looking forward to a few days of shanti (peace) from the beautiful, yet overwhelming humanity and urbanity of India and it's travelers.  Situated 7kms from the city, this property claims a defensible position in the hills, with city thrills or traffic around.  The main noises were birds, playing children children, and the sneeze of a passing by villager.  It was unbelievable haven that I could no longer imagine in my second month in India.  The place also specializes in guided hikes through the surrounding countryside.  Reserved in advance, the beauty of my grand tribal room with a modern European bathroom and a balcony overlooking the countryside had amazing potential, yet brief shanti practice. 

One of the hikers from the day adventures of Mountain Ridge really wanted to stay the evening, and arrived complete with all her belonging, hoping that one of the rooms in the home stay would be free.  Fortune did not smile upon her, so I had no choice.  We ended up sharing my long-awaited luxuriant piece of quiet bliss, and even now, as I write this, she is sitting next to me on the balcony, “reading.”  Life in New York was discussed in detail, problems with a Nepalese boyfriend in Goa revealed, the Russians-Israeli fights described, and the crazy NYC pace and flood of information overflowed the tribal room, spilled out on the balcony, and eventually had me writing in the gorgeous bathroom. 

In India, everyone eats, sleeps, shops, and yes, travels, in groups.   Everything is done as a family, from running a business venture, to simply running in the park.  Grown kids like to sleep in their parents’ bedroom when they come home for a break from their jobs in other cities, in those few rare cases that they get jobs in other cities. Young men of means purchase new family homes as opposed to single residences to make sure their parents, brothers, and unmarried sisters can all live together in a nicer places if the collective family means allow.  Besides a personal computer, often shared by the household, nothing personal is thought of or desired as freedom.  Of course, like everything, this is changing… but slowly.   

Traveling alone, the fruit of my corporate labors and stroke of good fortune I am experiencing the power of good dependable friends, family and network more than ever.  My family is vigilantly watching my mail and taking care of my loose ends, leaving me free to enjoy my time abroad.  My friends are there on call in moments where I need a sympathetic ear.  I am now really missing my indispensable and dependable travel partner (Oh Toni Tru!) with whom I had the fortune of sharing the pages of the lonely planet, moments of amazing beauty, discomfort of cancelled flights, the last of the toilet paper, travel wisdom and sanity for nearly a month.  The Indian friends of my friends back home, as well as the few I’ve been fortunate to meet along the way have taken me in as family, sharing their homes, their food, and their time in ways I did not expect to experience. 

In the ultimate exercise of western freedom (in my eyes), traveling solo in lands far away for an extended period of time, I am experiencing that comfort and pleasure come from a shared meal or experience, relating and enjoying common languages, interests and learning together with likeminded open people.  My ability to speak English, Russian and some Hebrew has been priceless as a gateway for human connection.  If freedom is desirable as a means to pleasure, then I am discovering that pleasure is fostered within the constraints of human interaction with kind, open, dependable people.        

Freedom to Walk

You’re walking downs the street. It could be somewhere in Berkeley, you’re on your cell phone texting or talking, or casually conversing with a friend.   You stop to admire someone’s beautifully manicured lawn, smell the roses, and continue on your merry way.  Walk fast, walk slow, anyways you want to go.     

Now, after a couple of planes, a train, perhaps a bus, and a few days of jetlag you’re walking down the street again, in a nice part of town.  Expect that it happens to be half way around the world India, where everything is different and the only thing that’s the same is you.  You are in Udaipur, but you could be in Mumbai, or Delhi.  Upon taking a few steps, you realize that somewhere, perhaps in mid-air, you’ve morphed into a walking wallet.  Every 5 meters there is someone there who wants you to “open”, drink their chai, and do a cross-cultural exchange in the form of cash-flow.  Everyone is also convinced that when you are not shopping, you are in dire need of a rickshaw, a tour guide, a massage, money exchange or some food.  There are places that will offer you all those things at once, as well as a room to sleep.  You stop to smell the fragrant flowers by the road.  “Madam, ten rupees!”     

So, you get out of the old/pretty/touristy part of town and make it like the locals.  In the big cities, during the rare times that they are present, sidewalks are a desert oasis amidst the hustle of the street.  In Mumbai, it’s the Indian version of the San Francisco Bay to Breakers all day everyday. You are generally walking in a huge mass of people, colors, and parked in the middle of it all, the occasional cow.  Avoiding the random construction or dug up pavement all together, you crawl along, shoulder to shoulder (or shoulder to elbow, if you happen to be tall).  In the likelihood that there are no sidewalks, and you are sharing the road with bicycles, cars, taxis, mopeds, motorcycles, busses and, of course, the occasional cow.  In the small cities, you’ll get less traffic but more animals, such as donkeys, pigs, monkeys, the ever present cows, and the occasional camel.  Let’s also not forget the incessant beeping all around and “good luck” pies on the ground.  Walking down the street becomes an exercise in maintaining a superior state of alert attention as one must be aware of traffic, vehicles, animals, excrement, people and great photo opportunities. 

Like to walk fast?  Want to get somewhere quickly?  It’s much easier to re-examine your definition of walking, and align it to engaged crawling.  Otherwise, arm yourself with a smile, raise your defenses, alert your senses and full steam ahead until you step into a street surprise left by the occasional cow and have to stop to wipe it off.

What is real?

When it comes to Pashmina… the tourist may never know.  Our last night in Jaiselmer found us tired, confused and overloaded with presents.  Desert Boys, the lovely warm and amazingly cheap hotel we were staying at made sure that we were well fed despite showing up at their doorstep minutes before the closing of the restaurant.  We sat on the floor in our beautiful room, wearily comparing the Pashmina bought in different places.  Some from a reputable shop in Varanassi, another from a “trusted” source around town, and the third set from supposedly the most reputable store, recommended by our travel agent (whom I would now not recommend).   We could not tell a difference anymore, other than knowing how much we paid for it, and that we definitely paid too much. 

Your reality is your experience. Mine at that moment was that I spent the whole day searching for that illusive perfect shawl for my mother.  She wanted Pashmina.  I wanted gorgeousness to wrap around her shoulders.  I also wanted to finish all my shopping for presents here, in Jaisemer, while I had my one relaxing day of no sight seeing, so that I could send the package home and be done.

The approach turned out to have major flaws with timing, place and space.   Though charming and full of great shops for clothing and textiles, Jaiselmer is not the place for Pashmina.  Turns out that the post office mailing cut off is 2pm even thought it is open until 6pm (as I found out at 5pm).  Running around windy old streets in a town where almost everyone is after your tourist dollar and every turn looks the same is probably not a good place for mass present selection.  The result was that we got the full TOURIST experience.  Since this day marked the end of the third week in the India, perhaps it was time.  

At the end of the day, after spending more than 7 hours in all the Pashmina stores in the city, digging through all the colors of the rainbow, needlepoint and machine wonders, and cheap knock-offs (or were they?), I knew that I could only trust myself.  Contemplating the question of what is real; I knew that before, during and after the whole ordeal my intention was pure, the desire to please those I was shopping for strong and the time, care and thought put into selecting each peace was really given from the heart.  Giving up yoga, food, sights and my sanity as I lost myself in the Pashmina hunt, at the end of the day I felt disappointed with my lack of certainty and trust in the fruits of my labors.

Tired and sleepy, as I write down these reflections, I remember the young couple we met in one of the clothing stores, the family of the shop owner.  Our time with them was like a bright beacon of purity and truth amongst the sea of haggling and half-lies of the day. Somehow, we went quite deep very quickly and eventually ended up on the subject of love.  It was hard not to go there, since they were both glowing and giddy with one another.  When asked how they found each other, they told us their story taking turns, filling in when the other was searching for worlds. 

He proposed to her on the third day he met her.  He told her that within two years he would like to make her a Mama.  He’s seen many beautiful women, but she was also a serious girl who was a match for his intellect, optimism, and outlook on life.  This is hard to find, he said.  It took her another year to accept his proposal.  She took her time falling in love, settling things with their opposing families that were of different backgrounds, languages and beliefs.  Now, 8 years later, bouncing their 5 year old on their knees, the couple was beaming. 

“My whole family is jealous of my married experience.  The husband they were “against” is an open-minded, well-traveled and well-educated man.  He allows me to pursue whatever I want to do and supports it!” she said happily.

It really looked as though this couple was truly in love, a rare find in a world wrapped up in marketing, comparisons, and too many choices of “pashmina”.  I couldn’t help but ask the question one question on my mind. 

“What do you think is the definitions of real love?” 

“Mental satisfaction,” the happy wife responded.

I was not expecting this very rational statement.  He picked up her thread and gestured to show me his “wings”. 

“When you are satisfied, your mind is at rest you are free!”  Continued the happy husband further: “You can live as you wish, able to do anything knowing that you are supported and trusted.  This is how I feel with her, and how she feels with me.”

In the world filled with shinny illusions wrapped up in pretty packages, this happy couple was carried through by trust in and satisfaction in their love.      

As I sat tired and defeated, thinking back to that one heart-felt conversation among the hell of the pashmina “reality”, I was slowly shifting gears.  When viewed from the angle of trust in love, I realize that in fact I truly had a very wonderful day!  My reality was driven by an overwhelming desire to please my loved ones and I was blessed with a plethora of choices on how to do that.  I got to exercise my power of taste, explore a complicated new world prized goat hair, and pour myself into my gifts fully, not resting until every last thread in every last shop was overturned in the search for perfection.     

Though I still had little trust in the reality of Pashmina, despite certificates, burn tests, and complicated explanations and stories, I decided that when you are driven by love to pour your heart, energy, thought, time and best abilities then the outcome must be good and valuable.  With that, all the conflicting opinions of what is real Pashmina were dropped.  What mattered was that I was real and with that, I was satisfied.