I’ve been thinking I needed to somehow bring closure, to at least this phase of the Maggamouse Blog for a few weeks now, certainly since I returned to the UK from India, probably a week or two before that even. After all, the dates would have lined up quite nicely if I could have published some kind of departing summary on the day I left. Job done. Case closed. Box ticked. Moving on. Next, please! I decided not to write about my last couple of weeks in Nagpur while still there though. In the few remaining days I had left, it seemed rather wasteful not to spend as many of those hours as possible actually being with eople, rather than in front of a laptop writing about being with them.

In theory, there’d have been nothing stopping me from writing this in the days immediately after my arrival in England of course. I could have done it a lot sooner than nearly 5 weeks later. The henna stains on my nails have grown a good half centimetre closer to the clippers since then and the tan line between my toes from my recently spurned flip-flops is barely visible anymore. I’ve distributed all the homecoming presents, I’ve served all the Indian meals I’ve learned to prepare. More than once. I’ve shared the biggest, most obvious titbits of ‘and then this happened!’ or ‘but of course it’s different in India!’, and I’ve almost stopped saying ‘ha’ instead of ‘yes’. The affirmative sideways head wiggle I realised I’d begun to subconsciously mimic, appears to have faded and yesterday, I took the plug socket adaptor out of the bottom of my bag. Later, I might even fish the old Indora to Bhilgaon bus tickets out of my wallet, though if I’m honest, it’s not due to a reluctance to litter that I keep stuffing the Nagpur INOX cinema ticket back in my coat pocket when if falls out with my hanky. An older version of normality is slowly reasserting itself, as if I was uninstalling updates to my operating system, one at a time. Writing about an increasingly distant experience was indeed becoming ever harder to find the motivation for, like a shore line becomes less photogenic as the boat sails on.

It was just as well his advice resonated with me. What with Hardware and Networking revision classes, the exams themselves, Tally practice and exams, MS-CIT resits, and even educationally unrelated things such as random centre closures for city elections, there was far less formal classroom time available than I had anticipated, even when taking ‘the unexpected’ in to account. It would have been very easy to worry about this and feel I was not providing what I had been asked to deliver, but, with Mark’s words in my mind and a few reassuring emails from Shakyajata, I was able to relax, let go a bit and respond flexibly to the reality, rather than agonise over the unrealised planning. We did, in the end, do enough. We did some work on CVs and we wrote, reviewed and typed some personal statements. We talked about how to find and apply for a job, we filled in some practice application forms, talked about black ink and ‘block caps’ and what N/A means. We chatted about how to prepare for and give a good interview, we briefly role played answering some daft questions. And then, around those shreds of ‘teaching’, we had fun. We enjoyed spending time together, and I finally, finally, eased off my expectations of what people might expect of me (which they probably didn’t anyway) and gently let go of the ‘professional’ conditioning that says you don’t socialise or share things with students. I then began a concerted effort to wring every last drop of these things out of the rapidly evaporating hours.

I went to market to buy groceries with the girls. I asked them to alter a sari for me and teach me how to wear it, as in actually get dressed myself. I was finally brave enough to sample their strange deep-fried biscuits and I let them paint my feet, Bihar style with pink alta. They painted my nails and drew ornate designs up my arms with henna. I didn’t get to run the ‘positive body image’ tutorial work shop I had started to plan, but I did have dinner with them and when I established that the conversation had run into areas such as ‘but you are fat and she is skinny’, I adlibbed a rather poetic series of rhetorical questions about whether a tiny, delicate jasmine flower was more beautiful or valuable than a soft, voluptuous rose, (and anyway didn’t they both smell just as fine?), before standing, hooking my rice-and-chapatti replete belly out of my salwar and pinching my gut up and down to make my belly button mouth along to my loud exclamation ‘I’m proud to be me!’ “Good example, Ma’am!” Hemlata commented, when the company had finished dissolving into fits of giggles. I realised I didn’t know, until I actually spent time with her, that her English had got so good. Of course it wasn’t all about the pleasure of receiving their hospitality. I devised, sourced and prepared an ‘English Style’ picnic, with cucumber sandwiches (crusts off!), peanut butter (on brown) and strawberry jam tarts. I don’t think I’ve ever put so much effort in to planning a ‘cultural awareness tutorial’ as I did into working out how to cook jam tarts without an oven. I introduced them to Marmite, but no one really thanked me for that. After about 15 minutes of trying to persuade Madhu that yes, I really had made all this ‘gourmet cuisine’ myself, I finally asked why she was in such disbelief. “Because she didn’t believe anyone would go to so much trouble for them” was Sheetal’s translation of her sadly moving reply. Half choked with pathos, half cresting the wave of appreciation, the next day I spent 3 hours scouring various supermarkets and ‘expat shelves’ and on our final night together, I cooked them a pasta party with spaghetti Bolognese, tomato penne, a pasta-bow salad, garlic bread (read garlic toast, I did my best), a green salad and a summer pudding. Sort of. As much as you can prepare a summer pudding without summer fruits. I probably spent about six times as much cash on that feast than I spent on an entire 5 months of photocopying and printing class resources. I lived in the same house as the girls of course, so it was easier to spend more time with them and the boys drifted off in dribs and drabs as they returned one here, two there to their home villages to sit the government exams required of them in their own states. There was time for those who remained; however, and it was thanks to the men, not the women (no stereotype enforcement here!), that I now know how to cook poha (flattened rice flakes cooked with potato, tomato and chilli) for breakfast and can just about prepare a batch of chapattis (I’ve stopped setting fire to them now). We chatted a lot about the Dharma. I bought them expensive coffee. I took them to Pizza Hut (Hey, my dad used to work for Pizza Hut, it’s practically in my genes!). We walked round town and went on the swings (who can get the highest!?) and visited the science museum to sit through a ‘planetarium show’ that turned out to be a very poor computer animation of some under the sea scenes in a rundown theatre of a battered, ancient exhibition centre that still had displays heralding the arrival of the internet.

When the students had all finally departed, I then spent time with the family I’d lived with that whole time. Sheetal and I went shopping, bumping up and down on the back of her scooter for the last few times. We visited the Deekshabhoomi to say ‘goodbye’ to Babasaheb’s stupa. We splashed around at a water park that resembled an aquatic version of those photos you see of the abandoned fun fair in Chernobyl. We went for more expensive coffee. I tried to make cookies on the hob; I made flat scones. Everyone agreed the jam tarts were better. I made a ‘Chinese’ that ended up having too much chilli in it even for Aryaketu and Ojas. I thought it was fine. I finally tried to make bread in a pressure cooker with the yeast we bought about a week after I arrived. The cows enjoyed a rather stodgy breakfast. What I learned (as well as just thoroughly enjoying my final fortnight) was that you can’t formalise real sharing. You can’t prescribe or manipulate a genuine connection. It is not possible to ‘plan and deliver’ that ‘content’, you just have to be. You simply have to be content to be you, with others; as interested and accepting of their version of the mundane as you are willing to spend time demonstrating and exemplifying yours. It’s not in the heights of academic discourse that we exhaust the limits of our commonality. We bond over the hilarity of the failed bread and we forge friendships in a dripping heap at the bottom of rickety old water slides as we share stories about summers long gone, before we learned to be scared of the foreigners. So much of that flies in the face of what I’ve been trained to do. It took me five and a half months to unlearn that when a student is crying, they must under no circumstances be hugged. It took me nearly my whole stay to remember that the best teachers are the ones who are confident enough to say ‘I don’t know the answer to that question. But I’ll show you how we can both find out.’ I still feel like a slightly suspicious and potentially untrustworthy liability when I accept a student’s friend request on Facebook. But why? We are, after all, friends. It strikes me as somewhat significant that I am gradually letting go of all this interventionist and ultimately well-meaning but fundamentally dehumanising policy against a background of heightened awareness of the need for safeguarding in the Triratna community. The movement has recently been re-engaging with a history of controversy, allegations of abuse and openly admitted failings in the backstory of a (very young) order that are now resulting in discussions around how to protect the vulnerable and challenge those who would manipulate them. Yet again I find myself realising that in this, as in all things, it is a question of balance. We must accept and address our human potential to fail, to mess up, to hurt each other, but please, never let this be at the cost of the genuine expression of honest, wholesome, friendship and affection.

So that, as they say, was that. That’s a potted summary of the final fortnight of my twenty two weeks in India. But can I give a meaningful summary of my key experiences? Can I provide an insightful reflection from the perspective of my homecoming? Honestly? I don’t know where to start. Nothing’s scared me more in recent weeks than the enthusiasm of friends who ‘can’t wait to hear all about it!’

Finally (you’ll be pleased to know), and with some surprise, since coming home, I’ve learned that sometimes the little personal or domestic ‘duties’, the changes we can make close to home are every bit as revolutionary as the stuff we do that stretches over continents and demands answers from global superpowers. Before I left for India, I had been staying with my (almost 84 year old) bachelor great uncle, indeed, I published a poem and a new series of photos of his home shortly before I went. He supported me with a couple of rent free months and a place to store all the junk I couldn’t quite bring myself to give away or chuck in a charity shop while I was gone. Two weeks before I flew back, he was taken into hospital and so what I had anticipated as a rather roomy period of time to vaguely drift about the country visiting all the friends I’ve been promising to drop in on for years as I tried to postpone a sense of obligation to ‘settle back down’, instead became a short, sharp return straight to his house, where I have been ever since. My time has been concerned with helping him keep track of his medication, and assisting him with liaising between the different agencies that are tasked with supporting his independent recovery in his own home. I’ve been helping, in return for somewhere to live, of course, with basic domestic needs and I’ve taken responsibility for trying to coax a severely diminished appetite back into existence with creative applications of mayonnaise, strategically placed digestives and deliberately timed Cup-a-Soups. The ‘get a cheap tent and walk round the UK because I can’t afford the travel’ plan was probably never a very good one anyway, though in hindsight, it probably wasn’t one of my craziest. Sure, helping round the home of someone with the frayed temper of one in constant pain for whom I normally have to repeat sentences at least 3 times, isn’t always reminiscent of a Butlins Holiday Camp, but I’m very, very happy to be doing it and I’ve been somewhat saddened by the surprised response of those who seem to view it as some kind of martyrdom or heroism on my part. Here is a human being, whom I happen to love and care for, who has helped and supported me, who now needs my help and support. I do not have any commitments or responsibilities that I cannot flex around meeting these needs. Why wouldn’t I do all I can to facilitate this? Perhaps it’s because I’m fresh from a country where this would never be a problem because families literally live three generations to a roof that it seems strange to question it, but I think it’s a sad symptom of a society increasingly fractured into selfish and insular units that value the hedonistic ‘me, me, me’ quick-fix, excite-and-move-on fast track, disposable gratification lifestyle, that so many people consider caring for your elderly relative to be something even worth remarking upon. So I am being the change I want to see in the world and I am quietly getting on with a private revolution in what might appear to be a conservative but has apparently now become an alternative lifestyle.

And so that was the end of the course. The increasingly distant completion of my time trying to teach English in India and my reflections upon it. It wasn’t a fixture in a diary, it wasn’t a note on a calendar. It came like the fading out of a ballad or a short film fogging away into the mist of a blank screen. It didn’t really happen, it just gradually drifted from future tense, to present perfect progressive, to future perfect progressive and then, simply past. See, I did learn some grammar. (Nah, I lied, I had to look that up.) I was sort of aware of this process, of course, and aware that I should be feeling emotional about it all somehow, this slow, slipping away. In India, people generally live much more up against their own emotions, or at least there’s an expectation that one should be quite clear about demonstrating these in certain contexts. My Stiff British Upper Lip didn’t quite get with all the weepy-wailing on several occasions and left me feeling as though I was somewhat cold or lacking. When I waved goodbye to Shakyajata for example, unlike all the students waving her off, I didn’t cry. When I said goodbye to Mark and left him at his farewell dinner with the rest of the young men he’d been living with, I certainly didn’t cry. Actually, I think I punched him on the arm before shouting ‘you smell anyway!’ and running out of the crowded restaurant only to emerge through a bush moments later on the other side of the window where he was sitting and treating him to my finest piggy nose on the glass. Well, I never pretended my expressions of affection were particularly ‘normal’. Sure, I felt a little uncomfortable saying goodbye to our young women’s community and since they all left on the same day, their absence left a palpable vacuum, but I didn’t cry. I wished the departing members of the men’s community good luck for the future with firm handshakes all round, but I didn’t cry. The morning I left the family home, the moment I waved goodbye at the airport, I felt a tug of detachment. But I didn’t cry.

24 hours later, I landed in Manchester on a cold, grey, Saturday dawn and stood on the ‘UK border’. How you can have a border in the middle of a suburban airport, I have no idea but still, I stood under the signs for it with my passport in hand and I didn’t cry. Later, I met my friends, I went to the Manchester Buddhist Centre, I found and hugged (broadly speaking) my ‘original’ Sangha; I didn’t cry. Still later that day, another farewell, to Manchester for London, on a Virgin train. I didn’t cry.

Gaya is a good 24 hour train ride from Nagpur and Bodhgaya a few kilometres further still.  My journey was always going to be especially lengthy as I had to change trains about 22 hours into my travel, with a five hour wait before the onward service from Mughal Sarai. I was initially quite pleased about this, since the likelihood for my train from Nagpur to be delayed was high and though I was fairly confident I’d be able to work out getting off one train and on to another, I wasn’t so sure I’d be able to negotiate a ticket transferral onto a new service if I missed the one I was supposed to catch. That sort of thing is tricky enough in England, let alone a country where you don’t speak the language. I needn’t have worried. The inbound train was only delayed by about an hour, giving me temporary cause for jubilation that I only had 4 hours to wait at the station, only until I realised that the ongoing train was also delayed by what eventually turned out to be another 7. If I’d known I’d have 11 hours to kill, I might have checked my bag at the luggage desk and gone for a wander but it was one of those situations where the delay grew by about an hour, every hour until I finally had no confidence that I really was on the right train at all. I only started getting a little fractious after about 9 hours. Up until that time I was strangely content to sit back and watch life come and go. I quite like stations, airports, service stations, any place of transience. So many lives and stories playing out before you; it’s almost better than the cinema.

My first visit to the Mahabodhi Temple ended up being a little rushed as I visited with one of the Dhammacharinis who had arrived a day early for the retreat, but I wanted to be back in time for evening meditation and checking in with the community students, so by the time we had walked there I had almost to turn around and come straight back. This mild pressure didn’t stop me having a strong experience though. As we walked up the busy, winding road to the temple, I got the sense that only just now was I in the India of my imagination. We always have something of an idea of what a place will be like before we arrive in it, built from pictures and stories we’ve seen or heard. The French philosopher Marc Augé discusses this in his essay Non-Places, introduction to an Anthropology of Supermodernity (as well as a discussion of the aforementioned train stations and airports!). The ‘Non-India’ of my preconceptions had mostly been formed from long lazy afternoons as a child, scanning though back copies of my Uncle’s National Geographic subscription. This had given me a very rich visual impression, possibly augmented by shopping trips to ‘ethnic markets’ and an almost instinctive love of meals out in British curry houses! Of course, busy, dusty, urban Nagpur had resembled none of this but in Bodhgaya, the sounds, sights and smells lent a flicker of life to those flights of fancy that seemed now to be not so far from the truth after all. Stalls festooned with floating fabrics, trestle tables groaning with the weight of heaped miscellaneous trinkets, sacks spread out with an array of brightly coloured vegetables, fruit stalls with clouds of incense about them to deter the many flies, the occasional cow chewing surreptitiously on the stock. Monks in bright robes, rickshaw drivers in their jauntily personalised vehicles, auto or cycle, exhausted workers resting in the shade, grubby children playing in the street. That’s not to ignore the less savoury sights; poverty is rife and it’s impossible to avoid the fact that India does not appear to have any fixed solution to waste disposal. It is clear there is still a huge gulf between those who have and those who have not and the visual delights highlighted this; the brightest lights cast the darkest shadows. So it was perhaps because I was already experiencing a stirring sensory onslaught, or perhaps that I had not kept my hopes for the temple as neutral as I’d have liked, that upon getting my first glimpse of the ‘spire’ of the Mahabodhi Temple glinting, golden in the afternoon sun I felt really quite emotional. We had time just to go in, walk briefly round the complex and pay our respects at the shrine before I had to leave. I felt torn; I could easily have stayed, but I had a commitment to keep and I didn’t want the young people at the centre to get the impression I didn’t value their invitation so I resolved to myself that this was simply a reconnaissance mission and that I would return for a deeper engagement with the place in the morning.

The stray dogs and busy birds. The monks taking a break to eat from their tiffin boxes. The Chinese, the Indian, the Tibetan, the Western, the traditional, the new age, the tourists, the devotees. The cleaning staff, the shrine dressers, the security guards. I sat and waited for the inspiration to arise in me for a drawing. It didn’t come. I gently tested my mind to see if it was ripe for fruitful meditation. It responded with resistance. I made my way nearer to the central shrine and the Bodhi Tree and realised that what I was feeling was restless and irritable. This did not fall in line with the expectations I had told myself I should avoid but couldn’t help have. Was I tired? Was I hungry? Was I still feeling the aftermath of the station samosa? I swiftly ruled out these physical causes and recognised my unease as having a psychological root. Something was bothering me. Something was making me uneasy and annoyed, which in itself was disturbing me as I felt that of all places, out of every square foot I could have landed in on the globe, surely this was the place where I should be keying in to some sublime spiritual experience, some resonant, Dharmic peace. Not mild irritation with my fellow visitors. Where was the metta!? How undharmic could it be!? If I’ve learned nothing else in my time studying the Dharma, I’ve learned that these moments of unease, or irritability, or dissatisfaction are valuable alarm bells that indicate a place I need to explore more deeply in myself. Like an ‘X marks the spot’ on a treasure map of my mind. Far from being feelings to be embarrassed or ashamed of, far from being thoughts to deny expression, they are clues and hints of an opportunity to dig a little deeper, go a little further, and learn a little more. So I went with it. I found a little gap between the meditators under the branches of the Bodhi Tree and I sat down to really observe what was going on in my mind, as well as in the world around me, calmly and without judgement. I watched the stream of people gradually making circumambulations of the shrine building and the Bodhi Tree. Chanting mantras. Prostrating and standing, stepping forward, prostrating again and repeating one arduous circuit after another. Pushing and shoving to get close enough to the tablet marking the Vajrasana to press their foreheads on the perfume oiled, gold-leaf flecked stone, to leave a coin or a note, to prostrate again. I watched the pilgrims from the east, performing habitual rituals to appease their Buddhist families, I watched the hippies from the west seeking a quick fix enlightenment on an organic coffee break from their yoga retreats, I watched wrinkled, withered monks doing the same thing they do every year; and I felt angry with them. “What good is this doing you!?” I wanted to stand up and scream. “What is the purpose of your actions? Do you even know? How on earth is this moving you closer to enlightenment? How can you be so blind, so ignorant, so repetitive, so dull?!” I felt helpless then, for them and for myself, questioning too my own reasons for being there. What was I expecting? How could I ever achieve this hugely difficult goal? Not if I meditated for every heartbeat I have remaining, or chanted with each and every breath still to come, not if I prostrated until my muscles have atrophied or offered every flower that ever grew; none of this would be enough. I felt that then so sharply and it disgusted me. Suddenly, a layer of distortion seemed to fall away from my perception and I watched the dogs scrapping in the dust, the birds bickering in the branches, the people pushing past each other to feel themselves, or be witnessed by others as just a shred closer to the transcendental and I saw this hopeless struggling in each of them to escape their suffering. The empty or over filled stomachs, the diseased or injured bodies, the anguished minds. The self-abused, the socially oppressed, the poor and in need, the rich yet dissatisfied, the internal pain, the external friction, the hurt, the sorrow, the suffering, the despairing machinations of each and every being, those present in front of me and those on the furthest reaches of the planets crust, all just desperate, so desperate to break free from the rounds of conditioned existence; and my heart simply broke. All that anger and irritation completely dissolved under a flood of compassion that found physical form in my suddenly wet cheeks. So I sat and gazed up into the branches feeling at one again with all of them and never more determined to find my way to enlightenment that I might guide them to the exit myself. ‘Hold tight’ I found myself willing every other being on the planet, for not the first time. ‘I’m not sure how or when but I’ll do it. I’ll find the way and I’ll bust us out.’ Once the flow had ebbed, I found finally beneath it the motivation to draw and at last fetched my sketchbook from my bag. I didn’t move, but settled into drawing the thing I had been staring at for maybe ten, maybe twenty, maybe thirty minutes; my sketchbook note suggests I spent nearly an hour drawing the spreading, ancient branches of the great Bodhi Tree.

I have had the recurring experience since studying Buddhism that the course, or book, or teaching I am engaged with seems to do no more than guide me along a path that I pick out for myself. I am on a well-worn trajectory that is far from accidental, yet I am supported to follow a deeply honest personal instinct, as a migrating goose in a flock independently follows a natural truth alongside others, not compelled to shape my journey to a system of given co-ordinate facts by an external, academic discipline. Wild geese do not need to ‘recalculate’ their GPS directions due to unreported road closures. I am sure that if I’ve articulated it well enough, that description will seem familiar to many. I first made this distinct observation when completing courses in Manchester and again in London, when simultaneously studying and reading The Journey and the Guide by Maitreyabandhu. Time and again, the close of a chapter or class would cause me to independently consider certain concepts, or identify particular personal issues that might at first glance appear tangential. Lo and behold; however, the very next chapter, or the topic of the next class would describe just that, sometimes subtly, sometimes quite directly, as if the author or teachers had somehow checked in on my most private thoughts and factored that in to their lesson planning. I tried to avoid interpreting this from the point of view of my conditioning around academic success but I found it to be a very affirming experience.

That felt a bit like when you think you are finding your way OK based on a rather confusing map, but look up to confirm that a landmark you were hoping to see is, indeed, firmly rooted in the ground before you. ‘Yes! I get it! I’m on the right track!’ In Bodhgaya, I found a couple of particularly notable moments of this affirmative experience, the first of which served to provide me with some clarity the day after my confused feelings of anger-cum-heartbreak-cum-determination under the Bodhi Tree. The theme of the order retreat was compassion and one of the first talks Subhuti gave reflected on the cultivation of Bodhicitta. I’m currently reading into this topic further as preparation for an upcoming retreat and it’s a complex area that I don’t pretend to fully grasp, but it does inextricably link a desire to achieve Enlightenment with the purpose of benefitting all other beings, essentially due to the dissolution of the self-illusion. Once you realise, really feel that ‘you’ and ‘them’ are simply different expressions of the same being, all your actions become wise and compassionate by default because what benefits ‘you’, benefits ‘them’, what benefits ‘them’, benefits ‘you’ and there is a deep understanding of these apparently separate entities as in fact, a single coherent body. I am still definitely interacting with the world through the illusion of self, however, the fact is that I felt an incredibly intense urge to get beyond that, not so I could pat myself on the back and put my feet up with a cup of spiritual tea, listen to Nirvana (bad 90’s music joke, sorry) and enjoy a future of blissful release; but so that I knew how to get everyone else out of their suffering too. I find I am recoiling from writing these words for fear of appearing to seek approval, praise, or status. I don’t know exactly what I felt, or what it ‘means’, if it can be said to mean anything. I am not claiming to be channelling Bodichitta, nor assuming I’ve ever done so, but I couldn’t help feeling, when I heard Subhuti describe this, that I was very, very familiar with his words. ‘Yes,’ I kept thinking, ‘I know how that goes’ and my mind kept returning to my experience under the Bodhi Tree. ‘I wouldn’t have described it so eloquently myself or known to explain it in those terms,’ I thought, ‘but that’s what I felt, that’s what it was.’

Then, I wrote a poem about self-clinging and ignorance.

When we notice moments of irritation, pain, unhappiness, anything serving as a distraction from our practice, we can take the time to acknowledge it, be aware of it and respond mindfully, transforming it instead into a flower of compassion, be that compassion towards ourselves or others. We can recognise the hate, or anger, or fear in the world and we can see past the apparent threat to the underlying suffering that causes it and respond to that suffering lovingly, rather than react to the unpleasant experience in a way that fuels or exacerbates it. Yet another experience where it seemed my thoughts had been responded to, very directly, very personally. If I believed in an interventionist god, I’d certainly have believed my prayers answered. The next morning, still feeling unsettled and fractious, I began a little creative project that I maintained for the rest of my stay, in which I acknowledged such moments as ‘arrows’ and drew them as seeds, from which I visually described the ‘flower of compassion’ bursting. I hoped that the time I took to put pencil to paper and think about what form the flower from that particular seed would take, could be the time in which the reactive feeling would subside and allow me to respond more skilfully. Sometimes it certainly did, sometimes it took a little more work, but I quite enjoyed the activity and though I’ve not yet carried it further, it seems like it might itself be the seed of a wider, deeper project.

The purpose of this meditation is to try and realise the illusive falsehood of a fixed self on a deeper level than the surface fact. we know we are changing, developing, learning, aging and progressing, until we one day die but we can’t help behaving like this only applies to other people. The Six Element meditation aims to bring us in to a closer, deeper realisation of our own impermanence. I first read about it some months back but I did not feel able to attempt it without guidance, I did not understand it or its purpose well enough to know where I was going with it. I was actually quite excited when I heard it would be included in the retreat and despite managing to fall asleep in my first attempt, I enjoyed it thereafter. I found something very reassuring, very comforting, about feeling I was really only responsible for guiding a collection of ‘stuff’ through a temporary experience that would one day cease to be my problem. That might not be a particularly healthy way to view impermanence and I don’t want to sway too far towards the nihilist or use it as an excuse to deny responsibility for my actions but hey, as aforementioned, this Dharma sh*t is f**king hard work, so I’m gonna take my breaks where I can get ‘em. Pleasant as that was, actually, the most useful thing I derived from the experience was an actual felt sense of my consciousness being no longer limited in my perception to this coagulation of flesh I call ‘me’. I found, particularly through the sense of sound, which was interesting as a primarily visual person, that if I angled my thoughts in the right direction, I could really feel that ‘I’ extended beyond my body in an imagined sphere that stretched at least as far as the origin of sounds I was aware of. I’m aware as I cobble those words together that I don’t yet have a way to properly articulate it. I’m not sure if that’s a sense others would corroborate, I’ve not had the chance to discuss it with anyone yet, but the pleasant thing is, I have been able to easily revisit it in subsequent meditations. I think as far as ‘expanding one’s mind’ goes, I’ve done no more than swell my ball-bearing scale consciousness to the size of a small marble, but it’s been an interesting development to my methods of experiencing myself as a part of the wider universe.

Anyway, just as my body is merely borrowing its elements from the universe, my mind is only borrowing the knowledge I gained. I will, as an aspiring servant of the Dharma, be gladly utilising all my learning for the benefit of others at every possible opportunity. Though I had succeeded somewhat in avoiding a fixed expectation of the trip, I suppose it was only natural that I had some hopes or dreams of encountering a deeply moving, transformational spiritual experience that left me on some kind of elevated plane of consciousness. Perhaps I did find this on a more subtle level, I certainly learned a lot from the talks and I benefitted from the time and spaciousness, from my reflections at the temple and in meditation during the week. I also reengaged with a dormant creative practice in my sketchbook and in a series of photographs taken in the temple complex. I think the true value of the experience will be found in the subtleties though, not in the features. It’s in how I take that learning, those moments of realisation in the conditions conducive to their arrival, and apply it to my daily routine in more mundane surroundings that will decide how fruitful my time at Bodhgaya was. Like a random battery discovered at the back of the kitchen drawer, perhaps the spiritual energy I gained from the trip will not be obvious until I have cause to discharge its energy to an appropriate application.

Neha is the youngest of three sisters but also has a younger brother. This is significant and the family stops here for a reason. As with many traditional Indian families, her father, if not her mother, was waiting for a boy. What might in other circumstances have been a joyous occasion therefore lacked celebration, in fact ‘Papa’ was so disappointed to have yet another daughter that he became angry with her ‘Mama’ and refused to even see Neha for a month after her birth, professing hate for the new arrival. It’s of no surprise that Neha goes on to reflect on her childhood as ‘not very happy’.
Despite the controversy of her gender, she says she did feel loved at home, though I personally think this is little more

At the end of 6th standard, Neha was ill at the time of her exams and she failed. Papa was very angry and decided she would spend the summer going to work with him as a punishment for poor studies. The cycle rickshaw he used was heavy and he was weakened by drinking. Neha’s job was, therefore, to walk behind the cart and push. This was not a passenger vehicle, as he now operates, but a goods service and unfortunately, his main occupation was delivering alcohol to bars, perhaps not how he developed an alcohol addiction in the first place, but certainly not helping him recover from it. Mama found work as a cleaner, going door to

By this time, Papa had not just allowed his discovery of Buddhism to improve his own life, he’d shared it with his whole family, who were now all practicing. Neha didn’t take long to fully embrace the opportunity to become more involved in the Dhamma either and became a Mitra of the Triratna order in 2010. She requested ordination in 2016. In 2011, her hard work finally paid off. She heard from her brother in law of a vacancy for a graphic designer at Lord Buddha TV, an alternative news channel based in Nagpur that broadcasts across the whole of India. After taking her show reel to interview, she was offered the job, a role she still more than fills, frequently spilling over into a myriad of peripheral duties with her multiple talents. It’s hard to imagine someone more dedicated to their employment, especially when the small organisation does not always have a smooth cash flow to enable timely payment of salaries. This is more than a job to Neha though; it’s not just an opportunity to engage in her creative passions either. Far more importantly than that, it is a way of helping to spread the word of the Dhamma and help others find ways to ease their own suffering. After all, such teachings affected a great deal of positive change in her own life and to share this potential is a key motivator for her.

Thinking back to our conversation as a write this, a snatched hour round the back of the stupa at Bordheran during a busy schedule filming the talks by Subhuti at the NNBY 10th Annual Convention, I realise that I have, in some ways set myself an impossible task. I can’t write Neha’s story yet, for despite the rich material in her first two decades, her story is far from complete, a fact she is all too aware of herself; this is not a fairy tale ending. ‘Is there anything else you think I should mention?’ I ask, half exhausted already from recording the details of so many trials and tribulations. ‘Yes!’ she responds, ‘My struggle is not finished!’ Every day at work is challenging, with more tasks than she can complete. She’s working on big stories too, broadcasting the talks and activities of some of the most senior order members, so there’s a lot of pressure to do so successfully, pressure that she doesn’t always even get paid for, when a key advertising client has not paid their fees, or the tiny channel has simply run out of cash.

She’s had problems with colleagues as well, and recently encountered difficulties with bullying and blame, causing her to return home in tears every nights for a long spell. Her mum supported her through these problems though, and with this help she found the strength to stick it out, not reacting to or fuelling such unpleasant behaviour. Her skills and good will have also been stretched professionally; she was originally employed as an animator but when her manager left after just one month, her future was uncertain. At this time, she only knew how to work in 2D and animation software but the channel director liked her work and asked her to stay on in a different role, as an editor. For this, she taught herself how to work in entirely new editing software because no one else at the company would teach her. It was a similar story when she was invited to run her own programme.

 lifestyles and cultures. This in itself has been something of an issue for the couple; interstate marriages are not common and it took some time for Neha to ease the concerns of her family and achieve their blessings. Not that I suspect it would have stopped her if they’d maintained their disapproval. Aware of the imminent wedding, and as a somewhat excited guest, I was pleased for the opportunity to grill Neha on a happier issue; how did you meet? How do you think your life will be different after the wedding? What are your plans for your future as a couple? At this, she wrinkles her nose and asks ‘It is important?’ She tells me, after a joke dismissal of the question, that whatever happens, she plans to spend at least the next two years spreading the Dhamma through her work at LBTV. There will certainly be no children in the short term. In the long term, who knows? She remains uncommitted beyond her drive to become ordained, and this is something she feels they will be working for together, as Dhamma practitioners. ‘Maitri tells me we will be a team’ she says, ‘there will not be “your work” and “my work” in the home; we both have jobs, we will share the house work.’

There were other concerns too, of course; any young person about to enter into a lifetime commitment may be expected to feel somewhat anxious about such things and, I realised, when talking as a friend, not as an interviewer, that what from a Western perspective is a distinct lack of relationship experience was adding to these worries. I found that particular conversation very difficult at times and really got the sense that though Neha was indeed happy with the idea of getting married to Maitri, this was perhaps still in the context of feeling that she didn’t have much choice about whether or not she got married at all. ‘It’s not too late!’ I felt like saying, ‘run away with me!’ but knowing that would not be helpful, I contented myself with simply listening to her concerns and making it clear that I was willing to continue to do so at any time. If I can trust anyone to have made the right choice for themselves, I feel sure it’s Neha. She had at one time, she tells me, entertained the idea of leaving India entirely and becoming a nun, in order to fully commit to her practice and avoid marriage entirely. This, she feels is a more sensible and balanced approach that will allow her to stay connected with her family and probably to do more meaningful Dhamma work.

Any fears I, or indeed she may have had, have happily melted since the wedding and Maitri’s promise at least with regards to housework certainly seems to stand true; the wedding was in January, and I received an invitation to dinner shortly after the couple returned from some time away with Neha’s new family. Sure enough, alongside Neha in the kitchen, Maitri was chopping, cooking and washing up too. We had a fine meal, with Maharashtrian specialties cooked up by Neha, (including her first, very successful, attempt at pakora!) and some home treats prepared by Maitri. They seemed happy and relaxed together too, a relief to me, with my cultural preconceptions about equality and gender roles in marriage. Neha is glowing, smiling, as busy as ever at work, but still capable of telling me that she is very happy. Not yet quite a fairy tale ending perhaps, but a very joyful pit stop if nothing else, and it’s certainly a union that’s blessed from the start. There are not many weddings, I think, to which Subhuti, a very busy and senior order member, would fly all the way from Pune and back in the same day to officiate.

Neha is clear that she never would have believed it to be possible for her to be living as she does now. This isn’t a matter of luck though, it’s sheer hard work, raw belief and pure determination that has achieved it. Yes, certain opportunities have arisen for her, but none that would have occurred without her own drive and motivation to realise the fruits of them. ‘If you had a message, for people in the UK who might read your story, if they are Buddhist, or if they are not, what would it be?’ I ask as a concluding thought, unsure that I will be able to articulate her experiences well enough myself to communicate the lesson that I know so many could learn from her example. She looks a little taken back at a difficult question and is thoughtful for a moment.

I’ve met many people in India, many of them have told me impressive tales of triumph over adversity, many of them I now feel honoured to count among my friends. I am sure, too, that I shall return when possible, to continue what I’ve left and that I shall meet many of them again. I don’t think, however, that there is anyone else I’ve met in my time here in whom I recognise that spark of deeper connection, a truly common perspective on the world and of our places in it, the kind of friendship you have where you almost instinctively realise a complete trust that this person will be around for the rest of your life, regardless of the circumstances you find yourselves in or the distances between you. If I think hard about it, I can actually only say I’ve met 3 or maybe 4 other people in my entire life with whom I feel such a connection, who I would call my ‘best friends’ and funnily enough, they all live in completely different countries.

It is perhaps for this reason that I have felt it important to reflect on some of these things now, before writing about my experiences in Bodhgaya last week. It certainly isn’t because I have nothing to say about that, I can assure you!

The first factor that changed the dynamics of our teaching machine was the departure of Shakyajata as she returned to the UK. Every year for the past 8 or so, she has spent which months she can in India, teaching and running the programme, then living in the UK to fund-raise, recover and plan her return as soon as the hot Indian summer has abated. Not only is she the principle fund raiser for the project and an important anchor of consistency for the teachers and the staff, she is also the most experienced English teacher at Aryaloka and it’s her syllabus and approach to delivery that Mark and I have followed. While she has encouraged us to add personal elements and use our own skills where appropriate (my classes utilised a heavy application of illustration for example!), there was never any doubt whose course it was.

As a Dhammacharini (Triratna Order member), she also took the reins in Dharma classes and teaching meditation, often leading puja twice a day with the women’s community and with the men at least once a week. It’s easy, then to see, that when it becomes time for her annual migration back to England, there’s a significant shift in the daily running. Of course, Mark and I are both more than capable of teaching and even continuing the spiritual content but it was perhaps the first event that marking the approach of the end of the academic year, and with it a reminder to our young people that they will soon be leaving the safety of their communities and be back out in the harsh reality of a very flooded and heavily biased jobs market.

Far from the ‘stiff upper lip’ for which we Brits are so famous, my experience is that Indians live far more emotionally on the surface of themselves (at least in responding to the issues which are not socially taboo) and so the tears flowed and the weeping was wailed when it was finally time to wave Shakyajata off to the airport. Less of a personal wrench from my own perspective as one who will be hot on her heels in the coming weeks, the main difference it made to me was a sense of moving a step closer to the firing line with respect to responsibility for the course. Still, with everything left so well organised there was little to practically concern me and it was good that I could present a strong front to support the girls, especially. I did wonder though, if one or two of them looked at me slightly askance; surely I should be weepy wailing too!?

I was also aware that it might seem quite patronising for me to suddenly swan in and start telling them how to do their jobs so I was quite sensitive to couching the classes in flexible terms that allowed me to respond to their experience as and when it became apparent. Thankfully, I quickly realised I had nothing to fear and my colleagues were receptive as well as vocally grateful for a new perspective on both the software and the delivery of content. Education style in India is very teacher centred so it was a new idea to them to engage in a group discussion for example, in which one elicits the answers from the students rather than telling them the ‘facts’. I also soon found that there were many new skills and applications within the programme that I could share. It is all too easy to take one’s own abilities and experiences for granted, so it was a relief to find they were genuinely learning new things at the same time as receiving a new structure for teaching it themselves. Institute director Aryaketu was very vocal about how important he felt the classes were. For me to teach the students to use Photoshop would be one thing but to teach the teachers is equivalent to teaching the same number again for each member of staff trained and as I’d written an entire 12 class course with lesson plans and materials provided, I hoped to ensure that this would be practical with as little drain on their already busy schedules as possible. This was especially the case for Sanjaya; she teaches at the Raipur branch in Chhattisgarh, so her new skills would be spreading out even beyond Maharashtra. For not the first time I reflected upon how impossible it is to really appreciate the extent of your influence as a teacher. I don’t suppose those members of staff who first introduced me to Adobe software in a London suburb 20 years ago thought for a moment that they’d be indirectly facilitating the improvement of employment prospects and therefore living conditions for young people and their families on the other side of the planet two decades hence. That’s the wonderful thing about knowledge. You never really possess it, you just borrow it for a while and then pass it on. I just can’t believe anyone who’d try and keep it to themselves really derives any benefit from it at all.

Anyway, I knew the classes were going well right across the centre when I arrived in the classroom after 10pm one night to prepare for a 7am Photoshop class and found all our community women diligently plugging away at their screens in practice for their upcoming exams. They sit exams in accountancy software called Tally, general IT skills (MSC-IT) and Hardware and Networking (physically setting up PCs). These exams took place off site at the beginning of the month and most passed first time. One or two fell just a few marks short but all is not lost. Each entrant has up to three attempts but I’m confident that no one will require a third.

I have ideas of discussions I’d like to have with the young women (and possibly young men if that’s not considered inappropriate) on body image, I have plans for things I’d like to discuss with all of them about assumed hierarchy (why do you call me ‘ma’am??). I am still hoping to organise further work with NNBY before I leave and I suppose it speaks volumes about my overall feelings about being here that I have already started fund-raising for my return to India.

Going alone would have been better than nothing and I knew some young people could still benefit from my contribution, but I also knew how valuable our students would find it and was absolutely determined not to back down. Still, not to dwell on adversity, it’s enough to say that thankfully, it was eventually possible to navigate the challenges and find solutions to the very valid concerns presented by my colleagues. It was agreed that two students, one representative from the young men’s and one from the young women’s communities, would accompany me with the responsibility of reporting back to their peers on the experience. I’d already delivered a presentation to both groups about my time at the National Convention but better by far for young Indians to hear about the work of NNBY from other young Indians, not a rapidly aging English lady. I had to concede, that though this wasn’t half as many students as I’d thought we could take (I’d decided I could afford to pay retreat fees for up to six) it did solve some problems with regards to travel and would be significantly less stressful than being personally responsible for quite that many! It made the whole thing a little cheaper too and I could then afford to pay their travel costs as well, which ended up being no more than contributions to petrol as we’d received the very kind offer of a lift all the way from Nagpur to Bihali from Chetan, a main NNBY organiser and very committed youth worker. Aryaketu chose who should attend based on considerations such as academic progress and exam dates so there should be no worries around apparent favouritism (which had been a concern) and we would even have a spare seat for Mark, who was keen to come to find out more about NNBY and offer a workshop on Climate Change, one of his key passions outside of English teaching!

Needless to say, after all that, there was no way I was going to be too unwell to go. Fortunately, I was indeed feeling genuinely better, with energy levels once again approaching normality by the time a rather excited car full departed Nagpur just after lunch on January the 19th!

My main aim for our mission was for Bharti and Akhilesh to have meaningful experiences that fully demonstrated the potential benefit of their future involvement in NNBY, and that they felt able to communicate this to the others upon returning to Nagpur, but I did of course have some other focuses as well. In Bordharan I had planned (at the last minute, but planned none the less) to give a version of the ‘Why I am a Buddhist’ talk that I delivered at Vajrasana in September. This had ended up being condensed on the spot (you can actually find a video of it here) into only about 7 minutes (including interpretation), so I was very happy to have the opportunity to give a fuller version in Bihali as I’d spent quite some time thinking about the content and how to make it relevant to a new audience. Hearing from others on their experience with the Dharma is always useful but still, there would be very different things to say to make it relevant to a group of Indian Youth in the Maharashtrian Jungle as opposed to a group of Europeans at a rather civilised Beginners Retreat in Suffolk. I knew they’d be keen to hear something of an autobiography; you don’t get far at a gathering of Indian youth without multiple questions about your origins, I have discovered! I felt there was something more important than that though and I wanted to explain why I was there. I’d been instinctively aware, as well as confirming from some conversation at Bordharan, that the reason for my attendance could be easily misconstrued and reduced to mere tourism. I felt a strong need to demonstrate that this wasn’t the case. I also wanted to explain why my Buddhist practice was so important to me in the hope that it might help support that of others. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, I felt it was really critical to demonstrate commonality. I can only guess what assumptions a mind from an Indian cultural background is conditioned to make about individuals from the West but I know that at least some of them are completely unfounded and really quite damaging to genuine racial cohesion. My approach to these areas in my talk was mostly couched in spiritual terms but there was a key socio-political link too, with reference to the work of Dr Ambedkar and why it might be that a 35 year old Brit can find his words as inspiring as an 18 year old Indian. My basic point was that though we come from very different backgrounds (as demonstrated by the autobiographical introduction), we are certainly following the same path into the future as we work for a common goal of global unity as described by the Buddhist teachings presented by Babasaheb Ambedkar. Some of the questions I’ve had since do make me wonder how much of what I said was lost in translation, as I’m sure I covered some of the answers to those in the talk itself. I tend to use quite subtle turns of phrase and rely heavily on analogy to communicate some of my more creative ideas so I just can’t tell how well much of that came across, but still I must have been doing something right to sustain the apparently rapt attention of the group for over an hour. I didn’t feel it flowed quite as well as my original talk but I think this is as much down to the practice of speaking with an interpreter as anything else. Hopefully this is a skill I can develop. I feel confident I got the gist of what I wanted to share across, anyway.

On the second day, I delivered a creative workshop aiming to use visual communication to stimulate a discussion of the things that feature prominently in the lives of the participants and could be seen as formative elements in the concept of self. The purpose of this was to help people establish where they are currently at in their life, with the view to identifying opportunities for positive change and development, particularly in the very Buddhist terms of a non-fixed self. We know we can change, we know we will change, but how can we realise the sense of deliberate focus that we need to achieve this in the most positive way? I’d planned to use an almost diagrammatic form to deliver this and had pre-prepared some blank mandala-style pages for participants to draw on. Though I’ve plenty of experience delivering various arts workshops, I’d devised this one specifically for the convention and had never run it before so I was grateful to Maitriveer who made time to go over it with me before I started and ask me a couple of pointed questions that helped me refocus my objective. I was fairly confident but still felt relieved that it was well received and everyone who came along seemed genuinely pleased with their outcomes.

At the same time that I was delivering this, Mark ran his workshop on Climate Change. I was very glad of his presence and support at the weekend on level of simple friendship, but I was particularly pleased for practical reasons that there was an alternative provision for participants and so I didn’t have to try and contend with fifty in my session! Chetan also ran a seminar on a personal development technique called SWOT Analysis. I can’t pretend I’d ever heard of it but Akhilesh found it very useful!

‘Why,’ she wanted to know, ‘do the organisers call you by your name when they introduce you?’ I was completely baffled by this question and felt sure I’d misunderstood. What else should they call me? After some further discussion it became clear that she was asking why they had not used a formal term of respect when inviting me to speak. I was pleased to have the opportunity to explain that it was because we were following the key Buddhist principle of equality that Babasaheb himself had been so active to promote. After receiving a mildly blank look I went further to state ‘because I am not better than them. I am not better than you.’ I may as well have stated that grass grew in the sky and we had clouds gathering under our feet. ‘Yes you are!’ was her instinctive and wholehearted reply. As I come to write this I find an uncharacteristic inability to articulate quite how that made me feel and realise that such was the importance of the exchange, I still feel quite emotional about it even now. It cut absolutely right to the heart of me that this sparklingly bright human being, simply bursting with manifest talent and clear potential, had been so conditioned by her upbringing in a society of deeply entrenched hierarchy that it was completely beyond her perspective of the world to believe that I was anything other than some kind of superior being. As a teenager, I certainly respected my teachers and those I met in mentoring or leadership roles. I understood that they’d had more experience than me, that they’d had more years of learning and education, that their thoughts and statements were the culmination of their deliberate efforts and that careful consideration was due. I wanted to listen and to learn from them. I wanted to demonstrate my appreciation of the time and teaching that they gave me and I even hoped to follow the example of one or two of them in my own life; but I never, for one moment, supposed that they were better than me. More skilled than me at certain things, yes, more practiced than me in many areas, of course, but not quantifiably better. Suddenly, I felt a little window had been opened for me into the world of caste discrimination and I realised just how much work we have to do. It’s not enough to say we believe in equality. It’s not enough to say we reject parts of a religion that attributes fixed and unchanging birth privilege to divine whim. It’s not even enough to renounce the entire religion that preaches this and convert to a new one if the bedrock of our cultural experience, the foundation for all our interactions and the way we place ourselves and others in the world is formed from the sediment of oppression and erroneous discrimination that has accumulated over centuries. Legislation is not enough. It’s not even a start. It’s simply a signpost, a practical suggestion for a direction to move in but nothing like the change in attitude, the change in minds that will make a real difference. How, then, can we possibly break through such barriers and why does it matter? What difference does it make to my life, when I return to the UK in a few weeks, or to the lives of my English friends who have perhaps never even left the UK? Why should it trouble them if a community on the other side of the planet is living in such conditions of social inequality? We can donate money to feed people. Even better, we can donate money to educate them and empower them to feed themselves, but if they choose to follow a dogma of division what is it to us? Compassion isn’t just about financial poverty though, and anyway what good are these employability skills really, if you can’t utilise them because you’ve not got the social liberty to follow certain careers without prejudice, even if the legal framework theoretically supports you? Still these issues are closer to home than the cultivation of philanthropy from a distance. If we want to be equal, if we want to live and operate in harmony and with the respect due to us from other humans, then we need them to know, to see and to feel that they too are our equals. Different, yes, and delightfully so, but always free and above all, equal. If I want to be truly valued as an individual with my own unique skills and talents that I have invested time in developing, then the last thing I want is for someone to elevate me to a pseudo superior status based upon factors beyond my control such as age and skin colour. This does not afford me any more equality than it affords her, and that, after all, is what equality means. Without wanting to get too Orwellian, if some are more equal than others then no one is equal at all. This is a contradiction in terms. It is quite simply then that if you wish equality for yourself, you need it for others. And it’s not enough to stop at the boundaries of your town, your county, your country or your continent. The world is bigger than that and so, I believe, is our potential as members of the only kind of society that can possibly support any kind of human progress. I hope I managed to communicate to this young woman that the only difference between us was based purely in our life experiences.  I hope I managed to make my point that I’d simply benefitted from a few more years’ to learn from my many mistakes and had been born, randomly, in a different set of circumstances. Even if she didn’t get quite the same clarity of insight as I did then I at least hope I planted a seed. The conversation certainly got me thinking along new lines and I began to consider how appropriate it is for the students at Aryaloka to address me as ‘ma’am’. Is this apparently harmless pleasantry actually reinforcing the very hierarchical systems we are trying to demolish? Should I encourage them to stop saying it? From this I mused; why erode respect? Perhaps it’s better, rather than removing such terms, to demonstrate mutual respect by reciprocating. I don’t always remember but I’m trying to do so now when addressing the students I work with.
Of course, following this, there was an obvious person who sprung to mind when wondering who to ask for help with translating the audio recordings of Bharti and Akhilesh’s presentations and I have to say she’s done a great job, responding both enthusiastically and promptly. I only hope she’s benefited as much from the English practice as I have from learning the content of the talks and it is in part thanks to her that I’m able to carry on into the most important section of my writing with such detail on my students’ responses to the convention. Vishakha ma’am, thank you. I hope this paragraph provides you with yet more English practice and let it be known that I am not only no better than you but have in fact learned a great deal from you. Just like many of the young people I have had the fortune to meet since I came to India, I am quite confident that you will do very well indeed.

a short meditation (lead by Akhilesh). We’d then move on to their main presentations before splitting into discussion groups and reconvening for a Q&A session, where groups could put any questions they had to the pair. We’d finish with a puja.

That was all fairly straight forward but of course the hard work was still to do; we still had to write the presentations! I suggested using PowerPoint to help them keep track of what they wanted to say and as a method of displaying some of the many photos that they’d both enjoyed taking, either on Mark’s mobile camera or my SLR. Easy enough and good practice in using those programmes too. This only left the content to decide upon! I knew they’d been taking notes over the weekend (I’d bought them each a brand new notebook to encourage it!) but that’s a long way from having a prepared presentation, and my experience of working with young people is that they need a significant amount of help in recognising the most important things to say. This can be a challenge in itself but it’s even tougher with a language barrier. Sure enough, to begin with, they needed a little prompting but I could tell even without Hindi that Joydeep was himself doing a very good job of coaxing out the key points without interference from me. I listened to him interpret Bharti’s account of how she’d found the conditions very supportive to deepening her meditation practice and how she’d enjoyed learning a new approach to the Metta Bhavana. I listened to him explain that she felt she’d learned a lot more about the teachings of Babasaheb, about why he’d taught his people to follow Buddhism, about the significance of questioning the superstitious spiritual practices that she’d been so used to at home. I heard her thoughts on gender roles and how she now realised she had the same potential to achieve excellence as anyone else, that she believed girls should be encouraged to go on retreat to develop confidence and gain clarity around their identities. I heard her state quite deliberately and without any prompting, that she wanted to maintain her involvement in NNBY to support her own continued development and to take friends so they too could benefit as well as to challenge to the restrictions on travelling away from home that are currently placed on girls in many villages. I felt a lump rise in my throat as the reality sunk in to my mind that the combined efforts of all my friends and colleagues who’d gone out of their way to indulge my stubborn insistence that we should attend had not just been ‘worth it’. Those efforts had been our absolute obligation as teachers, as mentors and as dharma practitioners. Akhilesh recounted a similarly positive experience and explained that attending the convention had clarified a lot of his previous confusion around the purpose of following a Buddhist practice. He felt that the main benefit he’d gained was in seeing equality exemplified. He’s not from Maharashtra and was concerned that he would encounter coldness or discrimination from the regional participants but recognised that this had been very far from his experience, which, he told us was the first time in his life he’d realised such genuine equality could exist. He’d in fact felt so included that at times he’d had to take himself away from the group in order to make time to write his notes! He too had a clear idea of what he planned to discuss in the presentation and hoped to give his own perspectives on the main talk given by Maitreveer Nagarjuna on human evolution and how this related to social, political and spiritual factors. For the second time in one update, I find I’m at a bit of a loss for words to describe quite how I felt upon hearing all this. Proud, certainly, and delighted that they’d both responded so hungrily to an opportunity that hadn’t been smooth to arrange. Joyful, definitely, to see how fired up and motivated they both were, how eager to share their experiences that others might benefit. Most of all, the best word to describe how I felt is moved. Moved in the emotional sense, as the reality of the real difference we’d made to their lives came home to me but also moved in a dynamic sense and ever more determined to drive forward in whatever way I can to keep supporting these young people in their developmental leaps and bounds.

It’s very rare to be able to say that anything in India has gone to plan, in fact I’ve come to see plans as a rough guide that give me an idea of what is probably not going to happen, but it’s entirely to the credit of Bharti and Akhilesh’s enthusiasm that the presentation afternoon went like a dream. There were unplanned factors, of course, including the arrival and subsequent attendance of Aryaloka’s main benefactors, the additional pressure of whose sudden presence gave even me an unexpected dose of performance anxiety. Bharti and Akhilesh; however, more than rose to the occasion and appeared to actually relish the additional audience members. We’d decided that it would be good practice for them to write their PowerPoint presentations in English and deliver the introductory sentences in the same, but that to foster a genuine degree of communication, they could give the main talk and answer questions in Hindi. As such, although I had a rough idea of what they were discussing, most of it went right over my head. In my formal teaching history, this would have caused me some anxiety as I would worry that I’d not be able to support and direct the content if needed. How would I know they were on topic? How would I know they weren’t accidentally misleading their peers with confused interpretations of complex concepts? How would I know they weren’t just chatting about what they fancied getting up to at the weekend? Actually though, I found their confidence gave me some structure to relax against and when I opened up to trusting them with the job of communicating their own thoughts, I found that not being overly focused on the language gave me some space to notice other key indicators that all was well. Aside from the occasional words I did recognise to show we were on track (‘NNBY’, ‘Dhamma’, ‘Babasaheb’ for example), I could gauge from the engaged body language of both speakers and audience, as well as from the enthusiastic pace of the discussion, that there was a good deal of focused and genuine communication taking place. Group discussions can be tough to get going and Question and Answer sessions flat and dead in the water with even experienced adult participants but there were no awkward silences or confused pauses, in fact we had a queue of people wanting to ask their questions first. Again, with thanks to Vishakha for her translation of the transcripts, I can now tell I was right not to be overly meddlesome in the flow of interactions and it seems the content was a mature and respectful debate that would put most Question Time

Actually, I’m not sure what ‘glown’ means. I can’t decide from the context if it should be ‘known’ or ‘glowing’ but either seems quite appropriate and I rather like the idea of a word that means both simultaneously so I shall leave that one open to interpretation. Maybe it means something else entirely. Regardless of possibly vague moments in translation, I think it’s quite apparent from just that brief excerpt that Bharti and Akhilesh did us proud, both in terms of how they responded and participated with the content of the convention itself and in terms of how well they took on the task of sharing their learning and new perspectives so enthusiastically with their communities. Of course, I needn’t have worried too much about what was being said as my Hindi speaking colleagues were also present. Sheetal, Vaishali, Saccadhamma and Aryaketu all attended and were clearly as impressed as I was by the maturity and depth of the presentations. Such was her engagement that Bharti even ended the Q&A session by questioning her peers, asking if they felt they would like to go to an NNBY event in the future. Their replies were an almost unanimous ‘yes!’

So that’s a tale of optimism and positivity for the future of many of the community students at Aryaloka but what of my own responses?

We were soon joined by three medical staff and again, I wondered how common this might be or if such attention was merely caused by the arrival of an apparently exotic specimen. I was presented with an old fashioned glass thermometer to clamp under my tongue and I obediently obliged whilst trying not to think about where else it might have been. The most senior practitioner examined me vaguely whilst asking questions and making decisive statements to her colleagues with regards to a likely diagnosis. Kneading my tender abdomen as if I were to become the evening chapatti batch, she quickly concluded that I had a water infection based only upon how much I winced when pressure was applied to certain areas, an assumption that seemed way off the mark to me as it did not seem to be suggested by my symptoms. Even she seemed surprised when I replied that no, I’d not had any difficulties passing water but she remained adamant declaring; ‘Water infection and gastric bacteria!’ (or something similar) with the air of one who has just solved the last, niggling clue of the daily crossword. She scribbled a few personal notes (Mark helped with an approximate spelling of my name) and left after demanding a blood test.

I recalled that at a recent visit to the blood donation centre in Manchester, just before leaving for India, the nurse had struggled to find a vein in my left arm before collapsing the one she did find, bruising me and finally admitting defeat before calling a colleague to take over, who then started on the other arm. With this in mind, I politely communicated that she might like to try the right, wondering how much I would be punctured before the required quantity was obtained. I needn’t have worried; despite the questionable surroundings, she was clearly well practiced and skilful, drawing the sample she needed quickly and without fuss. Manchester Blood Bank staff – 0. Indian Phlebotomist – 1.
I was amused by the different responses from my escorts; Mark wasn’t sure at all and said he didn’t want to look while Gurudev leaned over eagerly to get a good view. I was rather glad. It’s always easier to feel genuinely brave when you’ve got an audience to convince.

While the nurse busied herself with analysis (I was absolutely fascinated by this, it seemed like a much better system than having to wait days for it to be returned from a distant laboratory), I was handed a familiar looking plastic tub and asked to provide a urine sample. A small, wiry lady in a simple but colourful sari was called and she led me with a vice like grip that seemed only a hairs depth from bruising my arm, to an outdoor squat toilet, screened from the main waiting room by only a waist height brick wall. She further tightened her clutch and indicated for me to get on and fill my pot. Well. There are a great many cultural differences that I’m willing to experiment with. I’m learning not to depend on toilet paper. I can generally finish a meal without cutlery, even if it does include watery Maharashtrian dhal. I can wearily remember to remove my shoes when required, despite the fact that this seems to make my feet even dirtier than if I’d kept them on. There are things I draw the line at; however and I’m afraid I have not yet let go of the English conditioning that means I do not urinate whilst being watched by strangers. Maybe, if I’m desperate and it’s been a long night, I’ll accept the presence of a close female friend but that’s my limit. Cue my reliance on Gurudev once again, who was called to explain that yes, I really was able to get on with it alone and wouldn’t fall over without her support. She didn’t seem to quite follow though, and stepped back with some confusion to watch, and wait for me to get on with it anyway. Eventually she was persuaded that I could also make my own way back to the clinic, thank you and good bye. Sample in hand, I returned to the office-cum-laboratory and we waited a little longer. I was then given a printed analysis of my blood sample, which I was responsible for ferrying back to the doctor. I found this both fascinating and refreshing, it seemed like such a quick and simple system. I also enjoyed a good nosey and deduced that with a white blood cell count higher than the given normal range, my immune system had kicked in and my body was indeed fighting off some sort of infection. I felt somewhat vindicated; there was a reason I felt so ropey! I was directed to leave my little tub of wee on the windowsill for some reason and we were dismissed.

I was finally handed my notes, a prescription on the back page, and told to eat well, take rest and return the day after tomorrow. I exited with a respectful ‘Jai Bhim’ but this was not reciprocated and I was simply met with a blank stare as I was told ‘good bye’, which made me internally question the presence of the portrait of Ambedkar behind the desk. After settling my bill; 2800 rupees in total, we gratefully filed out into what passes for fresh air in Nagpur, to find the chemist. Though we’d ended up using a facility at the higher end of the healthcare costs spectrum, I reflected simultaneously how cheap it actually was (that’s around £30) and how lucky we are in the UK to have a system where the quality of your care, and indeed whether you get any at all, is not directly dictated by your financial security.
I then collected an unholy quantity of mostly unlabelled drugs, plucked from random packets with no dosage instructions, or other information from a pharmacist who seemed completely baffled by my repeated requests for more information. We filed back to the hospital and managed to get some details on how and when to take them even, if I was none the clearer on what many of them actually were. I was grateful to be collected from the city centre by Aryaketu then, and driven home to reluctantly consume some weak soup and toast in order to buffer the first dose of mystery medicine.

Thankfully, after another week or so of being very gentle with myself and one return visit at which I was prescribed another two weeks of chemical antibiotic cocktail, I am now feeling probably at my healthiest since that first bout of food poisoning knocked me for six back in November. My theory is that a strong immune system was able to deal with this initial shock and suppress but not completely irradiate the new pathogen, which then put up enough of a consistent challenge to a body gradually becoming more run down by changes in diet and environmental conditions to result in an increasing frequency of symptoms that then took ever longer to regain some control over. So in summary, I can’t say the whole ordeal was a pleasant process, but I’m now very glad I went and can enjoy both the novelty of feeling genuinely healthy again as well as the reflection of yet another unique experience afforded me by my time in this country of constant discovery!

Anyone wondering, like I, about the sterility of the thermometer, need not fear. Upon peering more closely at two jars of bright orange liquid housed on the reception desk next to a leaning pile of paperwork, I discovered that they are sterilised (one assumes between each patient) in their own separate jars labelled ‘oral’ and ‘rectal’. No room for errors there then. I feel completely comfortable with that. Ahem.

By proving that nobody could look as ridiculous as us, hopefully everybody would feel a bit more relaxed about having a boogie themselves. I started my set with the instinctive moves of one who grew up in mosh pits and happily launched into a sequence of head banging. After some time, I allowed this to blend, seamlessly I’m sure, into the kind of lolloping pogo as performed by your average unwashed, summer festival living, dreadlocked tree hugger before realising I should branch out to include a wider audience and regressing into the kind of shoulder slinking, hip swinging sashay best demonstrated by an 80’s starlet on Top of the Pops. Miming, thankfully, was not required as there was very little Hindi on the track that had been selected for us. Which went on. And on. And on. You think the Duracell Bunny has moves? It’s got nothing on a pair of desperate foreign  teachers who are trying to work out which form of stem verb plus ‘ing’ they could tease out of some dodgy dancing for a quick revision class on Monday morning. Finally, it ended and we flopped into sweaty heaps at the side of the classroom, like one of those old toys where you push the base up and make the little wooden animal collapse. After a breather, we reconvened and surveyed the wider effects of our grooves. There was certainly more dancing, however, I couldn’t help notice that this was completely gender segregated and so I decided to introduce the concept of the conga in the hope that I might generate a current of movement and mix things up a bit. After no more than about three minutes of mild confusion, the line broke up and sure enough like oil and water, boys magnetised to the side of the room nearest the door (for a quick escape?!) and the girls to the end near the drinks table (possibly for an equally quick opportunity to be doing something other than dancing?). After a quick confluence, we decided to bring out the big guns and loaded the Locomotion onto Youtube. How, reasoned the Annabeth Brain, can a group of young girls fail to go giddy for a bit of Kylie?! Ah yes. The generation gap. The language barrier. The cultural gulf. Well, I had fun anyway. Mark then led a round of YMCA, which this was tolerated politely with much the same air of befuddled humouring before we conceded, gratefully, to the perimeter, safe in the knowledge that we had done our duty. Thankfully, from this point on, the real stars took over, and finally, though I had to accept that the centuries old tide of cultural gender separation were not going to be turned back in a single party, the embarrassment and awkwardness had given way to genuine fun.

This was attended by our students, the teachers and several local Triratna Order Members, with a dedication ceremony conducted by Shakyajata and Khemadhamma, from Australia, both of whom have been supporting Aryaloka in various ways since the conception. They each gave talks after the puja, describing their experience of the history and aspirations for the future of the institute. Mark and I were then called up. Going last is never an easy trick; your audience is feeling evermore fidgety and the previous speakers have probably made all the salient points but I fell back on my love of analogy and muttered something about people being like buildings. That’s not as bad as it sounds, the point I was trying to make was that we are built ourselves

With only about 12 hours turnaround between returning from the NNBY convention and heading out of Nagpur once more, the fact that it was New Year’s Eve seemed pretty academic, and actually, if it hadn’t been for the hearty cries of ‘Happy New Year’ at midnight, I think I would have been completely unaware that it was even happening. We were heading to Raipur on an 06:30 train out of Kamptee (the stop after Nagpur and a little closer to the education centre in Bhilgaon) and this would be my first experience of a different state (Raipur is in Chhattisgarh) as well as on an Indian train. The purpose of our trip was to visit the branch of Aryaloka Computer Education run by ex-Nagpurian students Satish and Sanjaya; to give them a little support and meet the students benefitting from their tuition. We were only scheduled to be there for one night; a fact I queried given the extent of the five hour train journey.  Since we were going all that way, I wondered if it would not be better to have at least two nights, maybe spend a bit more time with the students, even run a workshop or two. I was greeted with nonplussed indifference by Aryaketu who couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. Five hours, he informed me patiently, is not a long train journey.

I had been told to expect delays; Indian trains, a bit like Indian everything else, do not run on time. At least, they run in their own time, a unique temporal framework that most Indians seem to tick along quite happily in synch with, but would drive most Europeans to distraction. I can’t remember if our train was due at 06:00 and arrived at 06:30 or was due at 06:30 and arrived at 07:00, which probably goes to show I am making some headway with regards to accepting a more relaxed schedule. Either way, it was only half an hour difference between the roughly predicted arrival time and the reality, which isn’t bad at all, even by British standards. I’ve certainly been delayed longer by trains in England.
I found the experience of train travel was equally a lot more pleasant than I had thought might be the case, though I expect this had a lot to do with the fact that we had bought quite expensive tickets to ride in ‘Three Tier AC’. This means the bunks stack three on top of one another (trains seem to be furnished as sleeper carriages by standard, probably due to the sheer distances involved) and the carriage has air conditioning. So, our travel wasn’t quite as swanky as ‘Two Tier AC’, but was a good deal more comfortable than ‘second class’, or even ‘general’ carriages; but then they probably

don’t really need air-conditioning since there’s not usually any glass in the windows. All in all, I really quite enjoyed the train. Once I’d clambered into my drop down bunk (I’d thought I might sit up in it but this wasn’t really an option so I reclined instead), the only thing disturbing the gentle rocking of the train was the calls of various vendors passing up and down the carriage selling ‘CHAI!’, ‘DOSA!’ or, intriguingly ‘CHIPSY BISCUITS!’ Now, I’ve felt desperate for a cup of tea once in a while but I’ve never realised it could be such an urgent business as to require quite so much volume, but never mind. As for the ‘chipsy biscuits’… I’m afraid I unadventurously left those to the imagination.
Despite the minor ‘reality shift’ in terms of our departure time, we arrived in Raipur reasonably on schedule and were met by Satish, who had organised a car to take us a local order member’s home. Here, we were greeted with a far more sedate cup of chai before being served lunch. The food was very similar to what I’d been told was standard Maharashtrian fare and I enquired about the difference with Chhattisgarhi dishes. Actually, it turned out the family were Maharashtrians which explained the familiarity!

After lunch, we had a little rest before meeting a large group of students in the family’s very impressive shrine room. The young people who had come to meet with us on the first day were all ex-students and had completed their studies with Aryaloka in the previous year. We were keen to meet with them to establish how successful they had been in their post-study ambitions; had they found employment? Were they continuing in study? Had they stayed in Raipur or returned to their villages? A great many of them were still studying, either in the equivalent of English 6th Form and Further Education, still working through their 11th or 12th Standard classes, or in first, second or even third years of BA or BSc courses.

There is not currently any provision for full time study as enjoyed by our men’s and women’s communities in Nagpur, however the courses offered by Aryaloka can frequently be fitted in around other commitments. Many of the young people we spoke to on the first day had been able to find employment following the course, often in accounting departments owing to their new skills in the programme Tally, and thanks to this were able to pay their course fees and support themselves whilst studying, or in many cases, pay their course fees, support themselves and financially assist their families, also while studying. It certainly set a contrast against the British system of support during study, despite the changes and controversy in recent years. There is absolutely no expectation or assumed right to education here; there’s no doubt in any mind that it is a privilege to be valued and paid for. The other outstanding observation I made and found very touching was the readiness with which most students expressed their gratitude, not just to the institute that is Aryaloka, but personally to Shakyajata. They were quite open in sharing an awareness that without her support and tuition, they would not be enjoying the benefits of their studies, nor feeling even half as optimistic about the future.

Another heart-warming discovery was the perceived role that the Dharma study had played in their development; a majority of the group were quite clear that this was an important element in their studies that had equipped them to deal successfully with many of life’s trials and tribulations in a balanced and trouble-free way. Two groups of young women had even set up their own communities since leaving and were supporting each other in their practice. They told us that this had been a unique benefit of the Aryaloka course, which they would not have found at another education provider.

Our schedule for the second day involved saying a grateful farewell to our hosts and their beautiful home. I was most impressed by the gardens; a roof terrace, watered by hand for at least an hour before breakfast and an equally well kept front garden with the first lawn I’ve seen since leaving England! Chhattisgarh seems wetter than Nagpur and is famous for particularly vicious mosquitoes as a result! We then took a car journey into the centre of Raipur to visit the Computer Centre and meet some current students. Sanjay and Satish again welcomed us and we were shown into a building that made me really appreciate the facilities in Nagpur. A tiny little building with not more than 6 or 7 computers and an even smaller general classroom that I think is probably used for English, when a teacher is available. We met with two groups that day, one in the morning and one in the afternoon and just as well too that it was split as we struggled to fit even half the group into the room. It was adequate though, for us to hear their stories, which sounded so very similar to many I have heard since my arrival. It struck me that it was probably not very common for anyone to ask these young people about their lives and regardless of any learning that they may or may not have received, even showing an interest in them was a

Our Raipur trip ended with a meal at the station before another, slightly delayed but generally comfortable journey home to Nagpur. The station fare may not have been the highest quality sustenance I have enjoyed in my time here, but I was left with enough food for thought to see me through. I found it genuinely impressive to see how Aryaloka operates in Raipur; it may be a smaller centre and not yet developed to the same degree but already the positive results of the work being carried out there are palpable and those who have benefitted are more than capable of voicing their genuine gratitude for the meaningful opportunities they have been given. That the Raipur centre is run by two ex-students from the residential courses in Nagpur also demonstrates just how far reaching the work of Young Indian Futures continues to be. It’s often easy to forget the scope of ones’ actions, it’s easy to miss taking into account anything that doesn’t happen directly in front of you and as a teacher it is common to end up wondering really just how much difference you’re making. This trip was a wonderful opportunity to realise though, just how far even small acts of positivity can spread, how a single seed of learning can germinate into fruit that not only benefits the student, but also improves the lives of those around them in so many ways.

I had first heard about the event, when Aryaketu had mentioned it in the car on our way to a semi solitary retreat in Bihali at the beginning of the month. We had initially hoped to take this retreat at Bordharan, which is much closer to Nagpur, but the centre had been fully booked. My interest was immediately piqued then, not only for the prospect of another opportunity to see Bordharan, but also because the retreat would be led by Subhuti, one of Triratna’s most senior Order Members and one of founder Sangharakshita’s foremost disciples. I had listened to recordings of Subhuti’s talks online and had read some of his work too, but even though he is president of the London Buddhist Centre, as he spends up to six months of every year on multiple trips working in India, the chance to attend not just one but a whole week of his talks in person seemed a very fine Christmas present indeed. At the very least, I’d be guaranteed to understand a percentage of the programme. Although a majority of it would be in Hindi, a common language for many of the young people who would be gathering from states all across India, Subhuti gives talks in English with an interpreter.

Despite my initial enthusiasm, for a while it didn’t seem possible. Aryaketu seemed keen that I should attend, but various other people were not so sure it was a good idea;

My first act of settling in was to make a note of the programme for the days ahead in my diary, as listed on a printed programme I borrowed from Neha. Though subject to change, it gave me a good starting point. I also quickly realised exactly why the event was being referred to as a conference rather than a retreat! Each day started at 05:30, when we were encouraged to ‘wake up’. Tea would be served at 06:15, followed by half an hour of Chi Kung at 06:30. This preceded an hour of meditation at 07:00, with breakfast between 08:00 and 09:00. The day then really got going with the main talk (by Subhuti) at 10:00. Each day had a different, related topic; How to Think, Transformation, Equality, Social Responsibility and finally, Being an Activist, then after the 90 minute talk, we would split into discussion groups. Some days followed this with a ‘Q&A with Subhuti’ session planned before lunch at 13:00. 14:00 to 14:45 was generously scheduled as ‘rest’ before more chai and a series of ‘floating sessions’ at 15:00, which I soon learned meant somewhat impromptu study and/or discussion sessions. From 16:30 until 18:00 would be debates, panel discussions or seminars related to the theme of the day and after supper (served between 19:00 and 20:00), there were talks, presentations or celebratory activities leading up to the close with a puja at 21:30. The schedule kindly timetabled ‘sleep’ at 22:00. I began to see that the week would slip by very fast indeed.

It was as well I rested; the opening ceremony was a high energy affair with a re-enactment of one of Dr Ambedkar’s most famous acts of civil and spiritual disobedience, which clearly stimulated the already excited crowd to even stronger resolve with regards to their purpose for the week. On December 25th 1927, Dr Ambedkar had publically burned a copy of the core Hindu text, the Manu Smriti. Subhuti explained that though this was often presented as an ancient script, it was in fact relatively modern and had been written by Brahmins (Hindu high caste community), containing within it the primary justification for caste discrimination in the Hindu religion. Burning this document was one of the first public steps Ambedkar took in renouncing the religion of his birth and the entrenched injustices that so many were subjected to in its name.

I realised then that this was not ‘just’ an opportunity for young people to learn about Buddhism and meekly deepen their practice. Many of those attending this event would be children of Ambedkarites, social activists born and bred, possibly even descendants of those who were at the original mass conversion 60 years ago. Many, though not all, would be from Scheduled Caste backgrounds and if the flavour of the event (subtitled A Democratic Revolution; from Individual

So it was that I again found myself on a fast track integration process; once more a fish out of water socially, politically, culturally and spiritually. This was heightened by the anticipated number of very curious and excitable teenagers, many of whom had never seen a white person before and thought nothing of making comments such as ‘when I first saw you I thought you were an albino because we’ve got them in our village but actually it’s OK because now I know you’re a foreigner’ (read awed emphasis on that final word). I had enjoyed a surge of confidence since my post-Bihali spiritual rebirth experience (as discussed in my last update) but I now found myself reacquainted with a more withdrawn and introverted version of myself. I did not wish to appear unfriendly and wanted to be sure I was giving a positive first impression, where it was being taken, on behalf of modern Western people (no pressure there then), but I needed to remain equally true to myself and at the time, this was a self of study, observation and introspection. I skipped around the edges of multiple social interactions, like a pebble not yet committing to the lake and tried to politely take my leave as quickly as possible.

After the first full day, I realised that participating in the afternoon events was probably not the best use of energy. As they were all in Hindi, I would understand only a tiny percentage of the material and so I was glad to carve some space for myself each afternoon while the ‘coast was clear’ for reading (I’d brought some texts), rest and yoga (I’d also brought my mat!). The daily highlight for me was without doubt the main talk by Subhuti and as I waited in the atmosphere of hushed excitement for the programme to begin on the first morning, I sensed I was not alone in this. I really felt myself to be at the ‘cutting edge’ not just of my own personal practice but of the work being done in the Triratna Buddhist Order; and at the front of the Dharma itself, as if we were at the driving edge of a weather front gradually sweeping across a landscape of change.

Following these main talks, we quickly gathered in our discussion groups and I was fortunate to have several people in mine who spoke some English, Prachi especially, who kindly took on the role of interpreting. Diksha, NNBY co-ordinator, and Raul facilitated the discussions and always made a point of trying to include me wherever possible. I wasn’t always able to completely follow the discussion and sensed that on occasion the translated content of what I had to contribute wasn’t entirely as substantial as the thoughts I’d tried to convey, but nevertheless, I really enjoyed the opportunity to engage with a smaller, more controlled group of convention participants. That we met over the course of the week helped too, as I could actually begin to develop a sense of individual personality in a sea of faces and deepen my friendship with them.

Meeting Shraddhavajri must be recorded as one of the high points of my week, and has furnished me with yet another inspirational female figure to add to my growing collection since becoming involved with Triratna. Living and working in the northern state of Uttar Pradesh, she teaches Physical Education as well as running Dharma classes, youth groups and supporting the Ordination processes of six young women. At least that’s everything I can remember. I suspect that’s only about half of it. She vividly described a talk she’d recently given on gender equality, how shocked some of her teaching colleagues had been by it and how much negative feedback she’d received in the aftermath. She’s a couple of years younger than me but by Indian standards that’s apparently very old to be unmarried. Still, she’s holding off the constant social pressure, but for how much longer she’ll manage, I’m not sure. I’ve often refused to call myself a feminist because those I have encountered in the west who describe themselves as such seem more interested in female supremacy than real gender equality, but listening to her made me realise that in India, I have absolutely no hesitation whatsoever in planting myself very squarely in a proudly feminist camp. I only wish I knew how to support such a remarkable woman, who is to my mind ploughing on in a strikingly selfless and admirable fashion to blaze a much needed trail and set a firm example to the women around her that their future need not be dictated by a default assumption of gender typical roles.

Neha is another of these inspirational women with whom I consider myself very privileged to have become friends and though she was busy much of the time, we did manage to sneak some moments for conversation, which further strengthened our spiritual and social bond. As well as discussing her feelings in the run up to her own wedding, a conversation I found very difficult at times, she kindly gave me a good chunk of her afternoon one day to tell me her story. Having written the life stories of Saccadhamma and Sheetal, I felt it was very important to share Neha’s. Not only is hers another tale of overcoming significant disadvantage, as an alumni of Aryaloka, it also details just how transformational the opportunities offered at the education centre can be. I knew it would be a good story but even I didn’t expect some of the details and I’m looking forward to sharing it as soon as I get a chance in the coming weeks. As a dedicated member of the Lord Buddha TV team, she is often behind the microphone when interviews are conducted but, she told me, I was the first person to ask her for an interview. That may be the case, I replied, and lucky me for getting there first, but I am absolutely sure I will not be the last. Such is Neha’s sparkling energy and selfless determination to spread the Dharma, she has found herself with the dubious privilege of being additionally stretched with the demands of being one of Subhuti’s most trusted assistants. And it is a privilege, but a hard earned one and though she clearly treasures his guidance and friendship with a great respect, this does mean she is often taking on a good deal of extra work. Without wanting to exploit her contacts or her good nature, I’d asked if it might be possible to arrange a meeting at his convenience; I didn’t want to assume special treatment, or that I’d be a priority in a busy schedule but it seemed like I would be missing an opportunity if I didn’t at least ask. True to form, she did what she could and told me that at 4pm on Thursday, I would be welcome to visit Subhuti for a chat.

It’s a strange thing to meet for the first time someone with whose appearance, speech and mannerisms one has become already familiar. Such had been the depth of my engagement with Subhuti’s talks that I almost felt as though we’d already conversed and Neha had described him as having such a kind nature that I didn’t feel at all uncomfortable taking myself up to the hut behind the Stupa where he was staying with Maitriveer, another Order Member Ratnakumar, and possibly one or two others. We were soon sitting on a small, basic, concrete veranda looking out on to a jungle scene of faded teak leaves and dry grasses. To describe the scene as a riot of beige might not be wildly inaccurate but seriously undermines it and perhaps tawny, amber, gold and sienna would all better describe the colours that shone out of the winter landscape in the warmth of the late afternoon sun. I’m not sure if it was because of this complimentary contrast or because they have this colour all of their own, but it particularly occurred to me that this otherwise visually unremarkable elderly gentleman to whom I had presented myself, had a pair of the most strikingly blue eyes I’ve ever seen. If the eyes really are the windows to the soul (though of course the existence of a fixed soul is not reality to a Buddhist) his radiated a wisdom housed in such clarity and depth, yet tempered with so delicate and light hearted a demeanour it that was hard not to feel an almost instantly affectionate respect for this person that I really only knew through very indirect means. Perhaps that he reminded me slightly of one of my uncles influenced this too. It’s probably no surprise that our conversation meandered its way into the realms of art (I think I sort of summarised how I’d ended up with Triratna and where I hoped to go next, but I’m sure we enjoyed all sorts of tangents along the way) and though I’m normally cautious not to bore people by forcing them to look at photos of my art on a first meeting, he did seem so genuinely interested that before I knew it I’d pulled out my tablet and broken my own social taboo. Time is famous for its elastic properties, especially when ones experience of it is particularly pleasant, and as well as thoroughly enjoying the depth of our conversation, I was also relishing the rare opportunity to speak so fluently and with such rich subtlety of vocabulary with a fellow Brit, so one might have expected time to have flown characteristically. This wasn’t how it seemed to go though, and when I was very courteously dismissed to make allowance for his next appointment (though ‘go away please, I need a rest’ would have been an equally acceptable termination) I was neither surprised not expecting to see that a full hour had passed. I could have happily carried on chatting indefinitely and know there would have been plenty more to discuss, yet I did not feel that I had had to wind up early, or that there were unexpressed thoughts left wanting. Perhaps that is how one experiences time when a genuine presence in the moment has been achieved and it’s true to say that such was my absorption that for not one second of that hour did my mind wander to mundane musing of things that had happened earlier in the day, or anticipation of events to come later. It was, then, with mild shock that I returned to my room to find my semi-written notes for the evening talk awaiting a swift conclusion.  

If I’d not felt glad to have met him earlier that day for just about every other reason possible, I was suddenly very glad that this wasn’t our first introduction. I’d expected nothing of this part of the proceedings and as I was standing only slightly awkwardly to one side trying to work out how to participate appropriately while being urged to join in with the ritual, the gentleman acting as MC, calmly informed me that I had five minutes to speak. I equally calmly explained that I had planned for up to twenty. He didn’t seem to realise for one moment the conundrum that this presented me as he then pointed out that as I’d need to allow time for interpretation, what he meant really was that I had about two and a half. I decided to quit while I was ahead before my slot was reduced any further and placed incense on the shrine before participating in the ritual bowing and taking my seat. ‘Hello again’ is a much easier sentence when finding oneself suddenly on stage with someone than ‘nice to meet you’, and this did calm what would otherwise have been an increasingly fraught situation. ‘What are you talking about?’ Subhuti politely inquired as the audience settled. ‘Well,’ I began, ‘I was supposed to be discussing Why I am a Buddhist but I’ve just been told that the time I’d planned for has been reduced by about ninety percent.’ ‘You talk for as long as you like’ he replied, and so whilst I felt it would be a good idea to be as succinct as possible, I dispensed with an instinct to rush. I abandoned my A5 sheet of bullet points and instead began the monologue that I’d internally rehearsed in various parts throughout the preceding days.

I think I managed to get the bulk of what needed saying across by simply dispensing with my autobiography, which, whilst I’m sure my audience would have been delighted to hear, really wasn’t the most important point at all. Despite my slightly unprepared rambling, it seemed to go down well. I felt more confident when spontaneous applause erupted in response to one statement and when I returned to my seat next to Subhuti, he gently leant over and simply said ‘nice’, demonstrating perhaps more effectively than I had just done, exactly how much it’s possible to convey really very succinctly indeed. I relaxed as he then introduced the cultural night, explaining the importance of creativity and enjoyment, before our chairs were moved to the side of the stage and the stars of the night stepped up to take their places. I was relieved to be off the stage but still felt a little awkward to be sat with the lead team and was keen to reassert my position as ‘one of you’ by returning to my place in the audience as soon as possible, so I snuck back at an appropriate pause to enjoy all the performances with occasional interpretation from Neha and Raju.

Raju later persuaded me to sing but I'm not posting the video of that bit. I’d been very reluctant at first as I felt I’d already had my share of the limelight and I’d earlier resisted invitations by my discussion group to read a poem. I realised though, as I sat there, that whilst I may feel uncomfortable because of it, like it or not I did represent something bigger than myself, I represented an international connection, and for young people who had perhaps never left their village before it was more important to utilise this than to try and demonstrate its lack of substance. I realised being seen to share in the event was more important than attempting to retain the illusion of dignity, so I agreed, and hacked my way through the same song I’d appeased the community girls with a couple of times; the only (appropriate) song I knew all the way through, a favourite from my teens and one that I realised as I sung it was strangely dharmic; Spaceman by 4 Non Blondes. I’m pretty sure I sang at least half of it flat but Hindi singing sounds like it’s in a different key or something to me anyway and no one seemed to mind, judging by the number of people who came up to me the following day and told me how ‘beautiful’ my singing was. Of course I suspect they’d have said that even if I’d pulled out my old party trick of gargling the Beatles ‘When I’m 64’ but I must have done something right. The most significant feedback I received; however, was from those who told me they’d felt moved, or touched by the talk, especially the comment ‘I didn’t realise someone from a different background, a foreigner, could feel the same way about things as me.’ Uh huh. There we go. Box ticked. Job done.

That might all sound a bit grand. So much the better. I’m sure Subhuti hardly needs it from me, but I couldn’t have approved more of his closing lines. It’s important to have a long term goal but to get there, we must be skilled in applying the principles of Dharma to the situation around us; the Dharma is something to be lived. The Buddha is the ideal activist, Subhuti explained, and if you want to be an ideal activist you must become more and more like the Buddha.

So then, after a week in the jungle with it, how can I describe the National Network of Buddhist Youth? In the first, most practical instance, it’s an organisation run by young people identifying as Buddhist, which seeks to make connections through common spiritual practice, spanning the different Indian states to achieve a goal of social equality and freedom from caste as inspired by the work of Dr Ambedkar.

Really though, it’s so much more than that. It’s a vehicle that empowers young people, regardless of their background to realise the confidence and tools they need to reach their full potential. It enables its members to see not just through caste distinctions but beyond them, to recognise that they are united, not divided, by something far bigger. It provides opportunities for social development, for spiritual evolution and practical skills acquisition. It’s also the biggest bunch of friendly, energetic, dynamically excited young people I think I’ve ever met and I feel quite reassured, because if the future of the Dharma Revolution really does lie (at least partly) in their hands, then it’s definitely going places.

It seems appropriate that I come to post this entry on Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year. A day when, in the ‘dead’ of winter, we find ourselves cresting the brow of the season and looking forward to the new calendar year that promises spring, as the days gradually but steadily lengthen to bring new growth. Though to a Southern Briton, ‘dead’ of winter in Central India feels more like the ‘light snooze’ of winter, it is noticeable nevertheless and I’m looking forward to the longer hours of daylight.

Non Buddhists may not be familiar with the term ‘Spiritual Death’ and when I first encountered it, I certainly found it rather strange. Thankfully, we’re all about the potential for rebirth here, so it’s not quite as fatal as it sounds. Sangharakshita, founder of Triratna, presents a cycle of spiritual development to us in the stages of Integration, Positive Emotion, Spiritual Death, Spiritual Rebirth and then Spiritual Receptivity. (If you’d like to read more about these stages for yourself, I’m sure my friends in the Manchester Sangha won’t mind me sharing this document produced by Chandana, which gives you an overview of a course that they deliver on the subject). It should be recognised that we don’t necessarily travel through these stages in a progressive fashion, and also that we continue to pass through them again, and again, right throughout our spiritual lives. I guess it’s only upon achieving enlightenment that one ends this, and indeed every other cycle.

I’ve had about three Spiritual Deaths since I arrived in India I think, as each time I shed a layer of preconceived self and opened up to engage more fully with the challenges presented by my new cultural landscape, or to put it more simply, as I ‘settled in’. It’s fair to say; however, that my recent experiences on retreat in Bihali were certainly the most challenging yet, on multiple levels. I think I was always going to find it difficult coming back from that retreat. Having spent two months in Nagpur city centre, the spacious peace provided by the Indian countryside would inevitably be tough to give up. Equally, I would be in unknown territory personally as I entered my third month away from home, the longest I’ve ever been away from the UK. These things would in and of themselves have flung me into a bit of a funk, I think. Post ‘holiday’ blues and mild homesickness, quite enough to be getting on with. Chuck an intensive week of spiritual self-analysis and the need to recover from sexual assault and robbery into the mix and you’ve got a heady cocktail of reasons to be operating in a severely altered state. Such it was, and having maintained to myself and others that I felt absolutely normal in the aftermath of the event itself, as the next week opened up in front of me I found I did not feel normal at all. Thankfully, my colleagues noticed and respected, (perhaps even expected) my subdued nature and kindly cooperated to give me a few days off teaching.

As I ran, I had a mental image of a younger (yet somehow older), more vibrant, more assertive ‘me’ calmly putting her hand up; she’d been observing carefully, critically but kindly, from the back of a busy room. She slowly began to move her way through the crowd to the front of the stage that is the arena of my self-awareness, moving back towards the set where the act of ‘me’ takes place publically. ‘Excuse me?’ She said, projecting her voice over Axl Rose and Slash’s best efforts. ‘I think you’ve forgotten something. You’ve forgotten to kick ass. You’ve forgotten that you do know what you’re doing. You’ve forgotten that you’re skilled and talented and effective and able. You’ve forgotten your opinions count and not only deserve to be aired but should be aired so that others can benefit from them too. That’s enough, Mouse. Time to remember the Glitter.’

After that run, after that realisation, I experienced a gradual surge of energy and confidence. Mark had mentioned feeling a bit ill and run down. We’d planned to teach together the next day but I told him to take Friday off. I knew I could cover it, and I knew I only had that energy back because he’d been covering me. Then I thought about Shakyajata, who had not only covered me during that week, but had been entirely on her own with the teaching all the week before, when Mark and I had both been on the retreat itself. She’d been hoping to get a break too but arrangements had fallen through. Suddenly, I had an idea that even if she couldn’t get out of Nagpur, she could take a break. She could have a week off. I could cover. No apprehension. No fear. No worries that I might not be ‘very good’ at delivering the content, no lack of confidence that I’d not only cope, but be able to do a good job in her absence. I even went so far as to suggest that I could lead the morning puja. I had thought about offering this before, I knew I’d enjoy it and it would give her a hand, also mixing up the sessions a bit and giving the community girls some variety. I was worried however, that my offer might be misinterpreted as arrogance, or disrespect of her experience. Suddenly however, I had the confidence to speak my truth and share the idea without fear of being misunderstood. I knew I had the confidence and ability to lead the puja, finally I also had the confidence that I could communicate this fact skilfully. I wasn’t even afraid I’d regret the offer. I’ve found in recent weeks that energy levels can be very unpredictable; vibrant and high one moment, tired and drained the next, which has made me reluctant to commit to things, yet somehow I just knew I had the capacity to see all I was offering through. I wasn’t afraid to be generous anymore because I knew I had the resources to give. I’ve no idea where that knowledge, that self-belief came from but I’m certainly not going to question it. Mark enjoyed Friday off. Shakyajata accepted and is currently taking a break in Odisha. I’m enjoying leading puja and meditation, I’ve enjoyed my teaching and I’ve even had spare energy for creative acts like writing poems.

I hadn’t written a single poem since I left the UK, but suddenly with my energies opened up and the Dharma flowing freely again, three dropped out of my head without me even much trying. I’ve had energy to volunteer some time to help proofread the Triratna Arts and Culture Catalogue. On Monday night, I had the energy to go out for dinner; on a school night! I’ve not even been hitting the snooze button and hiding in another hour of oblivion. I’ve been getting up and enjoying my day, and what’s more is that I’ve sustained this positivity for almost a week; the longest period of my Indian adventure so far. Is this starting to sound a little like Positive Emotion?

Since this discovery, I’ve further mused that the problem with making spiritual progress (or any other kind, for that matter) is that we often feel like things have got harder without realising that this in itself is a symbol of progress, not of regression. If things get easy, we plateau. Imagine you’d never run before but then started to do ten minutes on a treadmill everyday with no control over the fixed speed. It would feel hard at first but then eventually get easier. Then, imagine that one day the engineer came before you started and recalibrated the machine so it now ran half a mile an hour faster. You wouldn’t know, you’d just think ’gosh, this feels hard today’ but actually, you’d have moved your game up a stage, it would be harder because you were making progress and getting fitter.

I mentioned earlier that I have experienced real peaks and troughs in mood and energy since arriving in India. I’ve felt healthy and happy one day, but then struggled with emotional or physical wellness the next. Since this re-emergence of a part of myself though, since that Spiritual Rebirth