Notes from the 2013 Trip

                                                                Sri Krishna Govind Hare Murare
 

Govinda and his family, 2013

I was reminded of this beautiful Sanskrit prayer from the very beginning of our trip, when we were first introduced to Baba and Govinda, our host families-slash-guides as we travelled our crazy route across the Northwestern Indian states of Rajasthan, Uttar Pradesh and Madhya Pradesh.  It’s a beautiful and haunting chant I couldn’t help but absorb in my many years on the yoga mat, listening to various kirtan artists singing this and other prayers in their mellifluous voices.

Govinda is a popular Indian name, one of the 108 names for Lord Krishna, referring to the impish young god’s occupation as a cowherd.  I like the meaning of Govinda as “One who pleases the cows and Nature.” It was a fitting name for the real Govinda, whose life we got best to know when we arrtived in Varanasi, where he lives with his wife, their three daughters, parents, several siblings and extended family.
 

Govinda and Baba were the two ‘patriarchs,’ (although they are kids, really) of two families supported by a small group of donors ("The India Group") at Xavier Parish in New York City. Each has three children and a host of extended family members for whom they are also responsible. Paul, one of the founders of the group, goes back and forth to India several times a year to check in on the families who live in Khajuraho, Varanasi, and now Delhi. Each year, he brings a small group of donors and friends. This year I joined them.

“TIG,” as it’s come to be known, started out with the goal of offering scholarships to the children of these families, and a few others, to attend English medium private schools. Paul and Michael, TIG’s treasurer and a lifelong educator, are in regular contact with school administrators and review assessments with the principals and a local woman we’ve hired to provide tutoring for some of the kids. 

Early on, TIG discovered that with its modest initial goal of funding education, comes significant responsibility. If anyone in the broader family unit is suffering (and there is so much suffering), it is hard to concentrate on the children’s schooling. And so healthcare, small business loans, and even funds for dowries and marriages have been added to the mix of items considered for support.

Govinda and Baba 2013

As the days wore on and we all got to know each other, I was taken by the devotional nature of both these guys – Baba, a Kali priest who gave us a mini dissertation on the Shiva Lingam one night at dinner, and Govinda, who led us in a rousing "Mahadeva" mantra one morning as we began our journey to Jaipur and who, on Tuesdays and Saturdays, fasted from meat in honor of lord Hanuman. [Of course, the utter infusion of Hinduism into every facet of Indian life and culture is something I expected, but it nonetheless did not cease to amaze and delight me. It is like Catholicism on steroids, the pantheon of gods like our saints, only much more fantastical and interconnected.]

Baba and Govinda were the perfect hosts throughout the trip, shepherding us in and out of vans and tuk tuks, keeping us from spending too much money on things and making sure we had plenty of chapatti and sweet lime soda during our meals. It was Govinda who went back several hours later with me into “Fab India” one day after I left my sunglasses in there during a shopping spree, Govinda who patiently worked the back of our little group, making sure we all stayed safe and sound. I am humbled when I think of how non-existent their carbon footprint, yet how generous their hearts and their hospitality.

While Baba and Govinda are street savvy and knowledgeable about their culture and religion, neither has gone much beyond the third or fourth grade. And whereas Govinda proudly reads signs in English aloud, Baba might have dyslexia or some other processing issue that prevents him from making much written progress. However, Baba speaks five languages, learned over the course of his many years of picking up odd jobs and "running the tourists" in his home town of Khajuraho. His English is quite good, his Spanish I even better, and we all watched in awe as he picked up a conversation in Korean with a tourist we happened upon at the Western Temples in Khajurajo.

Baba's home

But they are of the farming and boating castes, and, as such, have struggled throughout their short lives. Both live in cinderblock rooms with their extended families along narrow labyrinths with no plumbing, relying on a village pump, for which their wives and kids might have to wait several hours. Intermittent electricity comes from lines strung precariously across the brick walls and ceilings, and cow patties (gobar) and kerosene supply most of their fuel.  

So in addition to the children’s scholarships, which, at $350 or so a year are ridiculously cheap, and books, registration fees and uniforms, TIG will consider other kinds of support having to do largely with health and overall social welfare - doctors, medicine, transportation to and from facilities. It is never easy. None of the family members are 100% sure how old they are or when their birthdays are, and they lack all of the documentation and burdens of proof that we take for granted.

As it happened, during this trip we found out that the wife of one of Baba’s cousins had been in a great deal of abdominal pain for several weeks prior to our arrival. After looking at the doctor’s records she showed us indicating a cyst, we agreed that TIG would rent a car and take her to a clinic about 50 km outside of Khajuraho and pay for whatever treatment or medicines she might need.  I accompanied her, her husband and their four-year-old son to two hospitals (the first, a public hospital, turned out to be far too confusing and random) to get treated for what ultimately turned out to be a serious infection. Given a great deal of upheaval and uncertainty in her life right then, we were concerned that she understand the importance of finishing the complicated regimen of meds, which we knew under the best of circumstances is easier said than done.

Govinda, too, suffers chronic pain from an ongoing hernia, but it was on one of our first excursions that the reality of their limited medical options hit home. I had offered my iPod to him because he was clearly hankering for music in our little rental van, bursting into song or trying to turn the radio up to Paul’s eternal aggravation (“Govinda, turn the music down!”). I was no sooner listening to him shout out “Jai Ho!” along with the Hindi singer Sukwinder Singh, when he got a heartbreaking call from his father, which sent him into despair. As he explained when he hung up, his wife was in terrible pain with a toothache and, for reasons we couldn’t quite figure out, no one in the extended family could get her to a dentist or at least to a doctor for pain management. All I could think of was how helpless I would have felt had my husband been calling me in the throes of his worst Lyme episodes when I was out of town and completely unable to help. 

By the time we got to Varanasi, where Govinda lives, she had been to a dentist, but it was indicative of how everything we take for granted – health care, food, transportation, water – is an "operation," requires so much more laborious effort and logistics than one can even begin to fathom, 365 days a year, one year following the next.

Govinda the Boatman

   

He naatha narayan vasudeva

Varanasi is on the Ganges, and its main industry seems to be getting to the afterlife.  Hindus believe that if their ashes are thrown into the river they will go immediately to heaven, and the entirety of the city is geared around that sacred fact of its geography.  

Govinda’s family works very hard – and all kinds of hours – as street merchants near the ghats, selling malas, jewelry, river offerings and other sacramental objects for tourists and devotees. The night we had dinner at their home, his mother and sister arrived late in the evening from their work, carrying trays of marigolds strung in preparation for the next morning’s river ceremony.

Govinda himself is a hard worker, ferrying tourists and worshipers along the river, a physically demanding occupation that is also quite competitive. We saw him in action one night when he took us out at sunset to say goodnight to Mother Ganges. Floating along past the multi-leveled ghats on our way to the ceremony, he was the perfect boatman, pointing out the distinguishing characteristics of each of the series of steps leading down to the water, and expertly maneuvering his small craft among the hundreds of others anchored to watch the priests, musicians and dancers putting the river to bed.

His hard work and seriousness, though, was offset by a sense of humor, and a love for having his picture taken. He never turned down an opportunity to pose for the camera, and he could laugh when Baba teased him about hearing ghosts all night in the room they shared. As Baba put it, it was he (Baba) who had watched the movie “13 Ghosts” on Paul’s iPad, yet it was Govinda who was up all night hearing knocking noises and scaring himself silly. Baba attributed it to Govinda’s being around death all the time out there on the Ganges, but I think it is just an awe of the supernatural, and a superstitious nature, like my Italian grandmother and great aunts. The other side of the coin, as it were, to his great devotion to the Monkey God, Hanuman-Ji.

Amber Fort - Jaipur 2013

Hanuman seemed to be ever present on this trip through the ubiquitous temples and shrines to him. One night in Jaipur, everyone else was tired from a long day, but Paul suggested a late night shopping excursion. I was game, so Govinda, Paul and I trooped off in search of “Jaipur bangles” and other souvenirs.  Jaipur was probably the most dangerous for pedestrians of any of the cities we were in – there are no traffic lights and one holds one’s breath crossing the street, dodging cars, bicycles, tuk tuks, rickshaws and the more-than-occasional stray dogs.

The streets were bustling and we walked around looking for the bangles, lingering in front of stalls and talking to the street merchants ("You are American? I love America!"). As we were getting ready to leave, we walked towards a busy intersection where, on the opposite side, there was an open storefront with some sort of ceremony taking place inside, loud music filling the air and a bit of a scene spilling out onto the street. On our side was a shrine to Hanuman, equally noisy and colorful and into and out of which walked all sorts of devotees, old and young. I watched a father bringing his children in and we followed behind them into the brightly lit space, brass and gold competing with neon, and incense offering up the prayers of the faithful as they rang the heavy bell hanging in front of the altar.

While Govinda and Paul later haggled with a tuk-tuk driver, I stood in the middle of the intersection absorbed in the cacophony. Outside of the Monkey Temple, two dozen or more old men sat cross legged, chanting along to the prayers coming out of the loud speakers, which were gloriously competing with the Hindi music blaring from across the street. It was, as they say, a moment in time, and I think it was just then that I knew that I was absolutely and forevermore attached to this crazy country.

It’s been several months since we got back. Of course, as one does after visiting any struggling country, I thought I would never again complain about anything after watching men walking the streets outside of Delhi, literally yoked to hundreds of pounds of flour, metal or recyclables, exhausted beasts of burden. And here I am, cursing the trains and complaining about the weather, a veritable Kali unleashed. But following Govinda’s example, I am trying to remember to take a moment before the beginning of a meal or at the start of my yoga practice   – to touch my bread to my forehead, as it were, and offer it in gratitude – Jai Ana Purna! – to that most sacred Spirit that nourishes us all on the circuitous journey home.

Baba's daughter, Mille - 2013

TIG Update -
Next on the healthcare agenda is the second half of cleft palate surgery for little Mille, Baba’s 7-year-old girl. A group of Israeli tourists paid for the first surgery when she was a baby, but she must have a second procedure. Since the wonderful Operation Smile will perform the surgery for free, TIG has agreed to pay for the trip to the hospital for the family and their lodgings while she recovers. Paul will accompany them and left on June 9 to join them in Delhi for a 36 hour train ride to get them all there and back. He is writing about the journey on this blog.

Posted by Patti Schaefer, 6/10/13