Wish You Were Here

Saturday: Intentional Elephants, Dog Tales and a Doppelganger

2006-12-08T09:32:00.000-08:00

Chapter Four of The Thousand Faces of the Smiling Buddha

PDSC	SPH	STG	RSR
39	5.57	961	10.56
Thy loving smile will surely hail, the love-gift of a fairy-tale. -- Lewis Carroll

Saturday I am awoken by what sounds like the impact of one thousand buckets of water being simultaneously discharged against the roof. The torrential deluge is shed in unbroken waterfalls to the all sides of the room and I picture canals of roiling rainwater being carved in the dark. Through the shimmering curtain of water outside the front window I am able to make out the blurred colored lights of the resort's main office, but nothing else. I open my laptop to check the clock. Thirty minutes past three ante meridiem. The clamorous complaint of the corrugated metal roof under the downpour is constant during my early-morning pranayama and sit.

Maybe it's the all-pervasiveness of the pinks in the room, or an association made with the sound of cascading water, but for whatever reason, elephants keep coming to mind. First Disney's "Pink Elephants on Parade", then Jean de Brunhoff's "Babar the Elephant", then Hannibal's Alpine crossing on elephant-back, and finally those incongruous canned shots of African elephants from Tarzan movies. This pondering on pachyderms inspires me to try an experiment suggested by Dr. Joseph Dispenza in the movie "What the Bleep Do We Know!?" In designing my day I voice the intention to be shown a wild elephant. Like an enfant terrible I am unequivocal in my demand. No chained elephant, no laboring elephant, no porting elephant. I will only be satisfied with a wild elephant in its element. Period.

I continue my quest for smiles as soon as a number of guests emerge from their rooms for breakfast in the wall-less dining room. My three pieces of slightly charred toast with saccharine jelly go down roughly, but the nine smiles I harvest in the dining hall give me energy that food cannot heading into the day. A cloying, largish dog stands on my foot while I am trying to take notes on my laptop and looks up at me with eyes that say, "I love you so much it makes me wanna whine." I smile sympathetically at the tawny-colored retriever which only encourages him to double the doe-eyed intensity of his gaze. "I bet if you loved me one tenth as much as I love you, Mark, you would offer me an insignificant morsel off your plate." I toss some bits of burned crust to my unrelenting petitioner, who wolfs the offering down with salivating gratitude.

Lafir, refreshed from a good night's sleep and looking entirely pleased with the morning's inaugural cigarette, joins me at my table after dismissing my four-legged friend with a deft flick of his foot. He informs me that we will depart for Sigiriya in twenty minutes even though the rain is incessant. Go with the flow.

Still nervous from the previous day's debacle, I ask Lafir if I will be allowed to get down from the vehicle in a timely fashion should my bladder threaten to give way. He scrunches his brow as he contemplates my request and then counters that the trip should last less than half an hour. "We are quite close from here. Not taking long time. You using toilets now, before going. Not finding toilets or papers on the road." It is not the long-term solution I was hoping to come to, but it's a start.

Sigiriya is a ruin-topped citadel that rises from the jungle floor like a weathered pencil eraser of gargantuan proportions punched through a sheet of deep, wet green. It looks suspiciously like Richard Dreyfuss' fork-sculpted mound of mashed potato from "Close Encounters of the Third Kind"--perhaps it is a harbinger of an extraterrestrial jam session, but I've neglected to pack my synthesizer.

The minute we drive up to the expansive garden that serves as a terraced preamble to the impressive rock, the rain halts. Save for a handful of umbrella-wielding guides at the ticket booth, the sea of greens surrounding the massive magma plug is completely unpeopled and eerily silent. Lafir bids me goodbye at the gate, and as I pass over the small bridge spanning the placid, mud-brown waters of the moat, I get the impression that I am an unwitting champion being sent forth to face some mythical menace. "Aye, the legend reads that it be a bandana-bedecked outlander who shall topple the monster, but this boy be so frail..." I am even appointed an animal sidekick in the form of a short-haired mutt that guides me through the misty garden landscape replete with hulking boulders and rectilinear, low-lying pools. My guide dog patiently waits as I stop to gawk at the immense scale of the looming rock ahead and admire the vista revealed at each new elevation. Higher and higher we ascend until we are on the rusted iron staircase appended to the giant rock itself. It is here that the pint-sized pooch sees fit to cut me free, but not before he strikes a regal pose on an stage of masoned stone and allows me to snap a photo. He quite naturally possesses the stuff that pure breeds are conditioned to ape with empty exactness at the annual shows of the Westminster Kennel Club.

Occupying a chain-linked cage, two apathetic security officers serve as reluctant gatekeepers for the natural tower. Beyond them the sinuous stairs of rusted orange-brown iron hugs the rock and spirals up out of view. My persistent smile confounds the seated guard, but his upright partner lets his guard down (ta-dum) and surrenders a tight-lipped grin before I pass and embark upon the stairs.

Midway up the western face of the rock I encounter a third guard who is charged with watching over the few remaining flesh-hued frescos of the panoply that once decorated the wall. His smile outshines my own and he is overjoyed to present the lissome, topless maidens for my perusal.

"You see here," he asks, while pointing at the nipple atop a perfectly spherical breast. "The placement is perfect. If you look closely you will see that earlier the artist painted the nipple lower, but then he moved it, so it would be perfect."

"Even the old placement looks pretty good to me," I confess.

"Pretty good, yes. But not perfect. The artist could not rest until it was perfect."

"Could not breast, you mean."

"Could not?"

"Could not breast, until it was perfect."

The official begins a rapid-fire wheezing that taken out of context could easily be mistaken for an asthma attack. "Oh yes, joking. I was not expecting," he gasps. I am tempted to grab hold of his shoulders as he rocks back dangerously near the centuries-old renderings of buxom babes.

"Bad joking," I correct him. "Well, I breast be getting on my way." The guard is sent into a fresh tizzy, but this time he steadies himself with arms akimbo. As I make my way up an incline to the next set of steps, I cannot resist the urge to turn back to fire one last salvo of puns in the direction of the now obscured guard. "Breast in peace, my friend. The breast man won." Fresh peals of his distinctive laughter mingle with the wind.

Three quarters of the way up Sigiriya, a sizable outcropping serves as a viewing platform and is occupied by a smattering of nervous monkey mamas clutching wide-eyed babes. Bull monkeys, chests puffed out, pace back and forth on the rock above--unofficial sentries guarding whatever treasure may await at the summit. A monumental pair of lion's paws frames the steps leading to the final ascent, and gives the milieu the doomful feel of an Indiana Jones or Harry Potter film. At the far side of the landing, a signboard, lacquered green, warns 'Noise May Provoke Hornet Attacks' and features a terrified hiker being pursued by exactly twenty thigh-sized hornets--the biggest of which is an antenna's length from biting the runner's hind end.

The final set of steps is the steepest. Mirroring their ascent, two or three meters superior, are man-made grooves in the smooth face of the rock that in the days before the stairs was installed, were used for tenuous foot and hand holds. I cannot resist but to find a spot on the steps nearest the olden grooves and do a bit of climbing. To reach the lowest of the indentations I am forced to stand on the outer iron handrail and lean against the rock. Although the path is just a short distance below to arrest a fall, the perceived exposure is nonetheless dramatic. The rock curves away both above and below such that I feel like I am clinging to the edge of a smooth moon suspended recklessly high above a verdant orb. For the seasoned free climber, high-rise construction worker, or barefoot palm-tree harvester, the ancient route might constitute nothing more than the quotidian gravity-defying workout. For the less spider-like, however, it's a hair-raising experience. With my diet-withered physique, I count myself squarely among the latter group, and quickly negotiate my way back to the stairs after the most modest of traversals.

Atop the rock I am utterly alone with the hoary bricks that outline the floor plan to a once-palatial splendor. The monkeys that had watched my ascent with considerable interest have ominously peeled away and there is only the sound of the wind to keep me company. The jungle canopy below is broken at intervals by ponds that are not hard to imagine as the still-steaming footfalls of a recently-passed colossus. Nevertheless I am inclined to reflect that if any beast remains here to do battle with, it is but myself. In my focus on hitting the goal of one thousand smiles I stand to lose sight of the potential uplift each individual smile offers. Like so many of the projects initiated over the past year in India, this exemplifies the ongoing battle; to do justice to each fragile moment while weaving together larger projects with the potential to resonate beyond the original impulse. Goals, however grand or noble, tend to pull the aspirant from the here and now. Depth is traded for breadth. Holding this thought, I watch the mite-like sprinkle of newly-arrived tourists--three, followed by ten, then five more--drawn along the circuitous garden pathway to the rock. The sun threatens to pierce the gray underbelly of sky. Come, there are smiles to collect. One at a time. Just one at a time.

After encountering the first half dozen or so groups on my descent, I note that the ever-present drive for more smiles is providing a window onto choiceless awareness. The minute I exalt in garnering a couple of smiles, the next person will remain stoic. When I despair at encountering several non-smilers in row, suddenly a smile crops up out of nowhere. I exalt once more, and the pattern repeats. When, instead, I see each response as an equally viable aspect of the divine play--flip sides of the same coin--I am released briefly from my desire to grasp or push away the fruits of my dimple-rippling labor. A fragile bubble of equanimity arises, at least for a few fleeting moments, in which I am free of expectation or fear of what might or might not happen. I'm just smiling at that which is, again and again, without judgement. The action alone is enough. I take refuge in the smile, my smile, shining forth without discrimination. But this mode is short-lived as I inevitably get excited again. I get a little high when I realize everyone is smiling, one after the other. No sooner than this thought forms and suddenly no one is smiling anymore. My bubble is burst and the roller coaster of emotions begins anew. Hardcore training from the great beyond.

Back at the car I find Lafir sound asleep on the fully-reclined front seat and I take advantage of his dormancy to empty my bladder in the shadow of a looming, rain-streaked boulder. A tap on the door rouses Lafir from his slumber and when he comes to he informs me that our next destination is the ancient city-kingdom-capital Polonnaruwa--just over an hour's journey east-by-northeast. The second I take my place next to Lafir in the Tempo the sky opens up and unleashes wave after wave of rain against the suddenly teary-eyed windows. The furious car wash is unrelenting for the duration of our drive. When we stop at Polonnaruwa, the rain stops. Just like that.

Lafir uses an invisible map on the Tempo's hood to indicate how I am to make a loop of the site before returning to our parking spot near the colossal half eggshell of the spike-crowned main stupa.

"Not taking guide," Lafir says while removing the wrapper from a fresh pack of cigarettes. "Big wasting of money and our times. If guide coming you not talking, just walking. Just making loop and coming here again." He is unmoved by my invitation to join me on the tour. "Many times seeing. Now smoking and waiting."

I leisurely stroll about the ruins--reclaimed from the smattering of jungle that is still evident in domesticated patches about the site--and marvel in particular at the crumbling walls demarcating where the royal palace stood. The bygone seven-storied palace was purported to have had no less than one thousand rooms (how many of these were half baths is a figure lost in the annals of real-estate lore). I amuse myself by imagining each of the ghostly chambers as a unique and subtle container for one of the one thousand smiles I will collect. Ideal material for a Hayao Miyazaki animated feature.

In front of the palace I am descended upon by an tattered-umbrella-wielding man with a powder-white mane of hair. He brusquely grasps me by the arm and leads across a lane to where a small group of Asian tourists is standing. "Staying together, staying together," the seasoned guide scolds disapprovingly while glaring at me. His unwarranted rant complete, he uses his umbrella to motion down a flight of steps at an attractive terraced pool trimmed with right-angled stonework. "This is where Parakramabahu and other Kings are having their bath. To the right of the bath you are seeing Royal Changing Room."

Perhaps it is inspired by the guide's use, like Lafir's, of the present tense for the past, or the fact that no one in the tour group is deigning to look in my direction, but a sure-fire bit of smiling-winning drama quite suddenly presents itself to me. "Cheerio," I say to no one in particular then descend the steps toward the Royal Changing Room at a brisk clip. I step over a moon stone (foreshadowing, mayhaps?) engraved with concentric rings of elephants, creepers, and horses, before scampering up the several weathered steps to the open-aired platform. I surreptitiously ascertain that I have my audience's undivided attention, then make a big show of removing my flip flops and placing them neatly on the raised stone border. This is followed by wiping my bandana from my head, neatly folding it into diminishing triangles, and patting it to rest atop my footwear. I turn my back to the onlookers, before working my t-shirt over my head in an exaggerated pantomime and flinging it to the convenient branch of an overhanging tree. Next I shimmy out of my sweat pants and toss them nonchalantly to join my precariously hanging t-shirt. Finally, I cross over to the bath with nothing between me and the curious eyes of the guide and tourists, other than a thin layer of Old Navy 100% cotton gym shorts made in South Africa and worn for far too long in India.

The murky rain water of the bath appears pregnant with microbial menace, so I alter my original plans to immerse myself, and instead conceal my lower half behind the short wall that borders the pool while removing my last bit of modesty. Crouching out of view, I simulate bathing by taking large handfuls of water in cupped hands and animatedly throwing it overhead in glistening arcs. I stand slowly, backside to the audience, while mock scrubbing one armpit, then the other, with theatrical vigor. A casual turn of my head in the direction of the onlookers initiates a cartoonish double take (What are they still doing here? I'm being watched!) before I sink out of view while frenetically crisscrossing my arms and hands to cover myself. I pull my shorts from the wall and don them from a sequestered squatting position. I emerge slowly, with mock sheepishness, and call out, "Right then, who's next?". The guide looks hopelessly perplexed, but the others span the gamut from bemusedly smiling to outright laughing. Feigning embarrassment, I gingerly tiptoe across the divide between the bath and changing room to retrieve my clothes from the tree limb. While I am pretending to dry off with my shirt, two teenage girls from the party of tourists are emboldened to descend the stairs and ask in broken English for permission to take photos. I oblige by striking dramatic poses during a reverse strip tease and can only assume the photographers will have the common sense to show their slides in last-taken-first-shown order. Regardless, I consider my one-man show to be an unqualified success, as less than five minutes work has yielded nine more smiles.

On my way back up the stairs I am surprised to see what looks like myself sans bandana looking back at me and looking just as surprised at seeing myself looking like him. My doppelganger has his arm draped around a fetching blond girl who looks like nobody I've ever dated before, and I find myself begrudging him this bit of dissymmetry.

"Hi me," I say nonchalantly in passing, as if I fully expected my spitting-image to be in attendance all along. My bettered-half lacks my cleverness and can only smile and stare dumbly as I walk on by and continue down the path without turning. Maybe he doesn't speak English, I muse.

A hundred yards up the path and to my left, a labyrinth of ancient stone footings offers mute testimony to where bustling shops catering to pilgrims, monks and ministers once competed. Partially overgrown with long-bladed grass in multi-hued greens, the low-lying masonry appears as a frozen snail trail left by Nature in her relentless crawl of reduction. To my right, clusters of snack and souvenir sellers compete for attention among the anemic smattering of tourists which they outnumber four to one. I wonder if the modern-day merchants ever reflect on the fate they share with their long-gone neighbors on the other side of the path.

I pause in front of a phalanx of cold drink vendors that immediately start vying for my business while seated on a ramshackle collection of lawn chairs arrayed around similarly decrepit folding tables. One enterprising salesman snatches a bottle from an age-worn cooler and raps it with an iron bottle opener in an attempt to beguile me with the resultant headache-inducing cacophony. Sensing another opportunity for multiple smiles, I begin a hyperkinetic jitterbug to the frenetic beat established by the temporarily-befuddled vendor. Fearing that their potential customer is being won over by the clank maker, a couple of competing tables start bottle beating of their own. I move like a hapless marionette with unseen strings pulling me erratically from one group to the next and am able to induce laughter in all. Ultimately I settle on purchasing a bottle of Coke from an old-woman that appears to be a sole-proprietor. In a joyful fit of germ-sharing, I insist on letting each vendor have a sip, before I down the last bit of highly-commercialized amber-colored ambrosia. My body remains relatively dehydrated, but I am quenched by the nineteen additional smiles produced.

Near the grand central stupa I spy a monkey and dog grappling on a hillock. I jog over with the intention of separating the combatants, only to to have my peacekeeping mission cut short by the realization that there was never any fight to break up. I watch slack jawed as the monkey rides atop the frolicking dog, slapping his flank like some furry-faced, long-tailed rodeo cowboy. The bucking canine manages to throw his simian rider and proceeds to pin him to the ground with paws atop shoulders and a muzzle pushed firmly against his chest. The monkey, utterly unfazed, remains supine while snacking on fleas extracted from the scruff of the dog's neck. A minute later the impatient dog nudges the monkey's butt with his nose to initiate another round of friendly fracas. Just adjacent to the wrestling duo, two dogs growl menacingly at a pack of monkeys that scramble for the trees as if to remind prying eyes of the normal order of things.

I fumble for my camera and can only manage two badly composed and blurred snaps before the battery dies. I motion Lafir over from the car where he is taking a drag off a cigarette. I point out the odd couple that is still engaged in mock combat under the pines. He is similarly dumbfounded by the pairing.

"I driving here for the past 35 years and have never seen anything like this," he says. "Dog and monkeys, they not liking each other. It's really good, no?"

"It really makes me curious as to how they became friends. I mean, it's impressive how they overcame the hostility the others exhibit toward one another."

"You snapping picture?"

"No, nothing good. I tried, but the battery died."

"No picture? Because this is really good, no? People need learning this. Hindus, Buddhists, Muslims, Christians. Really good, no?" Lafir takes a thoughtful drag on his cigarette while studying my face. "You taking bath this morning?"

"Why, do I look dirty?"

"No, no. Just more drivers saying that maybe someone like you taking bath, like king taking bath in palace." Lafir allows his half smile to grow to three quarters.

"I had a shower back at the hotel, but it was pretty plebeian. The water was freezing cold."

"Okay, no bath?" His smiles waxes to full. Unfortunately, the informal, unwritten, and self-imposed rules of the Thousand Faces of the Smiling Buddha project prevent me from tabulating more than one smile per individual.

"Well, the shower seemed to do the trick. Maybe the other drivers had me confused with that guy over there with the blond girl." I point to a bend in the path where my doppelganger and his girlfriend, hand-in-hand, have just come into view. Lafir is visibly confused by the uncanny similarity of the stranger's appearance to my own. He works his half moustache impulsively between his thumb and index finger.

"Is it your brother?" he asks.

"We are all brothers, isn't it?" I tease Lafir impishly. "But this fellow is more like my parasitic external twin." Lafir's smile fades by degrees as he squints his eyes in the direction of my body double. My doppelganger and the girl smile as they pass, but do not speak. Lafir's jaw drops in dumb disbelief.

"He not speaking to you?"

"He has always been jealous of me for getting to stay at home when we were kids. Mom and Dad forced him out of the house even before he could walk to toughen him up for the mean streets. They didn't want my doppelganger to be a milquetoast." Lafir listens to my ridiculous introduction with concerned nods of his head, which only encourages me to continue the narrative with increasing gravitas. "He was raised by an unruly pack of wild dogs in the jungle. A bona fide feral child. When he finally returned home after several years, he terrorized the mailman by snapping at his heels and would go wee-wee on the sofa. It was a complete mess. Nevertheless, I had just started to bond with him when one day my parents spied him humping the babysitter's leg. For my parents, it was the final straw and he was forever banished from the house. He hasn't spoken to or barked at me since."

The unraveling of my yarn leaves Lafir perplexed. It's clear that he has gotten the gist of my story--if not the particulars--and is troubled by it. "So, maybe he taking wild bath in royal palace," he offers after some lip-chewing deliberation.

"Sadly, yes," I say, while squeezing Lafir's shoulder comfortingly. "And I will bet you anything that the girl he's with is simply an escort he hired to mask his loneliness. He is one sick puppy. But, then again, doppelgangers usually are a bit off."

Lafir sucks deeply on his cigarette as we weighs all he has seen and heard. The sight of the mirror-image man combined with my unrelenting deadpan has either sold Lafir on the veracity of my tale or cemented my place in his head as a lunatic. Unable to decide, Lafir points me in the direction of the path that curves past each of the ruins, and tells me he will drive the car around to the parking lot on the other side to meet me. "Following brother for second half tour."

A kilometer long walk along the red-clay path culminates in a gentle rise that reveals three handsomely larger-than-life Buddhas exquisitely coaxed from a massive sweep of rock. It is Sri Lanka's own Mount Rushmore, or perhaps more aptly, Mount Rushless. The leftmost Buddha, in full lotus posture, is lost in a centuries-old samadhi atop a throne adorned with lions and thunderbolts. Buddha number two, no less persistent, stands serenely statue-like, contemplating the countless thousands who come to marvel at the artistry evident in his granite-hewn form. The last and largest of the Buddhas, almost fifty feet from tip to toe, lies supine, his stacked feet protruding from the bottom of his robe and exceeding me in stature (by no less than two feet). A dog lies on the walkway in front of the last Buddha in a pose that approximates the enlightened one to a surprising degree considering the inherent limitations of fissiped anatomy. Her body is so inert that I begin to wonder if she is among the living and I am prompted to kneel to administer strokes to her forehead. "Hey little one, are you alive?" She is startled from her slumber and rises to sit in spite of my comforting cooing. The apparent lack of threat and the narcotic heat of the midday sun compel her, in time, to resume her original attitude. I can't help but think that, like her, the Buddha too is simply in repose before rising again for a sit.

PDSC Previous Day's Smile Count
SPH Smiles Per Hour (calculations based on a fourteen hour work day or seven hour half day; reflects the previous day's tally)
STG Smiles To Go (smiles remaining to reach 1,000)
RSR Required Smile Rate (SPH needed over remaining day(s) to reach 1,000)

Lafir and the Captive Smiler

2006-11-22T11:26:00.000-08:00

Chapter Three of The Thousand Faces of the Smiling Buddha

Lafir's aggressively trimmed mustache, disturbingly Hitler-esque in its brevity, is the center of gravity of his compact features. A half-smile serves to lighten, by a delicate degree, the stern impression created by his comportment, and yet it is hard to imagine him ever surrendering to the recklessness of a belly laugh. His spotless silk shirt, wrinkle-free pants, and polished black dress shoes, suggest a commitment to personal hygiene that borders on the obsessive.

My stubble-studded face, Holi-stained Dandi March t-shirt, sun-bleached shorts, and decomposing flip flops, present me as the visual antithesis to Lafir's fastidiousness. With the better part of a foot differentiating us in height, we make an odd couple.

We collect my luggage from the guest house where I had stayed briefly in the wee hours of the morning and then Lafir proceeds to his home in the outskirts of Colombo to assemble his wardrobe for our road trip. While I wait in Lafir's impeccably-maintained Ford Taurus station wagon, I become transfixed on a mangy dog that cannot stop scratching her shoulder with her hind leg. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Scratch, scratch, scratch. There is almost nothing left of her skinless, infected shoulder and yet she cannot resist the urge to continue scratching. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Scratch, scratch, scratch. I scan my person for any food items I can offer the haggard canine, but come up empty. I coo sympathetically from the car window and the dog looks up at me, momentarily freed from her self-destructive imperative. Do dog smiles count? I open the door to approach the miserable creature, but she has been too conditioned by ill-intentioned humans to stick around and scrambles desperately to her feet before limping pathetically down the road and out of sight. (Perverse poetasters note: the itchy bitch had a glitch in her hitch.) Three mischievous schoolboys round the corner and for the dog's sake I am thankful she has vacated the scene. The eldest of the boys, upon seeing me, makes a face and mockingly starts blathering with a faux accent to the delight of his mates. I smile at him and he responds with a sneer, but his companions smile. Two outta three ain't bad, I figure.

The smile project is little more than an hour old and I have already had my first epiphany. My drive to elicit smiles is short circuiting the judgmental mind to some degree. Under normal circumstances I probably would have returned fire at the trio's ringleader – jabbered back at him with an equally ridiculous accent or feigned getting out of the car to give chase. But the imperative to smile has created a distance from my reactive self. Once a smile has been issued it's too difficult to return to an inimical or defensive posture. The brief gap created by smiling has withdrawn power from my emotional computer. In the flash flood precipitated by conscious volition, weedy passions are are swept away before they are able to find purchase. I actually am able (or so I imagine) to sense the fearful burden of the boy's pantomime and realize it is blocking him from truly carefree interaction with others. Where I might normally have felt indignation, I am discovering fledgling pangs of compassion.

Lafir returns to the car with one large suitcase in tow and anxiously taking drags from the cigarette suspended at the corner of his mouth.

"I not smoke in car," Lafir assures me, smiting the half-spent John Player Gold Leaf underfoot. "Make bad air and hard to breathe."

"It's really hard to give up though, isn't it?"

"Not possible," he smiles. "She is bad love, but not possible for leaving alone."

As Sri Lanka is Lafir's gig, I leave our destination and itinerary in his hands with the caveat that he take me to well-peopled places. He decides quickly on Sigiriya, which I misunderstand to be another comment on his smoking, but he ensures me is a destination of "too many people." En route, I am soon disheartened to discover that he is only minimally under my direction. The first time I see a large gathering of people at a roadside stand (a perfect opportunity for more smiles) I ask Lafir to pull over, but he drives on with nary a hint of hesitation on the accelerator.

"Nothing to see there," Lafir explains, "This kind of people will just make trouble for you. You know, you strange guy so crowd will come. Just asking too many questions and you are not liking it. Not clean people."

"But I like meeting people like this. I am liking it."

Lafir, with an implacable grimace commanding the lower half of his facial anatomy, ignores my feeble protest and continues apace. Daylight is fast giving way to the murky tones of evening and I have become a hostage in the car I hired. I smile frantically at intersections hoping to make eye contact with pedestrians, but the few that notice me just assume I have a screw loose and quickly divert their gaze. On and on we drive – past sharply inclined embankments with oddly-bent palm trees, past cloud-shrouded super hills, past rail-thin, long-skirted women, past boys fecklessly careening on ancient bicycles – ever deeper into Tarzanesque jungle.

"Jungle," Lafir comments, with irregular application of the accelerator lest I entertain any foolish mission-interrupting notions of escape from my mobile prison. Pleas to purchase bottled water and relieve myself go unheeded. His response is undeviating. "You are not liking it here. Too dirty. Waiting until hotel come. Almost here." I threaten to wet myself in the car, but it only elicits a barely-audible chortle from Lafir, and he drives on. The sadistic tease is to last another ninety minutes.

The hotel where I am finally allowed to disembark caters to newlyweds, but as it is off-season the proprietors are only too happy to host a motley-attired single with bursting bladder. I'm checked into a gaudy suite of varnished browns and intense pinks. I immediately make a beeline for the toilet where I cast my gaze skyward and sigh with relief as evacuation is initiated. My joy is short lived as the urine stream bifurcates and is redirected from the bowl to my leg and the tiled floor. A frantic attempt at realignment only exacerbates my pathetic condition such that my shorts and dry leg are amply watered.

After washing, changing clothes, and mopping my ill-aimed effluent from the bathroom floor, I return to the bedroom and cautiously lift the pink mosquito net of the canopied bed to collapse on an even pinker blanket and rest my head on the pinkest-of-pink heart-shaped pillows. I look around at the walls which are adorned with vaguely sexual renderings of Buddhist demigoddesses and feel like an involuntary Liberace in a giant gut of Pepto Bismol-medicated indigestion. With the smile project in shambles and imagining myself to be a captive of hard-driving Lafir, I am tempted to curl up in a sickly pink swirl of forgetfulness. But I have smiles to go before I sleep. Smiles to go before I sleep.

I summon the will power to pull myself from the bed and to make the rounds of the hotel grounds in the hopes of chalking up a few more grin wins. The smiles I offer up belie my anti-social and exhausted state. Between the handful of guests and staff, I harvest another 14 smiles and finish the day with 39 unique hits. The modest victory momentarily spells my flagging spirit, but only a half day into the project and I'm woefully off the required pace to reach one thousand. One thousand? What was I thinking?

Friday: Don't Fear the Grin Reaper

2006-11-17T19:32:00.000-08:00

Chapter Two of The Thousand Faces of the Smiling Buddha

PDSC	SPH	STG	RSR
0	0	1000	10.20
All the statistics in the world can't measure the warmth of a smile. -- Chris Hart

An accountant at heart, I immediately start to crunch numbers. Seven into one thousand. Take seven times one hundred... leaves three hundred... seven times forty... leaves twenty... seven times almost three. So a nearly 143 smiles-per-day average will be required to reach one thousand smiles in a weeks time. Assuming ten-plus hours a day lost to sleep, daily ablutions, and meditation, it works out to just over 10 smiles-per-hour. Ten smiles-per-hour! Quite suddenly I am engulfed by a wave of doubt. I may not even encounter 143 people in a day and there's no way I'm going to induce a smile in every person I meet. Maybe I should shoot for a more reasonable figure. Mother Teresa had encouraged her fan base to attempt to offer smiles to five strangers per day. Maybe I could take that number times five; twenty five smiles-per-day. One hundred seventy five smiles total over my seven day stay. Not too shabby a figure at all. My meandering mind is brought to a halt by a clear, yet unsounded injunction. It's one thousand smiles or bust. It's not 175, 250, or even 500 - it's the 1,000 faces of the smiling Buddha you're after. Time is slip sliding away and you need to start creasing some cheeks.

My pondering is cut short when a towering man built like an offensive-end proceeds to the head of the queue at the Indian consulate and brazenly pushes through the crush of people. He presents his snout at the mouse hole cut in the service window and snorts some unintelligible inquiry. I feel my indignation swell at his temerity. I have witnessed this behavior too many times before in India: some business-suited bigwig won't be bothered with peon protocol and is going to demand immediate satisfaction.

I'm about to abandon my place in line to educate the uncouth interloper in the finer points of linemanship, when he whirls about and we make eye contact. He smiles and I am immediately disarmed. Instead of reproaching him, I reluctantly find myself returning his smile. Thirty seconds into my grand smilethon and I've been preempted by my adversarial archetype. Remarkably, I discover my righteous indignation is nowhere to be found having been eviscerated in the exchange of smiles. I am annoyed, however, that I cannot tally the stranger's smile as he smiled first. The thousand smiles I intend to collect are going to have to be initiated by me and not the other way around. Continuing to beam, the stranger marches over to my position and thrusts his hand into mine to shake.

"I'm Sanjay," he announces with vigor. I look around as if for hidden cameras, dumbfounded by his inscrutable focus on myself. Sanjay leans in to confide in me that no one need be standing in line.

"The consulate staff will only see people in the order of the numbers handed out by the door," he explains, "These guys with higher numbers, or no numbers at all, are simply slowing up the process by crowding at the windows."

I remain baffled by my new acquaintance even as we work in concert to educate the others as to how the system, at least in theory, is supposed to work. The majority of those who were congregating in the unruly lines are convinced to return to their seats or retrieve a number. The congestion at the windows is considerably reduced, and for a while I imagine with smarmy self-satisfaction that the lines are dissipating at an improved clip.

Afterward I chat more with the broad-shouldered and baby-faced Sanjay and learn he is a pilot for Singapore Airlines and a competitive hot-air balloonist. He is in the process of porting his balloon to Delhi for a major international event. "You have to go with the flow," he explains of his pastime, "The only way to control the speed and direction of the balloon is by making altitudinal adjustments to catch differently moving currents of air." His explanation seems imbued with greater meaning as I embark on the smile project. And yet his parting grin only serves to remind me that I have yet to claim my first smilee.

I make the rounds of the waiting room, but have difficulty making eye contact, as the majority of those gathered stare vacantly at the ground or are engrossed in forms to be completed. A group of monks glance briefly at my nascent smile, but are unmoved and return to murmuring amongst themselves. My fledgling efforts do manage to make a painfully shy infant cry and elicit a nasty glare from her parents - but that's another project for another day.

Peering out a consulate window I spy army sharpshooters stationed on the rooftops of neighboring office buildings. Tomorrow will be Sri Lanka's Independence Day and the capital, always wary of bomb attacks from separatist rebels, is even more on edge in anticipation of the annual military parade. Although distant, I smile and wave to a serviceman scrutinizing the consulate with his binoculars. He hesitates on my position, as if weighing the propriety of responding to my childlike gesture, and then waves back. Though I am certain he is smiling – in the way that you know when someone is watching you even when you don't see them – I decide I cannot advance my smile counter with a clean conscience. I remain stuck at diddly-squat in my smile-pumping aspirations.

Once my number is called, the transaction of submitting my visa form and passport takes less than thirty seconds.

"I don't get to keep my passport?"

"No, you come back in six days." The consulate staffer responds without looking up from a cumbrous pile of passports that he thumbs through with dull precision. The jumble proves too unwieldy for even his seasoned, nimble fingers and a small avalanche of deep blue and maroon jacketed passports finds its way to the floor. I note with some chagrin that my passport is among the casualties. After the debacle of having my last passport lost by the consulate in San Francisco and then stolen in Ahmedabad, I have become keenly sensitized to the whereabouts of its hard-earned replacement.

"You'll have it ready next Thursday?"

"You come back in six days," the staffer answers from beneath his desk where he sets about retrieving the fallen passports. He is clearly disappointed to find me still at his window when he rights himself and my smile cannot penetrate his stolid facade. I scan the passports and with some relief recognize mine among the scatter.

"Thursday?"

"Six days. Next!"

"But there is a sign in the stairwell that says the consulate will be closed on Thursday and I have to fly out on Friday in the early afternoon."

"Sign is old. Six days."

"So the sign is incorrect?"

"Old. Six days. Next!"

Only partially reassured I make my way for the exit. On the stairs to the foyer I come upon an elderly cleaning woman using a hand rag to wipe down the stone steps. Her muscles appear taut under darkly wrinkled skin and her high cheek bones hint at a former pulchritude. I slow my pace and she looks up from her thankless task just long enough to make eye contact. I smile warmly. She returns to her work, but after a moment's deliberation looks up again and smiles back at me. My spirits soar. The campaign's inaugural smile. I'm finally on my way to one thousand. Only nine hundred ninety nine to go. I fairly skip down the remaining steps.

Near the exit I collect smiles from two security officers and a second cleaning woman. Score four for the proletariat. Outside I am set upon by a trio of competing tour guides. With the new project in mind, I am torn as to whether I should stay in Colombo to maximize the number of people with which I will be interacting, or head out to explore the island at large. The smallest and eldest of the three guides begrudgingly returns my smile and introduces himself as Lafir. I take his name to be a wink from the great beyond and agree to enlist his services after he asserts that a road trip will be slightly more economical than staying in the city. A wider arena to spread the good cheer, I reason. Go with the flow.

PDSC Previous Day's Smile Count
SPH Smiles Per Hour (calculations based on a fourteen hour work day or seven hour half day; reflects the previous day's tally)
STG Smiles To Go (smiles remaining to reach 1,000)
RSR Required Smile Rate (SPH needed over remaining day(s) to reach 1,000)

The Thousand Faces of the Smiling Buddha

2006-11-16T07:15:00.000-08:00

The idea is born in the confluence of three streams of thought flowing more or less simultaneously in the stagnant queue at the Indian Consulate in Columbo, Sri Lanka.

The Buddha Stream

I'm marveling at how little I actually know of this country that, at least geographically, is fated to be a mere adjunct to India - a disjointed full stop off the tapered exclamation mark formed by the Indian sub-continent. For many of the foreigners here, Sri Lanka is significant only in that it represents the most convenient midpoint on a visa run back to India. If you're in the northern part of India you go to Nepal; in the south you fly to Sri Lanka. Even the titular hero of the Hindu epic Ramayana deigned to visit the island just long enough to slay the ten-headed Ravana and grab Sita, before booking the first available swan-powered aerial car back to Bharat.

In my earliest memories of Sri Lanka, it is still Ceylon, and, for me, one of the top three islands of exotic intrigue, along with Madagascar and the Galapagos. Certainly it played a role in inspiring a seven-year-old's wanderlust as I studied the Rand McNally Mercator Projection Map of the World fastened to the wall alongside my bed. The intervening years had added bits of incongruous trivia to my sparse knowledge of Sri Lanka: Tamil Tigers somewhere the north, Arthur C. Clarke in Colombo, and a majority Buddhist population.

It's this last bit of trivia that sparks a distant memory of a lamp spotted amongst the ancient waffle irons and gewgaws I had coveted in one of the few remaining antique shops off of Gilbert Street in Iowa City. Entitled "The Thousand Faces of the Buddha," it had, evidently, exactly that number of hand-painted buddhas on its lacquered base. This memory, in turn, precipitates my wondering about the significance of the pot-bellied, mirthful Buddha so popular in Chinese depictions of the sage. How did that all get started?

The Service Stream

What kind of service project can I initiate in the few short days I will be on the island nation? Being on the lean side of my planned stay in South Asia, I'm given over to an increasingly reflective mood regarding the unfolding of events over the past year. Nipun comes to mind as one of the prime forces impelling me to return to the beloved region. I decide that whatever project I ultimately undertake, I will, in appropriately Buddhist fashion, dedicate any merit accrued to his side of the karmic ledger.

One idea for a service project that arises almost immediately is to act as a tour guide for a tour guide – a number of whom are staking out the consulate doors with the intention of ensnaring hapless foreigners. My thinking is that I could enlist one of them to take me to the poorest of the poor areas on the island, and then, through osmosis rather than proselytization, link the guide up with the spirit of service by administering to various families and individuals in need. We could visit a hospital, orphanage, and school in this whirlwind tour of goodwill. It would be an on-the-road, buddy film with an ulterior 'do-unto-others' motive. The idea, while a good start I reckon, borders on the presumptive. Nothing would be more humiliating than to have the notoriously imperious Nipun pooh-pooh my endeavor as deficient in personal sacrifice or lacking mythic import.

The Flat Liners Stream

As I scan the hundreds of people crowded in front of the eight service windows at the consulate I get the overwhelming impression of a conference of zombies. Dull, worn out, irritable expressions dominate. Nobody likes waiting, and many here have been waiting for hours in lines that seem frozen in place. A few Europeans fold themselves into meditative postures, while orange-robed Buddhist monks gather in conspiratorial twos and threes to discuss the best way to extract the stone-faced bureaucrats from their fish bowl of bullet-proof glass. This, I muse, is why people, or at least the vast majority of South Asians, are so fond of musicals. The melodic interludes offer the hope of escape from the crushing monotony of daily existence. When the music starts people are pulled from a milieu of the mundane into a spontaneous community of song and dance. But there is no song here, no dance, no Alpine hills to tumble down while locked in an embrace with a buxom sari-clad lover.

So these are the three thoughts (along with the omnipresent, "where, when, and what am I going to eat next") being juggled: Buddha, service, flat liners. Buddha, service, flat liners. Then, whoop, there it is. The three streams of consciousness cascade together, and like an expectant salmon leaping from the resultant froth, the "Thousand Faces of the Smiling Buddha" service project cuts a wet arch into the grizzly maw of my noetic body. My mission is clear. I will endeavor to make one thousand people smile in the seven days I have remaining in Sri Lanka. No, scratch endeavor. Let it be writ: I will make one thousand people smile during my stay. And my time starts now.

You've Been In India for Over a Year When...

2006-04-22T23:42:00.000-07:00

• You talk about enmity, rather than animosity.
• You no longer shake or nod your head – you waggle.
• You boldly cross the street when traffic is coming from both directions and all places in between.
• You find it just fine, when someone says IN-tes-tine (rhyming with fine).
• You refuse to eat anything without mango pickle on the side.
• You show up, without apology, for a 9 o'clock meeting at 10:45.
• You know the difference between a googly and a leg break.
• You eschew toilet paper, even when available.
• You know that Big B approves of Little B going out with Ash, while Jaya would prefer he woo Rani.
• You keep the bathroom door closed even when unoccupied.
• You are able to tie a dhoti in ten seconds or less.
• You know the answer to 'Kaun Banega Crorepati?' is probably not you.
• You derisively flick your thumb off your front teeth to let someone know you aren't talking to them.
• You motion for someone to come hither with palm down.
• You impulsively laugh when a Sadarji appears on screen.
• You refer to people from Britain as Britishers, rather than British.
• You say something was 'too good' when it was 'very good.'
• You have tried every flavor of ice candy.
• You suck the insides of a massaged mango out a small incision made at the top of the fruit.
• You call Bombay, Mumbai; Calcutta, Kolkata; Madras, Chennai; and Bangalore, Bangalooroo.
• You know what you 'lakh' is 100,000.
• You feel hot at 40 degrees, not cold (it's centigrade, Baby).
• You tip the scales at less than 100, and it's not because of the weight you've lost (talkin' kilos, Baby).
• You can bangra, garba and dandiya until the sun comes up and the cows come home.
• You know Krack cream is for your soles and not your nose.
• You feel that Rajiv Gandhi is predestined to become PM, just as John Jr. was to become President.
• You prefer Limca over Sprite, Maaza over Fanta, and Thums Up over Pepsi.
• You refer to a mosque as a masjid, and a temple as a mandir.
• You know that in Bharat 'Highly Inflammable' means exactly the same thing as 'Highly Flammable.'
• You feign to reach for a rock to scare off aggressive dogs.
• You have flown on Sahara, Jet, Spice and Kingfisher.
• You know that 'kuch daal mein kala hai' when you're offered a free taxi ride.
• You have held hands with a friend of the same sex without getting the heebie jeebies.
• You know all the titillating details behind the DPS, RK Puram scandal.
• You have ridden in a straw-filled bullock cart with a man whose ear hair can be tied secure beneath his chin.
• You know that Bipasha is a babe and John Abraham is a hunk.
• You always choose the upper berth on the train to avoid having passengers trod on you in the night.
• You complain about the meter being 'fast' in your auto rickshaw.
• You walk away from vendors to coax them into quoting the lowest price.
• You prefer to eat by hand off a banana leaf while sitting cross-legged on the ground.
• You have stepped in an elephant pie to avoid being flattened by a Tata truck.
• You can reproduce the inane jingle for Fair and Handsome skin creme.
• You have tried every flavor of Lay's potato chips including Magic Masala, Australian, Latino Salsa, Spanish Tomato Tango, Hot & Sweet Chilli Caribbean, Chaat Street Bindaas Bhel and Golguppa Style.
• You opt for the movie starring King Khan over King Kong.
• You kabadi, kabadi, kabadi in your sleep.
• You have shamelessly relieved yourself on the side of a public building on a well-travelled road.
• You know it's only a matter of time before Salman Khan kills someone, or at least threatens to do so over the phone.
• You have employed a scissors shot in carrom to best the diamond merchant from Surat.
• You know that it's a Hindu in Hindustan that speaks Hindi and not the other way around.
• You can determine whether a person is from Secunderabad or Hyderabad by their accent.
• You whistle the theme to 'Main Hoon Na' while riding a motorbike with five others.
• You know that nine times out of ten your Delhi rickshawala will be from Bihar.
• You have had Corn in a Cup and you want your thunder.
• You know the bewafaa in 'Bewafaa' is Kareena Kapoor, granddaughter of the one and only Raj.
• You have ridden a camel bareback and buck naked through the Rann of Kutchchh (well, at least in your dreams).
• You know Rani and Baps are from Bengal, Ash is from Mangalore, and Mallika from Haryana.
• You have been to the CID to file an FIR with the KBC-viewing SI who belongs to the BJP.

Those who have marked the passage of twelve full-moons whilst trekking the jasmine and pee-scented byways in the hallowed land of techies, thuggis, and Tamilians, are cordially invited to append to the list.

Evil Happy Birthday

2006-04-16T19:45:00.000-07:00

"Mark Uncle, Mark Uncle! Sing a song. Sing a song," comes the hue and cry from the ravenous pack of Nav Jeevan scallywags. I have already performed my limited repertoire of Hindi numbers innumerable times and now my adoring audience's appetite will be satiated with an English tune only. The problem is I don't think I know any English songs, or at least not beyond the first two lines or so. The pathetic truth is that my lyrical memory is about as sharp as a Nerf ball's edges. After false starts with "My Country Tis of Thee" (sung in mock operatic style), "America the Beautiful" (chest puffed out and arm raised in a salute), and "This Land is Your Land" (much knee slapping and foot stomping as if auditioning for Country Bear Jamboree) I default to singing "Happy Birthday." The rousing accolades engendered by the first three offerings give way to expressions of ennui. Ho hum. Been there, heard that.

Sensing my sterling reputation as a paragon of entertainment is about to be irreparably tarnished, I improvise. I pull Ajma to me, as she is closest of the ten or so kids that fall within a three-foot radius of my person. I focus my complete attention on her and allow my eyes to glass over while my vocals grow raspy and slightly menacing. Much giggling ensues, but some of it is clearly tinged with anxiety. The younger children have already guessed as to the tragic transformation that is underway deep within my bowels. Yes, my precious little dearies, I am going bad fast – succumbing to the dark side. I curl my upper lip back in a devilish sneer and my hands, once soft and tender, turn into claws gripping Ajma's fragile arms with increasing threat. Despite it being midday a shadowy unease spreads across the room. The lyrics are now being delivered with the guttural ferocity characteristic of the unfortunate progeny of demon seed and the faintest members of my audience peel away screaming in terror. This triggers wide spread panic and there is a mad scramble for the two exits. A terrified Ajma is the last to escape after wresting herself free from my clutches. With an irascible roar I lurch to the doorway and claw at the sky.

The devilishly robust kids, only minutes removed from having been frightened out of their wits, gather their peers and drag them to my room demanding an encore performance. I claim complete ignorance as to their petition.

"Is it somebody's birthday? Who's birthday is it? If I had known I would have bought a cake. I feel really bad. Well, I'll just go now to the bakery." I rise as if prepared to exit, but am rudely thrust back onto my cot by a multiplicity of tiny hands.

Haritha, who along with Shalini, is the only orphan able to understand some English, explains my subterfuge to the others gathered. The miniature mob waxes tempestuous.

"No, Mark Uncle. You sing. You sing Happy Birthday now!" Haritha demands.

Resigned to my lot I launch once more into the tired hallmark of the birth anniversary. The veterans of my drama shift uncomfortably waiting for Mr. Hyde to appear. The others are similarly restless – they were called here for this? What was all the excitement about? Then it starts. My right hand starts to twitch spasmodically. I look to it first and then to my audience with obvious concern while continuing to sing, albeit somewhat hesitantly. The ones in the know, know what I know, while the newcomers look to the knowers wanting to know what they know, but cannot, themselves, possibly know: Something wicked this way comes. The left hand joins the right in it's unnatural vellication and then my entire torso becomes afflicted with the malevolent twitching. My face registers panic and moments later the singing turns shrill. The youngest cannot bear to witness the complete transition to evil and slip out the door to relative safety. Second row viewers push the front row forward and chaos reigns. I screech the refrain now with unmitigated malice while clawing wildly into the fray. I cackle with such diabolic conviction that I manage to give myself the creeps.

The third iteration of my iniquitous rendition of "Happy Birthday" draws an even greater audience, but this time one of the girls is blocked from easy exit and turns to defiantly face my screeching tirade. She crosses her arms across her chest and squints confidently a la Clint Eastwood. What can a demon do in the presence of such a penetrating gaze? I make as if I am about to pounce on her, but she remains intrepidly unflinching and steps forward to hug me. She has stared fear directly in the eye and is going nowhere. The curtains have been pulled aside and the Wicked Wizard of Oz has been revealed for what he really is. The gig is up.

With some embarrasment, I am forced to repeat the song for the orphan's twenty-something Tamil tudor and finally for a visiting priest who can only look at me quizzically and wonder why today, of all days, he failed to pack his holy water. At the conclusion of my farewell performance no one bothers to run. Even Monkey, the most diminuitive of orphans, simply jumps hyperactively in place, pumping her arms with fists clenched tightly, and anxiously grinning like there's no tomorrow. She too has learned something of defusing terror and disarming the terrible.

The Omen and the Seen

2006-03-28T20:31:00.000-08:00

Nothing new will pass this way,
It can't possibly, as I have counted the waves,
And I know the silver surf will pull me in soon,
Pressing wrinkled skin smooth, bobbing bleached bones.
One hundred thousand young lovers have sifted the sands,
Uncovering the sharp shells of broken promises.
One thousand lame dogs have dug their final fur-cooling pool,
Drawn in and drowned by the high tide of a full moon.
One hundred more like me will come with sea-sized dreams,
And witness with rusted eyes and scarred tongues,
As one-by-one they are pounded into smooth bits of glass.

So what's this now?
Why does the sun-rimmed whitey stare so,
When all has been said and done,
Said and done, said and done.
His smile is the idiot's smile,
So late in the game,
Yet I feel my face breaking,
And feel like playing the lottery one last time.

Orphans

2006-03-25T08:00:00.000-08:00

We orphans we lament to the world:
World, why have you taken our soft mothers from us
And the fathers who say: My child, you are like me!
We orphans are like no one in this world any more!
O world, we accuse you!

-- Nelly Sachs (1891–1970)
“Chorus of the Orphans"

Haritha steals up to me after breakfast and whispers in my ear. The driver has gone home to his family. Can you walk Shalini and me to school? Ask Auntie. Go fast.

To the children, Swarna is the ever-compassionate, yet no-nonsense, matriarch Auntie. To me she is still the slender, singly-braided South Indian that studied computer science at the University of Iowa and went to church on Sundays with Kevin. It was only over the course of many meetings that I learned of her long-held ambition to start an orphanage/old persons home in her native country. It had, at that time, sounded to me like so many childhood dreams – something to be taken down from the bedroom closet shelf next to the family albums, dusted off and shared with the occasional guest as a quaint reminder of a once-innocent universe. But her dream persisted.

Haritha fires the green-apron-and-white-blouse uniformed missile of a body over the twenty-yards of crumbling concrete separating us, altering her trajectory at the very last by thrusting a bobby-soxed leg down hard and going airborne for my torso. She wraps her arms around my neck and pushes her button nose into my cheek to half-kiss her query. We go? Yes, we go, I assure her, but where is Shalini?

After graduation, Swarna found employment, first in nearby Cedar Rapids, then later in Davenport off of I-80 on the Mississippi River. Kevin and I would visit once every few months and try, most often without success, to tempt her out to dinner and a movie. She preferred to live austerely and save whatever money she made for that persistent vision born in her youth of creating a refuge for the homeless, both young and old. Her co-workers, growing ever fonder of the reticent, but quick-witted girl from Andhra, began to plant in her seeds of doubt. Wouldn't it make more sense to just send money to India and let others do the work over there for her? Her earning potential in the US was almost five times that in her homeland and she could have so much more impact. Maybe it was ego-gratification that was calling her to India and not purely concern for orphaned children and street-dwelling seniors.

Weeks of intense prayer put an end to the growing incertitude and strengthened Swarna's resolve. A deadline was set for departing for India. She was going to go for it. I remember clearly our last supper together before she left the States. We ate at a nondescript Indian restaurant under the drab-gray pall that perpetually enshrouds economically-challenged Davenport. My memory of the meeting, however, fired by the intense force of her conviction, remains saturated with color. It was a seminal moment – she was willfully drawing the stuff of dreams into the flash-bright intensity of waking reality. In spite of this, she recounted the trials that she had endured and their ultimate verdict with complete modesty. She was just an instrument and He was the doer. Classic Swarna.

With military precision, Shalini rounds the corner of the administrative villa at nine fifteen and announces she is ready to depart. I lift her unto a ledge contiguous with the building's facade, so that we are standing very nearly eye-to-eye, and then straighten her collar and adjust her belt till it is perfectly centered. I take a step back for one final inspection, and then snap my heels together before crisply saluting her. She giggles, and in a move that spanks of insubordination, jumps into my arms. I swing her to the ground and then take her and Haritha by the hand and walk through the compound gates.

Kadapa, with a sizable population of needy and relatively unserved by other agencies, was chosen as good city to pull the enterprise down from the ether and into the realm of the manifest. A hostel was found with the help of the local dioscese and populated by ones and twos with youngsters and oldsters alike. Swarna's genius was to create a household that would foster a symbiotic relationship between the two displaced populations. The children would create a vivacious environment and provide physical aid for the seniors, while the oldsters, in turn, would scold the children for their hyperactivity and not being helpful enough. Perfect.

Never married to founding principals, Swarna availed the newly christened Nav Jeevan to all manner of guest irrespective of age and familial background. Stories with a distinctly Mother Theresa flavor began to emerge. A young woman, rejected by her family and withered away by AIDs, was found languishing by the bus stand. Swarna brought her to the orphanage where she was given a bath, fed a warm meal, and provided with a clean cot upon which to sleep. Before passing away peacefully in the early hours of the morning, the woman had managed her first smile in many months. Others, suffering from physical or mental disabilities, were found work in the kitchen or cleaning the compound. Never a bleeding heart, Swarna always had a heart for the bleeding.

Immediately I start to whine. How far do we have to walk? It's not far, according to Shalini, just across the football field and... I've never walked across a football field before I complain. I'm cold, hungry, wet and tired and I have to go weewee. I wanna go home. Haritha is delighted at my apparent suffering, while Shalini, quite matter-of-factly, points out that I'm not wet. But it feels like I'm wet, I counter with hyperventilated snorts and start to remove my shirt, ostensibly to dry off. Shalini shouts her disapproval and tells me to walk simply. She will come to rue this directive as my legs immediately turn to strands of spaghetti and I start to waltz catatonically. No, walk simply. Not like that! But this is simple, I counter. You just relax your hips and knees and start to waddle like a peg-legged sailor.

The story of how Shalini came to be an inmate at Nav Jeevan is lost on me now. All too frequently the backstories here involve the death of a mother and the life of an alcoholic father, unwilling or unable to care for them. The common conception of the orphan is that where both of the child's parents have perished. The word itself comes from the Greek 'orphanos' which literally means 'deprived' or 'bereft.' But just as often as not, it is not death that robs the child of parents – it is only that the child has perished in the eyes of one or both parents. Alcoholism can kill a parent, although the alcoholic may be alive and kicking. Ironically, it is often alcohol that greases the machinery leading to the child's conception in the first place. So many young lives shaped by cheap sharaab, the influence of which is now held at bay by an imposing eight foot wall topped with broken glass.

Haritha's story is no less tragic. Her mother was found hanging in their apartment and foul play at the hands of her often inebriated father was suspected. Neighbors persisted in the casting of aspersions and a few weeks later the father, too, was found floating lifelessly just inches above the broken tiles of the bathroom floor. Grandparents cared for Haritha and her elder sister for a few short weeks, before her grandfather suffered a fatal heart attack. The widowed and grieving grandmother, too frail to serve as guardian, brought them to Nav Jeevan.

Emails, unimaginatively entitled, 'Hello from NavJeevan,' were sent every three or four months and provided updates on progress on the orphanage/old persons home. Swarna's roots in software development could be detected in a schizophrenic toggling between the very techie 'NavJeevan' sans space, and the more traditional 'Nav Jeevan.' Her spelling of Kadapa still followed the older British interpretation: C-U-D-D-A-P-A-H. A typical offering from December 1, 2003 follows in its entirety.

Dear friends in Christ,

Hope this letter finds you all in good health. We wish you all a happy holiday season. Hope you will have a meaningful advent and welcome Jesus into your hearts happily. I remember a Telugu song which says that it is true Christmas only when Jesus is born in our hearts. So let us all strive to have Jesus in our hearts always and one-day we may become like Jesus!

Hope the ones at St.Paul's had a chance to watch the video I have sent. If not contact Mary Adams. We have got 40 children with us now and 26 elderly. We have finished 3 years this October, since we started this home.

In the last 10 days we lost two old men. One man, Hussain, was with us for the last two and half years. He is diabetic and has Blood pressure. He broke his leg at the beginning of last month and was bed ridden for the last 17 days of his life. He was a huge man and we had plenty of good exercise taking care of him! The other man who died was Obaiah. We picked him up from the street at the beginning of November. He has nothing but bones. We had to give him bath and feed him. He was smelling awful and was in his last stages. He pulled on for 3 weeks before he died. He was afraid to die; though I kept talking with him. He kept calling Amma, which means mother, looking at me before he became unconscious to the surroundings and later died. That afternoon he told me that he will live for another two days, but by evening he got worse and died at 7:30PM.

A day before he died we picked up another old lady from the street. You must be wondering from where all these people are coming. Well, Obaiah did not have anybody. As long as he worked he was okay, but once he started growing old and couldn't work then he has no other option but to live in the streets. This old lady was abandoned by her son, who cheated her of her property and put her on a train. She came to Cuddapah and was lying near the Church with high fever. We brought her in and gave her a good bath. She is not doing that well. God only knows how long she will live.

We have got a new sweet little girl, Suma. She has no parents. She is 5 years old. She has a grandma who was begging for food and feeding Suma. The little girl was very much attached to her grandma and it took her nearly 2 weeks to get used to us. She is very quiet but observes everything very keenly. In a short time she found out the names of all the children in the home and calls them all by name! Yesterday she made me take her around to the grandma's and learnt their names.

Here are some funny things, which happened in our home this last year.

One day one of our old women was having severe diarrhea and became very weak. She thought she was going to die. As she is afraid to die she tied herself securely to the cot! She is doing very well now and we make fun of her sometimes.

On All Souls day we went to the cemetery to celebrate Mass there and some of our children also came with us. One of our little ones said, "It is full of Samadhanalu (Peace)‚" instead of saying Samadhulu (Graves)! We all had a good laugh at that. When you give a thought to it, what he said is very true. Right?

Our old lady, Subbamma sometimes loses track of time. Once she got up at 10PM and got ready to go to Church!

Well that's all for now,

In Christ,

Swarna

Haritha, infected by the enthusiasm with which I cataloged my imaginary complaints, bats her eyelashes and notes that her legs are paining her. She smiles surreptitiously at Shalini. Just watch me get a ride from Mark Uncle. If your legs are already hurting then you shouldn't mind carrying me I point out. I promptly offer my fanny in her face and drop to the ground. I have been in India for over a year and can't be suckered so easily anymore by a cherub's saccharine smile. Haritha has met her match, and if not for the gap of considerable years, we would promptly be married and sent packing in a bullock cart. As it is she contents herself to fall in line behind me and join in singing 'This Old Man' with extemporaneous lyrical amendment.

I promised Swarna I would come and help at the orphanage when she left for India. But six years would elapse before I made it back to the land of tigers and Tatas, and another ten months would go by before I embarked for Kadapa. So it was only after a bruising overnight bus trip two days before Christmas 2005, that I would finally make good on the offer made in 1999. On arrival at Nav Jeevan, John and I discovered a handful of recumbent oldsters dispersed about the entrance. They greeted us with mute repugnance and looks of consternation – a countenance, I would later discover, that was more or less perpetually engraved on their faces. The children, however, welcomed us like conquering heroes. Within minutes I was being pulled hither and yon to perform my limited repertoire of song and dance numbers. When it was discovered that I was willing to give all manner of piggyback rides I became the eye of a inward-spiraling hurricane. Wave after wave of children threw themselves at me, jumping, grasping and shouting. Their war cry (intended to convey 'Me too!' or 'I'm next') was the charmingly life-affirming declaration, 'I am!' Over and over. I am! Uncle, Uncle. I am! I am! And, indeed, by sheer force of will, they were.

The intermittently drunken-stumbling and shabbily-dressed foreigner with a smartly uniformed schoolgirl by each hand attracts every available eye on the road to school. This suits the attention-loving Haritha just fine, but causes Shalini to issue her injunction more forcefully. Walk simply. But even she is not totally averse to the neck-craning smiles left in our wake and can only manage a lukewarm upbraiding. Shortly after passing the Police Fancy (???) building a roadside officer with pouting potbelly and high leather boots orders our party to a full stop. He very deliberately looks me over from head to toe and back again. And just where are you going? Emboldened with the equally devilish Haritha in my company, I am not inclined to make life easy for the exceedingly imperious policeman. I am a child peddler from Bihar and am looking to unload my captives. The smiling one is a handful I concede, but I offer to make some allowance for the shortcoming. Two for the price of one and one half, provided you promise not to inform the authorities.

A couple of eavesdropping college boys rescue me from my foolhardy attempt at bureaucratic suicide. He must be taking the girls to school, sir. I'm sure he is only confused, sir. We've seen him over at the orphanage, sir.

The policeman is torn. He fingers his lathi thoughtfully. It is his first and probably only opportunity to whack a whitey and the idea has its appeal. Before he can come to a decision on it, I tug my wards into motion again. We are going to get late for school. Say goodbye to the officer. Chalo. Haritha flashes such a smug smile at the lawman I am momentarily afraid his desire for engagement will be rekindled. Chalo chalenge. So long solenge. Shalini remains silent in semi-bemused shock while Haritha's chortles her approval at our run in with the law. Unlike the protagonist of John Cougar Mellenkcamp's signature anthem, we have fought authority and won.

At my behest, Swarna, John and I would spend the better half of Christmas Eve day shopping for small stocking stuffers for each of the seventy or so children, seniors and staff at Nav Jeevan. Each of us soon succumbed to gift-giving fever and a fat box of cricket bats, rubber balls, plastic purses, hair ties, candy and colored markers was put together in the bazaar. The quality of the merchandise was marginal and Swarna wisely insisted upon a two-day warranty from the shop's reluctant proprietors. She also dissuaded me against purchasing stockings. What would the children do with unpaired socks in perpetually toasty Kadapa?

When we returned to the orphanage John and Swarna created a distraction while I smuggled the box of goodies inside. Haritha, ever cognizant of my whereabouts, located me just as I had finished secreting away the day's bounty. You come, Uncle. She led me to the neighboring churchyard which was alive with Christmas lights of every color. Next to the chapel a small stand was offering various religious icons and knickknacks for sale. There, Uncle. Haritha pointed to a box of plastic rings flecked with gold paint and topped with faceted faux topaz in the shape of crosses and hearts. Wow, I lied, they're really beautiful. But did you put it on your Christmas list? Haritha stamped her foot down with frustration. No, Mark Uncle. You...on. She took one of the rings and with considerable effort attempted to shimmy it down my index finger. I'm too young to get married, I protested. She paid no heed to me and with unbroken concentration redoubled her efforts, this time on my pinky. Torqued with sufficient vigor my smallest of fingers gave way to accommodate the sparkling band. I was about to ask the vendor how much I owed when Haritha produced a five rupee coin and dropped it in his hand. Ring for you, she said taut with pride. What do you say when someone possessing so little gives so much? It's really beautiful, I told her. And truly it was – transformed from kitsch to kingly adornment by her act of unbound generosity.

When I was a child, I explain to Shalini, it was a matter of pride to be able kick a rock all the way to school. Here, let me show you. I locate a decently spherical rock and send it tumbling with the side of my sandle. I jog after the rock and give it another boot before it loses momentum. You see, it's best if you can keep it in motion the whole time. Shalini locates a rock for herself, and Haritha, unwilling to be left out of anything, does likewise. Shalini exhibits considerable skill in keeping the rock under control and becomes quite absorbed in the challenge. Haritha, on the other hand, loses interest almost immediately and takes turns attacking my and Shalini's chosen targets. Impressively, the unperturbed Shalini persists, and manages to shepherd her rock all the way to the school gates. I show her how to put her pet rock put to bed in a molehill of dirt until the afternoon's return trip. I stroke the rock with my middle and index fingers and make contented purring sounds. It's a big responsibility taking your little friend to school, I explain.

Christmas Eve, John and I, hidden from the eyes of prying children, would spend the better part of the night assembling the gift packages. One by one the residents of Nav Jeevan were checked off the list Swarna had hastily compiled. A slip of paper identifying the recipient was tucked under the rubber bands that secured each prismatically-colored, teflon wrapped package. I found myself reenacting the occult ritual performed thanklessly by my parents for so many years. How easy it is to take parents for granted, until, that is, you find yourself serving as a surrogate father of forty over the holidays.

At six I was awoken by voices in the hallway. Excited conversation was followed by a sonic explosion. I stepped into the `
hallway to find a bemused Swarna watching over the fracas of Christmas morning. A grave Joseph approached me to pinch both my cheeks and then bunch his fingertips at his pursed lips. It was the vicarious method of kissing to which I had already become accustomed in my short 48 hours at the orphanage. Thank you, Mark Uncle. No, I respond dumbly, thank you.

Shalini, reluctantly charmed by my rascality on the walk to school, is still sober enough to promptly inform me that I can return home after thanking me for serving as chaperone. Okay, Uncle, you go back now. Haritha, however, is not eager to see me depart. Free from any anxiety of having her unpredictable temporary guardian seen by classmates, she takes me by the hand and pulls me inside the campus grounds. You come, Uncle. You come! Shalini's face registers chagrin as I heed Haritha's call. Not wanting to cause Shalini undue stress I offer again to go home, but Haritha will have none of it. No, Uncle you come only. You come! The school yard is dotted with doting parents biding their young ones adieu. The scene, to my eye, is amusingly topsy-turvy, as I have the impression of exceedingly well-dressed and meticulously groomed micro adults releasing their slightly disheveled Brobdingnagian brood for playtime. Okay, Mommy and Daddy have work to do, so you kids go outside and play.

On Christmas Day we took the kids to a city park in a fleet of sputtering auto rickshaws. The park is closed until noon so we gathered at the gates and stared inside as idle park attendants stared back at us with curiosity to match our own. Inside a carpet of intense green grass was crisscrossed with sidewalk and inhabited by a menagerie of larger-than-life critters happily clutching waste bins. Landscaped hillocks were crowned with smallish trees and colorful plantings. Three flattened, wrinkled wads of vinyl were dragged from a storage shed and inflated by giant fans into a castle, hot air balloon, and octopus-shaped amusements. The park was a dreamy vision of primary colors in the otherwise dusty expanse of Kadapa.

Once opened, the park's dreamlike quality was made more intense as the grounds were quickly populated by a vast assortment of differently dressed locals. It was as if the sparkling dots of Seurat's 'La grande Jatte' had been extruded into the third dimension on a distant planet. Before I could cross over to the inflatable rides I found myself completely encircled by a giggling black curtain of burka-attired college girls. Questions were issued by the largest of their group in tentative English. Where are you from and why did you come to Kadapa? Who did you come with and how long will you be here? Each of my responses was followed by a new wave of tittering. I'm from the United States of America. Oh, tee hee hee. Tee hee hee. I came to Kadapa to check out the orphanage. Oh, tee hee hee. My parents were incinerated in a horrible fire, so I'm hoping Nav Jeevan will take me and my pale-skinned brother in. Oh, tee hee hee. Tee hee hee. A platoon of orphans penetrated the circle of bad comedy and tugged me by my shirt, pant legs and both hands to the puffed-up octopus. I managed to pull a hand free to wave goodbye to the muslim girls inducing one last burst of laughter from their group.

The ride cost five rupees a head and the minute I sponsored a couple children, then all demanded the satisfaction of bouncing on the cellophane cephalopod. The few willing to heed my call to form a queue were immediately pushed into noncompliance by belligerent peers. Slightly older local boys could smell blood and elbow their way to the front of the growing mob. Uncle, you give us too. When I didn't heed their demands they became aggressive and my t-shirt was grabbed from behind until it ripped and my bandana was pulled down round my neck. I was fast sinking in a sea of choking, pulling and prodding lilliputians. With the last bit of energy left in my sleep and food-deprived body I tore free from the maddening crowd and jogged to the far side of the park where I found protection in Swana's fellowship. Still reeling from the attack, even the formerly cute garbage-guarding monkeys, rabbits and frogs took on a beastly appearance – as if preparing to disgorge in their respective containers.

Before I can usher Shalini and Haritha to their classroom I am spotted by the principal who recognizes me from his visit to the orphanage. He invites the girls and me to his office. Even the normally unflappable Haritha is on edge in his office which is reserved almost exclusively for disciplinary action. She and Shalini eye each other nervously. They won't get in trouble for getting to class late? The principal laughs. He is the only one that can make trouble for the students he assures me. He directs his secretary to bring three cold drinks. Two days earlier the principal and his wife had generously sponsored a dinner for the residents at Nav Jeevan complete with ice cream for dessert. I thank him again for the kind gesture, but he is quick to deflect the praise. The pleasure, he explains, was all his in seeing the smiles on the children's faces. When the cold drinks arrive I set one in front of each girl, but they aren't convinced they are the intended recipients. Is it a cruel test of their resolve? Drink, drink, urges the principal.

By nightfall all of Swarna's predictions with regards to the Christmas gifts had proved true. Half the children had lost their cricket balls, one of the bats was broken, both badminton rackets were bent, and the majority of the girls' purses had malfunctioning zips. John and I sought refuge from the day's hubbub in our room and were successful for all of twenty minutes, before Haritha cracked the door open and squeezed her ever-piquant face in the gap. Uncle? The room we were staying in was usually reserved for visiting priests and the children know it is largely off limits, or, at the very least, so pregnant with the air of religious severity that it best be avoided. Uncle? Haritha slipped in the room while keeping a cautious eye on the hallway behind her, lest someone spy her trespass. She proceeded to my bed where I was resting and took a seat next to me. John, as is his custom, lay in his bed with his laptop perched on his chest busily firing off emails. Haritha coursed her fingers through my goatee before finally giving it a gentle tug. Mark Uncle? Chocolates? I sat upright bringing my index finger to my lips, then tip toed with exaggerated effect to the adjoining storage room. I returned with two candies and slipped them in Haritha's eager hand. Don't tell Auntie, she whispered. Don't tell John, I whispered back. Ajma's face was the next to appear at the door and her entry proved to be the cork off a bottle of bubbly newcomers. John had mastered the art of adult gravitas and the kids left him to his keyboard, choosing instead to pile on top of my bed in an orgy of giggling and hair pulling.

The grappling was interrupted by Swarna's appearance at the doorway. The children scrambled to their feet and filed out of the room under Swarna's disapproving stare. It was well past their bedtime and they knew it – Swarna was cutting them some slack only because it was Christmas. Mark, your food is ready, she announced. I expected to eat alone at that late hour, but Swarna stayed up to sit with me as I broke my fast. We shared a laugh about the abysmal condition of the gifts we bought, while Swarna peeled an orange and washed grapes. Food is always potent stuff after a fast, but the home-cooked repast, set aside for my benefit, induced in me a particularly profound thankfulness. It had been the best Christmas ever.

I offer to talk to the girls' class and avail myself for questions, but the principal requests I speak to his ninth through twelfth standard students instead and I accept. After dropping Shalini and Haritha in front of their claustrophobic classroom of wall-to-wall concrete, I am taken to the neighboring room which is considerably larger and already elbow-to-elbow with buzzing students. The kids fall pin-drop silent as I give my spiel on looking for opportunities to be of service and then introduce the idea of writing letters to friends in Pakistan. So, what do you think, should we write some letters? Nary a heartbeat. I lean over to the presiding teacher. Is it okay if they write letters? Do they have to be somewhere? No, no, she replies. Oh, what's wrong? They can't go to Pakistan with you. What? No, I was just hoping for letters. The students aren't be required to come with me to Pakistan. I'll deliver the letters myself.

Once the confusion is cleared up the teacher starts barking with rabid enthusiasm at the students to compose letters. They haven't had a moment to think and already she is goading them like a drill sergeant. Come on. Come on. Start writing those letters. I want to see everyone's pen moving. Come on. Come on. Get those pens moving. Somehow the children are able to produce under the intense pressure and the letters turn out decently. Afterwards the students crowd around me for autographs. Why did you come to Tirunelveli? I had to come here to walk my girls to school, I answer cryptically. Confusion is writ large in the student's expressions. He has girls in school here? Haritha and Shalini appear in the doorway and are awed by the attention the upperclassmen are paying to me. They snake their way through hips and legs to flank me on either side. My girls, I announce, squeezing them to my torso with each arm.

John and I had to take an early bus back the day after Christmas and anticipated leaving without fanfare. At five thirty a half-asleep Ajma staggered in our room, gift purse still in hand, and came over for hugs. She was immediately followed by an equally drowsy Haritha who pawed the cobwebs of dreams from her eyes with the back of her hands. I slipped them each an extra candy and swore them to secrecy. Within earshot of Ajma I tell Haritha not to let Ajma know about the extra sweets, then turn to Ajma and do the same regarding Haritha. Shhhhh! Haritha mat batao. Both can manage only wry grins in their somnambulism. As John and I hauled our luggage into the hallway, we were met by eight more orphans who had us bend over to administer a flurry of finger kisses. Outside we stood in the cool stillness of pre-dawn as Swarna scootered off to secure us an auto rickshaw. When she returned we enjoyed one last round of hugs before she provided us with a police-like escort to the bus stand.

Swarna insisted on waiting for our bus with us in the nascent hubbub of the faintly pee-scented station. When our vehicle growled and lurched to life we stood by its door where John shook Swarna's hand and I blindsided her with a half hug. How to quantify my feelings for her? She represents for me that crystallization of will that transforms our best intentions into action while remaining free from ego attachment. Where I am the blare of vainglorious trumpets, she is low notes on the cello, bowed with even-keeled sensibility. As we rolled away in the Bangalore-bound bus, I craned out my head out the window to wave goodbye to Swarna's helmeted profile one last time. I was longing to stay, but even then knew that fate would lead me back to the kids. So when Swarna emailed me some weeks later that she had moved operations to Tirunelveli in Tamil Nadu I roughly unfolded my map of India on the floor and started plotting my return visit. How close was this new place to Bangalore? Just two moon cycles later would find me in the deepest south of South India, entrusted with walking the girls to Magdelene Matric Higher Secondary School.

I have been at the school for almost two hours by the time I bid Haritha and Shalini adieu at the front gate. Haritha points a questioning finger up at my nose. You come to get us at three thirty, Mark Uncle? Does someone usually pick you up from school? I thought you just walk home on your own. Shalini's confirmation that they always walk home on their own is shot down by Haritha. No, Mark Uncle, it is compulsory that you come. Compulsory? Yes, compulsory. What does that mean? It means you come. Zarur. Then I will come. Compulsory? Compulsory.

Triceratops

2006-03-09T05:47:00.000-08:00

Sura 4 Al-Nesaa'

[4:2] You shall hand over to the orphans their rightful properties. Do not substitute the bad for the good, and do not consume their properties by combining them with yours. This would be a gross injustice.

[4:10] Those who consume the orphans' properties unjustly, eat fire into their bellies, and will suffer in Hell.

-- The Qur'an

Three threes times three. What are the odds? The basketball court at College Green Park in Iowa City is decidedly shooter unfriendly. The goal is fractionally higher than ten feet and lacks a net making it hard to judge its distance. The court slopes downward across its width from north to south and a lone tree branch serves as a giant rejecting arm for properly-arched shots. Making 3-point shots from the low southern corner is never an easy feat and for Eric, Franz and me that afternoon it had been seemingly impossible.

As day gave way to twilight I recognized the opportunity for a wager and asked Franz what he would give me if I could hit three consecutive three-pointers from the inauspicious location. As fate would have it, Franz had gone to the bank earlier in the day with the intention of changing currency leftover from his semester in India to dollars, but had balked at the poor exchange rate. Now he had a pocket rife with rupees and offered this as my prize should I successfully pull off the improbable demonstration of shooting prowess. I readily accepted his unusual ante and in retrospect should have recognized it as a harbinger of the strange events that were to unfold.

I pushed the first shot up with no confidence, but still it rattled through the rim – the first basket made from the spot all day. This fluke of fate was followed by good-natured hooting from Eric and Frantz. Fully expecting the second shot to go awry I tossed it up with blithe unconcern. Disbelieving laughter by all, as the ball found its way through the hoop. Now I became focused – so much so that it virtually ensured disruption of the smooth flow of muscle, joint and tendon necessary for proper release of the basketball. To make matters worse I was thinking. I have to make this shot. I have to make this shot. I was getting tight. Over-concentrating. The internal nattering nababs of negativity were beginning to hold sway. There's no way you'll hit three in a row. I tensed unnaturally as I flicked the ball skyward, and yet immediately experienced that uncanny shooter's foreknowledge of success. Evidently the various misalignments caused by frayed nerves had cancelled each other out. I raised a triumphant fist even as the ball was still in flight and began a victory strut to center court. 'Swish' the ball went through the hoop (or rather 'phwoof' for lack of a net).

Three threes in a row. What are the odds?

I had never really wanted Franz's pocket money – it was the challenge of a good bet that motivated me. I told him to keep his loot, but he was insistent that I had rightly earned it by connecting on the remarkable trio of baskets. He suggested I donate the money to Swarna's orphanage or some other worthy cause should I not want to spend it on myself. This I could accept, but I told him he at least had to take a chance at winning the money back by replicating the shooting stunt. Finally he acquiesced and took up position in the low corner of the court. The daylight was starting to fade, so visibility of the rim was fast becoming an issue.

After Franz's first shot found the basket the frivolity that had followed each of my attempts gave way to an awed solemnity. The three of us had entered a magical realm and none wanted to break the spell. I retrieved the first shot, bounced it to myself and then crisply delivered a chest pass to Franz. Franz dribbled the ball once, twice, three times. All were quiet. In the movie version of the incident we would hear only Franz's heartbeat as he lined the shot up. Bwump-bwump. Bwump-bwump. Bwump-bwump. Complete silence as the ball was sent airborne. Super slow motion of the rotation of the basketball's seams counter to the motion of the ball. Seam, seam, seam, Voit. Seam, seam, seam, Voit. Seam, seam, seam, Voit. The ball hit the rim and began a precarious trek around its perimeter. As kids we had called these shots 'toilet bowl rimmers' and knew that half the time such shots were fated to spin out of the basket by centrifugal force. One, two, three times it circled the rim. Breaths were held before the ball sank through the basket. Sighs of relief.

I repeated the single-bounce ritual from the previous shot before sending another chest pass to Franz. Don't change the routine. Franz wiped the perspiration from his hands before bouncing the ball to himself. Once, twice, three times. He sent the ball on its way toward the basket and just as with my third shot I felt certain of its passage through the hoop. This time Eric, Franz and I all march to center court with arms upraised.

Three threes twice in a row. What are the odds?

Franz still insisted that I keep his sizable wad of rupees and put them to good use in India. I vowed to match his contribution with a like amount effectively doubling his charitable offering. Now Eric fell prey to our philanthropic fervor – he announced his intention to have a go at the challenge and, if successful, match our donations.

The sun had set now and the only light on the court was reflected from high-flying cirrus clouds on the horizon. Eric launched the first two shots post haste as if there were a Cinderella timer on our charmed marksmanship. The three of us were operating as one mind now, collectively building on the streak. Triceratops. Statisticians will tell you that the success of the proceeding shots should have had no effect on the outcome of the next shot, but we knew otherwise. The final shot would be exactly the same one that had not been makable all afternoon. But now I had hit three in a row, followed by Franz's three and Eric's two.

For us the outcome of Eric's final shot was fait accompli. The Gods of Benevolence were underwriting our assault on statistical sensibility. We could have drawn and quartered Eric and his disembodied right arm would have managed to set that final shot on its hoopward journey. Fate was not going to be denied on this day. The early stars twinkling in the sky bore witness to the final flight of the basketball and the celebration that followed.

Three threes three times in a row. What are the odds?

If we figure the odds of hitting a single three-point shot at College Green Park at ten percent, then the odds of hitting two in a row are just one percent. The odds of hitting three in a row dwindle to one in one thousand. But the odds of connecting on nine such baskets in succession are just one in one hundred million. The exact same odds, incidentally, as an emaciated parrot with bad hair randomly typing every word of this blog with its sunburnt beak.

PS: It turned out that Franz had over eighty US dollars worth of rupees in his pocket. An amount roughly three times this was presented to Nav Jeevan Home for the Aged and Orphaned Children on February 20, 2006.

Bovine Inspiration

2006-03-03T03:18:00.000-08:00

Dig, if you will, the picture. I have just come out from the doctor's office and there it is – Yahoo's Picture of the Day with instant photographic celebrity written all over it (or at least printed faintly on the back like the Kodak logo) . A embonpoint Jersey moo-cow has come full stop in front of a bus stand replete with amply-padded, sari-clad aunties sitting in attentive anticipation. The lighting is perfect, and the stark black and white of the cow contrasts nicely with the resplendently adorned women. The scene screams out to be snapped for photographic posterity. Click me sucka' and get ready to collect yo' pulitza'.

Backpack flashback: I've left my camera in the room this morning to keep my load light. I calculate the time it would take to return to the hotel and come back, only to resign myself to blogging about the priceless picture that will never be captured on film.

So now the challenge. What is the best caption you can come up with for the picture that never was? Viral, are you listening? Dad? Derek? Eric? Rick? Ick? If anyone can outdo my humble collection, I will treat them to a case of soy ice cream.

Cowbus and Indians
[10/10 Cow Pies]
Pure, grade-A unadultered pun. Can't touch this.

Waiting for the Next Cow
[9/10 Cow Pies]
Nothing fancy, but Godot isn't complaining.

Jersey, Anyone?
[8/10 Cow Pies]
Likely the caption that would've been used by the newswire services. Contemporary reference to Indian migration to the Garden State of Sinatra, Springsteen and Singh.

New Public Transport Emits Only Milk and Methane; Features Dual Horns
[8/10 Cow Pies]
Indians like to honk and anything with two honkers is sure to garner attention. Alliteration of 'milk and methane' is sweet, even if the mixture is not.

Cow No. 217 to Lal Bagh
[7/10 Cow Pies]
Lal Bagh is a famous botanical garden in Bangalore. Cow No. 217 is the way to get there.

Don't Have a Cow, Your Bus is Coming
[6/10 Cow Pies]
Fine, but slightly distasteful due to it's anti-bovine overtones.

India: Fallen Behind or Moovin' Ahead?
[5/10 Cow Pies]
Superior attempt at punmenship, but ultimately suffers from obscurity. Is a 'fallen behind' a symptom of dropsy?

Hey Fatty, Who You Calling a Cow?
[3/10 Cow Pies]
Works both ways, but ultimately is cheap humor at the expense of a lot of really fat creatures.

Sari, We Only Ride Horny Bulls
[2/10 Cow Pies]
No one's laughing mister. You are just sick, sick, sick (and bloody brilliant).

Nuff Said

2006-02-14T05:09:00.000-08:00

I want to hear every good song ever sung;
I want to hold the hand of every pretty girl ever born;
I want to explore every last puddle and park;
And see every good movie ever made.

I want to move up and up, down and out;
Into alleys, courtyards, kitchens, and bedrooms;
Through gutters and glitter;
Into evening, night, and dawn;
Over the Moon and beyond the searing summer Sun.

I want to attend a family reunion with seventeen billion relatives,
Black, White, Puerto Rican, everyone just a freakin' good time;
I want to eat every combination of food,
From every corner of the globe;
I want to stay awake until the birds babble,
And the last star kowtows to the Sun;
I want to share the best of these things
With every other living being that has ever been.

I want to buy every last piece of twisted plastic and colored cloth,
And put an end the sellers selling, pushers pushing, beggers begging;
I want to grease their wings with hyper-abundance,
And tear asunder their cloak of poverty.

I want to drop my battle ax and gather up fallen twigs;
I want to cease my shouting and just sit and listen.

And then disappear.

Ruby My Dear – Part One

2006-02-14T05:05:00.000-08:00

This is a love poem in the truest sense.

Where to begin? Of course it goes farther back than I can know, but my earliest memories in this life of Ruby are of a tiny brilliantly white creature that was small enough to comfortably fit in the palm of my hand. No words are going to do justice to the recollection of a life so noble, but I will try, knowing full well my efforts will sketch only a hollow portrait of one so solid and warm.

Ruby had been acquired by a girlfriend at a local pet store, some months before I met her. Elizabeth brought him home to live with a careless, sloppy golden retriever that was on the order of 100 times as massive as the infant dwarf rabbit. The one time I saw them together I was dumbfounded at the diminutive rabbit's courage to navigate the apartment with a bounding canine in reckless pursuit. Elizabeth's breakup with the dog's caretaker eventually gave Ruby the sole run of the apartment. Ruby's eyes were a lustrous pink that betrayed a depth not normally associated with the color. The moniker Ruby was Elizabeth's rather unimaginative contribution and led most to believe he was a she. For me, though, he was always the Rubester, Rubicon, Rutabaga, Rubart, or in intimate moments just plain Bug.

As Ruby grew bigger (he was never more than eight or nine-inches long) he was able to easily hop up onto couches or beds where he would then linger anxiously at the edge before jumping many feet out into the room to get back to the floor. He was lightening quick and with the rising of the sun would carve mad dashes throughout the carpeted areas of the apartment. Come on sleepy heads, let's get a move on! The linoleum-covered kitchen and bathroom held no allure as they provided little purchase for his already slick feet and nails. His fine-felt ears, soft nose, and cotton-ball tail were black and striking against an otherwise white coat. But these are merely physical descriptions and early on it became evident that Bug was a special bun that could not be encapsulated by his corporeal guise.

Elizabeth, who had suffered through various physical and mental abuse in her childhood was finding it hard to deal with troubling memories that would come calling unexpectedly and uninvited. These tormenting visions could appear in the middle of an unseasonably warm Fall day while reading a book on the lawn or in the chill of Winter under the darkness of extra blankets. The more she came into her own as a young adult the more the doors opened to memories from childhood of abandonment and betrayal that she had kept safely locked up while still living with her parents. While her therapist was encouraging her not to repress these nightmarish memories pulled from her Pandora's box, it was devastating to watch their brutalizing emotional impact. The otherwise peaceful apartment we shared would become a battleground site as I was sucked unwittingly into the vitriol that frequently accompanied the attacks. Ruby would thump his feet in protest at these outbursts, but was ready in a heartbeat to avail himself as a comforter in the aftermath.

Ruby maintained the heart of a lion throughout Elizabeth's dramatic mood swings and would press up against her when she sobbed uncontrollably by the side of her bed, or push his head reassuringly into her when she assumed a fetal posture on the floor. My own impulse was to run, to apply a quick healing touch, or to council Elizabeth rationally – let's solve your problems in a logical manner I thought. My attempts to comfort her with hugs were small solace in the vast sea of doubt and emotional turmoil in which she found herself drowning. But I was to learn much in those months from Ruby's tireless (and silent) administration of unqualified love. I could never fully emulate his example, but it was instructive nevertheless. Elizabeth, for her part, would return Ruby's affection with marathon petting sessions that could last from evening into the night. Ruby would stoically soak in the attention – likely long after any interest in being stroked had passed. He allowed his body to be used as a vehicle of comfort without reservation. Ruby was patience incorporated.

When Ruby was little over a year old Elizabeth decided he should have round-the-clock company and without consultation purchased two hamsters that were to become known to us as Amber and Pearl. While the two little ones would grapple with death-mask intensity, Ruby was unceasingly accommodating of their introduction into his space. My 'reasonable' fears of a territorial bloodbath were replaced by scenes that could easily find thier place in a Ripley's cartoon. Let me elaborate. Ruby was a true consumptive fan of all things food and otherwise (i.e. carpet and cords). But his passion was for chocolate Tofutti ice cream and Tofutti Cuties ice cream sandwiches. One night after ingesting my usual four or so Cuties I offered a fractional corner of one to Ruby who seized upon it with wide-eyed zeal. Amber and Pearl were enjoying their nightly run outside their plastic-tubed cage and it was Pearl that first caught scent of something sweet in the air. Driven by a gastronomical demon he repressed all concerns of physical preservation and charged upon Ruby's treat. Ruby with complete equanimity surveyed the invasion with the poise of a lotus. Pearl, leaning back on his hind legs, preceded to snatch up the dessert in his minute, pinkish, monkey-like hands (front paws?) just centimeters from Ruby's nose. Ruby never flinched, tensed or bolted. He calmly watched as Pearl devoured the morsel was only slightly smaller than his head). Truly the stuff of legend.

Ruby taught patience and to let go unreservedly. I'm still learning.

Any clothes left on the floor were subject to Ruby's signature bite marks. He seemed to delight in labeling clothes with but a single hole-producing chomp. I complained to Elizabeth, but she only pointed out that the clothes shouldn't be kept on the floor in the first place. As I was slow to reform my slovenly ways soon my entire wardrobe of t-shirts and jeans eventually bore Ruby's seal of bite-worthy approval.

At some point the normally buoyant Bug became a bit sluggish for a few days, then almost immobile before Elizabeth rushed him to the vet. A large stone had developed in Ruby's gut making it almost impossible for him to pass urine. The doctor's marveled both at the size of the blockage and the fact that Ruby was still functioning at all. Surgery would be expensive and dangerous the doctor's warned, but Elizabeth immediately gave the go ahead and then we waited and prayed. The call came later in the afternoon that he had come out of surgery, but wouldn't be able to return home until the following day. I fretted thinking of Ruby in a cold metal cage with whining cats and whimpering dogs as neighbors. When Ruby returned he looked to be half his previous size and as if he had been through a battle in which he had come face-to-face with Death. In retrospect I think that Elizabeth and I had no right to expect Bug's survival from the risky surgery. I think Ruby returned not for himself, but simply because he felt his work with us was left incomplete. Over the next few days his appetite returned and with it his elevating disposition.

Ruby taught to bear pain with dignity. I'm still learning.

Periodically Elizabeth would bathe Ruby in the bathtub. This was an involved process that required Elizabeth to don a bathing suit and then hold Ruby firmly to her chest while she lay in the tub. I would scoop the luke-warm water with a small vessel and pour it onto Ruby's back while Elizabeth shielded his eyes. What had appeared to be a well-proportioned dwarf rabbit would be reduced to a slender pink thing, too odd-looking to be compared to any known creature – save, perhaps, a mutated earthworm. Rabbits generally don't care for water and Ruby was no exception. His eyes would bulge with unease and his hind legs would scramble for purchase against Elizabeth's chest. When released from the water torture, Ruby would lumber off flicking his hind legs derisively in the direction of his tormentors. He would retreat to a far corner under the bed to let us know he didn't appreciate our bathroom shenanigans and then began a lengthy grooming process. The paws would be licked to proper saturation and then brought back over the head in tandem and drawn forward to the mouth causing ears to fold over and then snap back.

Ruby never was comfortable with being held or picked off the floor. At first I considered this something that should be overcome, but later appreciated this as a dignified part of his wildness that he retained for himself and to keep our relationship one of equals (I was never your equal, Bug). What Ruby did love, was to meet nose-to-nose and then have you slide up over his head and plant a kiss between his ears. A variation on this was to use both hands for a long slow stroke that would start at his nose, pass over his ears, massage his back and hind legs and finish just superior to his tail. This he would relish for countless minutes if not hours. A gentle scratch behind the ears was also favored. He was completely willing to listen to your woes provided you whispered them into his velveteen ears. His council was always silent and drawn from a deep well of presense.

Ruby taught how to listen, just listen. I'm still learning.

Money for Nothing and Your Chips for Free

2005-12-11T21:25:00.000-08:00

(Formerly entitled Iqbaal and the Handcycle)

NOTE: The following story is out of order like a lot of the entries. I have to have more time to compile my notes on Pakistan... Rest assured it was a trip.

Iqbaal smiles invitingly from his seat on the handcycle. Handcycles are three-wheeled craft powered by hand cranks to either side of the driver's bench. A horizontal bar runs parallel and superior to the front wheel and extends back toward the driver for steering. I ask Iqbaal if I can give his three-wheeler a spin and he shrugs his shoulders as if to say, "Why not?" before disembarking to the side and crabwalking to the front to unlock the wheel. My intention was for him to remain put on the bike, but he fails to catch my meaning, so I take the handcycle for a couple of loops by myself to the side of the gathering crowd outside the cinema. An audience of fifty immediately materializes around me to see what's going on and just as rapidly disperses when it is discovered I don't know how to apply the cycle's break and am a menace to life and limb. Iqbaal cries out, "Up! Up!" which at first I interpret as a command for me to jettison the out-of-control conveyance and so I begin to stand up, which causes him to shout "Down! Down!" A stranger runs alongside and grabs the steering column and it is then I realize pulling up on it engages the front break. The spectactors reform around the handcycle once it is at rest. I get tangled up in the hand cranks during my dismount while Iqbaal ascends with seemingly too few moves. Dyoont, dyoop, dyoont and he has pivot-climbed back in place. Iqbaal is a small-framed, dark-skinned, high-cheeked young man with two withered legs being the fallout from a bout with polio at age six. An English speaker in the audience asks how much money I am going to give him.

"None," I reply, "I was just trying out the bike." I look to Iqbaal, "Did you want money?" He shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head no, while simultaneously looking expectant. The English speaker offers that I should give at least one hundred rupees, while another in the crowd suggests five hundred. I ignore their pleas and engage Iqbaal with some simple questions as to where he lives, what work he does, and so forth. A translator appears at my side to repeat my questions, often verbatim, in English.

"Where does your family live?" I ask.

"He is asking where your family lives," the translator chimes in.

"They live in small village in Bihar." Iqbaal answers.

"How long have you been in Delhi?"

"He is asking of you how much time you have been in Delhi. How many days?" the translator explains.

"One month. I stay outside masjid in Main Bazaar." Iqbaal requests my hotel address and announces that he will meet me the following morning at ten.

No Entry is a trivial Boney Kapoor (Anil's brother, not part of Raj's clan) offering showing at the Sheila cinema just five minutes from our hotel in the Pahar Ganj. Unfortunately, it is also the only offering at the single-screen theatre. Of the over one thousand people waiting to enter the theatre there are, at most, five of the fairer sex. One is a heavily-bangled, ravan-haired girl that looks to be in her late teens who flits from one group of boys to another in a drunken, twirling dance. I worry about her safety in the testosterone-flooded setting. She pauses in front of a trio of strangers to apply garish red lipstick and then with a clap and a shout is off again. She approaches me, and as best as I can decipher, asks for a ticket to the movie after informing me she is an undercover officer for the Mumbai CID. Her eyes are intense and desperate and her hair wild--a fully-animated character from ancient Indian folklore dropped unwittingly in a modern metropolis. I agree to treat her to the film thinking it will be a safe respite from her daily routine, be it detective work, or, much more likely, prostitution plied in the sullen alleys to either side of the theatre.

As we approach the ticket booth a middle-aged man on a scooter rolls by and the girl hauls off and punches him hard on the cheek, rattling the entire length of bangles on her arm. A direct hit. Incredibly the victim manages to keep his scooter upright and rolling forward and only looks back in shock, but continues on. "Kyaa kar rahe ho?" I ask dumbfounded. She says something that I understand to suggest that the man is a rival agent in another intelligence organization. Impulsively, she veers away from me to engage a group of five boys leaning against the fence that defines the perimeter of the theatre's property. I wait for a couple of minutes to see if she will come back for her ticket, but she seems to have completely forgotten my offer.

As John and I enter the theatre I look back one last time to see the secret agent slapping one of the five boys hard--SMACK. He doubles over in pain, holding his cheek while the rest of his companions scatter in laughter. It seems they won't retaliate and so I continue up the stairs to the AC balcony section.

The next morning at eight, as I am meditating prone in bed, the phone rings. John answers and goes down to the lobby. He comes back up in a couple of minutes and calls out, "Mark, Mark? Can you hear me?" I try to make it clear from my body posture that I am in meditation but John persists. "Can you hear me?" I lift a protesting hand. "The guy with the bike that you were talking to last night is here. It's all on you now." John descends again after five minutes and then joins me in meditating. At nine thirty the phone rings again and I answer.

"Sir, your friend is waiting," the receptionist informs me. I go down to the lobby where Iqbaal smiles eagerly upon seeing me. I am in no mood to reward his early arrival for what was a self-made and unconfirmed meeting to begin with. I point to my wrist and ask, "Kitne baje hain?"

"I know. I know. Sare nau baje hain," he says. "But I am here now."

"I'll come down at ten," I say.

"Okay, okay. No problem," he says with an enthusiasm that I find slightly annoying.

At ten I come back down and find Iqbaal waiting outside on his handcycle with the same smile I left him with at 9:30. I ask if he can scoot over on the seat and he begins to get down from the three wheeler. "No, no. Stay on. Just slide over. I will sit next to you." I contort myself to snake my way next to him. We crank the wheels in tandam drawing bemused stares from all quarters and make our way down the narrow, people-packed alleyways to the main bazaar and finally out to the main road.

On the open road we are able to crank a fair amount of velocity out of the three wheeler and I am inspired by the self-generated breeze to sing the signature tune from Sholay, "Yeh Dosti" (This Friendship). Iqbaal joins in causing the passing traffic to veer wildly while rubbernecking to keep the unlikely pair in sight. I steer us toward a quiet side street and am surprised to find an upscale tea shop tucked between tenements and stop to investigate the possiblilty of getting us some breakfast. Iqbaal remains sitting in the three-wheeler. "What are you waiting for?" I call back to him. He looks left and right before pointing to himself in disbelief. Moi? I keep motioning for his to join and eventually he gets down from the handcycle and waddles up to the door. A human torso on duck legs.

"Do you serve breakfast?" I ask the smallish woman who greets us at the door.

"We are the finest tea shop in India," she explains.

"Oh, we were only to looking to get some simple food for breakfast. Do you know of a place close to here we could go to?" I ask.

"You just sit and we can get you breakfast," she says, "In the meantime you can try any of our teas which you will discover are the finest brewed anywhere. Jennifer Lopez orders only our tea, and many other of your celebrities have provided testimonials."

"But, I am from Kashmir."

"Oh."

I am wary of getting taken in a chai swindle after meeting with Les a few days earlier and having him relate the saga of the Chinese tea scam. On his first day in China he was approached by a college student who invited him for a cup of the finest tea the world had to offer. He took Les to a beautiful tea house where a cup of tea was served and, no doubt about it, it was good. Then the bill was presented and it was bad. Five hundred dollars bad. Les ended up paying after sizing up the employees as mafioso and deciding he didn't want to land up in a lonely cell with a very large communist in a very large communist country.

It is hard to imagine the diminuative Delhite that stands in front of me in such an intimidating context and so I stay on, curious to see what will happen. "Here let me show you about us," she says, "Here is our catalog. And, as you can see, here is Jennifer Lopez who will only drink our tea." She flips the page quickly to one featuring innumerable logos--evidently corporate endorsements of their brew.

"I do not know who this Jennifer Lopez is, but I am intrigued by her addiction to your product," I say.

"No, no. Nothing like that. It is just that ours is the finest tea, so many famous people will choose ours only. We have our own factory and the highest quality control standards."

"I'm not famous and I lost my factory to my ex, but I am beginning to understand why I should buy your tea--even if I don't have any money with me today."

"That's no problem. What would you like for breakfast?"

"Vegan crepes with fresh strawberry jam and tofu scrambler."

"What?"

"A couple of samosa." I turn to Iqbaal who looks uncomfortable in the posh shop, "What would you like?"

"Kuch nahin."

"What? Why not? Aren't you hungry?" I ask. He shakes his head no. "You should have a little something at least," I urge. The saleswoman pulls me to the side.

"We also do this type of work with people with no arms or legs," she confides, "Sometimes we will see them outside and just take some tea and biscuits to them." Somehow she makes the exercise in charity sound like the scattering of bread crumbs to rooftop pigeons. A mental image appears: a crowd of limbless loafers, idly nosing about in the dirt outside her door, waiting for their morning tea – the world's finest. I am tempted to point our that Iqbaal does, in fact, have legs, albeit shriveled and floppy. The saleswoman turns to Iqbaal and tells him in Hindi in no uncertain terms to eat something with me.

Three rounds of tea are served to accompany tasteless triangular sandwiches coated with an unidentifiable spread. The sasmosa never materializes. The tea is delicious and expensive, but not of the $500 variety. I cop every pecuniary plea at my disposal before I am able to extricate myself and Iqbaal from the tea shop and its frustrated proprietor.

Iqbaal and I crank our way to the Yogoda Satsanga Society temple and I do my best to explain to him that I will be sitting for twenty minutes. He crawls after me into the meditation hall and reclines near the back. After my twenty minutes I find him staring at me with a satisfied smile. Next stop is a back-road masjid where I am instructed in washing feet, face and ears before performing namaz. The masjid's operator plies me for tips on getting a visa for America. Just as I tell him that the best bet is to marry an American his wife emerges from a back room and veils upon seeing me. Iqbaal has already made his way back to the bike and motions for me impatiently.

I treat Iqbaal to lunch at Nirula's where he fixates on the price of each food item. It is only later in the meal that I realize he is laying the groundwork to justify hitting me up for a hefty loan. "My family in much trouble. Five sisters and no house, no food. Everything gone in fire. I come to Delhi from Bihar to make money for them. But much trouble." I sympathize with woes but council him to just enjoy the meal for now. He continues to look troubled as he pokes at his veg burger and fries. "You will help me?"

"I am only eating with a friend."

"You think I lie."

"Not at all. I am just eating now though. Do you like your food?"

"You will help me?"

"I will try to be a friend, but I want to be a real friend."

"I need just 20,000 rupees."

"I really would like to help, but I don't think giving a big chunk of money will help in the long run. We need to find you some sort of sustainable income, or the need for another big chunk of money will just come again after a little time." Iqbaal eyes me worriedly.

"I don't understand. You think I tell lie? You not give money? You not help me?"

"I'm not saying that. Money would be easy to give, but I don't think it would helpful in the long run. Maybe if we think together we can come up with some things to do that could really help in a lasting way. For one thing I can help you learn how to speak better English. I could meet with you every day and we could practice speaking. If you can speak English it will be much easier for you to find a good job."

"I don't understand. You not help?"

"Do you know how to read and write?"

"No."

"I can help you learn. I could even teach you how to read and write in Hindi."

"You don't understand. I need money. This food cost you 100, 200... 300 rupees," Iqbaal says looking at the menu and pointing to the various prices.

"Yes, but it is food and not money," I point out. kI suggest to Iqbaal that we meet with my Hindi and English speaking friends that evening to act as translators for us. He reluctantly agrees. On the ride back to the Pahar Ganj he is sullen and stares straight ahead as I sing. We stop at an STD so I can make a local call. "How much will it cost?" I ask the shopkeeper.

"Two rupees," he answers dully. I dial and let the phone ring for a good thirty seconds but no one picks up. I fish out two rupees and drop them into the shopkeeper's waiting hand.

"Four more," he demands. I am indignant.

"You said two and no connection was made anyway. It should be free. There is no way I am going to pay you six. You said two." The shopkeeper bridles at my temerity.

"Four more!" he says rising to his feet. Iqbaal intervenes and tries to hand the shopkeeper four more rupees, but I deflect his arm.

"Don't pay him anything more. It is not right."

"It is only money," Iqbaal says.

"I don't care about the money, but he said two and he's going to feel like he can cheat any foreigner if I pay six."

"Chalo," Iqbaal says tossing the four rupees from the side to the shopkeeper's desk.

"This isn't right," I complain first to Iqbaal and then again to the shopkeeper. I stare disapprovingly at the shopkeeper who dismisses me by joining his fingertips at his forehead and then derisively flicking his hand down and open. PG Translation: Take a hike. As we crank the handcycle away from the STD it is my turn to be in ill spirits. The sun is scorching and I feel every one of the many bumps in the road acutely in my nicely sciaticized leg. Iqbaal asks about stopping somewhere and I can't make out his intention, but agree nonetheless. He pulls in front of a shop and asks the owner to produce five cases of cigarettes. He looks to me expectantly.

"No thanks. I don't smoke."

"Not for smoke. Buy?"

"I don't smoke or buy cigarettes."

"But I sell for much money."

"I won't buy cigarettes even for the Dalai Lama. They are poison for people's lungs."

Iqbaal looks exasperated with me and the shop owner even more so with Iqbaal. No sooner than we start out again and Iqbaal suggests bananas as an alternative to cigarettes. I tell him I will consider his proposal, but I want to be able to communicate clearly with him with the help of my translators in the evening.

"But you promise for buying bananas."

"I don't make promises, but I will meet you tonight and we will talk."

"Promise?"

"Yes. I mean no. But yes. Six o'clock tonight."

That afternoon I stumble upon what I feel might be the ideal solution to assist Iqbaal. I will offer to loan him enough money to buy one day's worth of bananas to sell. He can pay me back at one percent interest at the end of the day. When the loan is paid back I will double the amount I lend, until he is able to finance the purchase of inventory from his own savings. If he defaults early on with repayment of the loan I am out almost nothing. If he takes off later in the scheme at least he will have moved toward economic self-sufficiency in the meantime. But the incentive to pay back each new loan will be remain high with the promise of a doubling of the next amount.

Six o'clock comes and goes, but Iqbaal is a no show. I meet Alisa and Manish and share my idea with them. They generally approve with my loan scheme and echo my feelings that a flat out gift of money is not going to be helpful in the long run. Alisa orders a random dish from the menu that comes with tofu and looks better than my noodles or Manish's burger.

The following morning I encounter the very pregnant Rita and her daughter, Gita, in front of the hotel. The duo are tireless rag pickers that are tempted by the teemingness of foreigners in the Pahar Ganj to supplement their scant earnings with begging. I purchased Rita medicine a few weeks back for her myriad chronic ailments and in all subsequent encounters she has hounded me to replenish her prescription or purchase baby clothes. The pre-teen Gita is so perfectly filthy that the dirt on her face, hands and feet has the slightly artificial appearance of makeup applied for a TV production of Oliver Twist. There are two sons somewhere too, but they are typically sent on their own to beg in the bazaar. Racial sensitivities aside, the boys are so simian in appearance and behavior that one is inevitably compelled to comment, "Whoa, they are just like monkeys."

I haven't had breakfast and it is almost noon, so I tell Rita to wait five minutes while I grab my stuff from the hotel room and then I will take her and Gita to lunch on the Main Bazaar. I run upstairs to our room in the Sahara International and find John in his permafrost position in front of his laptop. I convince him to take a break and meet us in the bazaar for lunch and run back down to the street. When I return Iqbaal is stationed on his handcycle across the street and all smiles.

"Where were you last night?" I ask. He appears confused and shrugs his shoulders. "We had agreed to meet at 6:00 but you didn't come. I waited for you." Again he just shrugs his shoulders.

"Where do you want to go?" he asks.

"I'm going to breakfast with this woman and her daughter," I say pointing to Rita, "You can come too if you like." Yet another shrug of the shoulders and a smile.

"Why not? Come sit," he says motioning to his handcycle.

"That's okay I want to walk." The four start out for the Main Bazaar and I immediately steal Gita's giant recycle bag and start collecting the scraps of cardboard and plastic from the claustrophic alley in double time. She is embarrassed by my usurpation of her menial labor and attempts to reclaim the bag, but I am unregenerate. Lots of hooting and hollering comes from passing pedestrians and the shops lining the road which simply sharpens my focus on the task at hand. Iqbaal forces a smile, but it is clear he too is uncomfortable seeing me in this role. Two teenage boys that discern Iqbaal is following me, say something in Hindi to the affect that he is just waiting to get some money. Iqbaal bristles at their assertion and struggles to pull alongside of me.

"Hah. They say money, but I say just friends." His rejoinder comes across as so contrived that it has the unintended consequence of creating an even greater credibility gap. The crowd gathering to view the spectacle of the rag-picking 'gora' doubles, then doubles again, which is quite a feat in a neighborhood where the population density under normal circumstances allows for standing room only. I take advantage of the burgeoning audience to sing my signature Hindi number, Bewafaa (i.e. cheater, as in unfaithful lover). Late comers, I delightedly realize, might be led to believe that the crowd has formed based on my singing ability and not because of my dirty work. I use a discarded plastic water bottle for a microphone and during the chorus point into the audience as I drone, "Eka bewafaa, eka bewafaa, eka bewafaa, ek bewafaa hai!" Anywhere else people might take offense at being called a cheater by a perfect stranger, but this is India and the unfaithful scream their approval when thus identified.

I take advantage of the road's constriction at its intersection with the Main Bazaar to shed the throng of gawkers and join the flow of traffic moving toward the Railway Station. I rejoin Rita and Gita, but Iqbaal cranks past us. "Where you going?" I ask.

"We meet later, okay?" he says without waiting for confirmation. I enter a restaurant where I have been known to bring a variety of guests and take a table where I can watch the street for John. Gita disappears onto the street and returns two minutes later with a similarly-aged girlfriend. A mother with small girl recognizes Rita and manages to invite herself to lunch. Her daughter, in turn, invites yet another friend. Within half a minute our party of three has become seven. Once everyone has ordered I am two words into my stump speech on the value of washing hands before eating when Gita clasps her friend's hand and leads her to the sink. The others follow suit leaving me momentarily speechless. Lunch is a thoroughly enjoyable affair and I take advantage of my captive audience to quiz the young ones in elementary addition and subtraction. A black magic marker applied on napkins serves as improvised chalk and chalkboard. I am surprised again to discover the little tots are completely facile with single digit problems and fairly capable with double digits. It's not until I challenge them with the subtraction of a larger number from a smaller that their brains are taxed. Math is followed by pictionary and again the children perform in exemplary fashion until I draw a computer chip which they misidentify as a centipede. Hah!

That night I spot Iqbaal by the side of the road as I walk home from dinner. He calls me over and I take a seat on a slab of concrete next to his handcycle. "You give money now for bananas?"

"No. I wanted to talk to you about how we could work something out, but we still need a good translator."

"But you promise."

"I didn't promise. I agreed to meet with you and my friends came to translate, but you were a no show."

"I don't understand. You not help?"

It hasn't been lost on me that Iqbaal does not want to have others involved in his effort to extract money from me and his absence from the previous night's meeting was likely intentional. A boy with a disfiguring cleft palate approaches and kneels between Iqbaal and myself. He says something to us which comes out sounding like the disembodied voices of adults in Peanuts cartoons. I smile and motion for him to sit with us which causes Iqbaal to bristle. He hisses some choice invective in Hindi at the interloper, then raises a hand as if to strike the boy who scampers off. "That really wasn't necessary, Iqbaal," I complain.

"My name is Irfan, not Iqbaal," Irfan (oops) frowns, "You not give money for bananas?"

"I'm going home. Phir melengay." As I start for home I am approached for money by three different beggars in the first twenty meters. I manage a meager smile and walk on. An assortment of street vendors endeavor to tempt me with wares designed for the Western traveler.

"Toilet paper? Bottled water? Cigarettes?" I decline to entertain any of their advances and quicken my pace. A smallish teen in an Adidas sweat suit emerges from an alley and attempts to match my strides.

"Some brown? Hashish? Something else perhaps? Good time?" I wave a dismissive hand and maintain my stride. At the corner for home I am forced to wait behind a tangle of auto and bicycle rickshaws as they attempt to create adequate room to pass. Up the street I catch sight of a dull-green scarfed Anita hurriedly making her way toward me. I am resigned to the fact that all escape routes are blocked.

"I was looking for you yesterday," she says slightly out of breath, "I was very hungry and baby was crying all day."

"I was talking to some people yesterday that said that they know you," I say while stroking Anita's sleeping child on the head. Anita turns to avoid my gaze. "They say you really don't have four other children and live up the street and not in Rohoni. They also said your husband isn't a farmer in Rajastan, but a local alcoholic."

"Oh yeah," Anita says disinterestedly, now actively looking for another mark to inveigle. "No food at home. Much trouble for children."

"Look, I genuinely would like to help you out, but at the very least you have to start being honest with me. If you want to show me your place and introduce me to your children I will do my best to assist you to work your way out of your difficulties."

"Not possible."

"What's not possible?"

"My place is very far."

"I will pay for a rickshaw. Let's go. C'mon, right now."

"Not possible," she claims again without explanation. The traffic jam has managed to become further entangled. I idly turn to buy a bag of Lay's Classic potato chips from one of the ubiquitous everything-under-the-dusty-moon shops that line the streets of the Pahar Ganj.

"Some milk too for baby," Anita prods.

"Not possible," I fire back.

"Some chai to go with the chips then."

"The chips are for me. I'm going to eat them in front of you until you tell me the truth." I rip the bag open and start loudly crunching the chips near her baby's ears.

"What are you doing," she laughs, "You're cruel."

"Only to the ones I love. Now take me to your place or give me your baby and I will raise her properly."

"Not possible." The traffic has cleared and I make my break for home. Anita shouts after me, "What about some food?"

"Not possible." The chips are tasting awful I muse. The colorfully packaged junk food of American origin is usually reliably consistent supersaturated poison, but this bag literally tastes like junk. A young man with cat-like yellow eyes and movie-hero looks steps in front of me.

"You are looking very tired," he says.

"You flatter."

"Tired of India? It's easy to dislike this country. Everyone wants something from you."

"And you? What are you selling?"

"It's not like that. I just thought maybe you would like to talk."

"Sure," I smile wryly, "Why not. Where are you from?"

"I am from Kashmir."

"I may be going there next week. Do you think it's safe for an American to travel alone there?"

"There could be problems. But there could be problems for foreigners in Delhi too."

"Anywhere really," I add.

"That's true. You know my philosophy is that there are crooks and terrorists everywhere. Assholes come in all colors," he says thoughtfully.

"And yet they all have that characteristic pucker. I'll have to remember that one for my blog."

"Your what? Why don't you come to my shop and we can continue talking over some chai."

"Not possible, I'm going home. Maybe next time, bhai." Once more I make out for the Green Guest House. A halogen street lamp gives gaudy illumination to a vast cloud of dust rising from the street and the various refuse deposited there. As I return my attention to the bag of chips, I recognize the clear line of transmission from the freshly laid cow pies to my salty snack. Assholes come in all colors, and chips in all flavors I muse. I dump the bag at the nose-end of a toppled dog with impossibly distended teats and she deigns only to sniff at them briefly before struggling to her feet to slink further into the shadows.

Postscript:

When I return to Delhi after my stint in Pakistan, I spot Irfan with regularity sans handcycle by the side of the road. Evidently he has found sitting in the dirt an effective way to enkindle more sympathy. The first couple of sightings he looks to me expectantly and I tap my wrist where there is no watch to indicate I have to keep moving. The third time I get held up by a snarl of traffic and he clutches at my pants. "Hi friend."

"What do you want? I am in a hurry," I lie.

"Just one minute," he says starting to spider walk away.

"I really don't have time," I lie for the second time while reluctantly following him. He stops in front of a cloth shop that has pushed all their stock of outrageously colored blankets to the front tables. Irfan unfurls a blanket and wraps it around his shoulders to demonstrate its warmth-giving property. I am not impressed, but I am cold and can only imagine how cold it would be on the street at night without a blanket. The calculus of the propriety of purchasing the blanket plays in my head. Others are probably in greater need of the blanket, especially children. Buying it will only encourage Irfan to continue begging and will forever cement our relationship in inequality. But it is cold and getting colder and I hate being cold, so I fish my wallet out of my backpack and count out the required money. Uncharacteristically I forego bargaining.

"Thank you," Irfan says. I nod glumly and mutely turn to make my way back to the Karlo Kastle Hotel. When I wake in the morning it is too cold to emerge from under the blankets. The power is out so there won't be any warm water for a shower. I shut my eyes and try to imagine Irfan wrapped tightly in his new blanket and derive some small pleasure (and warmth) from that.

The King's Great Great Grandson and I

2005-12-09T00:07:00.000-08:00

CHARACTERS

THE BRIGADIER, the great great grandson of the King of Afghanistan

MARK, an American in Pakistan – a perpetually-worn bandana hides bad hair

BCC DIRECTOR, the head of the Boy Scout Cadet College in Badrasi.

TIME AND PLACE

Early November, 2005, about a month after the earthquake in Kashmir. The action of the play all occurs on the serpentine mountain road between Islamabad and Muzaffarabad in Pakistan.

SCENE AND SET DESIGN

[THE BRIGADIER is driving MARK into the Hindu Kush mountains so that he might get an idea of the scope of the earthquake damage. It is MARK's first time back in the mountains since his 1998 India trip and he is euphoric.]

[The stage design is identical to that of 'Angel Burgers' with a white, compact Datsun sedan replacing the Nissan 4x4. Again, the simulation of motion is achieved by projecting video of a receding road behind the car. The mountain scenery is punctuated by occasional villages, school vans and uniformed children walking roadside.]

[THE BRIGADIER and MARK enter stage right and get into the car. THE BRIGADIER squeezes his hulking frame behind the driving wheel while MARK sits in the passenger seat.]

THE BRIGADIER: Before we start I must offer you a hat like the locals wear so you will blend in. You wear it like this. [THE BRIGADIER puts a flat, donut-rimmed wool hat on MARK's head and with some difficulty wiggles it into place.]

MARK: [Looking at himself in the rearview mirror.] Pure American Taliban.

THE BRIGADIER: You are looking quite dashing, sir. Tomorrow we will get you a real kurta to go along with the hat. So, I trust you had a good rest and some breakfast?

MARK: Actually, going to the hotel took longer than we thought it would. I just got back a few minutes ago. Your son was showing me around the house a little bit.

THE BRIGADIER: I hope you are finding Pakistan to your liking? [THE BRIGADIER puts his hand on the back of the passenger seat and twists his torso around to back the car out of the driveway.]

MARK: I only got in the night before last and flew directly to Islamabad so I haven't seen much. Actually I was surprised how much the road from the airport to the hotel in Rawalpindi resembles some parts of industrialized Illinois.

THE BRIGADIER: Illinois? I had a very interesting encounter in Chicago a couple years back.

MARK: So you've been to the States?

THE BRIGADIER: Yes, I just traveled by myself all across the US for six months in a rental car. You see, I like to get to know a country and I've found that at least four months is necessary for this. I like to meet people and have friends to stay with wherever I travel. I don't care for hotels.

MARK: That's definitely the way to do it. Total immersion into the culture. Hotel life is so homogenous the world round.

THE BRIGADIER: But of all my meetings in America, the one in Chicago had to be the strangest.

MARK: Okay, the suspense is killing me.

THE BRIGADIER: So I was eating at a truck stop on the south side of Chicago. You know just to grab a bite before hitting the road again. A lot of interesting characters were coming through there for lunch, but one particular fellow really caught my eye. He was this very tall, thin Texan with cowboy boots and white hat – what is it called? A ten-gallon hat? And he has a very distinctive mustache curling up at the ends, like some of the Panjabis wear. A real striking guy, you know. Anyway, I decide to try and capture some video of him and he starts to stare at me and really get nervous. You see Mark, I have long had the ability to size a man up very quickly and I could tell this chap was just shaking in his boots. Something just wasn't right with him.

MARK: You mean other than the fact that some stranger is video taping him? I would freak out too if you just started filming me. You're an intimidating looking hombre.

THE BRIGADIER: [Chuckling.] What, me? I hope not. Well at least not too much. Anyway this Texan certainly thought so. He was looking so terrified I felt I just had to go over and try and talk to him. When I told him I was a tourist from Pakistan he really settled down. You see, I was wearing a shirt that a friend in the LA police department had given me that had SWAT written on it. The reason I had asked for this shirt was that my family owns a lot of land in Swat here in Pakistan. But this guy had actually thought I was a policeman and was going to bust him or put him on America's Most Wanted.

MARK: There's a place called Swat?

THE BRIGADIER: It's a very popular place actually – a sort of hill station. But the story gets better. The Texan fellow starts to get comfortable with me and tells me he is coming from California in a large camper van, but he's not sure where he is going to go next. Turns out I had just talked to my friend a few days earlier who is a director in LA. He mentioned to me that his camper had been stolen, so we might have to postpone our hiking outing that we had planned. It doesn't take me long to figure out that I'm having lunch with the thief of my friend's vehicle.

MARK: Wait, you have to be kidding me. You're saying the Texan guy stole your friend's camper in LA and drove it to Chicago and you just happen to meet him in some greasy spoon?

THE BRIGADIER: Only because he thinks I am a policeman! It keeps getting better though. I am able to talk him into heading back to California and taking me along – I end up leaving my rental car at the airport in Chicago. So over the next several days I take turns driving with the Texan and we drive the camper the two thousand miles back to Los Angeles on Route 66. It is two thousand right?

MARK: Something pretty close to that. So the Texan guy doesn't know all this time that it's your friend he stole the camper from?

THE BRIGADIER: No, I figured first I would just get him headed back in the right direction, then I'd worry about the details. I had all those miles to try and convince him to give the camper up and find some lawful means of making money.

MARK: So what happened when you got to Los Angeles?

THE BRIGADIER: I talked the fellow into handing the keys to the camper over to me and bought him a bus ticket for Texas. I drove up to my friend's place and his face just drops. We had a good laugh. I'm telling him I'm ready to go hiking and we end up going to Yosemite a few days later.

MARK: That is simply the craziest story I have ever heard. You just ask the Texan for the camper back? For quite a few years now I have been getting people I meet to share with me the weirdest story they've ever come across, but this just takes the cake.

THE BRIGADIER: But, I'll tell you Mark, I don't believe things happen by coincidence. Even my meeting with you. You know what's even more fun? We picked up Jesus hitchhiking outside of St. Louis and he came the rest of the way to Los Angeles with us.

MARK: Yeah? Jesus is a fairly popular name with Latin Americans.

THE BRIGADIER: But this was a white fellow and he really thought he was Jesus. He even interviewed the Texan and I for possible discipleships. Jesus didn't stop talking the whole way to California.

MARK: [Smiling.] He sounds like the real deal then. [Suddenly serious.] It's too bad this couldn't have all been captured on film.

THE BRIGADIER: I did! I shot over eighteen hours of video. I have it all the tapes in a box in my basement. I even have Jesus issuing the new Ten Commandments.

MARK: I wonder what Moses would have to say about that? That's just crazy. Have you ever considered having all this made into a documentary? It's such a natural.

THE BRIGADIER: I really haven't had the time. I'm busy twenty hours a day and sometimes more than that.

MARK: It would be a surefire Academy Award winner.

[The video screen shows Michael Moore introducing the award for Best Documentary Short. Clips from 'Two Thousand Miles to Los Angeles: The Brigadier, the Texan and Jesus.' are shown.]

THE BRIGADIER: You haven't had anything to eat yet today, sir. We have to let you sample some of the best fruit in the world. Let's stop here.

[THE BRIGADIER and MARK disembark at a very colorful road side fruit and flower stand which is wheeled onto stage left. The vendor is a very old man with red woolen cap.]

THE BRIGADIER: You must try a couple of oranges and an apple.

MARK: Sounds good. [Tries a slice of orange.] Oh, wow. It's really sweet.

THE BRIGADIER: Still even these are nothing compared to what comes from my orchards at Swat.

MARK: What all do you grow there?

THE BRIGADIER: There is no fruit on earth that we don't grow. Everything you can imagine. I tell you Mark, Swat is really heaven on earth. If you go there you won't ever want to leave.

MARK: Sounds good. When do we leave?

THE BRIGADIER: We have a little business to take care of with this earthquake thing and then we will most certainly go. You know Stephen Hawking was on my orchard for six months and I didn't think he would ever go back to London.

MARK: You mean the 'Brief History of Time' guy?

THE BRIGADIER: The very same. I'll tell you though, Mark, he is an extremely headstrong fellow. He absolutely loved the serenity of Swat – it took everything in my ability to convince to go back to his family. There really seems to be no correlation between intelligence and peace of mind.

MARK: Take me for example.

THE BRIGADIER: [Smiling.] Yes?

MARK: I'm a complete idiot, but I'm happy as a lark.

THE BRIGADIER: I rest my case.

MARK: I was just reading the other day how much Hawking despised the speech synthesizer that the Americans had made for him, because of its "bloody accent." It's funny because I never think of Americans having an accent, but clearly it's exactly proportional to the degree I detect accents in others. My French girlfriend always thought Americans sounded like robots [MARK in overly robotic voice] just like Hawking's synthesizer.

THE BRIGADIER: [Momentarily perplexed by MARK's attempt at hi-tech humor.] You do a pretty good robot. I've always rather liked the American way of talking. Not so much the accent, but the straight way people have of talking.

MARK: [Continuing in robot voice.] Thank you for the kind words. I have 20K hard disk space remaining and can speak seventeen percent Urdu. Must find oil. Must find oil.

THE BRIGADIER: [Smiling.] We have some doctors in the next village that can take a look at you. In fact, that reminds me I must buy some flowers for them.

[THE BRIGADIER buys some flower bouquets and bananas before he and MARK get back in the car and continue toward Muzaffarabad.]

MARK: So as a military man how do you feel about America's actions in the Middle East?

THE BRIGADIER: Well, I'll tell you sir. Four things. First, I think George Bush made a grave mistake in invading Afghanistan and I'll tell you why. In all of history no invading country has been able to last there. The British were thrown out, the Russians were forced out, and in a matter of time the Americans will be. Secondly, the American troops have not been trained well and their bad behavior is souring the perception muslims have of your country. I have heard of no army before that does not pay shopkeepers for their goods, but in talking to many of my friends in Afghanistan they said this happens time and time again with the American soldiers. Complete disdain for the people and if you aren't making friends on the ground you are asking for real trouble. Lastly, I think the American people are most wonderful, but they really have very little idea what the government is doing abroad in their name. And this is too bad, because I don't think they would approve. But I don't think the governments have any power these days. The world is largely being run by multinational corporations without reference to borders and profits are valued above all else. There is almost no sense of social responsibility.

MARK: And the fourth thing?

THE BRIGADIER: Fourth thing? No, that's it.

MARK: Even the idea of democracy seems to be a bit of a sham to me now. It was a real revelation for me to see what happened in the 2000 presidential election in the US. I guess I was pretty naive and probably still am. I mean, I always knew that political action committees had undue influence and politicians could be bought, but I didn't think vote counting could be so suspect. At least not in America. How do you feel about the government here?

THE BRIGADIER: I don't think anyone is rejoicing. But there is some amount of stability. The army knows how to run things smoothly – that's what they excel at. You know, keeping things orderly. But I try to avoid all things political these days and just focus on the things I can do. And I get a quite a lot done if I may say so myself sir. [Pats MARK's shoulder affectionately.]

MARK: You may, and I'm sure you do. I think it's sound policy to focus on what you, yourself, can do, rather than worry about what the government is or is not doing. I was obsessed for quite a time with the perceived injustices that were being meted out by the governments and corporations of the world. I was a pretty satisfied as an angry young man, until I realized that my anger itself, was either a part of the problem or the whole problem.

THE BRIGADIER: I've seen anger and self-righteousness devour men's lives. People just lose all perspective when they let their anger control them. I had a dear friend that lived not so far from Swat who left his farm for a couple of weeks to do some business in Karachi. When he came home his prize hunting dog was missing and he came to learn one of the hired men had hit it with a tractor and it had died. He was just overcome with anger and started searching for the man with the intention of flogging him, but the servant had gone into hiding. He called me for my advice and I told him flat out to let it go. I told him I would buy him two new dogs and have them sent immediately to his farm, but he should forget all about what had happened. You know, it was done and over with. It was an accident and nothing he was going to do would bring his dog back. You see, when you suffer a loss it is critical to focus on all that you do have rather than that thing which was lost. I warned him he was going to lose a lot more than just the dog if he continued to obsess about hunting this man down.

MARK: There's the proverb: For the want of a nail the war was lost.

THE BRIGADIER: Well, my friend's nail was venting his anger on the hired man. Eventually that servant's body turned up in an abandoned well and it didn't take long for the police to figure out who had killed him. My friend went to jail and lost the farm.
The hired man's family lives there now as part of the court decision. You see, Mark, I am capable of giving good advice and do so freely to anyone who should ask for it, but I am not troubled if they fail to follow it. Even I do not always follow my own advice – how can I hold it against someone if they choose to go their own way? When my friend called me from jail what could I possibly say to him? To this day I am the only one who visits him and sends cards. Once I am someone's friend there is no turning back.

MARK: True friendship – that's good stuff.

THE BRIGADIER: And, you sir, I consider a friend.

MARK: And vice versa. And your advice for me?

THE BRIGADIER: Mr. Mark, I would like to see you marry a very level-headed and beautiful Pakistani girl and open a number of schools for orphans in the mountains.

MARK: I will leave all the arrangements in your hands, sir.

THE BRIGADIER: Done. You have probably noticed that the Pathans have perfectly flawless skin. The women are very fair in complexion and blond hair is not uncommon. They say that God spent a whole extra day in creating the Pashtuns after noting the flaws in the other races. You can see the difference even between your skin and my own.

MARK: Of always been kind of partial to my corpse-like pallor. What about your wife? How did you meet her? Was it a love marriage?

THE BRIGADIER: Well, sir, she had been coming to my parent's house since we were children, so some of my earliest memories are of her. The marriage was decided early on, but she is the only girl I ever wanted to marry. So you might consider it an arranged love marriage. Her father is a very intimidating man, so I had to always be on my best behavior.

MARK: Your son was saying that her father is a chieftain in the North West Territory?

THE BRIGADIER: Yes, he comes from a long line of what you would call tribal warlords. Unfortunately, he is a very ruthless man and has probably killed well over one hundred men. Some for very trivial things.

MARK: He has actually killed men himself?

THE BRIGADIER: Yes, it's a sad thing. He is almost never without his sword. But you have to understand that it is a very different world than you are accustomed to. There is no law in the North West and these things happen – bodies are simply disposed of and forgotten. It's a very different life style.

MARK: And death style.

THE BRIGADIER: I imagine it's something like your wild West from years back. My father-in-law will treat his dogs better than the villagers that he gets cross with.

MARK: So is your wife at all like him?

THE BRIGADIER: No. She is very much her own woman. I really married the best, so there has never been any cause for second guessing. I have only one rule in my house which is not to oppose me in anything I do and she accepts this. You can join me, walk by my side or get behind me, but do not try to stand in front or you will be run over. I am stubborn that way, but it is one of the very few conditions I have put on my family. And now if you will direct your attention over here you will see we have arrived at the hospital where I had Fidel send the first team of Cuban doctors.

[Video shows entrance to parking lot through security booth.]

MARK: Fidel as in Castro?

THE BRIGADIER: Yes, he has been a good friend for some years. I really don't understand why your country insists on giving him such a hard time. After the earthquake I kindly requested him to send four teams of doctors and he immediately agreed – without hesitation. The first batch has arrived and I sent them here until I can get some more field hospitals established. So, with your permission, I want to check in with the Cubans and gift them each a bouquet of flowers. You see, Mark, I have real difficulty with the way the disaster relief has been managed here in Pakistan. Musharraf called me to a forum on the matter and the first thing I told them is that whenever volunteers are known to be coming to the country they should be greeted at the airport with a bouquet of flowers and driven to their hotel. Why should a volunteer have to struggle just to get settled? At the hotel they should be given a care package and a detailed dossier on the current situation in the field.

MARK: That's really a fantastic idea. Show people right from the get go that they are appreciated. When I was doing moving jobs in the States I remember how affected I was when a customer would tip my friend and I before the job even began. It demonstrated a trust and appreciation that we became motivated to live up to.

THE BRIGADIER: This is exactly the thing. If volunteers are treated with disdain the quality of their help will suffer accordingly, but treat them with real respect and they will work without end. We must show them up front that their contribution is invaluable. But I also am a firm believer in making sure people take breaks to enjoy themselves. I've seen too many suffer from burnout because they think they must do everything at once – you know, everything becomes an emergency. My first advice to everyone that comes to help is to relax. Then have a thorough look around. Really come to understand the situation. Make a flexible plan and only then act. And take breaks. Shall we? [THE BRIGADIER puts his hand on the car door handle preparing to exit.]

MARK: [Opening his door.] We shall. [THE BRIGADIER and MARK exit the car and gather up the half dozen bouquets from the back seat.]

THE BRIGADIER: How would you like to be introduced, Mr. Mark?

MARK: As a tenacious florist from the US.

THE BRIGADIER: [Laughing.] Done. I think we need a good localized name for you as well. Something with real flavor. Do you know what Hansaab means?

MARK: [Mistakingly thinking the name to be the Hindi equivalent of 'Yes, sir.'] Yes, sir?

THE BRIGADIER: [Misunderstanding MARK's reply to mean he understands the meaning and approves of it as a moniker.] Good, then Hansaab it shall be.

[THE BRIGADIER and MARK exit stage right. Lights dim on the Datsun and video shows THE BRIGADIER and MARK entering the hospital where they are greeted by a doctor from the UK.]

THE BRIGADIER: [Shaking the UK DOCTOR's hand.] It is a real pleasure to meet you sir. Allow me to introduce you to Hansaab, the Love Doctor from Delhi.

UK DOCTOR: [Looking a bit confused while shaking MARK's hand.] Nice to meet you.

THE BRIGADIER: If I may do so, Doctor, I would like to present you with this bouquet of flowers as a small symbol of a the great appreciation the citizens of Pakistan have for your selfless service. I would also like to humbly offer you my modest services should you need anything at all during your stay here.

UK DOCTOR: We are ready to take on new patients, so any you can send...

THE BRIGADIER: Excellent. We have a number of cases up in Muzaffarabad that we can't handle with our facilities at the hospital there. I will have them immediately referred here. The Cuban team is adjusting well here.

UK DOCTOR: Actually, we have all been learning from them. They are able to do the most advanced surgeries with what we thought was less than adequate instrumentation. They are real artists and have none of the attitude that most in my profession unfortunately acquire. It has been a great experience working alongside them.

THE BRIGADIER: I am most pleased to hear it.

UK DOCTOR: Let me show you around the facilities.

[The three enter a room with some twenty bed-ridden patients. A small girl limps over to MARK who crouches down to her level. Smiling, she places her badly misshapen foot in his hand. He massages it while returning her smile.]

MARK: [Turning to the UK Doctor.] Is there anything you can do for her?

UK DOCTOR: Unfortunately, she's had the club foot from birth. To correct it we would have to break the bones and perform multiple, painful surgeries. [MARK grimly continues to smile, strokes the girl on the head and returns her foot to the floor.] It looks like a couple of the Cubans have just got out of surgery. Come, I'll introduce you. [The UK DOCTOR leads THE BRIGADIER and MARK to the hallway where two Cuban doctors are removing their surgical masks.] Doctor Sanchez and Doctor Marquez this is the Brigadier and... and a therapist from Delhi.

THE BRIGADIER: [Motioning to to a bemused MARK.] He is the Love Doctor. His work with children is known throughout India and America and he has come to Pakistan to educate us in the ways of love. If you get the chance you must sit down with him and share notes. Hopefully there are no women in your group or they most certainly will fall hopelessly in love with Hansaab and be most tempted to leave their husbands to spend time with him. [The Cuban doctors look as bewildered as the UK DOCTOR, but shake hands with MARK while studying him intently.] On behalf of myself and the many patients who have benefitted from your considerable expertise in the medical sciences, I would like to offer you each a bouquet of freshly cut Pakistani flowers. [The doctors modestly accept the token of appreciation.] And now I must beg leave of you as the Love Doctor has requested a tour of our operation in Muzaffarabad and we still have other stops to make.

[THE BRIGADIER and MARK are shown exiting the hospital where the doctors see them off. They enter stage right and reassume their positions in the Datsun. The video shows the hospital receding in the distance before they turn back onto the road for Muzaffarabad.]

MARK: [Laughing.] The Love Doctor from Delhi?

THE BRIGADIER: Hansaab, I must tell you life can get very dull when you are engaged in endless organizational meetings. You must find whatever ways you can to spice things up. Like yourself, I like to have fun. Taking things too seriously can really make matters burdensome.

MARK: I entirely agree. Speaking of Delhi, what about relations with India? What do you see happening in the future? I was really surprised when my friend and I began our friendship letter writing campaign in India and so many students there expressed interest in having the countries merge. I wasn't even aware that the sentiment existed.

THE BRIGADIER: [Furrowing his brow with concentration.] Three things. Number one, there really is no India even today. The British drew lines in the sand, but they had no historical or cultural relevance. They tried to make one country out of what was a number of very distinct princely states. Even now you have Panjabis wanting their own country, Kashmiris wanting their own country, and the states in the northeast wanting autonomy. So there really is no unifying idea of what India is. Number two, we could never agree to join with India because there is so much bad blood between the countries. They interfered in East Pakistan and even now they are meddling in Baluchistan. So there is a considerable trust deficit.

MARK: Ah, yes. The paradoxical two-way trust deficit. I think the enmity was there with the generation that went through partition and perhaps even their children, but the kids today genuinely seem to want bygones be bygones and to make a fresh start. There are so many cultural ties between the two countries.

THE BRIGADIER: Well, that's true of Pakistan east of the Indus river – Lahore especially. The western half really has nothing in common with India and draws its inspiration from Afghanistan. It's all Pathans and Pashtuns like myself. We really don't mix well at all with the Indians. To be quite frank with you, I find the people over there to be kind of scrawny characters – rather shiftless and not very healthy. I remember when I was posted at the border we used to look over at the Indian troops with our binoculars and feel sorry for them. They looked to be a sad lot.

MARK: Still you gotta love the scrawny buggers. I'm one myself.

THE BRIGADIER: [Laughing.] Sir, we will amend your weight on some real Pakistani mountain food.

MARK: That's what I'm afraid of. There will be nothing left of me to send back to India.

THE BRIGADIER: So tell me exactly what you were doing over in India. How did you find them?

MARK: What? You haven't read up on the Love Doctor? You really have to attend one of my seminars. No, seriously I love the country and its people, its diversity. The hospitality is world class, much like I'm finding it to be here. I think it must be a South Asian thing. People with next to nothing will offer everything just for the pleasure of having you dine or stay with them. It's very instructive for an American. I think India's spiritual tradition is unmatched. But I came to India a year back with some friends to try some experiments in service and to meet inspirational people along the way. It's been a really interesting time and I have no regrets. I love working with the children especially. Just a single smile from one can recharge my batteries when I feel like I am starting to wear out.

THE BRIGADIER: Children can have that effect. You will have plenty of them to tend to in Muzaffarabad.

MARK: I would love to get some schools set back up in the mountains. Most recently I was in Delhi working with a group of doctors on starting an NGO for street and slum children. As frustrating as India can be, I think I will always be in love with the place.

THE BRIGADIER: Even so, and in spite of my introductions at the hospital, I must recommend that you never let anyone here know where you are coming from. Both India and America do not sit well with a few people here and the army in particular may become suspicious of your motives in Kashmir.

[The video screen shows fast cutting clips of a wide variety of Pakistanis asking MARK where he is from. He answers 'America', 'India', or 'I'm coming from India, but I'm originally from America.']

MARK: So what's the next stop?

THE BRIGADIER: Before Muzaffarabad I would like to stop briefly at the Boy Scout Cadet College in Badrasi. It's the only one of its kind and was damaged considerably in the earthquake. As a former scout I am keenly interested in helping them rebuild.

[THE BRIGADIER slows the car to a stop as he peers intently ahead. Behind the audience hundreds of children dressed in goat costumes begin to file into the theater until the aisles are dense with kids. They work their way up onto the stage and throng the car before exiting stage left and right. Occasional bleating is heard. A lone shepherd tends the flock with a smooth wooden walking stick.]

MARK: I didn't realize the Boy Scouts were in Pakistan too. It was started in the United States, right?

THE BRIGADIER: In Britain by Sir Robert Baden-Powell. I still have my manual and merit badges at home.

MARK: I guess maybe it was the Girl Scouts that was founded in the United States.

THE BRIGADIER: [Laughing heartily.] That, my dear Hansaab, is something only the Love Doctor would know.

[Curtains close as the last of the children clears the threshold.]

INTERMISSION

ACT 2

[THE BRIGADIER and MARK sit with the director of the Boy Scout Cadet College on wooden chairs in front of the Datsun and a collection of neatly arrayed tents. Boy scouts enter and exit the stage engaged in various cleaning chores. The video screen shows towering pine trees and patches of brilliantly-colored mountain flowers.]

THE BRIGADIER: [To the director.] Sir, I would like to request of you one copy of the Boy Scout manual for my friend Hansaab, the Love Doctor. He is very intent on introducing Lord Baden-Powell's mental, moral and physical development teachings into his lectures.

BSCC DIRECTOR: Oh, really? That is nice to hear. [Motions a light-brown-haired, blue-eyed, scout over and gives him inaudible instructions. Scout exits stage left. BSCC DIRECTOR turns to MARK.] So where are you from?

MARK: I am from America, but I came to Pakistan from India. [THE BRIGADIER noticeably cringes. MARK motions toward the departing scout.] So you have Britishers going to school here?

BSCC DIRECTOR: [Laughing.] Oh, no. We are all Kashmiris here. I think everyone that comes here for the first time gets that shock.

MARK: He really looks more American than I do.

BSCC DIRECTOR: So you are a doctor?

MARK: I'm not a doctor, but am looking for any way I can help out with earthquake relief.

BSCC DIRECTOR: [Confusedly to THE BRIGADIER] But you said something about a Love Doctor...

THE BRIGADIER: Hansaab is notoriously reticent about his professional qualifications. The Love Doctor has administered his special brand of medicine to children living in the slums and on the streets of India and now plans to start a number of schools here for the children. I think you must have seen some of the stories of his exploits on television?

BSCC DIRECTOR: I actually haven't had a chance to see any television for quite some time.

THE BRIGADIER: [Winking to MARK.] But certainly you will have seen his picture in the newspapers.

BSCC DIRECTOR: I'm afraid I have not, but then I must confess I don't see the newspaper often here either. [The scout returns and whispers something to the BSCC DIRECTOR, before handing him two blue scarves with gold-colored fasteners, a a copy of the Boy Scout manual.] I have to apologize that we don't have any extra Boy Scout manuals in our library right now, but you may have a look at my copy while you are here. [Hands the Boy Scout manual to MARK.] And I would like to present you both with our official scarves.

THE BRIGADIER: [With grandiose solemnity.] Hansaab, sir, today you join the storied ranks of the Boy Scouts. [THE BRIGADIER lifts his chin while the BSCC DIRECTOR fastens the scarf around his neck, and then, in turn, does the same for MARK. The effect on their appearance is quite comical as they appear as two grotesquely oversized children. MARK begins to leaf through the manual while THE BRIGADIER converses with the BSCC DIRECTOR.] So, how have you been holding up since the earthquake?

BSCC DIRECTOR: We were shaken up pretty good. Two of the older buildings had the roofs cave in, but, thanks be to Allah, the scouts were all outside at the time. We can no longer use the dormitories, so all the boys have had to stay in their tents for the past month. But that's what scouts are good at, right? We've also had the opportunity to do some relief work with the local villages.

[A page from the manual stating that every scout should do one good turn per day is projected on the video screen.]

THE BRIGADIER: With your blessing sir, I would like to offer the services of the Global Disaster Relief Agency to rebuild the Scout College and also construct a new masjid on the grounds. Inshallah.

BSCC DIRECTOR: We would welcome any aid you can provide.

THE BRIGADIER: I am proposing to take on the entire project of rehabilitation of your campus. I'm not sure if I told you last time we visited, but I am also planning to start the world's first university of disaster-management studies. We have seen the same mistakes being made time and time again with each new disaster that strikes around the world. Just in the last year with the tsunami in the Indian Ocean, the hurricane in New Orleans and now the earthquake here, the need for organizational expertise has been clearly demonstrated. Mr. Hansaab, what do you think?

MARK: [Looking up from the Boy Scout manual.] It really sounds like a great idea. You know, it's kind of amazing to me that with all the high and low tech designs for shelters there are, that the best for each type of situation haven't been identified and stockpiled for emergency use. People are still arguing the merits of tents in Kashmir, and meanwhile people are sleeping outside on the rocks. I think a university specializing in disaster management is long overdue.

BSCC DIRECTOR: Even America with all of its technology seemed to have real trouble in responding to Hurricane Katrina. It would be very beneficial for good minds to sit down and study what has worked and what has gone wrong in the past.

THE BRIGADIER: So, it is decided then. We will rebuild your campus and also find a suitable location for the University of Disaster Management. And now, we must beg of you permission to be on our way as the Love Doctor has an important speech to give at my hospital in Muzaffarabad.

BSCC DIRECTOR: I won't keep you any longer, but I would like to request one picture of you and the Love Doctor with our troops.

[The boys are called from their chores and form a neat pyramid in front of the THE BRIGADIER, MARK and the BSCC DIRECTOR. Three of the boys are indistinguishable from 'All-American' youth, with blond or light-brown hair and blue or brown eyes. The pictures that are snapped appear on the video screen. MARK and THE BRIGADIER shake hands with the troops before getting back in the Datsun and pulling away from the campus. The tents and troops are moved off the stage toward the back, right and left. Video screen shows them waving goodbye.]

THE BRIGADIER: [Shaking his head with disbelief.] There is simply no excuse for the world's only scout cadet college not to have extra copies of the Boy Scout manual. Really quite pathetic, don't you think? I mean it carries the whole essence of the Boy Scout philosophy and they don't have one available for guests. People really don't take pride in their work these days and that's just tragic.

MARK: I was amused that you asked for a manual on my behalf. I've always wanted one and just never got around to tracking a copy down. I was looking at the page that said a scout should attempt to do at least one good turn a day exactly when you offered to help rebuild the college. It seems you continue to be an exemplary scout. Now I feel challenged to find my good turn to do.

THE BRIGADIER: I'm sure you will find no shortage of opportunity where we are headed.

MARK: You know, it's interesting, because as the year has gone on I'm becoming more and more convinced that you really don't have to go looking for opportunities to serve. That chance is always right in front of you wherever you are. The trick is developing the capacity to remain open to what's happening in the moment and recognizing the highest possibility for action in that context. If your mind is on the NGO you are building down the street you end up walking past the child at your feet.

THE BRIGADIER: And if you find no child at your feet?

MARK: Right. Then you can work at fine tuning your awareness such that you aren't unnecessarily stepping on the ants. Or you start picking up the bits of litter you come across. Or in the absence of ants and litter you start looking metaphorically for these things in yourself. The highest service you can offer the world is your own serenity. The latticework of vibratory energy that connects us with all manifestation starts to be infected with our quietude. You start rapping like Amitabh Bachchan during the closing credits in Bunty Aur Bubli.

THE BRIGADIER: Sir, I was following your line of reasoning until that last bit when you lost me with the movie reference. I almost never have time to sit in front of the television.

MARK: Amitabh lip-syncs the words to the title song from the movie. He is no longer the angry young man of his earlier films or even the dignified patriarch he has played in his more recent career. He is a rapping detective, singing the praises of his elusive prey – Bunty Aur Bubli. It really doesn't make a lot of sense, but Amitabh throws himself into the song and so it works. It's not Shakesphere, but it flows because he has aligned himself the character. I think we have a strong tendency to look for our Shakesperian moments, and in doing that we lose sight of the potential of the right here and now. Ironically, I think we are always in the right place at the right time. It's just our attitude that can be wrong. You know, the idea that I deserve better than the conditions I find myself in. Look for the silver lining instead and you can go solid gold.

THE BRIGADIER: It sounds like the Love Doctor will pen a metaphysical addendum to the Boy Scout manual someday.

MARK: [Mirthfully.] Or at least to the advice section of Cosmopolitan. You know when I first heard about you last night I was expecting a very pompous, overblown character. When I saw the very calm and sometimes humorous approach you took, I realized that this is where you had earned your reputation and not from some self-aggrandizing horn blowing. You basically took the material that had been given to you and started rapping.

[Video plays of THE BRIGADIER coming to Farhan's office and rapping about earthquake relief, the sidelined truck drivers, etc. The tune is stolen from Bunty Aur Bubli.]

THE BRIGADIER: I didn't realize I was rapping. But it's interesting you should say what you did because I have long had this notion of tension-free living.

MARK: Something you read in a book?

THE BRIGADIER: No, it's a philosophy for living that I have pieced together over the years.

MARK: Oh, this is great. This is the kind of stuff I love to hear about. So what are the tenets of tension-free living?

THE BRIGADIER: Well, four things, Hansaab.

MARK: Is it really four or just three?

THE BRIGADIER: Why?

MARK: No, nothing. I was just kidding. Go ahead.

THE BRIGADIER: Well, the first thing is not to take yourself too seriously. This causes a lot more harm than people realize. We can spend inordinate amounts of energy projecting and protecting an image of ourselves for others. This energy can and should be used toward other tasks.

MARK: [Deadpan.] I feel like your belittling me.

THE BRIGADIER: What? Why? I didn't mean to...

MARK: [Slapping THE BRIGADIER on the shoulder.] No, I'm just being a goof ball. Please continue, this is good stuff.

THE BRIGADIER: Okay, the second thing, sir, is to let go of worry. If you are confronted with a problem, first just take all the parameters into consideration. Assess the situation from as many angles as possible. Try to exercise your creativity in every way you can to address the issue. Then act or just let it go. No worries. Things will happen or they will not regardless of your worrying about them. Try instead to develop a fearlessness in approaching whatever may come down the road to greet you.

MARK: Now you're scaring me.

THE BRIGADIER: [Concerned.] Why? [Smiling.] Oh, now I get it. I think your devilishness is matched only by my own, Mr. Hansaab. Lastly, for real tension free living we must give freely of our time and possessions to help those who are less fortunate. Have enough to be reasonably comfortable and then look to aid others with whatever excess comes your way. This is the real key to happiness. You know I could have used my money to buy a new car, but this Datsun is perfectly adequate for travel. Now I'm paid back daily by seeing the people treated at the hospital I invested in instead. You see, life becomes very suffocating when we spend too much time catering to our selfish desires.

MARK: You are sounding like a dyed-in-the-wool Sufi, my friend. But that really is only three things, and you said there are four components to tension-free living.

THE BRIGADIER: No that's four.

MARK: No, there was, was, what? First, not to take things too seriously. Second, not to worry. Third, to give away as much as possible. That's three. I would hate to think I was missing the fourth key to tension-free living.

THE BRIGADIER: Well, the fourth thing... [Thinking, then breaking into a grin.] The fourth thing is not to keep an accounting of everything. Stop counting.

MARK: [Laughing.] Damn. I can feel the tension rising. One, two, three...

THE BRIGADIER: Now I remember, sir. The fourth thing is actually to practice the art of forgiveness. You know my friend I told you about who killed a man for the death of his dog? He carried so much tension and still does because to this day he has not been able to forgive. I mean he killed the man and still can't forgive him. His death didn't release him from his anger and grief. If anything it solidified it. Forgiveness should be taught at home, in schools and on the streets from young age to old age and all hours of the day. Letting something go is a real art, one that I have still yet to master, but I am becoming more proficient at in bits and pieces.

MARK: Any personal anecdotes?

THE BRIGADIER: Well, for a time I was appointed to the most powerful position in all of Pakistan – the head of the Anti-Corruption Office. I was given power to indict any official in the entire country and I sat down and made a list of several hundred people I knew had been engaged in wrongdoing. You see, Hansaab, I had been involved with so many people in the military and government over my career that the President knew I had unmatched knowledge of who was involved in what. But you know what I did next, before submitting the list? I called every single person on it to let them know what was coming. Many were long time friends, but I just phoned them and said you know what you have done is wrong and a price has to be paid.

MARK: How did they react?

THE BRIGADIER: Of course some were very indignant and others were very upset with me personally – at least initially. But they knew that I knew what they had done. They couldn't deny it to me, because I had been there on the inside. But the key thing I let them all know is that I myself had forgiven each and every one of them and held no grudges. To me they were still friends. I even invited Benazir Bhutto to my house for dinner after sending the list in with her name on it. That thing forgiveness has amazing transformative power. Immediately after making the list and submitting it I resigned my post and shut down the office. It existed for all of seven hours and did more to transform the government than the previous thirty years of effort.

MARK: Tension-free living.

THE BRIGADIER: [Grinning affectionately.] I really feel that the people we meet is orchestrated by a higher power.

MARK: Or a least by mid-level bureaucratic jinns.

THE BRIGADIER: You know, sir, I haven't enjoyed traveling with anybody this much since I met my friend David in America. We made just an unlikely pair as the two of us. He was a marine that had fallen on hard times after the Gulf War and I ended up spending a number of weeks on the road in the Midwest with him. He was what you would call... what do you call people that live in trailer parks?

MARK: You mean white trash?

THE BRIGADIER: That's it. I just find that expression to be the funniest thing. I like to mix with the widest possible range of people to get as many different perspectives on life. David and I became quite close and he even took me to visit his father who had left the family when David was just two or three years old. His father was living out of a rusted pickup truck in the backwoods of Indiana. He had set up some sort of liquor distilling vat there and was drunk all the time. I'm there in a three-piece suit, David's in oily jeans and a ripped tee-shirt and his father is just in boxers. Really a ridiculous group.

MARK: Being comfortable with all manner of people is a great asset I think.

THE BRIGADIER: Let me tell you, Hansaab. A month after I had met David I am staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel as a guest of the Leadership Council. David calls and says he is in town with his mother and wants me to meet her. What can I say? He comes over to the hotel dressed as usual in rather scrubby clothes and his mother is in some awful miniskirt and tank top. They meet me in the lobby just as the head of the Leadership Council recognizes me and comes over. We get on the elevator together and this guy just can't stop looking between David, his mother and myself. You can just see him thinking how did these characters ever come together. Later David and his mother are sitting in my room and smoking some hashish, or what is it they smoke in America?

MARK: Marijuana?

THE BRIGADIER: Yes, or you call it pot, isn't it? And so my room completely fills with this smoke and I have dignitaries visiting with me there and wondering if I had been getting high. But David was my friend and I really value that. He and his mother even ended up spending an extra day with me. You have ex-presidents and current world leaders staying in that hotel for the conference and then these scrubby folk.

MARK: It really sounds like the makings of another documentary.

THE BRIGADIER: Unfortunately, I didn't have my camera with me at that time.

MARK: You have so many great stories, are you writing them all down somewhere? You should really be penning your memoirs. What about your experiences in the army? Your son was telling me you earned quite a reputation there.

THE BRIGADIER: Well, not always for the smartest of things. But I have been talking too long, Hansaab, and I am most eager to hear your stories.

MARK: You can't leave me hanging. At least share one story from your time in the army.

THE BRIGADIER: Well, okay. There is one incident was literally pounded into my memory. Every Friday the troops would gather from the different regiments and nominees would be put in the ring to battle for top boxer honors. I was always my company's selection as I was quite a bit bigger than everyone else and had especially large hands. Well, for a few months I was winning these bouts pretty easily and one of the superior officers didn't care to see this continue. So after I had had three fights one Friday he orders that I stay in the ring and then calls this Panjabi into the ring that I had never seen before. He was at least as big as I was and just solid muscle through and through. A real tough guy. We stand across from one another and just start knocking each others brains out. [The video screen shows Rock'm Sock'm toy robots superimposed over the receding mountain road. The robots methodically alternate punches.] I was seeing so many stars, but just willed myself to stay conscious. [Stars circle the head of one robot.]

MARK: You had had boxing training?

THE BRIGADIER: No, we really had no sophistication at all. We would just stand perfectly opposite from whomever we were fighting and exchange blows. It was considered cowardly to try to block or dodge a punch. We had never heard of Muhammed Ali, or George Frasier, and there was absolutely no artistry to what we were doing. You hit me. I try to hit you harder.

MARK: So what happened with the Panjabi?

THE BRIGADIER: Well, losing really wasn't even an option, because more than my company, I felt like I was representing the Pathans, and it would bring dishonor to be knocked out. I was fully prepared to die, but under no conditions could I allow myself to fall unconscious and it was only that determination that kept me upright. But punching this fellow was like hitting a brick wall and his fist felt like a battering ram. Anyway he decided to alternate working my midsection with my head, while I just focused on pounding him in the face. Really brutal, primitive stuff. Eventually the blood flowing from his nose was coming so fast that it cut off the oxygen to his mouth too and he went down to the canvas choking. [One robot head pops up on the video screen signaling a knockout. The superimposed robots fade from view.] For a week after that fight I could only eat soup because my jaw hurt so bad. To this day I am not particularly keen on facing off with another Panjabi.

MARK: [Pointing forward.] Do you see that man by the side of the road?

THE BRIGADIER: You think we should pick him up?

MARK: Could we? With your track record it would probably be good for a story. Let's do it. [A neat and trim man of maybe forty-five years enter stage right and motions at the car as the road on the video screen stops moving. THE BRIGADIER leans out the driver's side window and motions for the stranger to sit in the back. The new passenger is extremely grateful and continues to smile for the duration of his appearance in the play. THE BRIGADIER and he talk in Urdu for half a minute.]

THE BRIGADIER: He's also traveling to Muzaffarabad and would like to offer you an orange from his package. Apparently you remind him of his son.

MARK: His son must be a good-looking brute. I'd love an orange. [THE BRIGADIER takes two oranges from the man and hands them to MARK who begins peeling them.]

THE BRIGADIER: [Pointing to the road ahead.] Shall we, Hansaab?

MARK: We shall, sir.

[Video screen shows the road starting to recede again. The effect of sunlight being filtered by the branches and leaves of overhanging trees is simulated by stage lights on the Datsun. 'Road Trippin' by The Red Hot Chili Peppers plays with the lyric 'USA' replaced with 'Pakistan.' THE BRIGADIER, MARK and the new man continue to talk, eat oranges and share laughs while the song plays to completion. The car stops again and all disembark. The man shakes hands with THE BRIGADIER and MARK and walks off stage left. He appears on the video screen where he pats two young mountain girls on their heads and offers them a few rupees. He turns once to wave goodbye, before walking completely out of sight.]

THE BRIGADIER: [Still standing outside the car.] That was quite a gentleman. He has offered for you to stay in his tent and have dinner if you should choose to do so tonight. He lost his entire family in the earthquake – his wife and six children. He had gone out to pick up an order for his shop when the quake struck and it brought down his building crushing everyone inside. Now he's helping others keep their spirits up.

MARK: [Overwhelmed.] Hmmm.

THE BRIGADIER: If you look here, sir, you will see quite clearly the awesome power of the earthquake.

[Video screen sweeps 180 degrees to show a wide-expanse of a mountain range. One-half the width has been completely sheered away exposing chalky white rock.]

MARK: Oh, my gosh.

THE BRIGADIER: You are seeing only a small fraction of its impact. This goes on for over one hundred kilometers.

MARK: It's mind boggling.

THE BRIGADIER: In the valley below is Muzaffarabad.

[The video screen sweeps 180 degrees again to show a bus filled with children passing. MARK waves enthusiastically, causing the children to erupt in laughter.]

THE BRIGADIER: Hansaab, you have a real gift with the young ones, but I must recommend that you never interact directly with the girls because of the sensitivities many have here. Certainly you must never touch any female.

[The video screen shows fast cutting clips of Mark interacting directly with girls and boys in a number of situations – shaking hands, demonstrating hand games, dancing and so forth. It culminates with him running down an embankment with three young girls on his back screaming with delight.]

THE BRIGADIER: [Getting back in the car along with MARK.] Next stop is the hospital just down the road.

MARK: I'm ready if you are.

[The video screen shows an increasing number of cracked buildings and activity along the road leading to the city. The car passes trucks carrying rubble, medical vans, army vehicles, and numerous UN utility vehicles.]

THE BRIGADIER: [Disgustedly.] No organization in the world does less with more money than the UN. These guys have been driving around in their fancy trucks for the past five weeks doing absolutely nothing. Just abominable. My eldest son has just been promoted to overseeing UN development programs for South Asia, but it hasn't done anything to change my opinion. The UN is world-class corruption.

MARK: [Pointing out the window.] Could we stop here for just a bit so I could help load rubble?

THE BRIGADIER: Hansaab, I realize that you enjoy jumping in wherever you go, but there are some who's skills are best fit for this type of labor and your skill set is needed at the hospital.

MARK: [Crestfallen.] Thik hai, sir.

[The buildings visible by the side of the road now are virtually all badly damaged or completely flattened. The car pulls up to the hospital which is revealed in another 180 degree pan by the video screen camera. It occupies the first three-floors of a four-star hotel that had been under construction when the quake struck and was largely spared of any damage.]

THE BRIGADIER: Well, Hansaab, we have arrived. I would suggest you do what the Love Doctor does best and interact with the patients while assessing the situation around the hospital. We can meet back up later in the night and you can brief me on your findings at 2400 hours.

[MARK exits stage left and reappears entering the hospital on the video screen. An extended version of the New Radical's 'You Only Get What Your Give' plays. The camera follows as he tours the building and adjacent tent camps providing shelter to displaced locals. Reaction is initially cool, but thaws as a growing number of kids fall in line behind the stranger in the funny clothes with the funky walk. The crowd of children swells and Western doctors can be seen in the background marveling at the growing spectacle. MARK eventually enters the hospital's ward by himself and the occupants of the cots look on in wide-eyed terror as he demonstrates the removal of his thumb. A wiggling walk and b-boy snake of his arms puts them somewhat at ease and some on the verge of smiling. Finally a poorly enacted 'mime in a box' routine triggers laughter the whole way round. He takes up a seat on a double amputee's cot and attempts to make conversation in Urdu with the young boy. 'You Only Get What Your Give' momentarily fades.]

MARK: Mera naam Mark hai. Tumhara naam kya hai?

OFFSCREEN VOICE: His name is Tariq. He had to have his lower arms removed because they had become infected.

MARK: Kitne bhai behen tumhare hai?

OFFSCREEN VOICE: He lost his two brothers and three sisters in the earthquake.

MARK: [Shocked.] Oh. Tumhare mata-pita-ji kahan hai?

OFFSCREEN VOICE: They were killed too. He is all alone.

MARK: [Further shocked both by the scope of the loss and the inappropriateness of his questions.] Oh. [Recovers.] But he isn't alone. We all are here isn't it? [MARK pinches the boy's cheeks, pokes him in the belly and pops his fingers against his cheeks. The boy's face breaks into a wide smile matched only by MARK's own.]

['You Only Get What Your Give' fades in again and plays to completion. MARK is shown in a time-lapsed sequence sitting by the river that cuts through Muzaffarabad as twilight turns to night and the stars appear overhead. The myriad lights of dwellings on the mountain sides create the impression of a complete sphere of stars surrounding MARK who appears suspended in space. Camera revolves around his position while stage light is diffracted by a mirrored ball to sparkle on the stage and audience. The children dressed as goats spill onto stage, into the audience and out into the lobby creating a carpet unbroken movement throughout the theater.]

But when the night is falling
You cannot find a friend
You feel your tree is breaking
Just bend...

You've got the music in you
Don't let go
You've got the music in you
One dance left
This world is gonna pull through
Don't give up
You've got a reason to live
Can't forget
We only get what we give

This whole damn world can fall apart
You'll be ok
Follow your heart
You're in harms way
I'm right behind
Now say you're mine...

[In the lobby, a booth is set up offering THE BRIGADIER's 4-point tension-free living program. Each point is followed by an idea for implemented the advice in one's life including a listing of local hospitals and orphanages that welcome volunteers. Caricatures of THE BRIGADIER in scouting attire accompany the brochure.]

Angel Burgers

2005-12-07T02:46:00.000-08:00

CHARACTERS

ARHAM, student in his last year before college and son of the much-ballyhooed Brigadier

MARK, an American in Pakistan – a perpetually worn bandana hides bad hair

TIME AND PLACE

Early November, 2005, about a month after the earthquake in Kashmir. The action of the play all occurs on the road between Islamabad and Rawalpindi in Pakistan. It is very late night and the streets are deserted.

SCENE AND SET DESIGN

[ARHAM is driving MARK back to his hotel in Rawalpindi so he can collect his belongings and shift to the Brigadier's house. From there he will leave in the early morning for the quake-affected mountains of Kashmir. ARHAM and MARK have just met an hour earlier and both are somewhat sleep deprived – ARHAM from study for college entrance exams, and MARK from constant travel.]

[The stage is minimalist in its presentation with the front half of a black 2002 Nissan 4x4 pick up truck resting in front of a large video projection screen. The simulation of motion is achieved by projecting video of a receding street behind the truck. A ceiling-mounted revolving spot light gives the appearance of illumination from passing street lamps.]

[ARHAM and MARK enter stage left and get into the truck. ARHAM sits stage left in the truck's cab and MARK is in the passenger seat.]

ARHAM: [pensively stroking his long scraggle of chin hairs] Can I ask you something?

MARK: Sure. Anything. What is it?

ARHAM: What's America like? I mean, what do you think of Pakistan? [ARHAM puts his hand on the back of the passenger seat and twists his torso around to navigate his father's black Nissan 4x4 out of Farhan's driveway.]

MARK: Pakistan's beautiful as far as I can tell from the little I've seen. America has got a lot of natural beauty too. I don't know much about the people here, but it seems like a lot of them, at least in Islamabad, are adopting the American vision of success.

ARHAM: That's what I feared. There are a lot of burgers here.

MARK: Burghers? As in English middle class?

ARHAM: No, I mean burger as in McDonalds. Like a burger with finger chips or, what do you call them... french fries.

MARK: American fries. France betrayed us in the Second Great Iraq War. They weren't keen on renegotiating their cozy oil deals in Iraq on American terms.

ARHAM: So you support the war in Iraq?

MARK: No, never. Lots of Americans were against the idea. But Cheney and team trotted out the flag and Bush went on the global airwaves to say you are either for us or against us. Once you manage to get people flag waving – whether its red, white and blue or green and white – all rationality just goes out the door. Even the major American newspapers and magazines, which are normally pretty level headed, fell in line with the governmental rhetoric. It was pretty scary to watch it all unfold. How did Pakistanis feel about the whole thing?

ARHAM: Most of us just see it as a war on Muslims. I think Bush wanted to get even for Saddam's attempt to kill his father. It was a personal thing for him and he just got all of America to come along with him.

MARK: There likely was some personal issues involved and I wouldn't doubt that Cheney played on Bush's insecurities about his family's legacy. I think oil considerations played a major role in the decision as well.

ARHAM: There's no doubt oil was on their minds. There's so much of it in Iraq and the oil companies have all the power.

MARK: There was also probably some hope that an American-style democracy could take root in the region and make business dealings in the Middle East easier. But the package was sold to the public as the centerpiece in the war on terrorism. What was almost an afterthought to the central motivations was advertised as being the primary or even sole consideration.

ARHAM: So everyone became in favor of the war against Iraq.

MARK: No, still a lot of people were actively against it. But part of the genius of the war mongers was to reduce everything to black and white, good and bad. War protesters were cast as unpatriotic, troop haters, or, worse yet, naive puppets of a foreign dictator or terrorists in general. Only a sick-in-the-head idiot could be against the war which was going to last one to two weeks and have our troops feted with flowers at KFC openings all along the Tigris. Over time, as it became painfully obvious just how few ties Saddam's regime had with any terrorists, the stated goal shifted to some sudden burning desire to deliver democracy to the Iraqi people and liberate them from Saddam's tyranny. Even Fox News started to feel silly calling every Iraqi that was killed a terrorist and adopted the 'insurgent' rhetoric.

ARHAM: Oh yeah, I've seen Fox News before. We don't get it on our television, but I've seen clips. They're like the state-run channel, right?

MARK: As long as the state is Republican controlled, yes. Fox was desperate to prove the claims made by their analysts and the administration before the war. They had sworn up and down that Iraq was crawling with weapons of mass destruction and so for the first few weeks of the war Fox was claiming everything they found on abandoned construction sites was actually part of some sinister doomsday machine. They would hold up some sewer pipes and say that they had uncovered documents that showed how Saddam planned to link a million together to create a giant prod to poke unsuspecting Americans. Or they would show crop duster planes and say that they evidence it had been outfitted for poison gas. People just ate it up without reason. For a month or two after the war started Bush's popularity remained in the mid-nineties or something crazy like that. Fox had an American flag flying in the corner of the television screen 24-7 so there could be no mistaking whose side they were on. [A similar flag appears in the corner of the video screen and will remain until INTERMISSION.] I haven't watched any TV for a long time, but I think the flag is still there. They even made fun of the old-school journalists who tried to remain impartial in their news coverage and questioned their patriotism.

ARHAM: So the American people are still in favor of the occupation?

MARK: No, generally the tide has turned against the President. But there is a sizable percentage of Americans that simply believe it is wrong under any circumstances to be against an active war. The lesson they took from Vietnam is that we should have stayed there until the war was won – not that we shouldn't have been there in the first place. To speak out against a war once it has started is akin to treason. And on the other side there is a smaller percentage of people that are convinced Bush and his administration are evil incarnate. Others feel war is wrong under any circumstances.

ARHAM: What do you think?

MARK: In general, I am less sure about what I think the older I get. Though over the past several years I have become comfortable with the idea of applying my prescriptions for what I feel is just or right, within, rather than without. I realized that the things I find most unjust 'out there' can serve as markers for similar tendencies in me. In this sense, the most interesting wars are played out on the battlefield of my ego.

ARHAM: I don't understand.

MARK: Take terrorists, and the whole so-called war on terrorism for example. I can point a finger at Bin Laden and blame him for the suffering caused by 9/11. I can expend my energy hating him, wanting to get even, or even fearing him. Or I can view the episode metaphorically. I can see my discomfort with his actions as a marker of something I am uncomfortable with within myself. What 9/11s do I enact on a daily basis? Am I prone to take it out on innocent people when I feel my voice isn't being heard? Furthermore how should I deal with this tendency? Should I hate myself for it, or attempt to become more conscious of the tendency to the point that it self negating. This, in turn, can provide clues to eradicating the behavior on the macrocosmic level as well. In the same way I can despise Bush and company for wrapping a range of ulterior motives in the so-called war on terrorism, or, instead, I can look at how I may be misleading others as to the true nature of my actions. Am I hiding my own wolfish, greedy tendencies in the sheepskin of noble aspirations? I've trained myself to the point where my annoyances with others usually trigger a self-analytical episode. If nothing else it makes hating the supposed wrongdoer far less palatable. Certainly less easy.

ARHAM: So you can take everything as a lesson. Even the things that get you mad.

MARK: Yeah. Those things perhaps most of all. I even start to get excited when I catch myself getting upset with someone. I think, 'Oh here comes some revelation about something unseemly in myself.' There's seemingly no limit to the amount of personal housecleaning one can do. It's nearly impossible to remain upset with the offending person in this context. A similar interpretation can be made with respect to jihad in the Koran.

ARHAM: That's pretty cool. You remind me of my Sufi teacher. I would like for you to meet him. You probably have been wondering about this thing. [Arhum rolls his sparse chin hairs into a single strand and tugs several times.]

MARK: Not really.

[MARK steals another look at ARHAM's threadbare beard and it dawns on him where he has seen similar abominations: the outlandish mole growths on characters of dubious repute in comical kung-fu flicks. A montage of such characters plays rapidly on the video screen.]

ARHAM: Over the past couple of years I have gone through a lot of searching – trying to find my place. You wouldn't believe this, but I used to want to be a dancer and actor, like in the movies. I was becoming a real burger. [ARHAM pauses to see the effect this disclosure has on MARK.]

MARK: That's not so hard to imagine really. [ARHAM appears slightly disappointed.]

ARHAM: I went to all the parties and would just dance like crazy. I could dance like Michael Jackson even, but I made up my own moves. I even would buy all the latest music, like this. [ARHAM pushes a tape in the cassette deck and Eminem's 'The Real Slim Shady' comes over the car's ample sound system.]

[Lights fade on the truck so it is virtually invisible. The video screen shows ARHAM, sans beard, dancing like crazy to the Eminem song in a party environment. A disco ball lowers and ten girls and ten boys enter from stage left and right. They groove and gossip in party mode, drinks in hand, occasionally looking up at ARHAM's frantic dance on the video screen. When the music changes ARHAM stops dancing and looks on slightly uncomfortably, as the girls and boys break out into a choreographed routine to Bruce Springstein's 'Born in the USA.']

[Dancers continue dancing while exiting stage left and right. Lights come back up on the truck and music crossfades back to 'The Real Slim Shady' at reduced volume.]

Now I don't listen it anymore. I had this jihadi friend that told me how it corrupts the mind and over stimulates the senses. I had to agree with him. I tell you Mark, when I was listening to the music and dancing I would just lose my mind. [ARHAM nods his head in time to the beat and raps the steering wheel with the side of his palm.]

MARK: Music is powerful stuff.

ARHAM: The jihadi helped me see how I was becoming a damn burger. I started to hang out with him and his friends, but became restless again. They were too intense and thinking about violence all the time. But I have to give him credit because he got me into the masjid after a long time.

[A staff-brandishing man springs from the shadows of the otherwise deserted road and covers the opposing lane and median with disconcerting swiftness. With wild-eyes he stares directly into the cab of the truck and appears hellbent on immobilizing the craft. ARHAM accelerates and veers sharply to avoid hitting the interloper and then continues on without visible distress – so completely unaffected is his behavior that MARK is compelled to turn to verify the presence of the would-be attacker. Sure enough the robed man stands in the middle of the road (now on the video screen) flailing his weapon in apparent frustration. ARHAM continues his narrative with nary a comment on the ambush.]

ARHAM: I eventually moved from the jihadis to hanging out with some Al Queda that I met through them. They were a bit more relaxed, but I didn't really feel my place was with them either. My parents really started to get worried about me. They saw me going from the burger life to the other extreme. That's when I met my teacher.

MARK: The Sufi? I ask.

ARHAM: Yeah. He is young, just in his twenties, but so wise. He really started getting me to think about my life and what I wanted to become – what kind of man I should be. I really want to become an example others can follow. Pakistan has come too far grabbing after all the Western things and forgotten the real way to be happy which is written in the Koran. I tell you Mark, if you read the Koran... have you read it?

MARK: Just parts.

ARHAM: Well, if you read the whole thing you will find every word in it to be true. Whenever I have had any difficulty I just go to it and there is an answer. Have you heard of Yusef?

MARK: You mean Joseph? [The question has an unintentionally colonial ring.]

ARHAM: Yes. His book of visions can give you the meaning of anything that appears in your dreams. Like I had this dream with these white horses and angels a year back and my teacher just showed me Yusef's book and the hidden meanings were all there.

MARK: You know, everybody's a sucker for a good angel. There was a total resurgence in everything angel a few years back in America. Did you see that Nicolas Cage movie? I'm terrible with names.

ARHAM: No, but I know the one you're talking about.

MARK: And there was a television series, 'Touched by an Angel' or something like that – I never actually saw it. I think there was a play called 'Angels in America.' Time and Newsweek magazines had cover stories about angels around the same time too. Then there was that Robbie Williams song and 'Send Me An Angel.' And you have always had names like Angelo, Angelica, Angela, Los Angeles and just plain Angel.

ARHAM: What's you point?

MARK: I was just thinking if everyone likes angels so much why don't we work at being angels for one another. I mean you could just think of some beloved angel scenario and then make it happen for someone. Everyone's waiting for angels to come from somewhere else, but sightings are pretty few and far between. You know what I mean? It's usually when someone is about to die.

ARHAM: I don't get it.

MARK: Why not start a whole hit-and-run angel movement? Like say it's likely to rain on some day. You could get in an angel outfit and hide out behind some tree. When it started to pour you could just appear out of nowhere to escort someone to their car. You could even act like you had just landed when you appear. You know, bend your knees to the ground and be breathing really heavily.

ARHAM: Can you imagine the looks you would get?

[The video screen shows actual footage of such an experiment being done and captured by a hidden camera.]

MARK: It would be awesome. You could even get elaborate with hidden guy wires like they had for the Victoria's Secret angels and come down from off the top of buildings. Imagine someone relieving their dog on the street and you would just swoop down with a poop scoop and then fly off again. Mission accomplished. The person would have such a great story when they got home. 'Honey, I'm home. My guardian angel scooped Foofie's duty today.'

ARHAM: It would make a great reality TV show.

MARK: Swooping Poop Scooping Angels. When ratings started to slip you could get perverse and start mugging people. Can you imagine the headlines? 'Jumped by an Angel,' or 'When Will the Scourge of Angels End?' At least people would get over their need for angels. Seriously though, it just seems to make sense to me that we should try to embody ourselves those things we most want to see in the world. You know, why wait for some otherworldly heaven? If it's angels we want, then we should start sewing wings. Why should we expect angels to look after us if we aren't willing to be angels for others?

ARHAM: Make the kind of world you want to see.

MARK: I can't believe I'm rabbling on about angels.

ARHAM: I've also had a vision of Issu.

MARK: Jesus? I have no jokes about Jesus.

ARHAM: He appeared to me in a dream. It was really incredible. He was showing me a door to a room and two angels were guiding me there. There was some writing on a table that I couldn't make out. You know Muslims believe in Issu too. It's just that for us he is one of the great prophets and not the only son of God.

MARK: Have you heard of Ramakrishna?

ARHAM: I'm not sure. An Indian guy right?

MARK: Yeah. He lived in Bengal in the middle part of the 1800's. He was a very advanced saint and a devotee of Kali, or the dark aspect of Divine Mother.

ARHAM: Oh, I don't believe in all that stuff.

MARK: I know, but hold on though. He had a friend that was a Sufi adept. Anyway, Ramakrishna took training from him in the mystical traditions of Sufism and for a number of days began worshipping God in the manner of a devout Muslim. You can only imagine how stunned the people around him must have been. I mean this guy just adored God in the aspect of Kali and would spend so much time just lost in devotion to her. Then suddenly he was spending all his time in a masjid.

ARHAM: So he converted?

MARK: Well sort of, but no. He wanted to see if God could be directly experienced by following the path laid out by Mohammed. He just went all out in his practice and after some time determined that Islam provided another valid route to the divine. Then he did the same experiment through devotion to Jesus and Christianity and once again with the Buddha. Ramakrishna had a good number of followers and they must have been a totally freaked out by his behavior. In the end I think his message was simply that there are many legitimate paths to God communion or self-realization, not that one should try to follow all disciplines. But we've strayed from the topic of your beard.

ARHAM: [Slowing the vehicle and peering over MARK out the passenger window] Your hotel is here.

MARK: Hold that discourse, I'll be right back. [MARK gets out of the truck and exits for the hotel stage right. Curtains close.]

INTERMISSION [The actors playing ARHAM and MARK don angel costumes and serve free refreshments in the Lobby suspended by wires. The unspoken implication is that the two have decided to follow MARK's suggestion sometime in the future which is the audience's present. They pose for photographs with audience members.]

ACT 2

[MARK throws his luggage behind the cab of the truck and takes a seat on the passenger side. ARHAM has been waiting and is now listening to Pink Floyd's 'Wish You Were Here.']

MARK: So you were saying?

ARHAM: Saying? Oh, about the beard. So when I read in the Koran that a man should always keep a beard, I grew this. You can't imagine how much shit people have given me for it. But I really wanted to put God first in my life so I saw the beard as a test – you know, was I willing to do this one small thing for Him or did I just want to fit in with the burgers. But I got teased so much. Even my parents and some of my friends were telling me I should get rid of it, so I started to wonder. You know Mark, the only person that supported me in keeping this was my teacher.

MARK: So in the end you came to realize that the Sufi lacked fashion sense.

ARHAM: [Smiling.] You're a damn bloody burger. Why? Do you think I should shave it off too?

MARK: No, but I also clearly lack any fashion sense.

ARHAM: [Nodding in agreement as he scans MARK's attire.] Where did you get it from?

MARK: You mean my lovely pajama kurta? I acquired it for about 80 rupees in Delhi.

[Comical footage on the video screen of MARK negotiating for his kurta in the Pahar Ganj, New Delhi. In the end he is able to get the laughing shopkeepers to confirm he looks 'fair and lovely' in the cheaply made outfit. It is a sarcastic reference to the skin whitening cream for women that is ubiquitously advertised in India.]

ARHAM: So, tell me. You've been in India for a long time, right? What are the Indians like?

MARK: Typically they're better dressed than I am. Seriously though, I wish I could take you there just for a month to meet my friends. Some are Muslim, some Sikh, some Hindu, some Christian, and some don't believe in God at all. But all of them are pretty cool and I'm sure you would really like them. If you were to visit India just once you probably would come to the same realization that I had a long time ago. There are so many nations, religions, races and so forth, but people are pretty much just people wherever you go. Eating, squatting, scratching and sniffling.

ARHAM: But there's so much poverty and disease over there isn't there? And too many people.

MARK: There's so much of everything in a country its size. Poverty, wealth, disease, health, generosity, greed – and lots of each.

ARHAM: What do they think of Pakistan?

MARK: You would definitely be surprised at how much goodwill there is toward Pakistan. In general most people just want to get their party on and aren't too bothered about the behavior of others unless it threatens their piece of the pie. I think there are a growing number of what I would call secular religionists on both sides of the border. They go to the temple or masjid on special occasions, but otherwise are preoccupied with their jobs and relationships. A large number of them subscribe to the belief that God can be called by many names and worshipped differently and therefore can live and work side-by-side with, or even marry someone from another religion. And then you have the handful of deeply devotional Ramakrishnas and Sufi-types that recognize an underlying unity to everything – good, bad, white, black, up and down.

ARHAM: Where do you think the problems come from then.

MARK: A couple of things. One is definitely just a lack of communication and travel between the two countries. The more you guys know about each other the less anxiety there is going to be. The cricket series was a revelation to a lot of people and changed perceptions on both sides. I know a lot of Indians were blown away by the hospitality the fans got in Pakistan. There are so many stories about shopkeepers refusing money from 'family' and rickshaws giving Indians rides for free.

ARHAM: Yeah, I heard about that too.

MARK: But the other issue is fundamentalists on both sides. Fundamentalists everywhere are convinced they have a monopoly on truth and thus feel called upon to correct everyone else's behavior. They know what's right and what's wrong and are going to set everyone else straight for their own good – even if it means lopping heads off. Usually they feel that God has given them special dispensation to take corrective action because the offending parties are blasphemers, heathens, or non-believers. Both Bush and Bin Laden have claimed direct lines of communication with God so neither is terribly disturbed about making decisions that cost a few lives or even thousands of lives. There is always a higher purpose behind it. And, of course, it's all pretty exciting, heady stuff. And un-heady.

ARHAM: The jihadis are a little like that. They pretty much want to take Kashmir at any cost.

MARK: Complicating matters is the fact that politicians are only too eager to take advantage of religious or nationalistic fervor to secure their power. They can play upon fear of the unknown and can, if necessary, interpret scripture in the most violent of ways. You know, vote for me and I'll protect you from the murderous heathens even if it means I have to murder them. It's cut and dried – classic good versus evil. Really appealing in its simplicity. And you can always find people willing to fight with the hyper-abundance of testosterone in youngish males.

ARHAM: So what do you think the solution is?

MARK: Use vacuum hoses to drain the testosterone out of the youngish males. No, just kidding. All these forces need to be creatively channeled and people need to recognize the benefits of choosing paths other than confrontation. Alternatives have to be sold in a more compelling fashion than just being 'not war' or 'not conflict.' In other words, active, energizing options need to be put on the table. I think Kennedy tried with the Peace Corps, but it somehow lacks the humility, scale and gusto that's called for.

ARHAM: So you would look to try some new version of the Peace Corps?

MARK: A few years back I actually had an idea for a group called Hard Corps. Corps as in C - O - R - P - S rather than C - O - R - E. It would take all the compelling elements of the armed services, like discipline, danger, camaraderie, respect, rank, skill, danger and so on and then apply them in a greater spiritual context. It literally would be the most exclusive force anywhere in the world. The boot camp would have the usual rigorous physical aspect, but would also would involve hard core training in the mental, social and spiritual realms. Conflict management, creative thinking, tai chi, meditation and so on. The month before graduation would be spent fasting in a darkened cave.

ARHAM: That would be too long.

MARK: Everything about Hard Corps would be too something or other. The graduates would be called upon to go into the most conflict-torn areas and attempt to provide both basic relief and mediation skills. But you know how paratroopers come into areas now all plain jane? The Hard Corps jumpers would be doing aerial stunts on the way down. Spins, sumersaults, sky-surfing. Everything would be turned up a notch.

ARHAM: Sounds like fun. Sort of like the angel thing again.

MARK: It definitely would be. I think the initiates would also receive training in comedy. Knowing how to make people laugh is one of the most important skills. But conquering the fear of death would really mark the final initiation into the ranks. You know, even if you're shot up and dying in some side street of a nameless town, if you can reach into your rucksack and pull out some biscuits to offer to a mangy dog then you've figured it out. Jesus was still able to ask for forgiveness for his enemies while his strength was ebbing on the cross. He was totally hard core. Life is a short dream and the more we step out of ourselves the sweeter it becomes. Death, for that matter, is but a dream. Death will require that we leave everything we are grasping after behind, so why not preempt and let go now? You know, cheat Death of its miserable bounty.

ARHAM: So you want to start this Hard Corps group? Do you think it could really make a difference in places like Kashmir?

MARK: Actually I'm still working on starting with myself. Can I recognize my own impulse towards righteousness or seeing everything in a dualistic fashion? A good exercise might be to spend more time walking in the chappels of the supposed enemy, including the enemy within. If I'm not at peace myself, how can I really expect to export that vibration? If nothing else we can each serve as miniature ambassadors of goodwill wherever we travel, if even to the corner shop. And we can listen more. Like I'm not, and should be.

ARHAM: For me I'm really trying to put God first in my life. After that comes my father, and then my teacher.

MARK: It seems as if your father is really highly regarded. Do you feel any pressure to follow him into the armed forces?

ARHAM: No. He set all the standards in the army, so there's no point in trying to live up to that. I have to make my own path. My father will support me no matter what I choose to do, but I tell you Mark it has to be something really great. I have to be the best at whatever I choose to do. We are not only Pathans, but we are also part of the royal family. My great great grandfather was the King of Afghanistan. My grandfather was the most decorated Pashtun serving with the British. And my father has always been the best at whatever he did. You cannot imagine the kind of pride my family has.

MARK: You've got yourself quite a family tree.

ARHAM: That's just my father's side. My mother's side is all chiefs from the North West Territories. There is a lot of tradition to uphold.

MARK: My family was just happy to see me make it out of the fifth standard.

ARHAM: [Laughing.] You're a damn burger.

MARK: With great buns and special sauce.

ARHAM: You really are a burger, but at least you're the original.

MARK: Sounds like a really lame ad campaign. Actually it's ridiculous that you're calling me a burger when you're the meat eater and I'm the vegetarian. Or maybe that does make sense.

[A thirty-second ad for a veggie-burger franchise plays on the video screen. Dancing condiments in low-rider jeans dance to either side of a tap-dancing MARK in burger costume. The jingle is based on, "You really are a burger, but at least you're the original."]

ARHAM: [Stopping the truck in an upper-class neighborhood in Islamabad.] We're home. You have exactly twenty minutes before my father is going to be ready to go.

MARK: As in two-zero?

ARHAM: Yeah. Gotta be ready by oh-four-hundred hours.

[MARK and ARHAM exit the truck and walk off stage left, before appearing on the video screen inside the foyer of the house. The remaining portion of the play has been pre-filmed inside the Brigadier's house.]

ARHAM: Let me show you something. [ARHAM leads MARK to the living room where he points to a crisply-focused, sepia-tone photograph on the wall.] So this is my great great grandfather. [Slow pan across close-up of photo. The stony-stare of a seated monarch is offset by the even stonier-stare of his bull-like bodyguard. Not guys you would want to meet in an Kabul alleyway.] You see how strong he looks? This is the tradition I have to uphold. The British have come to him for help with the Indian rajas who are seated over here. You can see they don't wear shoes. [Eight barefoot rajas of incredibly ornate and diverse costume sit opposite a similar number of stiffly-posed British officials.]

MARK: They look so real. I mean they look like guys I have seen before. Isn't it wild how this guy is actually related to you. He's your father's father's father's father or whatever and these are all real dudes that he hung out with.

ARHAM: And my father painted all of these. [Camera pans across the wall where there are a half dozen well-rendered portraits of generals from different eras in full regalia.]

MARK: Your father has real skill as an artist.

ARHAM: He writes too. I can show you some stuff later.

MARK: A real renaissance man.

ARHAM: Come, I'll show you the weapons room. [Camera follows ARHAM into a vast basement room. All four walls are replete with weapons of every design.]

MARK: If your next door neighbors every declare war on your family you're going to be ready to go. This is amazing.

ARHAM: Most of these have actually been used in combat.

MARK: Battle tested. That's reassuring.

OFF STAGE: [Basso profundo voice of the Brigadier.] Mr. Mark?

ARHAM: Sounds like my father's ready.

MARK: So I'll see you soon?

ARHAM: Yeah, I'll just be here studying for exams.

OFF STAGE: [Gently booming voice of the Brigadier once again.] Mr. Mark Sir, the mountains await our presence.

['The Real Slim Shady' plays while the video screen shows ARHAM and MARK playing one-on-one basketball in a caged court in an Islamabad park. ARHAM drives furiously to the basket, while MARK throws up high-arching three pointers. Cricket playing teens can be seen in the background. Curtains close and ARHAM and MARK, once again in angel costumes, are in the lobby to offer up chocolates and hail cabs for the theater's patrons.]

Enter the Brigadier

2005-12-05T08:32:00.000-08:00

"Mark, let me tell you something," the Brigadier begins gravely, "I believe that all people are brought together for a reason. When I came into Farhan's office last night the moment I saw you I knew why I had come."

"We phoned you," I jest.

"What? No, I didn't have to come. It was the middle of the night. But I knew there was a greater reason that I should come there. You see, Mark, people are like magnets that can draw similarly charged individuals together from even continents away."

"I thought it was oppositely charged bodies that are magnetically attracted."

"What?" The Brigadier splits his attention between the serpentine mountain road and our conversation.

"You said similarly charged individuals are brought together, but it's..."

"Yes, like-minded individuals. People with similar vibrations."

"Good vibrations. Now you're talking like a real Californian."

I reflect on the torment of the previous night's decision. The three burly Mujhadeen had taken a shining to me and wanted to take me to some of the remotest villages that had been damaged by the earthquake. They were ready to hit the road in the middle of the night and the door to their SUV had been open and I was three quarters in. Farhan had hurried over to me at the last second and said that the Brigadier was inviting me to go to his field hospital in Muzaffarabad the following day. I had asked Farhan what I should do and he had said I really couldn't go wrong either way.

In the end the mystery of the Brigadier was too compelling to pass up. As Ali had so accurately pointed out, the Brigadier was larger than life – literally. He rivaled the most mountainous of the mountainous mountain men in girth, filling his kurta like a tarpaulin-covered balloon, while he also strode a good six inches superior to the tallest of them. He had arrived in the middle of the night with the notoriety of a master problem solver, but had been unable to persuade either the doctor or the truck drivers to move from their positions. What had impressed me most is that he hadn't forced the issue in service of his reputation. Instead he had assumed Farhan's former position in the easy chair, occupying it like a throne, while generating a range of alternative solutions to the impasse. When he spoke, everybody listened.

His son, Arham, whom at first I took to be a servant, attended promptly to his father's commands which were issued calmly and with a certain tenderness. Unlike the Brigadier, Arham was bespectacled, his garb Western, frame compact, and he sported a curious collection of a dozen, long black chin hairs from that screamed out for culling. When it was determined I had cast my lot with the Brigadier he ordered his son to drive me to the hotel so I could collect my belongings and then bring me to his house where we would embark for the mountains at 4:30 am. It was 2:30 am at that point and the trip to the hotel and back to the Brigadier's house would take 45 minutes. I resigned myself to the fact that I was going to enter the mountains neither well fed nor rested.

Call in the Heavy Artillery

2005-12-03T00:35:00.000-08:00

As Ed exits the room he suddenly turns and impishly says, "Remember Mark, always talk to the person next to you on the airplane." Years ago I had very intentionally implemented this very program and I take his injunction to be yet another wink from the great beyond. A half hour later Farhan, whom I had been in contact with about the possible sponsorship of dome structures for quake affected areas, arrives at the ActionAid office and we head out in search of food. Farhan is somehow younger, more youthful, and generously padded than I expected from his emails. He is dressed in a fitted suit that gives him the appearance of a Wall Street go getter. He fires up a remixed hip-hop CD in his Honda luxury sedan. I feel slightly goofy in my mock-Muslim garb in the suddenly very secular milieu.

"What kind of food are you in the mood for?" he asks.

"Actually this could get interesting. I'm vegan, so I don't eat any animal products at all." My confession amuses Farhan who eyes me skeptically.

"How are you going to survive in Pakistan...and the mountains!"

"It's an open question."

We drive to Pizza Hut in the waning light of an early winter's eve. Islamabad is an unimaginatively planned city a la Chandigargh with Battleship-labeled sectors like F-4 and G-15 and markets vaguely reminiscent of bland American strip malls. Pepsico has done nothing to make its pizza franchise culturally relevant and it once inside there is no discerning one is not in Kansas anymore. Farhan is intrigued by my cheese-less pizza order, but is too busy entertaining his two cell phones to try any. "I tell you Mark. I don't get a moment's peace anymore. I've been neglecting my work to collect relief goods and now everything is just snowballing. I have over two-hundred unanswered emails waiting." Farhan, who I come to learn was raised in Dubai and London, is having a hard time adjusting to the slower pace of life in Pakistan. He sells UK property for a land trust based in London and just recently set up an office in Islamabad. The earthquake awakened a part of him that he didn't know existed.

"I was just watching television after the quake and knew I had to get up in the mountains," Farhan explains, " I haven't done anything adventurous in my entire life, but when I saw how bad things were in the villages something just clicked and my apprehension was gone. A couple days later I was on a deteriorating bridge with only three wheels of the car making contact and just laughing about it. We had delivered our first load of blankets and that's all I cared about. When I think about it now I realize how close we were to falling off the bridge. We certainly would have died. My friend wanted to get out and help direct me to keep the tires on the rails, but I told him to get back in the car because if we were going to die it would be together." Farhan is laughing and I am grinning. He takes a couple of calls before continuing his narrative.

"You know I have just been working 20 hours a day ever since the earthquake happened almost a month ago. But somehow I never get tired. Every truckload of supplies that I manage to send up makes me want to send two more. The look on the faces of the villagers makes everything worthwhile. Now I'm getting in trouble with my business associates for using our office space to store the collected goods – you'll see what I mean later. I'm kind of out of control. At some point I have to turn my attention back to work, but it's hard. Sorry, just one minute." Farhan takes another call and two words in his second phone rings. He rolls his eyes and asks the first caller to hold while he answers the other phone. At one point in his three-way conversation he marries the two phones together at 180 degrees so the callers can shout at one another in primitive hi-tech fashion.

The calls are in regard to three trucks which have arrived from Karachi loaded with donated goods shipped from Dubai. They have nowhere to park within city limits of Islamabad and the drivers are anxious to head back south. Meanwhile three businessmen have arrived from Lahore and are raring to have their share of the goods transferred to their trucks and head into the mountains. To straighten matters out we head to Farhan's office, which is in a well-guarded compound at the end of an affluent suburban street. The office itself resembles a well-appointed bungalow – enough so that Farhan shifted his living quarters here after the earthquake left a large crack in the ceiling of his six-story flat. He misses his jacuzzi and sauna, but is otherwise satisfied with his new digs. When the gate opens I spot a mountain of blankets, tents, and clothing in a deep well running the length of the house. "My business partners are giving me a lot of grief for taking over the office space, but I'm the big cheese in our Pakistan office so they can't do anything about it. Now they too have been catching volunteer fever and nobody is sleeping at all which explains the bloodshot eyes." Farhan remains remarkably good humored in light of his stressful environs.

Shortly after we arrive the three businessmen from Lahore are welcomed into the reception/living room. They are all former mountain-dwelling Afghans and to a man they are super-sized with fingers seemingly as big around as my wrists. The densely bearded trio, dressed in tent-like, earth-toned kurtas, are introduced as Mujahadeen by the ever-bemused Farhan. In Pakistan, like Afghanistan, the kurtas have rounded edges and worn loose, unlike the straight cut Indian variety. I feel uncomfortably effeminate in my smallish and slightly sheer Indian pajama. The mountain men look me over as if sizing me up for a game of buzkashi with me serving as the goat's carcass. They relax somewhat when Farhan gives them the skinny on my intention to volunteer in the earth quaked zone. After tea the three giants stuff themselves into the back of Farhan's sedan and we drive outside the city to where the relief-laden trucks are queued impatiently by the side of the road. We hold a pow-wow in the pitch black and the passing traffic brushes uncomfortably close to our position, drawing up towers of dust haphazardly painted by misaligned headlights. The drivers are talked into waiting until midnight to enter the city when they will be able to find parking to unload.

Farhan has finally developed an appetite and suggests we secure a late dinner. The restaurant he chooses is close to Pizza Hut geographically, but a world apart in ambience. The walls are adorned with scenes of Afghan rural life and ruins, including a depiction of the larger-than-life Buddhas that were subsequently shelled into oblivion by the Taliban. Many of the paintings resemble the imagined worlds of pulp sci-fi novels in their strangeness. The entire menu from A to Z is meat-centric. Farhan explains my dietary regimen to the bewildered Afghans who special order a soup and salad for me. In the meantime a plate stacked high with meat kebabs arrives. There is no possible way they will ingest the meaty mountain I muse, but am proved wrong in the trivial span of fifteen minutes. My soup arrives and immediately starts my veggie-sense tingling. Suspicious that something is amiss with the brownish swill, I cautiously submerge my spoon and strike a solid form. I move the mysterious mass up along the slope of the bowl and discover it to be a hunk of meat fashioned into a sphere. Farhan chuckles and suggests I just eat around the offensive matter. Meat eaters will never understand that food once touched by meat is forever tainted by association. Next the salad arrives. It appears to be nothing more than a generous bowl of smallish, pink and purple onions. I am about to plop one into my mouth when something at the bottom of the bowl catches my eye. I shift the onions to reveal a meat core! I resign myself to going without a second dinner. I can feel my apprehension rising with regards to securing sufficient calories in the mountains.

"Just wait till he gets to the Musaffarabad!" Farhan cackles with delight to the Afghans who still aren't quite sure what to make of the reluctant diner. Four plates of sizable bird carcass are served and once more I am inclined to think this will be the foursome's gastronomic comeuppance until one after another they are licking the meatless bones that once served as fleshy superstructure. Resonant belches are offered up liberally to the consternation of none. Next comes strips of dark meat which I take to be beef and they are swallowed up like displaced tongues leaving me in mute awe. Finally sated Farhan turns his attention back to his neglected cell phones which have been vibrating for his attention. They are bearers of bad news.

One of the trucks has scratched a doctor's Merc while making a turn and the indignant victim has taken all of three of the truck drivers' licenses and is refusing to return them. Without their licenses the drivers are unwilling to proceed into the city where the transfer of goods can take place.

We return to Farhan's office to work on a solution. One by one Farhan and his coterie phone the agitated physician and try to talk him into relinquishing the documentation.

"Sir, the vast majority of the cargo is medicines to replenish the depleted stores at the hospitals and camps in the mountains. Surely as a doctor..."

"Yabbitty, yap, yap."

"Yes, yes I understand. It's unfortunate, but a bigger tragedy..."

"Yabbitty, yap, yap."

"Yes. No. I understand, but please consider for a moment..."

"Yabbitty, yap, yap."

Farhan's friend from London, Ali, is the last to try his luck. Whereas the Afghans are built like mountains Ali is built like a tree and towers a good four inches above everybody else. He dresses in a curious commingling of East of West – loose sweat pants and a Harley-Davidson t-shirt are worn with a traditional Pathan cap and jacket. To continue working with Farhan, Ali moved with his family to Islamabad two years ago and they have finally adapted to life in the Islamic state after a bit of a rough patch. Now he, like his boss, has contracted the volunteer bug.

"Doctor, I am very sorry to disturb you sir at this late hour, but I would like to make you an offer..."

"Yabbitty, yap, yap."

"Right. That's why I am calling. I am willing to pay out of pocket whatever amount you think is necessary to cover the damages to your vehicle."

"Yabbitty, yap, yap."

"I completely trust you. You can estimate on the high side and then refund the difference if you choose."

"Yabbitty, yap, yap."

"What is the real issue then? Sir, there are people suffering tonight up in the mountains that will really benefit from..."

"Yabbitty, yap, yap. Click. Buzzzz."

"I can't believe it. The bloody chap's hung up on me." Thereafter the doctor switches off his phone and everyone present is at a loss as to how to proceed. Farhan remains good-natured about the situation and he reverts to what any South Asian worth his namak would do in a similar situation – he has a round of tea served up for all.

"Oh yeah, Mark can't have any," Farhan remembers with unbridled mirth.

"I can have black tea. Just not any with milk," I offer, more interested in setting the record straight than in actually having anything to drink.

"Oh, that's right," Farhan says slightly crestfallen. The dainty tea cups look ridiculously small in the giant paws of the Ali and the Afghans. The trio inquires into Farhan's land development business and he goes into salesman mode at 1:32 am, but you can tell his heart is not really into it. He excuses himself to his office/bedroom and returns in blue jeans and t-shirt with a corduroy jacket. Even in somnolent repose he remains appropriately attired for a GQ shoot. Over the next minutes Farhan's body sinks ever lower into his easy chair in what appears to be a precursor to sleep, yet his eyes remain wide open and scan an unseen thought-scape. In time he begins the demented snickering of the severely sleep-deprived.

"What is it?" Ali asks.

"There's only one man that can see us out of this mess," Farhan teases.

"Who?"

"You know who."

"Who?"

"You know who."

"I'm too tired to figure it out," Ali complains.

"You know who," Farhan persists. Ali scrunches his face in puzzlement before a slow smile straightens his features.

"Oh no, not the Brigadier," he says.

"He said to call him up if we ever needed help," Farhan points out.

"We do need help... But it's so late, early, or whatever."

"Should we call him? He's such a character. He just might be able to make the doctor come around by using his connections."

"The Brigadier, the Brigadier... he's larger than life," Ali muses slumberously.

"Should I call him?" Farhan smiles. "I'll do it if somebody tells me to."

"Go for it," I say, "Call in the heavy artillery."

Lost in Transit Elation

2005-12-01T01:13:00.000-08:00

On the eve of my trip to Pakistan I debate over what to pack and wonder what conditions I will find in the mountains. Paramahansa Yoganada-ji's poem Divya Banjara suddenly springs forth from the recesses of my memory and tunes out the mind's anxious static. Trepidation is replaced by quiet anticipation of the adventure that awaits. "Let's go," encapsulated by a whisper and a prayer.

I will be a gypsy,
Roam, roam, and roam!
I'll sing a song that none has sung.
I'll sing to the sky;
I'll sing to the wind,
I'll sing to my red cloud.
I'll roam, roam, and roam.

The exact wording of the remainder escapes me. It is something to the effect of proceeding to stranger, yet stranger lands, yet always being the king of your portable domain.

I break my Sunday fast sharing dinner with Mama and Papa in their bedroom/kitchen/living room. My contribution is asparagus brought from the very Americanized Khan market. The strange vegetable generates much discussion as to how it should be prepared, how it is grown, how it should be addressed and so forth. In the end Mama opts to fry it in the pan with some potatoes and eggplant and all agree it is delicious.

The following morning features a brief calm before a flurry of activity. At Mama's insistence I share with her the minimal secrets to my morning sits on the veranda. In exchange I make her climb the stairs to top level. In the weeks I have spent at the guest house this marks the first time Mama has left the second story of the compound. She makes labored squeaking sounds as we ascend, like air being forced out of a leaky bellows. "Mama's health not good," she huffs, "but I do everything I need in this life." She takes a two minute break on the landing half way up. Mama manages to sit for five of the ten prescribed minutes and then sits her way back down the stairs one at a time. When I join her in the courtyard she insists that she sat for the full ten minutes. I negotiate with Mama on a storage fee for the tens of thousands of Pakistani friendship letters, then head to the market to procure winter clothes and fire off last minute emails. Lastly I find a shipper for the over-sized portrait of Jesus in a meditative pose that I had commissioned by a local artist. I balance the piece precariously on the back of a bicycle rickshaw completely hidden from the view of those in front. As we pass, people turn back to see the life-size Christ in blissful serenity in the maddening crowd. The slightest breeze threatens to send the sail-like painting soaring into the heavens and I have my hands full keeping it earthbound.

My bags packed, I sit for lunch in the American Diner at the India Habitat Center in Delhi and order the usual: chili bean soy burger, side of sauteed mushrooms and a Hawaiian Sunset. I select California Dreamin' on the juke box and then idly peruse the Times of India while I wait for my order. The juke box clicks, whirs, clicks some more before Que Sera, Sera begins playing. What happened to California Dreamin'? Whatever (will be, will be). The Times prominently features two stories linking Pakistan to terrorist acts – the ISI's hand in the 1993 bombings purportedly divulged by recently extradited Abu Salim, and the alleged involvement of at least two Pakistani nationals in the recent Delhi bomb blasts. Page two publishes claims by Pakistan's human rights organization, Ansar Burney Welfare Trust, that the children orphaned by the earthquake are being recruited into terrorist camps. The melodramatic Where Have All the Children Gone follows Que Sera on the jukebox. Clearly the Universe is enjoying herself.

I haggle for a rickshaw and then am off for the Indira Gandhi International Airport. The rickshawala sings snippets from film songs and is sufficiently shocked when I chime in that we almost collide with the neighboring truck. We motor past street kids selling tabloid papers at a polluted intersection, a bare-bottomed child drinking from a filthy water bottle, smartly uniformed school kids at the bus stand, cows exchanging tongue baths, horses being walked at the polo grounds, and a Fellini-esque, giant-sized, inflatable Spiderman bounding around the lot of a petrol station. As we roll up to the airport I invite the driver to accompany me to Pakistan. "Very hard for Indian go," he says, "My everything here."

At the airport I encounter the all-too-familiar Indian bureaucrat that revels in his governmental-given power to make one wait without explanation or eye contact. "Excuse me, excuse me? Hello? My flight leaves in forty minutes would it be possible... Hello?" Nothing. As I look around at similarly frustrated travelers I consider that at the very least this breed is impartial in their non-application of timely assistance. The months spent in Indian queues (or more accurately 'scrums') have trained me to use the time for standing meditation rather than give in to the indignation of endless waiting. A half hour elapses before I am cleared to leave.

Once inside the departure area of the terminal I discover that my PIA boarding pass provides no gate number. An expansive painting of a flock of birds flying into a fiery cavern is evidently hung to keep people ever mindful of the dangers of flying. A trio of loudly laughing Germans passes by and I overhear their destination as Lahore and fall in behind them. The female of the trio is clad in what might pass as club wear in Europe. As we pass through what is the fourth security check since entering the terminal, her male companions loudly tease her when she raises her arms behind the screened partition where female passengers are frisked. To their delight she does a mock shimmy. The security staff do not look amused. Both men are rather burly, but one in particular sports a vast shoulder spread that makes me self-conscious of my India-withered frame. "You aren't so tough," I think to myself, "You're just the type that give Westerners a bad name." We proceed to yet another queue for yet another security check. Women to the left, men to the right. The German woman keeps up her banter with her companions while aggressively attacking a Subway sandwich. She leaves her place in line to shove the sandwich in the mouth of the broad-shouldered man while the other guffaws. "C'mon, you guys. Tone down your road show," I think derisively. It is then I note that the large man's arms have an odd angle at the shoulders. Closer inspection of his hands reveals that they are frozen in a neutral position and unnaturally smooth. It finally dawns on me that he has no arms, or rather he has two prosthetic arms. I sheepishly cease my internal critique of their behavior and am inspired to reflect on how imperfect impressions are. I peer out of a poorly caulked port hole at the orange orb of the setting sun. My last sight of India is of a woman on the tarmac stooped over and shoveling asphalt into piles. She appears to be ten-months pregnant (or maybe she is just bowling-ball fat).

The plane trip begins with a prayer in Arabic and then a stewardess comes on the PA system and announces that the flight to Lahore will last fifty minutes, God willing. Once airborne a man in his late twenties, looking for all the world like Eric's fictional fourth brother, overhears my vague plans to help with earthquake relief and introduces himself as Ed, project designer for ActionAid. "What kind of work are you looking to do?" he asks.

"Anything hands on. I heard cholera is becoming a real problem, so maybe just digging pits for latrines."

"I thought you would say that," Ed says grinning and slowly nodding his head. Evidently I look like a poop pit digger. The food tray comes by with a choice between crustless bread and croissant sandwiches. "Which one is vegetarian?" I ask the harried older man serving as a steward. Immediately several passengers within earshot of my inquiry laugh caustically.

"You are going to have a hard time in Pakistan," one offers.

"You are going to be very hungry," another pipes in.

"Actually I'm vegan."

"Then you are going to starve to death," the second commentator says amending his original prognosis. The steward shakes his head defiantly.

"There is no vegetable sandwich. Only meat." I opt for some orange juice and gnaw anxiously on the emergency procedures card. Ed leans across the aisle and gives me his bio. He has just come from one week of sun and fun on the 'hard to leave, really' beaches of Kerala and before that 'one of the most awful places on the planet' Kabul where his headquarters are. Ever since he turned eighteen he has been working non-stop in the non-profit world. After ten years he is starting to burn out.

"There's no money in it, really," Ed explains, "You get some nice satisfaction from the work, but just as often disappointment. To be honest, really, the only reason any of us Westerners do this stuff is for the adventure." Currently he has been given one week to design a earthquake relief project on which to spend 3.5 million dollars. I tell Ed that I would love to load or unload relief goods or help drive trucks into the affected regions. "This is exactly what we need," he says grinning once more. "I, myself, don't get the chance to go into the field anymore. I'm fly here and there, but I'm always stuck behind a desk now-a-days. I just got married last year, so I am looking to settle down and just lead a boring life, really."

In the Lahore terminal a lean, red-headed girl that towers a good two-inches over me introduces herself as Molly and says she overheard my conversation with Ed. "That's so cool that you're going to do relief work. What got you interested?" I start to fill her in on my stint in Ahmedabad, but she cuts me short. "I was there just a few weeks ago," she says, "Were you with any group? Do you know Manav Sadhna?"

"Yes. Jayeshbhai is amazing. How do you know about Manav Sadhna?"

"My friend Sonal..."

"Sonal Shah?"

"You know IndiCorps?"

"You know IndiCorps?"

It is a strange case of two people having occupied the same orbital space, but only coming into contact once the connective bond had been broken. It adds to my growing sense that I am but a player in an drama being scripted piecemeal. The author (or authors) of the play seem to come up with theatrical devices, tire of them and introduce new characters with the restlessness of someone wanting to fast forward to the climax. Both Molly and Ed are booked for Islamabad on the same flight as mine.

I visit the restroom to change into my Super-Ordinary Muslim Man costume of plain white pajama kurta. I have no idea what to expect in Islamabad and want to draw as little attention as possible. When I emerge from the stall the washroom attendants look at me like I have a screw loose. I take a look in the mirror and think I've done not too badly and decide to dismiss their stares as fashion envy. Back in the waiting area Molly studies my wardrobe change from head to toe before commenting, "Oh, you've put on your costume." Her tone is the same as one might adopt when humoring a senile relative.

Molly loans me her guidebook to look for hotel possibilities after explaining everything in Islamabad is booked due to a spate of international conferences. The Lonely Planet Guide to Pakistan plainly instructs vegetarian travelers that knife-wielding fundamentalists are the least of their worries and that they should leave the country for greener pastures ASAP. It gives no advice to vegan wayfarers presumably because their unqualified demise is so completely self-evident. A photo spread in the middle of the guide book features mountain scenery that triggers memories of an old and repetitive dream of mine where I am shown a vast, towering range of mountains and overcome by the desire to travel to them. Could these be rocky giants of my vision?

After writing down the numbers of some Budget Hotels I turn my attention to the newspapers folded in the pouch in front of me. While all major Indian dailies have long since superseded USA Today in the use of saturated colors and bold graphics, Pakistan's Nation and News both have the appearance of dated high school publications. There are no stories relating to the bomb blast discoveries made in India. An editorial pooh-poohs India's earlier claims of the probable involvement of rebellious Kashmiris in the attacks. "Our beloved jihadis risk their lives daily in striking at military targets and would never stoop to a cheap attack on civilians with bombs. It is most likely the Indian government that has coordinated the bomb blasts in an effort to discredit our struggle." Elsewhere an article addresses ideas on how to overcome the so-called 'trust deficit' with India. It is amazing to me that India uses the exact same language in reference to Pakistan. Apparently the trust deficit exists in both directions across the border. A special section in the newspaper details the myriad problems facing the residents in the earthquake affected region. I am champing at the bit to get into the mountains.

In Islamabad I am the last passenger left in the terminal along with an porcelain-skinned elderly woman in elaborate victorian dress. She seems completely out of place and period in the modern environs of an South Asian airport. I am missing a box containing my shoes and trekking poles while she is searching for a microscopic pin that served as a hinge in her hat box. She recruits two airline employees who feign to look around the now empty luggage conveyor for the missing pin. I join in the futile search and catch the gaze of one of the employees who rolls his eyes in frustration. I am called away from the charade to check a large cargo container for my missing box and find it at the bottom of the pile hopelessly distorted out of shape. When I return to the terminal the apparition of the woman has disappeared. In fact, the entire building is empty save for a jackbooted army man who sits listlessly by the door armed with an assault rifle. I step boldly through the sliding doors to where a few taxi drivers are waiting for the next flight to arrive. In spite of my costume and full beard no one deigns to speak to me in Urdu. One driver is antsy to take me immediately to Islamabad, but another in attendance insists there are no rooms available in the city. A man guarding the only phone booth makes some calls on my behalf to Islamabad's sister city, Rawalpindi – and although there are some vacancies all refuse to accommodate a foreigner. "Much problem for hotel to have foreigner stay," explains the phone operator. I begin to steel myself to the possibility of a cold night spent on the street.

I decide to enlist the original taxi driver and take my chances in Rawalpindi. From the airport we drive through neighborhoods that improbably bring to mind a nameless industrialized area somewhere in southern Illinois. Definitely not what I was expecting. Only occasional trucks of fantastical multi-colored decoration remind me I am sitting at some 170 odd degrees topsy-turvy with respect to the the States. Several futile stops are made before I find a featureless hotel on the main road. The proprietor reluctantly takes me in after I strike a properly portentous stance. "Call the police. Call the army," I dare him, "I am friends with the Captain and the General."

That night in my room I am too giddy with my new environs to sleep. After watching some pro wrestling on the static filled television (the first idiot box watched in many months) I pop a randomly selected bootleg DVD from Delhi into my laptop. The bootleg was produced by someone who videotaped the movie in the theatre and hence the screen is periodically obscured by patrons returning from the snack bar or headed to the restroom. English subtitles were added to the already English movie and are unintentionally comical in their inaccuracy. Interestingly, however, they provide insight into how an English-speaking South Asian might easily misinterpret an American's English. The transcriber, clearly not expecting to encounter anything of local relevance in the movie, mishears the very South Asian appellation Sameer (an Indian or Pakistani convenience store operator in the Boston based movie) as 'so we' on one occasion and 'the man here' on another. The italicized matter is taken verbatim from the subtitles.

Four Brothers

Oh okay, Darnelle. So the candy just happened to jump into your pocket?

Oh, okay, there are now, so the candy is just happened into your pocket, huh?

Sameer is going to call the police right now.

So we gonna call the police right now.

Is that the way you want to lead your life, huh?

Is there where you want to live in your life. huh?

I happen to believe that you're worth more. But you have got to believe it Darnelle.

I happened to believe that if you work more... Well, you're the police in turn now.

Are you bullshitting me?

Are you bullshit with me?

Now you tell Sameer.

Now you tell the man here.

So let's take a look at these Thanksgiving birds.

So, lets take a look at this thanksgiving birth.

Must have gotten off for good behavior.

He is good enough for good behavior.

Not likely.

Not like that.

I love you, man.

I love your hair.

Another model citizen, I'm sure.

Another mother suicide I'm sure.

I thought you said there were four?

The one just sitting in the floor?

Angel? Pretty boy. Ex-hustler...soldier. I guess he's a no show today.

Angel? Pretty bored. Ex-sailor, soldier, I guess he is not sure, I think.

In thirty years she only came across four lost causes.

I mean, 30 years, she only come across 4 lost of course.

Trust me, Fallow. These kids are congressmen compared to what they would have been.

Trust me, fellow, his kids are concluded compare to what they would.

But, I thought the mother was a saint.

But, I thought the mothers sick.

Air Force Ones

2005-11-29T21:48:00.000-08:00

At 7:00 the children start to trickle in the courtyard at the Air Force School just off of Lodi Road in Delhi. Dark-blue pants for the boys, skirts for the girls and azure-colored button-up shirts for all. Organic clusters of two to twenty form, fall apart and reform. From my vantage point on a neighboring roof it has the appearance of delicately flagellating pond life under the microscope. An imposing ten foot wall forms the front of the stage and is breached in four places by stairs leading up to the school or down to the courtyard depending on which way one is headed. Just before 7:30 the headmaster, dressed in freshly-pressed khaki pants and starched white oxford with blood-red tie, approaches the microphone for a sound check. "Yes? Yes? Okay? Yes? Hello? Hello?" Levels are adjusted until his voice is suitably imposing and then he starts barking orders. "Form up! Get into your lines! Hurry up, there! Hurry up! Into your lines! Hurry up!" The blue globules of students get drawn into wavy strings before tightening with parallel precision. A group of thirty uniformed girls take up position behind the headmaster who moves to the threshold of the stage to inspect his charges. This neatly arrayed chorus leads the other students in a patriotic number before the headmaster ominously retakes his position at the microphone.

"One of your classmates was feeling very smart and decided to violate school policy. He will not be joining you today. He will not be coming to classes tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, or next week. Those of you are feeling his fun was commendable will be advised that he has been expelled forever from the school. I want all of you to think about that long and hard. Your actions reflect on the good name of the school and we will allow our reputation to be tarnished by the foolish acts of a few. I want all of you to think about that today."

A synthesizer is brought onto the stage and set to straddle two impressive loud speakers. A senior male student approaches the keyboard with the solemn comportment of a concert pianist. I am expecting to hear another patriotic tune, but am flabbergasted to recognize the opening strains of the Final Countdown. Midway through the song the musician punches a button to activate a pulsating percussive accompaniment. He plays the song in its entirety with the passion of a robot while his classmates must remain frozen in formation. The comic effect is nonpareil.

After the song is complete the students are channeled into four lines of equal length and fed into the staircases leading to the school. The headmaster continues to harangue the rank and file with punctuated severity. "Stay in your assigned order. Keep your lines. Keep your lines! Heads up! You keep in mind what happens to rule breakers. Single file! Eyes forward!" In the gaps between his commands the clip-clop of thick-heeled shoes echo throughout the courtyard.

No more than five minutes elapses before a mop-topped man attired from head to toe in bleached-white prep wear sashays onto center stage with a portable cassette deck in hand. As he endeavors to connect his stereo to the amplifiers a trickle, then stream of pre-teens refill the courtyard, shepherded by three sari-clad staffers. Bright-white shorts for the boys, bright-white pleated skirts for the girls and black belts and white polo shirts for all. The children are redistributed between columns until all are of equal length and perfectly spaced at arm's length. Three consecutive lines are anchored by identically obese Sikh boys in blue turbans. Shorts pulled high over the waistline, they bear the telltale hallmark of the worldwide fraternity of nerds. Two girls ascend the steps to the stage and take up positions to either side of the instructor. I am prepared to watch a regimented drill in physical education befitting of a hard-nosed military school.

With Broadway-like flair, the instructor whirls away from his cassette deck to face the students and flicks his collar up a la Richard Simmons. The tape begins with an infectious maraca setting the rhythm to light raps on the snare drum. The beat is immediately familiar, but I am unable to place it. The instructor stands with one arm akimbo and the other raised skyward to snap out the beat as he bounces on the toes of his shoes. When the taped vocals start all present launch into choreographed routine. Simultaneously some three hundred students jump, twist, turn and gyrate to The Ketchup Song by Las Ketchup.

(To come anywhere close to appreciating the remainder of this narrative as much as I did in watching it unfold, you are encouraged to download The Ketchup Song mp3 from Limewire or a similar peer-to-peer file sharing system.)

Friday night it's party time
Feeling ready looking fine,
Viene diego rumbeando,
With the magic in his eyes
Checking every girl in sight,
Grooving like he does the mambo

The Sikh boys perform their steps one to two beats behind the rest of the group. They watch those in front and ape their moves with sluggish imprecision. As the body copies one body posture the eyes and brain are already registering another and the result is stumbling mayhem. The instructor himself executes the moves with a precious banality that is completely devoid of soul.

He's the man alli en la disco,
Playing sexy felling hotter,
He's the king bailando et ritmo ragatanga,
And the dj that he knows well,
On the spot always around twelve,
Plays the mix that diego mezcla con la salsa,
Y la baila and he dances y la canta

In stark contrast a comely girl in the second row is singular in her movements. How is it that one in three hundred identically dressed children can stand out like a turtledove among house pigeons? Most of us emerge from the womb kicking and flailing with bodies slightly tight around the hips or pinching at the shoulders. Others are fairly comfortable in their skin and may go on to excel in athletics or live to be one hundred three. But it is only one in three hundred thousand whose clay is cast so perfectly that her movements manifest something of the heavens in corporeality.

Asereje ja de je de jebe tu de jebere seibiunouva,
Majavi an de bugui an de buididipi,
Asereje ja de je de jebe tu de jebere seibiunouva,
Majavi an de bugui an de buididipi

I cast my gaze hither and thither among the students, but it is drawn back to the dancing prodigy time and time again. She has taken the ridiculous, vaguely calisthenic movements of the routine and woven them into effortless grace and seamless beauty. There are none of the slight hesitations that would betray self-consciousness – she has crossed the line where the dancer becomes the Dance. She dances for no one, but for the pleasure of the Universe herself.

Many think its brujeria,
How he comes and disappears,
Every move will hypnotize you,
Some will call it chuleria,
Others say that its the real,
Rastafari afrogitano

I am twelve again and hopelessly infatuated with the vision of physical perfection that is the eleven-year old boogie queen. She was born to dance and is as free as a bird on the wing.

Asereje ja de je de jebe tu de jebere seibiunouva,
Majavi an de bugui an de buididipi,
Asereje ja de je de jebe tu de jebere seibiunouva,
Majavi an de bugui an de buididipi

Dream of the Net Head Ball Bouncer

2005-11-28T00:54:00.000-08:00

John and I stare out from the departure rampway at the mushrooming super cloud that dominates the Southern sky. Its location makes it appear that Ahmedabad has been bombed into oblivion – a draconian governmental program to give the newly proclaimed mega-city a fresh start.

Mere sketches of the robustly thin duo that arrived in Mumbai seven months prior, John and I fantasize about the varied vegan cuisine available in the States. John fixates on the chai with soy milk that he prepares with clockwork regularity back in the Bay Area. He is an tea-drinking aficionado and replays the steps in preparing the perfect cup with the exacting detail of a true addict. My mind has set another repast: a steaming Smart Dog topped with Veganrella cheese, relish and thick spaghetti sauce on a toasted bagel. A pint of Chocolate Cookie Crunch Tofutti awaits in the freezer of my fantasy.

For weeks now I have been battling with diarrhea, odd bouts of flu, and a lack of appetite for any of the Gujarati foodstuffs. The mere mention of double-thick roti makes my stomach turn. If I stand just right in the sunlight my bellybutton can be seen from the backside. Acquaintences don't hesitate to tell me how really bad I am looking, man. "You're looking really bad, man. What happened?" What can I say? India happened. John, too, has now fallen victim to the "skinnies" and sports a similarly prominent backbone ridge sans shirt. Withered wisps of once well-padded Westerners are we.

John and I talk about rekindling the dreamlike quality that makes India so enchanting. Returning to Delhi for meetings with prominent people seems about as exciting as going to a large city for meetings with prominent people. The letters to Pakistan project seems sufficiently significant to bear the banality of the pending powwows, but our bodies are hell-bent on an alimentary succour that is not forthcoming. We stand outside the terminal in a sluggish, semi-daze after learning our Delhi flight was for 3:30 AM and not 3:30 PM. We will have to return to Ahmedabad for the night.

A pair of men approach our position and I overhear the bigger of the two say, "Gujarati?" to his friend as he looks at John. The comment is totally improbable, so I take it as a harbinger of the dream returning to potency and motion them over. We stand on opposite sides of the rampway railing. I point to John.

"Ek dam Gujarati," I claim, "From Surat. Family of diamond merchants." The men look at John with amazement.

"Gujarati," John confirms, pointing to himself. The larger of the pair asks John some questions in Gujarati and John nods enthusiastically, but is unable to respond to the man's satisfaction. We steer the conversation to English and the men introduce themselves as Amit and Ashok. We learn Amit has a brother in Chicago in the computer software business. I've been claiming to be "from near Chicago" for the past six months – an exaggeration precipitated only by the familiarity of the city to Gujaratis. Many of them hear it as "New Chicago" and marvel at their lack of knowledge of such a place. Awkwardness follows when the stranger is too familiar with the Windy City and inquires where exactly I live. I am forced to explain, somewhat dubiously, that I am some 250 miles down the road, but America is quite big so it still counts for near. John excuses himself to go to the bathroom and I seize upon his absense to coach the more fluent of the two, Amit, in a dream role.

"Actually, John's from America, but his wife is Punjabi," I explain, "I've got an idea, but I need your help. When John comes back look at him for a long time while slowly stroking your chin." Amit readily agrees almost too readily and mimics my motion. "No, not now. Wait for John to return and then do it. Then point to his eyes and say you can tell from them that there is something interesting about his wife. Yes, something unusual. She is not from the Americas or even Europe. No, you sense she is from somewhere else. Ask to look directly into his eyes and pretend to concentrate." The man is smiling broadly now and seems to get where I am going with the set up. "Then say she herself is from somewhere not too distant. Not Ahmedabad. Somewhere further. Yes, somewhere to the north. Say you are getting an image of turbans and beards and are hearing music. Yes, bhangra. Is she Punjabi?" Amit laughs and rubs his hands together like a cartoon villain in anticipation. "Take your time, but you absolutely have to do it," I tell him, "It will be a treat for John. He'll love it."

"Yes, yes," Amit cackles with giddy mirth.

"Her name is Loveleen, so also say something about her name being filled with great heart."

"Lovely," says Amit.

"No, Loveleen. But, yes it is lovely."

Almost on cue John emerges for the airport terminal and rejoins us. Amit loudly proclaims, "You don't look like your from Punjab!" I am dumbfounded. John looks confused, but doesn't seem to have registered that I have had a hand in this odd observation. "Where is your wife from?" Amit practically shouts. My dream-weaving fun is being destroyed with hard-to-comprehend zeal. I move slightly behind John and frantically motion to Amit to go slow, hoping there may be some chance to salvage the charade. I point to John's eyes and stroke my chin hoping to remind Amit of the fortune telling routine, but he only stares at me dumbly. I decide instead to distract John before he can answer Amit's question and buy some time.

"This guy is absolutely amazing," I lie, "He can just stare into your eyes and intuit your deepest secrets. When you were in the terminal he told me that I was single, but that you must be married and he said that he could even determine where your wife is from just from looking at your eyes. He totally confirms that the dream is still alive and well here."

John looks impressed. "Really?" he says with wonder, before turning back to Amit who is looking completely lost.

"Look into his eyes," I tell Amit, "Can you tell us anything about John's wife?" He briefly glances at John then back to me and shrugs his shoulders. "Re - mem - ber? You know something about John's wife, right?" Amit shakes his head no.

"You are married?" Amit asks John. I grab my hair and pull skyward.

"Yes, he's married! Can you tell us where...his...wife...is...from? Is she also from America?" Amit stares at me as if I am speaking Greek. "Maybe she is from Europe? From Greece?"

"Your wife is from Greece?" he asks John. At this point John looks just as befuddled as Amit. I've lost all hope of pulling the scam off.

"I spent the whole time you were in the terminal coaching him on how to read you mind," I explain to John. Amit looks on, now smiling, and vigorously confirms my confession by nodding his head. I turn to him. "What happened to you?" I say, "I thought we had it all worked out, but you didn't say anything about his wife! You acted like you didn't know anything."

Amit gives me a look like he has landed on Pluto without his headgear. Then slowly a grin forms and he snaps his fingers smartly, "I get it! It's a joke! But my English is not good." I heave a sigh of one utterly defeated, before we all share in a good laugh.

A rusted bucket of a rickshaw rolls by with a completely incongruous neon-green cable running from the meter to the axle. Maybe the dream is coming back. I point the discrepancy out to John and he ends up noticing the IndiCorps vehicle just beyond the rickshaw in the parking lot. It isn't lost on me that the same vehicle picked us up at the beginning of our fantastical odyssey in Ahmedabad. It stands either as the perfect midway bookmark of our trip or a taunting symbol of how little we have really accomplished – it's as if seven months have elapsed and the car is still there waiting to take us into the city. We haul our luggage over to the IndiCorps Sumo and look expectantly back to the terminal for Anand to appear. We figure he must have come to drop off or pick up one of the IndiCorps fellows. Minutes pass, but no Anand.

Two boys selling net-wrapped balloon balls approach to hawk their wares. John takes pity on one and selects a red ball. I encourage him to discard the ball and keep only the flimsy net-bag that it came in. He tosses the ball aside and hands the net to me which I put over my head. The perverse humor is lost on the boys who run to reclaim the ball. Two girls selling the same balloon-ball novelties have seen the transaction take place and run over in the hopes of unloading more of the toys (or the nets that hold them). Instead, I snatch the ball from the boys and set up an impromptu game of volleyball in an effort to distract their minds from work. The ruse is successful and the fun transmutes into a soccer game with the girls on my side and boys on John's. Yet another vendor girl catches sight of our frolic in the parking lot and works her way into the game which has now turned into a hoop-less variation on basketball. The play is vigorous and a child will periodically be sent sprawling onto the concrete, but no matter. Dust yourself off, dab up the blood, and jump back in. My incessantly diarrhea-racked body, which has been bed bound for the past couple weeks, is in no shape to be moving at all, but somehow the sheer enthusiasm of the children keeps it animated. My heart is racing like in the movies just before the slow-motion sequence where the protagonist crumples to the ground clutching his chest.

Families form tea-time circles at various locations of the parking lot and look on approvingly at our break-neck antics. I ask our playmates if they would like to take a meal break (I want to die on a full stomach). The idea is received enthusiastically by all and we make a move for the airport employee's canteen some hundred meters to the side of the terminal. Midway our progress is halted by a security guard who indicates the children cannot pass. I am indignant. "This is my family. She is my little sister, these two are my little brothers and these two are also sisters. We're hungry and we're going to have dinner together." The guard is sufficiently flummoxed that we are able to proceed without further incident. At the door to the canteen the eldest of the girls suddenly gets cold feet about entering, and, in spite of my exhortations, she opts to return to the parking lot with the poles of balloon balls instead. The restaurant is a dirty single room with one corner forming the kitchen and counter. The employees help John and I move a marry tables together and arrange plastic chairs to accommodate our dinner party. Two scruffy boys appear from nowhere and take places at the table. My initial reaction is to exclude them from our dinner party, but ultimately I decide this has to be an open door affair. I insist that everyone wash hands and say a brief prayer before snatching up the samosas and fried triangles of unknown content. The canteen staff is unable to contain their curiosity about our gathering.

(In Hindi)

"Where are you from?"

"The USA. America."

"Why are you with these kids?"

"What kids?"

(Laughing) "These kids."

"They aren't kids. They're just family."

"Yes, sir. Very Good!"

"Not sir, just brother."

I inquire about the girl who has stayed back and one of her friends promises to set aside some snacks for her. The greatest kick is to see my adopted siblings in the unusual role of being able to order their preferences. Tomorrow they will bake anew in the airport parking lot and the security guards will hound them with their batons, but tonight we dine together.

Ducktor Quack-a-Doodle-Doo

2005-11-10T07:30:00.000-08:00

Ashok is holding his left arm at half mast and looking bemused. He shows me a peanut-shaped lump that has developed in his armpit. "You're are going to die soon, brother," I deadpan. His smile disappears.

"But the doctor said it was just a rash."

"A rash? What doctor said that? You aren't going to die anytime soon, but you have a swollen lymph node which means you probably have some kind of infection. Did you really go to a doctor?"

"You are right," Ashok says nodding gravely, "It wasn't a doctor. It was just a..."

"M.B.B.S."

"Yes, how did you know?"

"No doctor would have told you that it is just a rash. Tomorrow you should go to a real doctor."

"Yes, you are right."

The following evening I come up to Ashok's room to check on him and he is in bed with a large green leaf in the crevice formed by the ailing armpit. An application of red powder is visible along the edges. Ashok pokes at the leaf with his finger and awkwardly tries to get a better look at himself by craning his neck down and forward and squinting one eye.

"So it finally sprouted," I say, startling him from his self-exam.

"Yes. My wife knows some cure from her village," Ashok explains, "It's ayurvedic." Every backwoods Indian cure is casually ascribed to the hoary body of healing knowledge.

"But it will be sad when you have to cut it down, hai na?"

"What, no. Oh, I get it, it's a leaf. Yes, it's funny, I know."

"Seriously, even if the leaf manages to reduce the swelling there is likely an infection in your body somewhere that has caused the lymph node to swell. You still should see a doctor just to be safe."

"Yes, you are right," Ashok says. His signature cliché is repeated with such precision that my ego is seduced into a slight self-satisfactory throb. Playing doctor has never been so easy.

We go down to the street where two medical clinics sit directly opposite one another. Dr. Rajinder Singh on one side and Dr. (Vaid) Baldev Dass on the other. Ashok heads toward Dr. Singh's clinic then at the last second veers to the other. "It is cheaper," he explains patting his pocketed wallet.

"The sign says so, but do you think there is a real doctor here?" I ask Ashok as we enter.

"I don't know. Maybe? We'll see anyway."

"Yes?" a voice inquires from behind a curtain at the back of the deep and narrow office. Long wooden benches flank the anterior of the room and are followed by glass cases brimming with brown-glass bottles and clear plastic containers copious with pills.

Ashok explains his bubbly armpit ailment to the disembodied inquisitor pausing midway to remove his shirt. Finally a fifty-something man, with thinning whitish hair, pokes his head out and glances first at Ashok's armpit and then to me before quickly retracting. I take him to be the clinic's namesake.

"Is there any test you guys can do to determine what's causing..." I start to ask.

"Boils!" (Vaid) interrupts.

"But his lymph nodes..."

(Vaid) pretends not to hear my protest and begins barking orders to a youngish, bespectacled assistant who fishes in a jar for differently colored pills. In spite of the signage I conclude that these be no properly sanctioned men of healing and tell Ashok I will check across the street to see what competing snake oil they have to offer. I whirl around to see two heads disappear behind a partition in the back of the opposing clinic. The offices are so perfectly aligned that one is given the impression of being in a single, impressively long room, broken only by a maddening torrent of interlopers in the midsection. Two shoe boxes with cutouts set in opposition.

After navigating the traffic-congested divide I discover the layout of Dr. Singh's clinic to be identical to the (Vaid)'s. I proceed to the back of the office where I find a distinguished looking older man and a young assistant seated at smallish desks behind the partition. They self-conscientiously occupy themselves with a melange of papers and files. "Are you Doctor Singh?" I ask.

"Yes, yes. But not now. They're looking," he says. I turn back curious to see to whom he is referring and see Ashok paying for his envelope of pills and the pill's dubiously-qualified prescriber leaning out from behind his curtain – peering past Ashok, through the confusion of the street and right to where I stand.

"Is Doctor Dass really a doctor or just a M.B.B.S.," I ask. In truth, I myself don't know the difference between the designations, but had overheard someone speaking derisively about an M.B.B.S. degree sometime earlier.

"He is not even an M.B.B.S. He passed only tenth standard," Dr. Singh avers.

"But the sign says Doctor Dass."

"You can write anything on a sign, isn't it?"

"Yes, but you are a real doctor?"

"Yes."

"Even though your sign says you are a doctor?" My perverse attempt at humor is lost on the doctor (self-professed at least) who is clearly distracted. "My friend has had a impressively swollen lymph node for the past couple of days and was wondering if you could determine the cause." Dr. Singh leans to look beyond me to (Vaid)'s clinic.

"I can have a look tomorrow. Now will not be good. It would look bad." Ashok enters and I turn to him. Over his shoulder I can see (Vaid) peeking at us again with one hand on the curtain. Our eyes meet and he releases his hold on the curtain to return to hiding.

"He can take a look at you tomorrow, but doesn't want to do anything now," I explain to Ashok, "He said the other doctor really isn't a doctor." Ashok smiles grimly and looks to Dr. Singh.

"You can't have a look now?"

"It would look bad. You were just at the other clinic isn't it? Come tomorrow morning before the other clinic is open."

As Ashok and I leave I look more closely at Dr. Singh's sign. Dr. Rajinder Singh M.B.B.S. (Pb) M.A.M.S. (Vienna) P.C.M.S. (Ex). His shingle is rich with acronyms, but his warning about fake claims rings on in my ears. I catch him, one last time, spying across the street at (Vaid)'s clinic and he grimaces slightly when our eyes meet. Obviously I have upset some delicate balance. I turn to look again at (Vaid)'s sign. Dr. (Vaid) Baldev Dass & Son R.M.P. Regd. Medical Practitioner. What (Vaid)'s appellative lacks in acronyms is made up for with the parenthetical 'good' name I muse. A new client stands in his clinic, but (Vaid) is again looking with considerable distress across the street into Dr. Singh's and then to Ashok and me.

The next day I find Ashok reclining shirtless on the third floor veranda. His armpit sports a large piece of cotton affixed with a strip of tape. "What happened," I ask, "Was it a cotton plant?"

"No, the doctor gave me some oil and put this bandage on."

"You mean Doctor Singh from across the street? Oil on the lymph node isn't going to do anything for the infection."

"Yes, it was Doctor Singh."

"He didn't say anything about what kind of infection you might have or give you any antibiotics?"

"No. Just oil in the armpit."

"I don't think he is a real doctor."

"Yes, you are right."

Postscript:
Many months back while still in the States I received a package from One Infinite Way. No other information as to the sender was given. A sucker for mysteries, I breathlessly I tore open the parcel to find a single bootleg DVD, Munna Bhai M.B.B.S., and a business card proclaiming "Smile. You're it!" To this day I have no clue (Nipun) who sent the mysterious parcel. That night, as I lay on my couch, I propped my laptop open on my chest and watched the nearly three hour Bollywood masterpiece in its entirety. I can safely recommend this movie to anyone wanting to idle away an evening and to be initiated into the healing secrets of jaado ki jaaphi.

The Comedy of Airs (In Four Farts)

2005-11-07T21:35:00.000-08:00

>>> Environmental Sanitation Institute
>>> Sughad, Gujarat
>>> September 12, 3:45 PM

John gives the IndiCorps fellows our standard disclaimer that we have been battling one or an other sickness for weeks and aren't normally so singularly skeletal in appearance. He then launches into a heartfelt explanation of the connection between spirituality and service. The stark honesty and vulnerability of his presentation creates a reverent silence at its conclusion.

An ascending, rusted-muffler fart rends the quietude. One of the IndiCorps fellows is a compact, nervous Britisher bearing an uncanny resemblance to Michael Myer's fictional Austin Powers character. In complete sincerity he takes full responsibility for the eruption. "All right, then. That was me and I'm quite sorry for it. Quite loud, really." Everyone is seized by wild laughter with the exception of the perpetrator who darts questioning looks about the room and is slightly befuddled by the sudden frivolity.

>>> Humayun Road
>>> Pandara Park, Delhi
>>> October 2, 3:45 PM

Migrant workers have set up a temporary encampment along the road a stone's throw from Khan market. I make eye contact and exchange smiles with a button-nosed tiny tot. Emboldened by her mother's prodding she approaches me for begging.

"Tumhara naam kyaa hai?"

"Preeti," she says shyly lifting her hand for alms. I foment to distract Preeti from her mission with my patented hand variety show and swing my computer bag behind me in preparation. I dramatically line my thumb up for removal. "Dekho, dekho," I command her. I am overcome by an irrepressible and sudden surge of gas through my colon and my sphincter resonates in absolute tandem with the thumb slide.

"Chee, chee, chee," Preeti scolds in retreat with nose wrinkled. I sulk away feeling badly that she probably thinks the fart was intended as part of my short-lived routine. I look back a single time to see Preeti relating my foul play to her mother, but at least she is smiling. Later when meditating the scene comes to mind and my tranquility is shattered by a sudden sharp guffaw and waves of mirth.

>>> Green Guest House
>>> Pahar Ganj, Delhi
>>> November 6, 10:45 AM

Mama is feeling particularly affectionate toward me after I administered an impromptu arm massage earlier in the morning and calls me over to sit next to her. The Nigerian brothers, still buzzing from the previous night's intoxicants, are in their room laughing off their highs. The larger of the brothers had been pacing the courtyard for an hour at dawn, and, interspersed with privately enjoyed chuckles, wishing all comers and the walls a very good morning.

"Jitay raho," Mama blesses me with a hand placed atop my head. She tells me to pull up a chair, but I decline explaining the floor is more comfortable due to the chronic pain engendered by my sciatica. "Mark you really like good son," she proclaims, "I feel as like your mother." Then ever so slowly Mama shifts her weight away from me and issues forth a sonorous fart of over five seconds duration. The poisoned wind breaks directly across my face. The cackling Nigerians crescendo with wild hooting as if privy to the comic opera playing outside their room. Mama offers no commentary on the indecorous assault. I stare gravely at the opposite wall marshaling all my resources not to lose it.

>>> Nav Jeevan Home for the Aged and Orphaned Children
>>> Tirunelveli, Tamil Nadu
>>> February 26, 10:17 AM

Shakar, the driver, explains in broken English that my octogenarian roomie isn't able to understand Hindi.

"He speak only Telugu. If you want speak Hindi, then other old man speak Hindi. Full Hindi." Shakar points to the neighboring room. A nearly subsonic rumble reverberates from behind the closed door. The sound is akin to that produced by the subwoofers on a tricked-out low rider. It culminates in a pizzicato whine and terminates, inexplicably, with a pop.

"Did you say full Hindi, or full windy?" I ask. Gales of laughter buffet the plastered walls of our hostel.

The Great American Essay

2005-11-05T02:47:00.000-08:00

"Be great!" he commanded finger thrust in the general direction of my solar plexus. "BE GREAT!" What simple advice I marvel some nine months and nine hundred kilometers separating my person from the guru's kingly injunction. He, himself, had been clad gaudily in the garb of kings of yore – ridiculous satin robes, bejeweled necklaces, and a fluffy, animal-skin brimmed hat – and held court as the most royal of royals do, allowing his subjects to prostrate before him. I sit on the edge of my too-hard bed and eat three-hour-old chow mein noodles from a borrowed plastic tub with a borrowed and bent spoon. A mouse comes to scavenge for edibles from the refuse heap I have created in one corner of the room. Daily visits have emboldened him to the point of being flinch-free when I toss him a bit of bread with a dab of jam made from blackberries, which, according to the label, were collected by children of Himachal Pradesh.

Earlier in the evening I had gone to the rooftop of the Cheapest and Best Evergreen Guest House mock-zombie style followed by the son of the hired hand whom Dipti loaned three hundred rupees to get a bicycle rickshaw on loan, but he spent on whiskey and girls instead according to Mama. We ascend the stairs under which is tucked the former servant, who returns now to ail away the hours on donated medicines prescribed to treat the swelling of organs brought on by years of smoking hashish, opium and too many other drugs the names of which I could not catch. I twirl the boy around and around and launch him star-ward (we counted three together) with lunar leaps before reducing him to a mass of tickles on the wet bedding he and his father share. Two days earlier I had sat for meditation in this same place and heard someone approach, or so I thought, and only after maybe five minutes of uncanny silence I had peaked to find the normally hyperactive, pleading and whining boy sitting in half-lotus posture not ten inches in front of me. Not a peep.

Yesterday, I had just returned from the Pahar Ganj's main bazaar where I had been trying to purchase a ticket online for Pakistan to beat my Indian visa deadline and assist with earthquake relief, when an explosion reverberates from the street. I assume is just one more of the fire works being set off in anticipation of Diwali which is only two days off and I am theoretically destined to miss because I have to leave the country. Ashok, the young Rajastani that has been trying to ghee me up for a loan to purchase a motor rickshaw appears in the second-floor courtyard of the guest house looking shaken and says there was a bomb blast on the street and body parts are scattered hither and yon with one person's face half blown off and it is bad. He assures me there is nothing I can do to be of help as police have cordoned off the area and later Papa is glued to the television and informs us that three bombs, then five bombs, then, no, three again, were set off in the city – two of which are on my daily route. The number of dead ascends late into the night and when the former child soldier from Nigeria comes home drunk he gets into an argument with Papa about who is stronger and stumbles into the fuse box killing power to the house.

The next day, which is today, I grab a rickshaw to head to Defense Colony for the first official meeting of the NGO for street and slum children that I am co-founding with the charmingly imperious Dr. Manjula Krippendorf. Past a Panicker's Travels bus, past a Society for the Eradication of Cruelty to Animals van, past the red-bordered rectangles on the wall where urinating is prohibited and into the tony neighborhood of the Doctor's bungalow. Five minutes early. The policeman, the Times of India model and the owner of the restaurant at Khan Market all arrive by noon, but the Doctor, who is four for four in being late to meetings, is not destined to show up for another hour when she arrives breathlessly apologizing and complaining about the traffic in the market saying that it takes so much time to get things done during the festival season, no?

After the meeting I ride with the policeman in an ambassador-style police car with a giant-sized cologne bottle secured with plastic brackets on the front dash board where one would normally expect to find a shrine to Sai Baba of Shirdi or the multi-armed Durga astride a tiger. At an intersection a street child approaches the car and holds up copies of The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari, Steven Covey's Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, and Chicken Soup for the Soul, but we don't know what to say to him because we haven't gotten that far in the planning of the NGO. The policeman is on 24-hours call due to the bomb investigation (the three bombings were most likely coordinated?!?) and when we arrive at his house I am repeatedly offered sweets by his wife whom he repeatedly reminds that I am fasting and all the while I still have to get back to the Pahar Ganj to look at other Web sites to check on tickets for Pakistan or risk becoming a fugitive on the run from the visa goon squad once again. The police complains that his son isn't aiming high enough and seems lazy and wonders if I can't give him a second pep talk and what I think of him, but his son is in the next room and so I defer judgment other than to say that he seemed like a 'cool' kid. 'Cool' clearly doesn't satisfy dad who excuses himself from the room without comment.

An animated Sikh doctor comes calling and gives me a vigorous massage/beating for my sciatica while we share notes about the salutary nature of the vegan diet to which he has been a twenty-five year adherent and though he is fifty four he looks to be in his twenties. He tells me that his daughter is staying in Maryland, but she doesn't like it there and that Americans are all iron with no hearts and that they make great men, but poor humans. "To be great you must not just have this," he begins shaking a clenched fist, "but this too," he finishes punching the hand to his chest in a fashion that leaves no doubt as to his Panjabi pedigree. The policeman's wife asks the turbaned doc what she should do about this and that ailment and he tells her she is of ten heads and has to become of just one mind, not thinking about tomorrow or yesterday, or later today or earlier today, or the next hour or the last hour, or even the next minute or the last minute, but just now and now and now and then the pains will take care of themselves, because they are not primary in nature. She nods absentmindedly and insists that he have some more sweets.

I take the 480 bus, or the 520 back toward the Pahar Ganj where police vehicles and armed patrols are sprinkled among the Diwali shoppers to give the appearance of security to an audience that is largely indifferent. I weave my way through the hoards to the Yogoda Satsanga Society and bask briefly in the stillness of the meditation room before acquiring ten heads of my own over visa issues, air tickets, where to store the pile of student letters, the street-child NGO, where to find food to break my fast that lasts till midnight, the ache in my left knee, disease-carrying mosquitoes, diwali, bombs, and how cold it must be up in the mountains at this time of year. The subsequent visit to the internet cafe confirms that it won't be possible to purchase tickets for Pakistan online and so I am destined to slip into non-compliance with the visa requirements the following day and do the bureaucratic shuffle once more.

Late that night, which is tonight, I slide in the DVD that was supposed to include a four-pack of bootlegged Hindi films and discover Alexander the Great instead with an option for Korean or Russian sub-titles. Alexander works his way east to India cutting down barbarians on his black steed that used to be afraid of its shadow and his mom keeps reminding him in flashbacks that he is destined to be great and there it is again. Be great. Alexander and I struggle with what that means. Be great. Oliver Stone tries to make the movie itself great by casting Anthony Hopkins in the role of a former compatriot of Alexander's now living in Alexandria and waxing reminiscent about Alexander's exploits. After ballyhooing his accomplishments for the first ninety nine hundredths of the movie, Hopkins' character ultimately is torn as to whether Alexander was all that great really.

Alexander is inclined to measure his greatness against the myths of old, those in particular of Achilles and Hercules, which Alexander pronounces, "HERA - cuh - lease" in a faux-Macedonian accent which sounds vaguely British. For him it is also tied in with the concept of fearlessness, especially overcoming the fear of death which is the greatest fear of all and in doing so become immortal in a way. Alexander's male lover is inclined to find him great because of the way he cocks his head ever so regally while sharing his dreams of joining the world's peoples under one banner. Alexander's large-breasted barbarian wife finds him great because of the way he fights back in bed and hisses at her. My own take is that greatness lies, at least partly, in forsaking the measuring stick of success provided by the society at large and superseding the confines of egoic ambition to the point that we die while still alive and can fearlessly pen a life story of ever-increasing connectivity and creativity without regard to gain or loss. Peace Pilgrim would be an exemplar. To give up a worldly inheritance for an unbounded and unknown universe may seem irrational, but it is essential as breath (is breath essential?) to those too great to be satisfied by the mundane. Greatness, in this context, is born of necessity – the phoenix ascending from the ashes of a self-lit funeral pyre.

At 12:01 a.m. I seize upon the noodles that I bought on the street at 9:01 p.m. and find them a tad slimy, but I am famished so I don't really mind, though I can't manage to stomach the second bag and decide instead to give it to Mama who fries it for the hired hand who took the 300 rupees from Dipti and the former hired hand who sleeps all day under the stairs and is thankful for the fruit I sometimes bring and is always needing more medicine.

Farmer fellow,
Pits stained yellow;
Hired hand,
Pituitary gland.

Just great.

Ruby Tuesday

2005-10-28T22:40:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I learned of the passing of my beloved companion of twelve years. Ruby, a dwarf rabbit, meant the world to me and was a true comforter to any and all that took the time to sit with him. (Nipun, Kevin, Derek and Eric were a few of the lucky characters to share his darshan.) While a lengthier piece on this remarkable soul is to follow, I thought he would chortle in approval it if I were to use this space to issue a challenge for this upcoming Tuesday (which is next Tuesday no matter when you read this). The challenge is this: to provide solace – material, mental, spiritual – to some person, plant, animal or insect that is hurting or troubled. While most of this do this anyway, the challenge is to step outside the normal bounds of what you find comfortable to extend this comfort. Not an easy challenge, but a fitting memorial for a remarkable creature who consistently sought to bring out the best in me and others.

Don't question why he needs to be so free,
He'll tell you it's the only way to be,
He just can't be chained,
To a life where nothing's gained,
Nothing's lost...at such a cost.

Goodbye Ruby Tuesday
Who could hang a name on you,
When you change with every new day,
Still I'm gonna miss you.

Still I'm gonna miss you Bug.

Things I Saw Within a Hundred Meters of One Another

2005-10-14T03:57:00.000-07:00

Two one-armed men wrestling over a ten rupee note.
A man relieving himself against a wall while his dog turned away in embarrassment.
A kitten gnawing on a rat's carcass double its size.