A Dream Realized: Journey to India, 1979
In which I share a draft of an essay about my mother's first trip to India, and the next trip when she met my father. Skip to the end for a recent photo of Josie.
In gratitude to my dear friends for supporting me with small gestures of kindness – tearful phone calls after reading, encouraging texts, emails about the old nail polish collection on Middlefield Road, Whatsapp messages, voice notes, and colored pens.
With profound gratitude for Jovan Scott Lewis for providing me with an office, an unlimited supply of books (The library is on the ground floor, I am on the 5th floor! Magical!) and welcoming me into the Geography community.
Special thanks again to Maria Valles and the Valles family who run Mas Polou for a beautiful residency in 2021… the book project is slowly making its way into the world.
I plan to add additional reflections from my residency in Spain, and excerpts from my own India journals.
Nov 2, 2024: McCone Hall, UC Berkeley
A tribute to Guru Nitya Chaitanya Yati on the anniversary of what would have been his 100th birthday. I am writing in recognition of his ability to help bring my mother back to herself after experiencing profound loss and grief. In gratitude for his teachings, writings and words that have also assisted me in returning to myself. How wonderful that words can survive us after we are gone.
Jan, 2021: Mas Polou, Spain
The small red notebook is not much bigger than my hand, which is only slightly larger than my mother’s hand — and I imagine it fit easily in her pocket, or backpack. She must’ve carried it with her nearly everyday on her first trip to India, writing observations, descriptions and what she did each day. So many moments are captured in careful detail, I wonder who she imagined would read it in the future. Before mobile phones and computers, before there were direct flights from California to India, the story goes that my mother sold her VW van, bought a backpack and left for a two month trip to India. She traveled there six years before I was born and six years after her middle sister died. Roughly seven years after her youngest sister and her mother died.
It was also just a few years after meeting a spiritual teacher who had come to the Bay Area to give lectures. Nitya Chaitanya Yati, or “Guru” as my mother referred to him, the Sanskrit word for teacher.
This was the summer of 1979, my mother was 35. I am writing this first draft at age 36, at an art residency in Spain.
Reading so many subtle observations of the way she thought and felt on her travels. The ways in which she notices. Through reading her writings she observes colors as a painter might. She observes people with a sense of awe and appreciation for labor. What we notice is also a reflection of who we are.
Reading her journal entries is like communing with her. What strikes me is our similar ages and curiosity for the world.
A Dream Realized: A Journey to India, Summer 1979
[Excerpts edited for length and clarity]
Dedicated to:
Guru Nitya, whose roots and background and teachings inspired the dream, and whose guidance and grace on the journey expanded by sense of reality, inspired my thoughts and visions, and introduced me to some very remarkable and loving people living in the Motherland.
Nancy, whose company I shared almost every moment of this journey - in laughter, in silence, in sickness and in learning.
Auntie Ruth, whose living support, some financial, was very much with me for the last year.
Douglas, a dear son whose love I carry with me always.
7-8-79
Bombay Airport, 1am-1pm
Having rehearsed in my mind the proper reasons why I am carrying gold bangles, goldenseal capsules, herb tea and five volumes of Guru’s teachings to explain to customs — they said — ”Do you have a camera or tape recorder?”
I showed them my Instamatic. “Ok-go.”
As I came through the gate to the outside street so many taxis and cars and young men running up to me, “taxi?” Small boys shouting “go where?” Finally I said “Indian Airlines” and one small boy took my arm and said “come, come - this way - I show.”
He wove me in and out of taxis and people hurrying, like a shuttle leads a thread through the loom. From the hot humid night and my heavy pack, my body expressed its annoyance with sweat and aches. Little did it know this was only the beginning of the Bombay airport saga. As the sidewalks in front of the airport building quickly passed by my peripheral vision, there were dark shadowy images of people sleeping on pieces of newspaper near piles of baggage. We reached a small counter at one edge of the building that had a barely noticeable sign: Enquiry, reservations, reconfirmations.
The boy tugged at me, “I go now.” I said “Ok, thank you.”
I saw six telephones on the desk — some with dials and some without. A man was flipping many pages of lists trying to find one man’s name. “Bombay to Cochin,” I said. He said “Nothing,” and turned to the next person. There was a tug at my arm.
“Something miss?” I looked at the boy and said “I have no rupees.”
“Anything,” he said.
I had a five dollar bill and two quarters and two dimes. I knew if I looked into the boy’s eyes I would give him the five dollars. So I looked a little to the right and gave the change. I watched the activity at this counter for a while. Realizing that no one takes turns, and that the official behind the counter tells each one something different, I waited for one moment’s pause in the enquiries to again ask about the Cochin flight.
“Can I get on a waiting list?”
“Yes, your number is … 41. Spell your name, please. Be back here at 5:00am to check in.”
“Where do I buy a ticket?”
“Here, tomorrow, when you come.” Now it was 2:30am.
I looked for a corner to sleep in, until morning, but all were occupied with families and luggage. Each member lying on their section of newspaper with some pieces of baggage for a pillow. I found a seat and watched a continuous bustle of activity. Hunger and tiredness made themselves known, but thirst demanded some immediate attention.
Someone sat next to me and said “I’m from Washington State, are you from the states?”
We spoke briefly and then he said. “Sometimes it is difficult traveling alone.” We became great friends for four hours.
I began to slow down and realize a sense of surrender and appreciation when planned events don’t work out just so. Amidst the frustration, there is kindness and care.
Full moon followed us
Palm fronds danced in
the breeze and light
Strong tall women walked by with huge baskets on their heads filled with fish.
7-12
Nancy, Bob and I took the train from Varkala to Cochin.
Train stations are so interesting here - a bustle of activity (porters carrying luggage, people crowding on the platform, carts of fruits and candies and trinkets rolling back and forth alongside the train). Flat wagons with grains, baskets being pushed and pulled amidst the porters and people.
A variety of smells (veg cutlets being deep fried, puris, sweets, incense, sweat, a goat or two — a harmony of sounds – chia-chia, beggars giving blessings with the hope of a returned coin, steam releasing from the engine, running water refilling the train bathroom and kitchen. Among the symphony of activity, sounds and smells, several people will have a towel or clothes spread out on the platform sometimes off in a corner, sometimes against a wall and sometimes wherever they felt tired.
Between stations and towns were the bright green coco palms.
In the evening we were dozing off on the ride when we suddenly noticed a huge elephant ambling down the road on the opposite side. Then we were shown the kitchen which was quite a small room where all cooking was done by wood fire. The few women who do the cooking were there to greet us. I asked Moni to please tell them in their language what a great accomplishment it was that they were feeding so many from so little space and equipment. They smiled, almost blushing at the praise and their eyes acknowledging the difficulty.
The surrounding beauty of hills and palms and rice fields was again present. I had a feeling of wanting to be in this place for sometime. It seemed a good opportunity to teach and learn. I expressed this to one of the teachers and also the fear of an unknown language becoming a block and adjusting to the lifestyle there. She told me you can always learn a language and adjust to a lifestyle if your heart and mind are dedicated. I bowed to her wisdom and truth.
7-17
A day on the train from Cochin to Delhi (Inward): I spent several hours with Barkha, an untouchable, and shared the pains, thoughts, dreams and absurdities that were part of his daily life. When he forgot to yell ‘sweeper, sweeper’ as a warning to others that an untouchable was walking through the streets and was beaten for it by some Brahmin priest. My own emotions shared his anger, frustration and humiliation. When a Christian missionary tried to convert him, the words of Gandhi seemed to allow his lot new respect, and verses of a poet rang within the unfairness of caste, I felt the mingling of despair within him as he journeyed home to tell his father all he had heard and seen on the road and in the town. No wonder Narayana Guru’s dictum of one caste was/is such a simple truth and a complex challenge.
A day on the train (Outward): Morning scenery reminded me of the American Southwest - reddish earth, sparse vegetation, small villages of adobe dwellings outline of hills off in the far distance.
7-16-18
Ode to a water carrier
From a small adobe village in the middle of a vast countryside, a reddish-earth path led to a well. I saw you in the early morning, finish drawing water, place the clay jug on your head and go back on the long road toward the village. Your blue sari waved in the early morning breeze and shown bright against the brown dry green land and grayish sky. I wondered whether this was your hour of contemplation and beauty or the neverending chore and hardship of a necessity of living each day? Maybe you had thoughts of both. As the train moved on and your graceful blue figure disappeared in the distance, you left me to wonder, who are you and who am I to you?
Ode to a train cook
I was so appreciative of this food.
Yesterday I took a walk to what is called the kitchen car.
In one narrow dark room there were two wood fires blazing with pots of dahl and rice cooking over them — the whole room itself felt like an oven.
In an adjoining room were piles of raw vegetables.
Two men were washing, peeling and cutting these.
Two others were tending the fires.
They were soot-marked from the ash and charcoal.
The conditions for cooking for so many seemed so difficult to me.
For these few men it was a little noticed and masterful skill which they did with ease.
At night when I again watched through the kitchen car the men had laid towels on the floor and were getting their few hours of sleep.
You have provided me with nourishing meals, yet you do not know me.
I know it is your job, but you have some kind of dedication to it.
7-19
As we walked back from the tour I was thinking about how much they have created out of so little; I also thought of the Gurukula in Varkala and how much creative spirit was at work there with the children. When there is enough money and plenty of facilities, then there is somewhat of a natural expectation and focus on products on an outer level. When there is very little money and very few facilities, then the task at hand is to develop a creative and happy attitude with whatever is there, and avoid the feeling of poverty and neglect. When teaching is only a job and not a dedication then this feeling of poverty can readily happen. I was feeling a deep appreciation for the teachers and for Prasad and the teachers at the Varkala Gurukula. We have heard it in Guru’s teachings and in Guru’s classes - now we truly experience it in places where Guru’s light has touched.
Our mail was brought from Singapore. I received a letter from Jane saying that we had been evicted from our Scott St. home. And needed to find a new place to live. I was somewhat shaken, though it was not a complete surprise. My small *tree house room with the loft bed and surrounding windows on three walls had been a womb of comfort and security to me. It was a sanctuary for reading, writing, playing music, typing and listening to Guru’s class tapes. On top of my bed where I would often sit and write, I could spend moments with many friends and moments in many favorite places, because those pictures and treasures were my room decor. As every full blossomed flower must die, so this too. With Jane’s encouragement, I did not think of returning home. She would find a place and friends would help move. Therein lies the heart of true friendship.
7-24 Rishikesh to Srinagar
Always in our lives there will be delays and waiting. Especially then we need to develop the right attitude - we have a choice of anger or anxiety or we have a time for finding some small beauty… Finding something in the scenery, drawing or writing, making a new acquaintance. Guru called Prema and the children to gather and she led us in some bhajans and chanting.
One bus became free and towed ours out. Everyone cheered. By now it was dark.
7-27
I sat on a stone ledge nearby and watched the interaction of one of my friends with this holy place. I watched him get down on his hands and knees and touch his head to the ground before the goddess figure. Recently I had been having difficulty associating clay plastic painted statues with anything spiritual. Then I realized that “I” have been having difficulty. My friend has no difficulty with the meaning it has for him. He is a very excellent surgeon, loving husband and father. The meaning has touched his heart and soul. I know of people who can go to Yosemite National Park in California, hike its trails and view its tumbling falls and not feel any special inspiration there. To me it has become sacred and every trip is like a pilgrimage.
In our complexity as beings and with all the forms of worship and utterances and symbols of truth, who can say which will become united in meaning and be a path to the Inner Light. I was thankful to my friend for helping me to understand further.
8-2
There was a letter from Jane and a letter from Doug in the same envelope, which meant they were in Massachusetts together. Jane’s letter was very good news that she had found us a place to live after looking for almost two weeks and ten hours a day. She had found a small cottage in Menlo Park behind a large house. Friends had helped move us out and store our belongings in various places, On Sept 3, when I returned, we would move into our new home. There was a sense of relief and thankfulness after reading her letter.
Doug’s letter was a great joy. When I left in June, he had been interviewing in many places in search of his first summer job. What he found was like his own dream come true. He was selling cokes at Fenway Park.
8-4
Acres and acres of bright green rice fields.I watched out the window - miles and miles of rice fields passed by - so many shades and tones of green. I imagined that I was a child and my mother asked me to go to the store for some green thread. I said, “excuse me mother, but I do not know which green you speak of.”
“Darling daughter, have you gone mad? Green is green.”
“Oh no, mother - have you not taken the train from Nagpur to Bilai and seen the many miles of rice fields? Green can be young rice shoots, a rice paddy ready for harvest, one where the rice is tied in bundles, one where the sun shines on it, the grass growing on the earth mounds framing the paddy, the trees there also whose leaves are new, or grown wide giving shade, or those in the hills against the horizon, the ivy which spreads along the ground and the tree trunks, the reflection of rice plants in a paddy filled with water, small bunches growing by the footpath.”
8-22
Yellow orange setting sun ball
Winking behind each tree
Are you moving around,
or are we?
Nov 2, 2024: McCone Hall, UC Berkeley
In reading her journey in India, I feel as though I have sat down on the couch with her, and am listening to stories of her travels. She had a keen observational eye. She loved taking photos, drawing, writing poems, observing and approaching each person with curiosity and gratitude. She was able to understand so much without speaking the same language.
As I began to put people and geography together, I realized I had met Moni before. She had told me I looked like my mother. I hadn’t realized they’d known each other for so long.
I organized the books on my shelf at home to take some to my office, and stumbled upon a mostly empty notebook labeled “Malayalam.” The last ten pages are written in my mother’s impeccably neat cursive handwriting. They detail her thoughts and feelings around her decision to leave the comfort of Guru to be with my father, a decision Guru did not approve of. He told my parents if they left, they would not be welcomed back.
(11-19-1980) “Heart pounding to the rhythm of the waves ebbing and flowing at the shore.. Outer vision hidden in the mist that surrounds the mountains.. Inner strength being held together by a jasmine petal of infinite endurance.”
After my sister was born, there was a letter welcoming them back to visit Guru in Ooty.
We cannot possibly know the results or future consequences of our actions and inactions. The decisions to stay, those to go, and all of the dominoes and planted seeds that grow slowly and unfurl as a result. I keep wondering why I cannot seem to hold on to a romantic love and if I too might develop my own "jasmine petal of infinite endurance."
Then I am reminded of her deep appreciation for nature, flowers and garden metaphors and I know that most things do not last, and that is what makes them beautiful. This is where the awe comes from. This is where the gratitude and appreciation is born. We are all in a state of constant change. Everything changes and that's ok.
And then I wonder what exactly my mother is waiting for before her soul departs her body. I wonder if she’s waiting for me to be the exact same age as she was when she gave birth to me (if so, we have another 2 years). I wonder if she’s waiting for a female president. Or for me to become my own jasmine petal and trust the people around me enough to let them take care of me. I keep telling her in my dreams and when I see her that I am ready, whenever she is ready.
This post is part of a series of essays called Josie's House. This is part of a larger work-in-progress-project I envision as a book. Previous essays can be found below.
- New Beginning: In which I try to figure out how to tell people that the doctor at my mother's assisted living facility referred her to hospice care — meaning that based on her weight loss and decline, she is expected to be gone within six months.
- Mom Rocks: In which I attempt to introduce my mother and this project.
- 'Are You My Sister?': In which my Josie-mama thinks I am her sister and I find a letter my mother wrote to her sister after she died in my mother's arms.
- Mandala's Tiles and Poetry: In which I go looking for tiles in India and re-discover my mother's love of mandalas and some poetry-letters she wrote after my grandmother died.
- A Purple-Infused 80th Birthday: In which I marvel at the passage of time, birthdays, and garden metaphors.
- Wearing Pantsuits to Church: Values Search: In which I look at my mother's values alongside my own.
