Ocean of Philosophy

Amongst the sea of Russian tourists and the waves of hippies from all over the world,  surrounded by palm leafs on a rooftop of Famafa “resort” in the village of Arambol I’ve discovered an Ocean on Knowledge.

They say in India that, “Your teacher comes to you.”  Of course, they say a lot of things and when I arrived in Mumbai, I paid little attention to this saying, thinking only that it would be nice if I didn’t need to research schools etc, if I could just have it all laid out.  On my second day in the country, discussing my love for Yoga in the lovely company of the mother of a friend of a friend who was my most gracious host, I was casually told:

“Ahh, yes, my good friend is a professor of Yoga!  Brilliant man, he comes from the sports background, managed finances for a huge company and trains athletes.  He comes to our building to teach yoga regularly.  In fact, he’s coming over for dinner Monday, would you like to meet him?”  Nirupa, since the day met, always casually offered THE thing that was needed, whether it was the warm hospitality of her home, including her very own bedroom, kind and wise conversation to settle in a freaked out new arrival, or a teacher. It always came at a perfect time too, when needed, just like that Monday dinner.  It was the first day post the wedding I had come for to Indian and my last day in Mumbai.

At dinner, Dr, Ganesh Rao turned out to be a warm geyser of knowledge, and it wasn’t just on yoga.  Though an intense man, when he got into his subject, his kindness shone in his smile, his easy laugh and clear concern for the well-being of those around him. Knowledge is often delivered from a distance, since those that are fortunate to have it often acquire a very large ego in the process of study that places them on a perceived mountain top from where they “graciously” deliver their address.  Dr. Ganesh shared succinct juicy morsels of lore in the same way he offered a second helping of the chapattis that were next to him on the table.  The subjects of philosophy, Russian literature and meditation moved with the ease of our hands in our plates, eating Indian style. Gurdijieff http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Gurdjieff a fairly obscure Russian meditation philosopher, turned out to be second nature!  I was recommended books that would make his work much easier to understand and carry me over the dense stumbling blocks of his original writing.  The explanation of the “third eye” was offered from a precise physiological and historical point of view, removing the mysticism and inserting logic. 

Two months later I met him in Arambol, Goa.  Along with the Arabian sea I discovered the ocean of knowledge that is Dr. Ganesh.  For seven happy days I ran across the beach to sit at his feet on yoga mats in a rooftop yoga studio where he taught two yoga philosophy classes daily.  He was a guest lecturer in a yoga training course, and I was a guest student.  Fortunately, I was also allowed into the other teacher training and regular classes as well, and so a pranayama (yogic breathing practice), an iyengar-based vinyasa and a hatha flow classes rounded out my days.

 

With my YTT certificate out of the way in US, I have the luxury of learning for the sake of understanding, not driven by a prescribed program with an end goal.  Experiencing it for the first time in life in Dr. Ganesh’s class, I felt free while taking notes!   It is quite powerful to learn driven by your own will, desire and interest, and not a diploma, job training, or certification requirement.

Dr. Ganesh went in more depth that any of my previous lectures or training.  A professor of Yoga in the University of Mumbai, a therapist, Naturopathic Doctor, a PhD in Philosophy, a Master of Finance with the background of a professional soccer player and athlete, and a few other degrees, his material made sense on all levels.  I learned about his acronym accolades only during the last day of our class, he paid it all little importance as his passion was humble knowledge. The physiological aspects of the subject were explained together with the historical, philosophical and spiritual.  His lectures and our brains were all systems go. 

After each class, the yogis in training and I marveled not only at the material but at the teacher and man.  His lectures were delivered with crystal precision, succinct, organized and without a single note or outline in hand.  It was as though he was reading from some internal computer screen, spelling out complicated Sanskrit and English words, providing exact definitions, going off track to answer our questions and then moving right back to the precise point where he stopped.  Yogic breathing and concepts of matter were explained in terms of physics, yogic precepts on life in terms of historical context and culture.  Common misconceptions of yoga and life were revealed in class, and there was at least one moment in class for each one of us where we discovered a higher truth for ourselves, an explanation for something we were struggling with in our own lifes, and an alternate way of considering a problem in our own practice.  Dr. Ganesh taught with a smile, and his love for the subject spread to his students from the very first lecture.  .  Marveling at the depth and breadth of knowledge, I asked how it was acquired.

“Reading is my passion, and I believe that everyone in life should do what they really like!” he said smiling.

As a young man, Dr. Ganesh had a brilliant career in both soccer on a professional level, finance on a corporate level and a passion for knowledge.  He continued to pursue all three, excelling with promotions.   After making himself financially comfortable in corporate, and despite a great future on the ladder, he put in his resignation one fine day.  When asked where he was going, he responded:

“Nowhere, I am just too happy and comfortable here.”  It was time to move on, and after sustaining an injury on the soccer field, he devoted his life to his passion for learning and understanding.  He said that he rarely accepts social engagements and only sleeps for four hours a day, dividing his waking time between classes, yogic practice and study.  After learning this I felt even luckier that he accepted the dinner invitation that Monday when we met, since it was a rare occasion. 

Dr. Ganesh was a true pleasure to be around, a happy calming presence that we all cherished perhaps not for just the knowledge that he possessed, but for the joy that he received from his life and work.  It wasn’t just the material he presented, but his love and appreciation of the subject and of life in general that made those around him feel comfortable and warm.  Most of the students in the course met with him individually to discuss their own problems and life aspirations, instinctively seeking his advice and company as something rare and precious to be cherished while present.   

They say that people often go through a personal transformation in a yoga training course.  Often it is out of sheer exhaustion and being pushed beyond the limits.  However, in the week of Dr. Ganesh’s lectures, the “Aha” moments that we all had were quite priceless and frequent. He made Patanjali’s sutras come alive and interpreted ancient Sanskrit with precision and satisfaction that made us smile at the simplicity, elegance, and wisdom of the teachings. Yoga was revealed to us far beyond ancient technique for well-being, or philosophy and history.  We discovered a way of life and relationship to ourselves and those around us. 

As the course came to a close, during my one on one with the teacher I felt overwhelmed and daunted by the immensity of what I did not know in yoga.  I knew that I’ve just dipped one toe into the ocean and I felt overwhelmed and unequal to the teaching task.  Dr. Ganesh left me with these parting words:

“You must teach, it is the best way to learn.” 

Goooooaaaaaaaaah

Everything feels strangely normal here… women dressed in tight clothes on the street, wearing bikinis on the beach, walking by themselves and not in large groups.  Couples walking together holding hands, scantly clad in tribal wear under the blazing sun.  Children number one per family.  Yoga here, yoga there, yoga bodies everywhere.

Drum circles at sunset, dreadlocks, hoola hoops, didgeridoos, and poi.  The record skips:

“Masha, mu zdes, vozle Indusov v lodke, posmotri na prava!” (Masha, we’re here, next to the Indians in the boat, look to your right!) a pretty long-legged blond screams into her mobile with a Moscow accent. 

Life’s truisms and most other advertisements are written in Russian, with small English translations, sometimes.

 Indian people, predominantly wearing a cross, will bust out phrases in Russian first and Hebrew second.  With my hair down in its full Jew-fro glory, I get the latter.  With my hair up, it’s “Privet and poka.”  Russians marvel at my English, while often being startled by my Russian.  Americans, Australians, and the English are amused by my Russian, while cleanly detecting my English as US-California.   

The more things change, the more they do stay the same.  German bakeries specializing in “sea foods, grilled tandoori, pies, loof (yes that is correct spelling) bread, and cheese cake” are on every corner to make sure that the Europeans don’t go hungry.  Naturally, only about half of them sell baked good.  For some reason, European and North American pastry in India’s tourist hot sports originate from Germany.  Incidentally, the only German-owned food establishments I’ve come across (in all of India) were in fact café Edelweiss and Savage garden, both fastidiously clean, popular, and serving Italian and French food. 

“So what’s German on your menu?   Is it French Onion?” I half-jokingly asked the waiters at the largest German Bakery in Arambol, situated in a prime beach spot.  The pastry display case was barren save for a cookie and a jar of power bars, and I wanted a slice of German chocolate cake. 

“Minestrone soup.”  The Indian waiter replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

Italians, present in a sizable quantity likely avoid minestrone from German Bakeries, but they do love their caffeine done right, along with lovely focaccia sandwiches at Dreamland Café, where they are made with the owner’s Italian flair and Indian women’s’ hands in the kitchen.  Olive Garden and Pizzerias are out in full force, and are not Italian-owned.

Indian food has gone into hiding at the site of all the Russians and Israelis, neither one of which tolerate spice (in general).  Tucked away behind palm trees, off the beaten beach and shopping path, I am told there is a good Indian place serving thali for 50 rupees.   

In the hippy town of Aranbol, Goa trance can still be heard, and some random huts do emanate remnants of Infected Mushroom and the like in the mornings, but that is more the exception than the rule.  

Woodstock café plays alternative Sundance movies in the evening. OSHOanic café has meditation and yoga daily, as does Magic Park, along with amazing vegan food rivaling that of Café gratitude.  There are 5 yoga schools churning out yoga teachers with chill intensity and good intentions.   Perhaps it’s because taking a dip between classes increases yogic vibrations. 

All of this is just along the beach…

At night, the town visually transforms into a mini burning man, even more so than the rest of India.  Though lacking art cars, the beach is a sea of lights and candles, with music (sometimes live), alcohol and food overflowing the banks of every wooden hut, tent, and covered restaurant platform.  Asian tapestries are appropriately placed and back-lit, the cushions are set, and the furs, thought too hot to wear, are on sale a few steps away from the beach.  Some adventurous cold bodies do sport them around the beach, but most adopt the hippy wear of tied sarongs and ali-baba pants or the mandatory tool/hip belt purses, vests and fedoras (yes, they are still alive here). Walking alone at night is safe and peaceful, except for the occasional drunken Russian male or dog group, equally boisterous, happy and loud. 

 Gorgeous Russian females descend upon this playland in packs to learn hooping, poi, and explore the chiseled dread-headed Europeans, Americans and Indians.  Russian families have rented almost every available house in the vicinity, and make good use of large tables on the beach in the evening with children and grandmothers.  The Israelis come here to visit Shimon falafel, a small German bakery with a Hebrew menu, and the coconut stand.  They prefer the cliffs or the small villages around where smoking is easier, and the Russians and cocktails less plentiful.  

My one non-yoga friend, surviving a break up (this seems to be the place for that) told me that this town is too boring her taste.  An American Ayurvedic teacher/former health and wellness center owner explained the lay of the land with more detail:

“This is the chill yoga capital of Goa for foreigners…  while the presence of alcohol is disconcerting, there is more of that, as well as drunken fights between Israelis and Russians, trance and partying along the coast heading south.  Between the resorts and towns are simple villages with serene beaches and basic huts.  I really cannot stand Arambol for long, I came here to pacify my college-age daughter.”  The daughter is back to school, he’s planning to stay here for a few more weeks…

I may hop on a scooter and explore down the one lane highway when my course ends.  However, until then, I have yet to find a free hour between classes to take dip in the warm, inviting water and walk on the soft sand to see if the beach has an end. 

Update: This place is more and more like Burning Man with every rare passing minute free from class.  Because it’s Shabat Shalom, I decided to celebrate by walking around with people I met at Beit Yehudi (Jewish House, present here in full Rabbi Nahman song and dance).  We ended up at Woodstock cafe, where I was offered a special space ball and a jewelry making workshop as soon as I walking in.  Walking home by the way of the beach I passed by poi spinners, mini tiny laser performances, and signs for at least 3 types of yoga tomorrow.  There is a special class for female yoga every Monday (taught by a woman, I hope) at the Himalaya school of Iyengar yoga, Tantric and Osho meditation, Contact Dance workshop, Acro and Tantric Yoga in addition to the usual Hathas, Ashtangas, and Iyengars of India.  The “eating for your ayurvedic dosha” course starts tomorrow as well.  A retired woman named “Neema” tells you the truth in a lecture/satsang format 3 times a week, while devoted followers gaze adoringly.   Tribal belly dancers hold workshops and Tibetan massage classes are advertised right next to back-bending classes with Alex.  This is just what I’ve been able to gather within a 10-munute walking radius. 

The morning shift at the beach belongs to all the taichi-ers, yogis and yoginis, while the afternoon flesh display rivals the revelations of undress at BM. There is a drum circle every day at sunset, with no shortage of drums in town, and a Polish guy who speaks Russian and English gives excellent drum lessons every afternoon at 4pm.

On the way to my rare morning Pilates session, I ran into a friend from San Francisco on the beach.  While doing my exercises on the playa, I was serenaded by a walking saxophonists doing his own morning practice.  At some point, he played a jazz rendition of the Hava Nagilla.   Later that day, an Italian guitarist played my favorite Amelie soundtrack song with amazing skill while I sipped on a cold latte at Dream Land. 

This is indeed a reality parallel to the rest of India, perhaps even the world. 

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.

Freedom of Clothing

A western woman is free to roam the west anywhere she wants, usually wearing whatever suits her fancy.  In major western metropolises, such as San Francisco, New York, Berlin, Rome, Tel Aviv etc, no one will bat an eyelash if you walk down the street with pink hair and black fingernails.  We're not evening talking about striped pink and black knee highs, a lovely short black leather skirt... you get the idea.  In fact, you’ll likely find kindred spirits faster, or at least strike up an interesting conversation, if you're so inclined. 

This is a freedom not granted all over the world.  Wearing simple Western clothes in India one should be prepared to pay Western skin tax: quadruple the price on everything (if not more), constant starring by both men and women, every small ragged woman and child asking for a rupee, chapatti or both, and many locals asking for a photo.  Western clothes is equivalent to the uniform of the British Army from the 1800s, you are a big bright red target for everyone, their mother, and cow.  If you are a woman, then the incidences of “Which country?” and “Come look at my shop” rise exponentially (they are present for men, but less, since women are known to the heavy hitters in the shopping category).  Sophisticated female sellers will make you promise to come back if you don’t have time to stop right then and there, looking you endearingly in the eyes with a toothless smile.  The men, whom you’ll likely ignore in an attempt to keep moving, will guilt you with touts: “You come to India and you don’t want to do culture exchange and talk to India man?  Why you come to this country?” You are here to shop and take pictures.

I've actually broken down and busted out a lecture on  the subject of "I am not my wallet and I have interests aside from shopping and drinking chai at the present moment, such as simply walking by to read a book."  This earned me the nick-name of Madame Grumpy, and the chai invitations increased, "For cultural exchange only, of course!"    

As I pack my bag for the umpteenth time to move to a new city, I observe the change in the contents.  My usual black and red is only present in a small pair of earrings, a gift from a dear friend from home.  Dictated by the color of my shoes, my wardrobe has become shades of brown, mingling with other colors only when its brown relatives are present.  I have incorporated color combinations and patterns that would make me run in the West, but in the East we are comfortably coexisting to present a new being at the fruit stand, the rickshaw, and in the mirror.  I am trying hard to be invisible, to blend in and thus blend out the color of my skin.  My goal, though likely unattainable and spoiled by those who have come before me, is to regain my freedom of passage and the ability to define my being as independent of Eastern cliches of the West.     

“Wow, you really look Indian in that!” my friend complimented me today.  I felt a sense of accomplishment.   

Written about a week ago.
The freedom has been written as a series and will be posted peace-meal. 

Freedom: Does it really exist

According to google, the first definition of freedom that comes up is the power or right to act, speak, or think as one wants without hindrance or restraint. I would add the unconditional ability and opportunity to do whatever you want.  Travel is thought to be such freedom because it allows one to go wherever they want and do whatever they want. Explore strange new lands, foods, attitudes and customs!  The theory is sound, but the reality is that wherever you find yourself free to explore you’ll also be bound by the customs, attitudes and infrastructure of the land. 

The only option is to truly understand and re-define your freedom. 

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.