The New Year itself started with a flurry of activity that was completely unrelated to any coincidence of the calendar and so the whole event had come and gone with very little recognition. However, there’s a certain English phrase that goes something along the lines of ‘better late than never’ and so it was this approach that we took to the question of the student New Year party. It was, after all, only a week late, which by Indian standards of flexible scheduling is practically early. Anyway, young people rarely need an excuse for a bit of fun, or so you’d think, so we duly shared the various organisational tasks (you buy the fizzy drink, I’ll get the paper cups) and arranged to get started at 6pm on Sunday the 8th.

Now, I’ve a fair bit of experience of trying to organise teenagers into having fun and you’d be surprised how difficult it can be. Sugary snacks, music and permission to not study despite the presence of your teachers, do not a party make. There was a little of the awkward school disco about the first half an hour or so but eventually, once the drink kicked in (I’m talking sugar rush here, of course) things livened up a bit and we even got a bit of self-conscious dancing… which is, after all the best kind. However, it soon became clear that proceedings would not become any more festive of their own accord and so after a good deal of encouragement (read goading?) from both the groups, Mark and I took the floor for some self-conscious dancing of an entirely different kind. If there was ice to be broken, we were gonna smash it into oblivion.

Eventually, the party food was distributed (samosas, what English people will know as ‘Bombay mix’ and salted oily chillies) and I was encouraged to demonstrate my apparently surprising skills of eating chillies that even Indians consider too hot (who knew those days of University Food Dares would set me up so well with the skills I needed for my professional future!?). True to form, once the food was gone, so was the party spirit (food always comes last at Indian functions, it seems) and the boys slipped off into the night to catch the bus. I tried a last bit of dancing with the girls (they’re a bit non-plussed by House of Pain too, sadly) but eventually even that petered out and we were all in bed by ten!

That might sound like something of a party flop by some standards but actually it was for the best as the next day was scheduled to be equally full of jubilation. The other Aryaloka centre in Nagpur where my colleague Mark lives, and which houses the boys community, has been in an ongoing process of construction since day one. The ground floor has been open and functioning since the start but the second floor is only just finished and though we have been teaching (and in some cases living!) in it we have actually been working around a bit of a building site. Last month; however, the toilet cubicle got a door, the kitchen became functional, the impressive new shrine was installed and the shiny tiled floors were swept clear of builders dust for the last time. January then, became the month to celebrate this fact and on the 9th, we held an inauguration ceremony on the new floor.

from bricks of experience, skilfully constructed but perhaps never really finished, so we should try not to limit ourselves prematurely and remember we can always build another floor. It seemed to be well received anyway and several people approached me after the event as well as in the days following to say they had appreciated my sentiments. Of course, no celebration would be complete without full tummies and so after a few more talks from visiting order members, proceedings gave way to a very fine spread, which was enjoyed by all.
So it may not have lined up with the calendar but even if it wasn’t technically a great start to the new year, it was certainly an excellent way to start a new week! Full of promise, blossoming with potential and bubbling with joy!

As many Buddhists around the world know, last Monday (November full moon) was Sangha Day. Those of you reading this who are not familiar with Buddhist terminology may like to know the word ‘Sangha’ refers to the spiritual community and is considered one of the Three Jewels of Buddhism; along with the ideal of human enlightenment (represented by the figure of the Buddha) and the teachings that enable us to achieve this state (known as the Dharma or Dhamma depending upon whether you’re using Pali or Sanskrit). Sangha Day is celebrated in November (on a ‘supermoon’ this year!), as it traditionally marks the end of the rainy season (though I’ve seen not a drop since I arrived 5 weeks ago). This then, was the day that all the monks and nuns left the shelter of their temporary communities to once again ‘go forth’ and teach the Dhamma as far and widely as possible. There were two traditional practices on this day; for the monks and nuns, confession was critical. Having been cooped up for so long during the rains, many unskillful and unkind words or actions may have slipped past even the most well-meaning practitioner and to leave these weighing on a guilty conscience was not the best way to bid your compatriots farewell, not the most honest way to begin teaching higher ideals.

For the next couple of days, I felt decidedly ‘not right’. Low energy. Unable to settle down to things I felt I ought to. Unable to find motivation to do the things I felt I ought to want to do. Write a blog update about Sangha Day, for one! I decided to let myself have some time ‘doing nothing’. I’m starting to find that when I get ‘stuck’ and decide to do this, what I actually do is far from nothing. What I actually do is allow some space for the things bubbling and brewing away in my subconscious to ‘do their thing’, to coalesce, to ripen and bear fruit. I then started reading some of Bhante’s writing, ‘Conversion in Buddhism’ and ‘The Ideal of Human Enlightenment’, both pretty core texts and both with their share of comments to make about the role of Sangha. One thing that struck me in his discussion was the importance of having a community to bear witness to you at your best and, sometimes, at your worst. Funnily enough, this is one of the things I have been finding most challenging about my current situation. I’m very used to living alone. Even when I don’t live alone, I’m used to being able to take as much time as I want to myself, to work through when I’m not feeling at my best in private. To then re-emerge, feeling better, all shiny and new like a butterfly who’s just been able to do all that ugly business of mutating from a caterpillar in the safety of its cocoon and never had to make any of that public. Yet, in a home full to bursting with over 20 people, I cannot do that. Even if I go to my room, everyone in the house knows where I am. If I leave the house, people know. If I return, I am seen. If I am looking a little dishevelled, a little less tired than I might like to admit I feel or anything other than at my total best, I know it has been seen, noticed, witnessed. So much for just lying low until I feel back on top of things again.

My experience of dissatisfaction with my own mundane reality reached its peak, when in the early hours of Thursday morning, I finally had cause to really concede my belief that I’m super human. I finally had to give up my resolution that ‘this is great, I’m practically a native! I’ve got guts of STEEL I’ll never get sick in India!’ whilst deciding which end of myself to first position over a bucket. Thank goodness I had a bucket. I’ll spare you any further details but there, along with the bodily fluids I never realized were so abundant, went any last shreds of dignity and privacy in this household. The thing about having so many people living in one house is that they’re never physically distant and it’s amazing just how much a bucket can amplify the most private of noises in the complete stillness of a far from festive, truly silent night. And of course, from there on in, came the outpourings of concern, the complete eradication of a sense of privacy and the very well-meaning offers of various Indian remedies. I have learned that there is nothing like the love of an Indian grandmother, gently yet persistently plying you with Ayurvedic remedies that appear to be the equivalent of pouring melted Vics Vapour Rub into your ailing digestive tract 'because your fire's gone out', to make you quite determined to get better just as soon as possible. Unfortunately, where we encounter one kind of suffering in our immediate experience, we often compound this for ourselves by generating a load more in our felt responses to it. Buddhism describes this as the ‘second arrow’; it’s all the ways we hang onto, prolong or add to our own unhappiness. In my case this came tumbling in on me as a barrage of feelings of guilt for getting sick (maybe I ate too much, didn’t wash my hands well enough, failed to follow some sage advice about not exposing myself to various pathogens), worry about being a burden (if I can’t teach, why am I here? Am I going to make others ill? If I can’t help round the house I’m just dead weight, people will think I’m being lazy!) and embarrassment for being seen as I really am (a wet, squidgy lump of meat full of various unpleasant substances and not always best able to retain said substances where polite society traditionally considers appropriate).

Cue a day in bed, consuming nothing but rehydration salts (I avoided further Ayurvedic doses) and reading more Bhante. I managed to get up that evening and was generously cooked a special dinner; lentils and rice cooked into a warm, salty, bland mash. Probably exactly what I needed. After a day in bed, I thought I’d get no sleep at all but I did sleep right through. I managed to drag myself kicking and screaming to the 7am puja and did a very sorry job of attempting to focus on my meditation, but still that was better than what I’d managed the day before.  Feeling better but still not great, when Shakyajata suggested ‘checking in’ after breakfast (A Triratna practice of sharing with Sangha members how you’re feeling) I really didn’t want to. I knew I had nothing nice to say. I also knew that was precisely why it was so important that I did so. Funnily enough, I had felt rather guilty during our last ‘check in’ on Saturday when others felt down or uncomfortable and I had felt really good, as if I was rubbing my happiness in their faces. Now I felt the same but for opposite reasons, guilty for ‘dragging down’ other’s good moods. Well there’s an interesting thing; you really just can’t win against yourself sometimes, eh?

And there I find a recognition; that’s what Sangha is. When you just can’t win against yourself alone, Sangha is the community of others who remind you that life is not a battle you fight against yourself, or alone in the first place. Shakyajata referred to our close working relationship as ‘a cremation ground’ when we first arived. I understood this on one level, I understood that yes, other people can help you work through and eradicate unhelpful things but now I think, I really get it.  Sangha is a community who don’t just help you flush out these impurities, but without whom you couldn’t truly tackle them at all. It’s the coming together of all the other perfectly imperfect people, some of whom are necessarily on top form, some of whom are inevitably not, at any one time. We support each other, we see the best and worst in each other, we get on with it. Sometimes, we even get on with each other, but if we don’t, we’ll use our incompatibilities as fertiliser to grow into stronger, better humans who are one step closer to our common goal together. We’re the mirror in which we see each other’s and our own flaws and foibles, because without that illumination, we can’t grasp the blemishes we need to cleanse. Sangha is the bucket that lovingly contains our midnight explosions without question yet simultaneously amplifies the embarrassing noises, so there’s no hiding from it, so we have to confront the unpleasant truths found within us, we have to empty them out and disinfect them. But whichever end we find ourselves on, whether performing the stoic job of martyrdom that is the bucket or taking the embarrassing role of sickening patient, it’s all just part of the balance of life. To refuse a sharing of these with one another denies others their own fluctuations. Being me ‘at my best’ gives others permission to be at their best too, but why should I deny others the freedom to feel not so great without judgement as well? So that Dhamma I’m so fond of, that flux of combined universal energies, flows in such a way that when I am up, another is counterbalancing this by being proportionately down and one way of seeing it is that it’s my responsibility to share my inevitable ‘meh’ days too so that this can be normalised, that others know I understand these; I have them too. That’s real understanding and community I think. It’s great to share each other’s company when we’re feeling wonderful but perhaps more important to endure ourselves in the company of others during those times when we are not.

Hmmm. Well, no, not yet. Not always. But I think this Sangha Day, I learnt why I must try. And as long as I remain mindful of that, I do, at least have faith it will enough to get me there. No, that’s not quite right. Not enough to get me there. Us. It’ll be enough to get me there with my sangha. Wherever they are in the world.

We had a few social engagements last week and although these were exciting in their own right, there was definitely a sense of build up to the wedding on Saturday; this is probably true of any event that requires its own shopping trip! Of course, with this in mind, I was quite eager to try the sari on, though I’d been very patient and waited for the day itself to arrive. The fact that I had no idea how to put it on myself was something of a deciding factor in this apparent restraint but I was also a little apprehensive; I’ve heard saris are hard to walk in and not very comfortable for those not used to wearing them. I’m normally up for a challenge but these days form definitely follows function in my sartorial decision making and it’s been many a year since I talked myself into enduring discomfort for an evening just because I thought I looked good. I find formal social engagements exhausting enough even in my own cultural territory so I was aware that I might be setting myself up for a bit of a job and if I was going to be uncomfortable I thought it best not to know ahead of time. Still you can’t come to India and not try wearing a sari at least once and there’s not much point putting one on unless you’re actually going somewhere in it!

The wedding invitation made clear that it started at 11am and we’d been told we’d leave at about 10:30. Given that I would need help to get dressed, but not wanting to be pushy or rush anyone else who also needed to get dressed I simply said ‘I’ve no idea how long it’ll take to put on, please let me know when it’s time to get ready!?’ and settled down to a quiet hour before all the excitement kicked off! I certainly didn’t want to get into my beautiful new strait jacket too early and start the discomfort any sooner than needed but at about 10 O’clock, I started to wonder where everyone was. It really was very restful but I was worried we may end up with a last minute rush. Didn’t anyone else have a watch!? I looked upstairs. I looked downstairs. I fetched the sari, packed my bag and got as ready as I possibly could. Aryaketu, sat happily in the downstairs living room, asked ‘Why are you not in your sari yet?’ Shakyajata emerged, dressed in her new kurta. Neither of these things did anything to dispel my concern. I’m not used to being unable to get dressed independently. I think I can just about recall learning to button up my own dressing gown and I definitely remember the perseverance of learning to tie my own shoe laces but I managed to get my head around these skills nigh on three decades ago. Having to wait for someone to dress me was somewhat disconcerting. But of course, I was forgetting; we’re in India and time is only ever theoretical. Just as I had found Sheetal (who was dressed) and tried to remind her politely that I might need a hand, Aryaketu wandered calmly into the kitchen and started to make himself some breakfast. It was now after 10:30. Sheetal told me that Vaishali (her sister in law, who also teaches at Aryaloka and lives with the family downstairs) would be better able to help me… and then proceeded to get changed into a different outfit. Aryaketu went to have a shower. I calmed down.

I had thought I might only need help putting a sari on once and that if I watched carefully I would be able to do it myself next time. This wasn’t born out in reality; however, when Vaishali arrived to help dress me! I felt like a cross between a maypole and the unfortunate victim of a very aesthetically aware spider as she ducked and dived around me tucking yards of fabric into the petticoat tied incredibly tightly around my waist. A pleat here, a tuck there, a loop left trailing for some unknown purpose, a fold, another tuck… and then the pinning started! How on earth anyone ever manages to get into one of these themselves I couldn’t begin to imagine but I think you’d have to learn to do it young. So much for a sense of pride over the buttoned dressing gown. Finally I was folded, tucked and pinned satisfactorily. I was already sweating (great!) but it was time to find out if I could walk. I took an experimental step forward. No problem. A second step. I did not trip over. I internally congratulated myself for my ability to remain perpendicular. I’m not a stranger to hitting the deck when I have no restriction round my legs whatsoever and this seemed like something of an achievement. Actually, I didn’t find walking any trouble at all, but I did feel strangely exposed and only half dressed. Strange as it may sound from someone who has spent the last four weeks silently grumbling about having to keep her legs and shoulders covered at all times for reasons of modesty, I found myself feeling rather naked to have half my midriff hanging out.

Finally, around forty five minutes ‘behind schedule’ and fifteen after the publicised start of the wedding, we were all ready to go and I found myself feeling very grateful for the fact that we’d be getting a lift to the venue so I’d not have to navigate the bus in my new outfit. I climbed in the back next to Shakyajata, leaving the front seat free for Sheetal. Aryaketu had already explained he’d be picking Mark up separately after dropping us off as there’d be no room in the car. I thought we’d have been able to squeeze him in between us in the back but was secretly glad not to be too scrunched up given the circumstances. This was until Sheetal got in the back next to me. Then Saket (Vaishali’s son) climbed on her lap. Jija (Aryaketu’s mum) climbed in the front seat. Her sister hopped in too, half on top, half next to her. And so we drove off, seven in one car, none of us with seatbelts including a child and two elderly ladies (both in the front seat). Aryaketu made a call on his mobile (maybe to let Mark know we were running late? Probably not) and at this point I stopped trying to make a mental catalogue of all the traffic regulations we’d have been breaking in the UK. We’d not have made it past the end of the road! But, in the UK we were not; just another difference to swallow up and get on with!

It soon transpired that what had appeared to be lateness had in fact been a carefully orchestrated disinclination to spend too much time hanging about unnecessarily. Well aware that the ceremony was highly unlikely to start on time, there had never been any need to rush and we actually drove past the wedding procession that had not yet even arrived at the celebration hall. We were dropped off outside as Mark was collected and made our way to some seats halfway towards the back. Shakyajata was firm in turning down an offer of seats on the stage; we’d never even met the bride and groom after all and neither of us fancied playing the role of trophy white lady. That might sound harsh or unfriendly and it did indeed feel a bit that way but there’s a degree of status that comes with visible association with Westerners (I’d encountered this in China too) and it makes me feel uncomfortable at best.  We were attracting enough attention just by being there; far better to take some modest seats in an unobtrusive spot than to draw anymore stares. I tried to ignore the gentleman in front taking a ‘selfie’ with us carefully framed in the background by turning my face to look behind me, only to find myself staring into another camera. Such is life. A strange feeling though, to be valued for one’s skin colour instead of some achievement, especially when you’ve spent your whole adult life fighting as much as possible to eradicate this mistaken assumption that a chance quantity of pigmentation in the dermis has any bearing on your value as a human being. At least this discomfort distracted me from any thoughts about how I felt about what I was wearing and I found myself relaxing as I enjoyed watching the live band who were merrily turning out all manner of entertaining, up-beat songs to keep the crowd entertained as they waited. Quite a crowd it was too. I think there were about 500 people milling around and I wondered how on earth it was possible to have so many friends to invite to your wedding until I reasoned that it was probably not that difficult at all if you were content to invite entire families of ten plus their random foreign visitors who you’d never even met. Of course, this being a Buddhist wedding, there were also a lot of Order Members and other Sangha members about too, which would have pushed the number (and I thought also the costs!) right up through the roof!

True to the pattern of most weddings I’ve attended though, it seemed most people saw it as an opportunity to eat free food and show off their fancy clothes. There were plenty of these too and I soon ran out of energy to mentally tag sari designs as my ‘favourite so far’. ‘Nope, that one!’, ‘Actually I prefer the colour of that one.’ ‘But maybe with the pattern of that!’

After the chanting, I managed to peer through the backs of heads, milling crowds and enthusiastic photography team (yes, there really was an entire team) to see what was happening next. Part of the ceremony involved a cord being tied around the couple’s hands before water was poured over them. They swapped garlands (indicating my opportunity to dispense with the handful of marigold petals I’d been sweatily clutching since they’d been handed to me half an hour ago) and saluted the shrine for a final time before leaving the stage. “Was that it!?” I inquired of Sheetal. Not quite. They had gone to get changed and we were invited upstairs to a buffet lunch while they did so (I guess there might have been some formal signing of registers and such too, but that’s based on an English model and I don’t actually know that!). The lunch hall was huge, I suppose it would have to be for so many guests, and while I was semi-curious to explore it, I was actually quite grateful that Sheetal offered to go and get me a plate of ‘safe’ foods; she knows well enough now what I like to eat and would be better placed than I to identify any random milk products! A Buddhist wedding will be vegetarian by default (though I’m learning to assume nothing) but milk doesn’t come into this category so paneer, ghee and curds are still likely to be involved in some dishes. I waited for her patiently, wondering how long it would be before I spilled an oily, turmeric yellow dollop down my so far shockingly pristine turquoise sari. I contemplated perching on a sofa but decided that with a petticoat tied so restrictively tightly about my tummy, trying to put any food down me whilst bent at the gut would be a temptation too far for the gods of indigestion so I stayed standing, true to buffet style. Plenty of more practised sari wearers were happily plonked on the floor to enjoy what appeared to be plate after plate of (characteristically excellent) Indian specialities. Much as my taste buds were tempted to request seconds, my stomach over-ruled them for once. No more space! No time either, as we were herded into photo after photo by various people who I think were friends of friends, or who were at least pretending to be.

Long after my face started aching from all the pseudo smiling (I dread to think how many random people now have pictures of my well-meaning yet rapidly fatiguing grin-cum-grimace on their respective mobile devices!), we were told the couple were ready to receive us and so we all trundled back down stairs to the stage, where we joined the queueing well-wishers. Goodness knows, they must have been exhausted enough but stoically smiling amid the crowds, the bride and groom shook hands and took the congratulations of each guest amid showers of marigold petals. Finally, I had an opportunity to say hello, to thank them for their hospitality and to wish them the best for their future together. Just that though and no more as I was swept past and off the stage by the swelling crowd until the bride’s father (to whom we’d been briefly introduced at lunch) came and invited us back for a photo with his daughter and new son in law. Though I suspect there may have been some degree of ‘novelty foreigner opportunism’ to his request, it was a final photo that I didn’t mind as it was at least central to the purpose of the day!

My next opportunity to wear it will be to Neha’s wedding, in January, which I’ve been looking forward to since she visited England in June! I’m also very interested to see the difference and though I was initially sorry that I’d not be going to hers first, actually, I’m quite glad I got the chance to have a practice! I’ll not be feeling daft about needing help to get dressed though and will be very happy to accept the assistance. I shall certainly need it!

Before arriving in India, I was advised that we were likely to receive multiple invitations to lunch and dinner at various eager homes, possibly clashing and all critical to not just attend but to schedule in absolutely the right order to avoid causing offence. This did not transpire. I can’t pretend to have been disappointed; I’ve found the days full and challenging enough without wondering how to tread on social eggshells. It has been really good to simply settle into the Indian domestic environment, observe family habits and have a practice at, for example, eating rice and extremely runny dhal with my fingers without worrying about whether I was unwittingly performing some great faux pas. Having said that, I was beginning to wonder why we hadn’t received any such invites but this week has proven that such events are akin to the proverbial buses; you wait weeks for one and three turn up at once. At least in this instance we’ve had a little warning and I haven’t had to fling myself through any front doors whilst avoiding a river of mopeds.

In June, I had the great honour of meeting a particularly remarkable woman, Neha, during a visit to Europe. Neha studied on the residential course at Aryaloka with Young Indian Futures nine years ago and is a textbook model of the success of the project who now regularly rubs shoulders with very senior order members whilst holding down a plethora of creative roles at Lord Buddha TV, a channel dedicated to broadcasting Buddhist and Ambedkarite teachings. She has recently enjoyed great success with the publication of a documentary Ambedkar in Hungary (28,521 views as I write this) that she shot during her summer trip looking at the lives of a community of Roma people who have discovered the ideas of Dr Ambedkar in their own search for social emancipation.

Soon, we were presented with a fine meal; dhal, chapattis, rice, salad (a separate one made especially for me with no mayonnaise), a delicious mushroom Balti, gulab jamun, and little sweet crispy snacks as a side. Our plates were never left empty for a second by our very attentive hosts and I was gently berated for ‘eating very slowly’. It’s true that I am often one of the last to finish in the UK, so I’m a gastronomic tortoise by Indian standards. Despite the lavish care given to the preparation of a meal, most Indians seem content to gulp the dish down and get on with something else as quickly as possible, something my digestion has a habit of rebelling against. I was content to apologise and take my time because it was too nice to rush anyway but I couldn’t help noticing that none of our hosts were eating, which I found more than a little strange.  At various stages, different extended family members appeared to meet us and take photos. I also found this odd, mid meal, but did my best to be photogenic with a mouthful! Eventually, we begged our hosts to feed us no more as we were really very full! Neha explained that eight PM was far too early for them to eat and they would be having their dinner later, at about half past nine. I did feel rather guilty that such a lot of effort had been put into not just our meal but responding so kindly to our daily rhythm, but no one seemed in the least put out. After more chatting and laughter, we were graciously conveyed to our respective dwellings; Mark on the back of Neha’s brothers’ scooter, Shakyajata and myself in her Papa’s rickshaw once again. I’m not sure if I’m slightly jealous of Mark’s ride or really rather relieved we got the ‘safe’ option!

Of course this wasn’t before a grand farewell send-off from the entire family, in which Neha’s brother in law took great pains to express enthusiastically to me that if I ever encountered any difficulties in India, I should contact the family straight away, who would all provide assistance in whatever way I needed. He made this point very earnestly, several times and it occurred to me rather sadly that I would seriously have questioned the motives of any gentleman making such offers at home. In this instance though, I could not question his genuine demeanour and felt very much as though I had been welcomed wholeheartedly into yet another loving family.

As if that wasn’t enough of an exciting social experience, the very next day we were to attend lunch with Asha, another ex-student of Aryaloka who now works at the Institute. Knowing that our usual daily pattern is to teach from Five O’clock at the Indora campus, she had kindly suggested a meal beforehand so instead of the normal routine of enjoying Sheetal’s cooking pretty much as soon as we step out of the classroom at One, we instead caught a lift to her home with Aryaketu, who would also eat with us.

We now have yet another invitation to our first meal (aside from the Deekshabhoomi Picnic!) with the young women’s group on Sunday, so this time I shall not be so confused when they don’t eat with us. I can’t pretend I wouldn’t prefer it though, it seems rather divisive to my mind and a pity to miss on the opportunity for shared experience that a communal meal offers. Before that of course, we have a big day tomorrow! The wedding and my first attempt to wear a sari! I feel as though I’ve passed the first stage of Indian socialising but I am definitely about to level up. We hope. I suspect dinner with the girls will feel positively relaxing after whatever Indian Buddhist weddings have to offer!