Month #5: Lightness

This morning, I was chatting with a friend in New York and she reminded me to update my blog. I have found that the more engaging my life is here, the less likely I am to write a post. Not only do I run out of time, I get intimidated by the sheer backlog of events. In the past week, I have: interviewed a former surrogate mother in her home (at last!), eaten the best vada pav* ever in the working-class neighborhood of Dadar, written about desserts for The New York Times travel blog, watched two Bollywood movies, wandered around the narrow alleyways and white temples of Bhuleshwar by night, taken a tour of the Dharavi slum, gone on a date and, after a four-month hiatus, attended two yoga classes.

This onslaught of activity was inspired by the realization that, in four months, I’ll be heading back to  New Jersey where, presumably, I’ll have to spend a long time looking for a job.  Alas, a few weeks ago this realization also led to a pretty crappy afternoon spent on job-hunting websites, which led to anxiety — a deep I’m-single-and-31-with-no-lucrative-career-path kind of existential anxiety that I just couldn’t shake.In the middle of that week, I had a Hindi class. My tutor Mano arrived at the apartment and as we sat down to review type #2 masculine nouns in the oblique case, I couldn’t focus. So I used a technique honed during my adolescent harp-lesson days — distracting the teacher with a volley of personal questions. Anyhow, I’d always been curious about Mano.

Mano is a slim, dreamy man with a rare gentleness that may come from his many years spent away from the world. When he was 17, Mano entered an ashram in Bihar and lived there until he was 32 when he decided to leave.  Just nine months ago, he “came out” for an Australian woman who he’d met at the ashram years before. Before leaving, Mano asked permission from his guru and was denied, as the guru was grooming him for a leadership position. So he left covertly, literally jumping over the ashram wall while his teacher was off on a speaking tour. The outside world came as a shock. At the ashram, Mano had  led a reflective and highly-regimented life. He rose before dawn, ate sparingly, shaved his head and wore the saffron robes of a monk. There was no television, no internet, and only the occasional newspaper. So when he got to Mumbai, there was a lot Mano didn’t know how to do. He didn’t know how to buy a train ticket. He didn’t have a bank account. He didn’t know how to make money.  So he sat down, meditated, took stock of his skills, and thought, “I can teach yoga.” So he did, first to one couple and then to more people and then he began teaching Hindi, and now he can feed both himself and his girlfriend. “It is through Grace,” he told me in that slow, wondering way of his.

Somehow, the story of Mano making his way in the world made me feel better. It wasn’t so much the idea that if Mano can find work, I can find work. Rather, I was comforted by his attitude. He has a “lightness,” as he puts it, that I understand as a useful detachment. A realization that you control over worldly events is limited, so rather than freaking out, it’s better to meditate, take things as they are and do your best to cope.

Lately, I’ve been coping with the vast undefined territory that is my future by limiting my gaze to Mumbai. I’ve been trying to live as fully here as possible here, in conscious appreciation of my limited time here. And I have been thinking about the idea lightness a lot, holding it in mind. Just this morning as I set about crossing the chaotic street at Pali Market, I noticed myself getting angry and agitated because there shouldn’t be so many wildly careening rickshaws and horns, there shouldn’t be so much traffic! Then I looked at the street again and thought, “Why shouldn’t there be traffic? This is just the way things are here.” So I waited for a break in the traffic and crossed to the other side.

*for details on the glory that is Vada Pav: http://intransit.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/01/16/snack-attack-mumbai-eating-safe-street-food/