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Dukkha

25/1/2017

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If my last couple of updates have seemed relentlessly positive then good. There indeed continues to be a great deal to feel very positive about. There was also; however, an ongoing situation underpinning my experience of that positivity, that I found quite frankly, less than pleasant. Thankfully, it is increasingly distant, but in the interests of maintaining an entirely honest record of my time in India I feel obliged to record it, despite its rapid recession.

If you’ve been regularly following my blog, you’ll recall that though generally, my health has been good; I’ve been enjoying the cuisine (spicy food does not upset my system) and doing my best to stay physically fit and healthy (I joined and have been using a local gym as well as maintaining some yoga practice), I’ve not had a completely spotless medical record. In November, I had what appeared to be my first bout of food poisoning. This was embarrassing but no worse; it’s perfectly possible to eat something dodgy in the UK, in fact I distinctly recall a particularly evil houmous sandwich that once knocked me out for over 24 hours. Then, on our way back from Bihali, I was flummoxed by what was apparently my first ever experience of car sickness. We decided this was probably a combination of fatigue, altitude, a full day in the car on winding roads and too much lunch. Whatever. Such is life. I recovered.

I didn’t recount the details in the recent update on our trip to Raipur, because I didn’t want to undermine the important facts about the visit; namely the students, but actually that had been a pretty wretched experience for Mark and I. Mark felt ill before we left, and became sick as we arrived in Raipur, so, when I was hit for a third time, it seemed irritating but inevitable. I must have caught the same bug or virus. It took me a little longer to get over that one, but I flopped back, even if ‘bounced’ back would be a little exaggerated. By the time the following weekend rolled round, I was feeling 100% and rather perky. I was bouncy for enthusiastic participation in the New Year party and the inauguration celebrations the next day. After the ceremony, I energetically delivered a presentation for our students on my experiences and learning at the NNBY convention. I had an important message to communicate and seemed to achieve this well.

Quite literally the minute I finished delivering this, as I packed away the projector and laptop, I was overcome with a wave of nausea and fatigue. I had to sit down to finish putting the equipment away but I got out my notebook and dutifully attempted to participate in our scheduled teachers meeting, to plan the content of the coming week. Feeling faint, I had to lie down instead. About ten minutes later, once again, I said goodbye to what had been a lovely lunch as I succumbed to sickness for a fourth time. Now, those who know me well will know I tend to the self-medicating. If a bit of me has not actually dropped off, I do not like to trouble myself or medical staff with my ailments. This is especially true when I am very far from any familiar healthcare providers and am not actually sure exactly how to go about accessing it. As I stared up at the spinning ceiling; however, I couldn’t help wondering if there might be something a little more to an inconvenient but apparently unrelated string of maladies. Perhaps, I thought, it was time to seek some medical advice.

Later that day, after I’d rested enough to feel like could walk, Mark and one of our more confident, English fluent students, gave up their evening, to my eternal gratitude, and came to help me find a doctor. The first place we visited, the Dr Ambedkar hospital, was closed. The rickshaw driver who had taken us then suggest and dropped us at a different clinic, which had no doctor available for another 90 minutes. Mark thought he knew where there was another place as he’d seen people queueing, so we trudged round the corner. Lo and behold, third time lucky and we were shown into an examination room to wait.

Now, I hate hospitals at the best of times, show me someone who doesn’t. This one though, so far from the familiar and perceived as it was through the haze of illness, felt like some strange new kind of hell. The old fashioned, 1950’s style wood skirting and tile design did nothing to reassure one who is accustomed to the clinical sterility of western healthcare. In my state of compromised clarity, I managed to communicate to my student, Gurudev, that I was in urgent need of a toilet and he swiftly assisted me to navigate through the dull-eyed throng of waiting patients and find one. I wasn’t expecting to be challenged though, by the sudden appearance of a member of the nursing staff who insisted I remove my trainers before going in. Apparently I wasn’t expected to be barefoot despite this, as it was considered acceptable for me to wear my student’s flip-flops. As these had been soiled by the same streets as my own trainers, I remain at a loss to explain this logic. Apparently my student also found it hilariously confusing. Thankfully we negotiated the random requirement before my system gave way yet again to another bout of self-purging and I returned gratefully to collapse on the bed that had been found for me (rather more swiftly than if I had been Indian, I imagine). In a combined attempt to distract myself, ease the boredom of my chaperones and genuinely learn more about my adopted culture, I enquired to my student as to the significance of an image on the wall of an elephant deity depicted in leaves. This didn’t get me too far though as he seemed oblivious to the details too, simply conceding that some people had all kinds of strange superstitious beliefs. This brought us on to a conversation about the morality of ridiculing other religions. Apparently Hindus and Muslims are engaged in an ancient and ongoing holy war of comic belittling of the ‘My God’s better than your God’ style, while Sikhs take the mickey out of both but people tend to leave the Buddhists alone because there isn’t much to make fun out of in logic.
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.
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May as well be in Hindi really...
I was shortly shepherded into a new room where a gentleman sat at a computer and a lady busied herself with an array of various pieces of analytical equipment, bloody bits of cotton wool swab scattered at her feet, having missed their target of a simple waste paper basket. So much for careful disposal of clinical waste. As she advanced towards my arm with the needle, 
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A more salubrious part of the hospital!
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That's my juices!
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"Just leave your wee on the windowsill, there, that's fine, thanks..."
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.
Shortly after that, we were ushered into a different consultation room, containing a remarkably expansive desk about three times bigger than the examination bed in the corner. Funnily enough, I relaxed a bit when I spotted a portrait of Dr Ambedkar on a shelf next to a small Buddha rupa. Perhaps it was just a little familiarity, perhaps it was a sense that the person who used this office was one of ‘my’ people but either way, it was a noticeable response in myself. We then observed a small room off to one side, almost like a little antechamber, that housed a variety of religious icons in a sort of multi-purpose shrine room. I know UK hospitals often have chaplains and prayer rooms hidden away somewhere but I’ve never seen or used one. I suppose this is simply another example of religion being so much closer to the surface of Indian culture. There were two other patients in this room who were being treated by a man behind the desk, a stethoscope casually slung across his shoulders as I imagine an actor might wear one in an American sitcom, just to be clear that he’s the doctor. We were invited to sit, while they continued discussing what I imagine were personal medical details without even batting an eyelid with regards to our presence. There were also several other members of the medical team in the room, who I got the impression were kept close at hand to provide not so much assistance, as an audience to this man whom, whilst I am sure was very well meaning, had possibly the biggest ego I have ever had the opportunity to encounter. The other patients eventually left and he turned his attention to me. After a string of apparently unrelated questions that I took to be simply nosy curiosity or an attempt to practise English, he decided the time had come to use his prop. I’m not quite sure how effective a stethoscope is when used over several layers of clothing and left in position for less than a second in each random location to which it is applied, but he seemed satisfied and I wasn’t about to volunteer any exposure of flesh. At this point, he spotted the top of the tattoo I have running down the middle of my back. ‘What’s this?’ he demanded suddenly. It took me a while to work out what he was referring to but I eventually realised and explained that it was Mercury; the nearest planet to the sun and the start of the diagram of the solar system tattoo that runs down my spine. After telling me that actually, I was wrong, that wasn’t the solar system because there was no Sun (!?), I was directed to the bed, where my abdomen received another pummelling. When he was satisfied, I was allowed to sit back up to be informed that it was a great thing to have the planets on my back as I was channelling their energies into my spinal chakras and drawing down great blessings from the gods. All good there then. After a regal glance at my printed results, we were instructed to go and collect the results from the urine sample. We were treated to some more theatrics upon our return and I was informed (and pleased to know) that I did not have malaria or dengue but had in fact contracted two separate infections, one of the gastric system and one of the bladder. Some scribbled prescriptions were made on my notes before the first doctor who examined me was hailed to the throne room and made to stand in front of the desk like a troublesome student before the headmaster. She was then subjected to the most undermining demonstration of arrogant criticism I’ve ever had the misfortune to witness as the doctor listed all the things she had not done properly in her treatment of me as a foreigner. I managed to hold back a physical wince but couldn’t quite stop myself from commenting as I interrupted to inform him in no uncertain terms that I had been very happy with the care I had received from her and was impressed by the nature of her bedside manner. I’ll confess, this was something of an exaggeration but I felt impressed at least that she’d accurately diagnosed a urinary tract infection with no more than a few prods and I felt the need to somehow redress the imbalance of his unfounded tirade. My comments were deflected from the force field of the super-ego with the same disdainful wrist-flick with which this poor, and one imagines long-suffering, woman was 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.
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That'll keep you going...
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It's all a bit serious on the return trip...
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I DO NOT have Dengue! WIN! \o/
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Sheetal's Story

11/12/2016

2 Comments

 
In my last update, I recounted a trip to an eye hospital with one of our students. This was an eye-opening experience (yes, pun intended) in itself, but there was an important part to the morning that I didn’t mention. A while back, I was fortunate to spend some time speaking with Aryaketu’s father, Triratna Order Member Saccadhamma, and I humbly attempted to write his story, from a childhood of poverty to spiritual discovery, through ordination and the eventual building of his house, which I am currently staying in and that also accommodates the community of young women at Aryaloka, as well as their teaching facilities. There are so many people I have met over the last couple of months whose daily lives I find inspiring, whose background stories I feel sure would greatly benefit those from the West to read. Of course, it is not always practical to find the time required to really listen to their histories from start to finish and so I have resolved to simply share as many as I can but in no particular order. It’s not inappropriate though, having started with the bricks and mortar, both physically and spiritually, to move now to someone that from my perspective really embodies the heart of all it is to be domestic in India.
That’s not to trivialise her other roles though and I was fortunate to realise the opportunity afforded us by the optician’s waiting room to begin hearing and taking eager notes on Sheetal’s Story. Sheetal is Aryaketu’s wife and mother to 15 year old Ojas. She admirably fulfils all the functions expected of her in this role, preparing three meals a day for both the men in her life as well as us, the visiting teaching team, often cleaning up after us as well as undertaking the housework required to keep her home functioning. She supports Aryaketu unquestioningly in his work for the order, even when this brings him home late or takes him right out of the country for many weeks a year. She gently, yet persistently encourages Ojas to make the most of his studies, patiently bringing him back on track when really, like many other 15 year old boys the world over, he’d rather be playing Assassin’s Creed. Her life is by no means limited to the domesticity ascribed to her by Indian society; however. She is also fully committed to Dhamma herself and attends weekly chapter meetings on Tuesdays with study classes on Saturdays in her own progression towards ordination into the movement. This process often takes far longer for women than for men in India as it is much harder for them to secure time away from domestic duties to study, attend retreats and deepen their practice sufficiently. Still undeterred, she carries on. If this doesn’t already sound like a full schedule, Sheetal is also Centre Manager for the Bhilgaon Campus, responsible for not just teaching important parts of the critical MSCIT (Maharashtra State Certificate in Information Technology; a government recognised qualification that is a basic requirement for any individual wishing to obtain good employment in a wide range of sectors beyond physical labouring) but also for the pastoral care of the young women, their spiritual development and harmony in their community, as well as a myriad of administration tasks that come with the job such as managing course fees from the non-residential students and making sure the registrations with the exams office are regularly maintained.
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Sheetal at home in a colourful sari1
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Sheetal and Ojas
Sheetal manages to successfully fill all these roles whilst she works with the long term debilitating disease that is osteoporosis. She was diagnosed with this when she was 35, just over a decade ago, and it frequently causes her a great deal of pain. Having had a similar condition myself in my teens, (juvenile rheumatoid arthritis, thankfully not an active disease any longer) I can almost feel that sharp yet grinding ache in the heart of the joint when I watch her move, often awkwardly, around the house; bringing in lunch, or sweeping the floor after sorting vegetables from the weekly trip to the market. ‘I never drank milk!’ she tells me, ‘not even when I was pregnant. I do not like it. But for the calcium…’ she now drinks a glass every evening, with flavoured protein powder to make it more palatable, and an egg, for breakfast. This may help slow down any further deterioration but it cannot reverse the damage already caused. The homeopathic and Ayurvedic remedies she is prescribed may or may not, do much to help. ‘I used to worry’, she confides one evening as a student demonstrates village healthcare skills by massaging Sheetal’s sore legs and swollen feet with oils warmed over hot coals before deftly wrapping them with castor leaves tied in place with cotton thread until morning. ‘How will I manage when I am old? But this is not helpful. I stay mindful of the present moment. When I cannot sleep with pain I get up and meditate. This is very helpful to me.’
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The model hostess on a recent visitor, Sara's last night in Nagpur.
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A domestic chore; sorting stones from the rice!
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A rare night off cooking; Spring Dosa with Neha at Jaiswal!
Sheetal was born in Nagpur on the 2nd of September 1975, the first daughter of three, into a very full house. There were four uncles, three aunties and three of her grandparents as well as her mum and dad, all living together when she arrived into the family. The house was noisy but not just because there were so many people in it; situated on the Kamptee Road, one of the main routes to and from the city centre, there was constant traffic rumbling past and even more, she tells me, during her childhood than there is now. The Kamptee Road is the ‘main drag’ from Aryaloka Bhilgaon to Aryaloka Indora, where the other half of our teaching takes place and a trip up it is a challenging experience full of dust, fumes, noise, trucks, mopeds, blaring horns, auto rickshaws, coaches, cows, people, bicycles, vans, you get the idea. One needs to allow a certain amount of energy just for the journey before teaching has even begun and so it is hard to imagine living right next to it when it was even busier. Thankfully, it was only the backdrop for the first three years of her life and when her father was successful in applying for a transfer in his government job as auditor for the railway, she moved with her parents and her 18 month old sister to a rented house in Jabalpur, Madhya Pradesh. These were happy times and she describes this part of her childhood with a buoyant vigour as though somewhere a curtain has opened to let a ray of morning sun play across her face. She shines as she speaks of it, despite the gloom of the eye hospital waiting room. After her second sister was born, her mother’s mum came to help the family and she enjoyed the walks to school, sometimes with her grandmother, sometimes with her dad. When she was five, her father was successful in applying for a government house and this looked out onto a big playground, which was the scene of many a joyful evening, playing with friends after school. They were happy and healthy here, very well looked after by a mother who took the wellbeing of her family very seriously. She left nothing to chance in meeting their needs, researching nutrition to ensure they were well fed, attending school for regular updates, helping with homework. Yet there is no sense that this was in anyway strictly enforced and it seems she was able to balance this with equanimity, taking care also to provide the love, freedom and emotional strength her family needed to flourish. Sheetal describes her mother with so much love and admiration that she really does sound like a model parent and it is perhaps no surprise to learn that when Sheetal’s aunt and uncle ran in to marital strife and began quarrelling, two of her cousins moved in! Preferring the warm, loving environment to their own home, this irritated her mother’s sister intensely.
All good things must come to an end; however and when Sheetal was 13, the family moved, with no shortage of regret, back to Nagpur. Her paternal grandfather owned several properties, which he rented out and they bought one of these from him. Living in their own home did not bring the joy that might have been expected; however, and the family struggled with inconsiderate neighbours in the busy city centre, a far cry from their experience in the suburban community of Jabalpur. Despite this change of circumstances, her mother continued to form the backbone of positivity the family needed to get by. In the Indian education system, it is common for students to attend classes for extra tuition and begin preparing for exams when they reach 10th Standard. Sheetal dutifully attended her first class but found it crowded and unpalatable so told her mother she did not want to go again; she would study hard at home instead. In the interests of seeing their progeny succeed, many parents would have taken none of this wayward behaviour but Sheetal’s mum simply agreed by saying ‘whatever makes you happy!’ This support is remarkable not just to demonstrate the significant amount of trust and faith in daughter by mother but also in the face of surprised criticism from family and friends. Such critics resigned Sheetal to failure; her school in Madhya Pradesh had been a Hindi Medium school, but here classes were in Marathi.
Such a significant disadvantage combined with a lack of tuition would surely result in disaster, they were adamant. But they underestimated Sheetal. She studied hard, just as she said she would, and this seed of determination fertilised by the love and support of a remarkable mum, blossomed in to Passes with Distinction for Marathi, Science and Social Science. This may have surprised and impressed her detractors, but success following hours of home study was hardly a new experience for Sheetal; her mum had spent the summer holiday of 1984 coaching her to a good standard of English before she even began studying it formally at the age of eight. Academic success, just like the formulation of an adequate diet, was never taken for granted or left to the chance of received wisdom, she had been raised to beat her own path to her goals.

After her exam success, she took admission to the famous local Sindhu Mahavidyalaya College for 11th and 12th Standard (sixth form or college equivalent). This fame was mixed; the college had a reputation for excellent teaching but also for troublesome and disorderly pupils, especially among the male cohort. This couldn’t have been further from Sheetal’s own temperament but she resolved to put her education ahead of her own sense of personal security; a significant risk following her provincial girl’s school background. Of course, mum was as supportive as ever, coming along to see her off at the gate on her first day. Concerned to avoid unwanted and inappropriate attention from the opposite sex, Sheetal went out of her way to be as unattractive as possible and deliberately dressed in unflattering clothes. ‘I oiled my hair!’ she tells me, demonstrating by dragging her hands down the sides of her head, flattening her now henna-enhanced tresses.
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Enjoying coconut water on a trip out!
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Sharing noodles with Shakyajata at Planet Food!
‘I only wanted to study!’ She knew marriage was one day unavoidable but was determined to make the most of her education while she could. Mindful of her status as eldest child, she was also keen to avoid any conflict or bad impressions. ‘I thought; my father is the only man in the house, what if a boy comes to fight him!? I was afraid of one sided love.’ Such a sense of personal responsibility at this young age illustrates not only a commitment to her family but also a sharp eye on a longer term plan. She knew a good education would secure her access to a higher social standard of suitors further down the line, as well as delaying the inevitable wedding. ‘I wanted to become a graduate.’ Of course, she passed 12th Class and took a BSC at the same college, finishing with a 2:1 equivalent in Microbiology, Chemistry and Botany, taking then a computer course for five months after graduation. I can’t help wondering, when I try and add up how many chapattis those hands roll out each week, if they’d not have been put to better use in a laboratory than a kitchen, but this is a Western woman’s perspective and it is patently clear that Sheetal is very genuinely happy with her circumstances as they have unfolded.
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Rolling out the daily chapatti batch!
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Sheetal with Shakyajata before a trip to the Deekshabhoomi!
Despite her academic success, these years were not easy for Sheetal’s family. Having moved closer again to the conflicted home of her aunt when returning to Nagpur, the impact of the rift that had driven her cousins to live with them in the first place became ever more apparent. Sheetal’s aunt came to their home to argue with her sister several times and this affected the whole family with unpleasant rumours spreading around a very difficult situation. Her mum’s health began to suffer and she became very ill, experiencing chest pains and other symptoms of anxiety in the wake of constant harassment. Sheetal’s sister, equally academic, was studying a pharmaceutical course and contacted a doctor she knew for advice. With this treatment and a lot reciprocal love and support from the immediate family, her mum rallied physically but still she was suffering with mental illness. One family member who saw through much of the gossip and regularly visited to support the family was Sheetal’s maternal grandfather. He lived in an area of Nagpur called Mahendra Nagur and suggested his daughter try attending meditation classes with him on Thursdays at a centre just a one minute walk from his home. It would help, he assured her and asked her several times to come with him, but Sheetal’s mum refused, saying that she had done nothing wrong and it was her spiteful brothers and sisters who should go and learn to live a better life! One night, which was coincidentally a Thursday, Sheetal’s parents were invited to her father’s house for dinner. They were asked to arrive at half past five; too early for a meal but with plenty of time to chat and to go for an evening stroll around the neighbourhood before eating. Lo and behold, their local stroll ‘just happened’ to take them into a local Triratna centre. Despite her misgivings, when she saw the shrine in the open space, the flowers and the Buddha rupa, she felt immediately impressed and enjoyed the meditation and puja that occurred that night. From that day on, says Sheetal, her mother never stopped her Dhamma work. This was in the March of 1998, Sheetal’s final BSc year, and in April she finished her exams. With her time now freed from study, she went along to a Dhamma class with her mum. She was unimpressed when she walked in and saw a young man in a kesa on the stage. ‘I thought, this is the wrong man! How can he teach? He’s too young! I thought, young people go to the cinema and enjoy themselves, they know nothing about spirituality!’ This man; however, gave a talk that impressed her so much with relevant examples that seemed to come from her own life and experiences that she felt he knew her already even before her mum introduced them, post talk.
If you’ve already guessed the Buddha-meets-Bollywood plot twist in this delightful tale, I am pleased to confirm that his name was, indeed, Aryaketu. Still, Indian culture and Buddhist reserve do not lend themselves to heady romance off screen and they did not converse again until Sheetal went to volunteer at the Triratna office on the local Dr Ambedkar Road, helping to produce a quarterly magazine published there. Still they were respectfully distant in their communication, though Sheetal remarks that she never normally talked to boys for fear they’d fall in love with her and is not entirely sure why she talked to this one! Inspired by her own experiences and by the example of her mum (now an ordained member herself), She continued her involvement in the movement, volunteering as a maths teacher at one of the local charitable projects, the Bahujan Girls’ Hostel. She attended Dhamma classes regularly and became well known amongst the Triratna Sangha in Nagpur.
One day, after teaching at the hostel, she came home to an animated reception from her sister who told her that a very exciting thing had happened and that she should try and guess who had visited! Jija, Aryaketu’s mother and also a Dhamma Mitra, had come for chai, along with another mutual friend from the order. It is with some amusement that Sheetal continues the clearly oft-recounted tale; apparently Jija had actually left the room to use the bathroom when the family friend formally suggested that Sheetal and Aryaketu made a good match for marriage! Sheetal was already well known to Aryaketu’s family; she’d attended Dhamma classes run by his father, dancing classes and retreats with his sister. She was pretty, educated to a good level and dedicated to Triratna. There weren’t many more boxes left to tick. Aryaketu was certainly happy for them to suggest the union, though was apparently unconvinced that such a standard of young woman would be interested in a man who did not have a government job or family house. Sheetal’s wider family were certainly not impressed, but when she heard the news, Sheetal was every bit as delighted as her mum and dad. She had always dreaded the day when she believed she would inevitably have no choice but to marry a man with money and status; not something she wanted, fearing that such a husband would be free with his money, his affections and possibly, his fists. Having been brought up by a family who encouraged her to have her own opinions, stand on her own feet and make her own way in life, the thought of winding up in a housewife’s role with little else to occupy her but a demanding husband, filled her with fear. She felt she could trust Aryaketu however; he would not be a philanderer or a wife beater with a commitment to the Dhamma as strong as demonstrated in his talks. As someone so well known in the order, he was unlikely to have any hidden motives or distressing personal secrets.
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Sheetal at home with Aryaketu
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The couple in Coffee Day
After all that worry, Sheetal felt a solution to the problem of marriage that would allow her to pursue the simple life free from money or pressures of status had indeed presented itself and they were married on October 31st, 1999. As newlyweds, Aryaketu was working at Nagaloka, but he was soon ready to move on to new challenges of his own and wanted to provide opportunities for young people. He started the Aryaloka institute in 2000, so it has really always been a part of married life for Sheetal. She worked as a private tutor to bring in some money for the first three years before Ojas was born in April 2002, but then began taking responsibility for the Aryaloka accounts. It was a role that needed filling and it made sense for her to take work that made it straightforward for her to carry out the household management too.
In 2012, the Bhilgaon branch opened and she then became centre coordinator and teacher. Sheetal seems surprised as her narrative catches up with her present life, that she has so much to share. ‘I thought I had no story!’ she tells me again, having dismissed my request to write it in the first instance by saying there was nothing to say. She never imagined, she tells me, that she would live as she does now, in such a big house, with a car, a television, all the symptoms of wealth. Of all three sisters, she was always the one least interested in professional or material gains, in possessions or status, and yet, she tells me, she believes herself to be the happiest of all of them. Her sisters are not unhappy, she explains further, and have good jobs, good husbands, houses, in many respects the lives they always wanted; but they are not as happy as her. She is pleased, she mentions too, to know her parents do not have to worry about her. ‘Oh, Annabeth, I am really very happy!’ she announces, with an air of grateful surprise. She seems mildly taken aback too when I reply ‘Good! You deserve to be!’ But I do not believe for a moment that it is because of the house and the car, the status of being married to an order member or being the coordinator of a school that she is happy, nor do I think does she. Sheetal is an eminently kind woman, a thoughtful and sensitive person who takes the happiness of those around her seriously. She works hard, unceasingly in fact, to maintain this happiness and wellbeing, just as she describes of her own mother. In the short time I’ve known her, I have come to professionally and spiritually respect and personally very much like her. She is now, and I hope will always be even when the miles separate us, a trusted friend. Her faith in her practice of Buddhism goes far beyond the flowery rhetoric of devotional text, or acts of kindness for the sake of fulfilling a precept.
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With the Bhilgaon young women's community students in October
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Showing us how to really wear a sari at a recent wedding!
Compassion and loving kindness shine through from the core of her being and her fierce dedication to professional and domestic responsibilities is balanced by a calm temperament, a consistent, reliable, freindly stoicism which is itself underpinned by occasional flashes of bubbling joy and moments of unconcealed delight. If I gain no more from my time in India than the opportunity to count Sheetal among most treasured friends, however far flung she may one day be, then it will have been no waste in my time and resources. I may continue to relish her company during the remainder of my stay but her influence, I feel sure, will outlast our weeks together and her steady reliability, her lightness, her determination and her selfless nature shall continue to inspire me for many years to come.
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Social Butterflies!

3/11/2016

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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.
Neha has become not just a friend to me but also a great inspiration so I was excited when we received an invitation to her home to have dinner and celebrate her birthday on Wednesday!

Her kind ‘Papa’ collected us from Indora soon after we finished teaching that evening and took us in his now familiar auto rickshaw to their house; a small but beautifully kept dwelling on a street with a similar ambience. It is small and perhaps a little run down to some eyes, yet it is clear that those who live there look after it with care and whatever means are at their disposal. Shakyajata has, of course, known Neha for nearly a decade and has visited her family several times on each of her trips so Mark and I stood back a little to let old friends reunite. We were equally warmly welcomed though and were presented with the customary fresh flowers in a very touching fashion. We all sat in their tiny but delightful living room; at the centre of which is the beautifully decorated family shrine. I tried to keep track of the introductions and conversations, conversing in English where possible or with some interpretation where needed.

Soon, Neha’s birthday cake was brought into the room! I have seen display cabinets full of such cakes on Dr Ambedkar Road and I must be honest in saying that they don’t much appeal to my tastes as they appear extremely artificial; gaudy bright colours and something that tries to resemble fresh cream but ends up looking more like enthusiastically applied bath sealant. Nevertheless, cake snobbery aside, It was clearly enjoyed by everybody! Everything progressed very normally; Neha lit an exciting firework candle which we all applauded. She then proceeded to cut the cake, at which point the first custom that is slightly outside of the British experience revealed itself when she turned round and hand fed a piece to Shakyajata, who received it with an air of dignified resignation. This activity continued as Neha fed cake to, and was then fed by, each guest in turn. I was more than slightly relieved when it came to my turn and I was able to apologise profusely but explain I would not be able to eat the confection which no doubt contained both eggs and dairy products. She conceded with some disappointment but saying that she understood. At this point someone pointed out that the wafer curls on top of the cake would be ‘mostly sugar anyway’ (Thanks, Mark) and so I ended up being cajoled into a bite of one. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant but I’m not sure it contained much in the way of traditionally edible substances! I was lucky; however, to escape from the main birthday cake ritual, which was still to come. After quite gracefully receiving his share of the cake from Neha’s careful hand, her brother returned the gesture; by smearing it vigorously all over her face! This was clearly of no surprise to her and she continued the mutual feeding with a similar resigned pride with which Shakyajata had set the scene with her first bite! I have since been told this is a very normal birthday tradition. And there was me thinking the ‘birthday bumps’ was a strange quirk of English custom.
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Such a normal, civilised family scene!
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Until the cake is cut!
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When it is perfectly normal to smear it on the Birthday Girl's face!
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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.
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Another fine meal; with Bihari specialities this time!
We were shown into a home of comparable humility to Neha’s and just as well kept but we were soon presented with a range of unfamiliar foods! No chapattis!? What on earth!? Instead, we were given a Bihari treat; a kind of small fried bread dumpling, which really did make a delicious change. Of course there was also plenty of subji, pakoras, pilau and I very much enjoyed a generous fresh salad of raw beetroot, cucumber, radish and salad. Though it is easy to eat a vegetarian diet here, I have really missed raw vegetables as they are nearly always cooked very thoroughly, so this was a real joy and I could almost feel my body absorbing the nutrients. Asha had been considerate in removing a dish of khir (milky rice pudding) from my plate, knowing that I follow a vegan diet. Unfortunately, two and two hadn’t quite been put together and it wasn’t until I declared ‘this dhal tastes different!’ that Aryaketu pointed out it wasn’t dhal at all and was made with curds; so I encountered Vegan Food Fail #2. Still, I’d only tasted a small spoonful so I didn’t feel too put off and did a very good job of demolishing the verified ‘safe’ edibles before me! Yet again, I noticed our hosts were not eating, simply ferrying dishes back and forth from the kitchen to slavishly refill our plates if anything appeared to be diminishing. I asked Asha if she’d already eaten. Perhaps our arrival time of 2pm was too late for them? On the contrary, she’d not eaten since breakfast but assured me that I should not worry and she was not hungry. After our meal, we were served very sweet black tea with lemon juice and reclined to enjoy a rest and a good chat, especially with Arti. She speaks excellent English and is married to Paul, whom I had first met at the Manchester Buddhist Centre and who volunteered as an English teacher at Aryaloka last year. Soon it was time for us to leave and prepare our lesson at which time a minor mystery was solved. I’d been so engrossed in chatting to Arti, who is excited to be leaving tomorrow to meet Paul where he is now teaching in China, that I’d not noticed everyone else seemed to have vanished. As we got up to leave, I peered around the door to the kitchen; there they all were, relishing a hearty lunch! Apparently it is entirely normal for hosts to serve their guests first and not to dine themselves until that meal has been finished! No wonder I was ticked off for eating slowly, they must have been starving! Well. You live and learn.
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 house with Aryaketu, who would also eat with us.

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There they are! The family finally eats lunch!
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!
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    ‘Magga’ is the Pali word for ‘path’.  In Buddhism, this word is often linked to the Ariya Magga, or Noble Eightfold Path, the fourth of the Four Noble Truths, which is the path to the cessation of suffering.
    ‘Mission Maggamouse’ is the latest catalogue of the adventures of Glittermouse; a visual artist and educator. It has been initiated specifically to record and share her experiences at Aryaloka Computer Education Centre, a Buddhist social project in Nagpur, offering subsidised education to some of India’s poorest and most excluded young people. As a recent Dhammamitra (mitra who has asked for of ordination) of the Triratna Buddhist Order, this activity is an important step in integrating her teaching experience with her spiritual aspirations. You can read more about Glittermouse on the ‘home’ page of this site.

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