from their meals – not affectionately – just giving it to them. It seems such a different relation of dogs to humans. They seem half wild even in this urban setting. I then settle in to do some watercolor sketches. The first I do from the outer, upper level walkway where many people do devotional “laps” of the temple. It is a bit unnerving because hundreds of people stop to watch me painting. I’m a bit surprised. For the next two I move down into the lower level of the temple grounds. I still draw a crowd but mainly of children. They watch until their attention span fades and then they move on, all except one little Tibetan girl. She is a bit of a pest in that she gets into my stuff, but she is sweet as well. She has a dandy cold that I’m sure she will give me by sneezing all over me.
On my way home buy some incense and a cheap burner. I rest for a while in my room and then go to nearby tent restaurant (most restaurants in Bodh Gaya are in tents) called the Original Pole to Pole. It is very grubby. The floor is dirt and the ceiling is covered with spider webs and spiders that I take to be their fly and mosquito control. The place is filled with twenty-something Buddha-hippies (Westerners). They are all wrapped in Indian shawls and scarves and other Indian clothes trying to look as Indian as possible, and, of course, still looking extremely white. I decide not to waste the effort and keep my jeans and cap that mark me an American. I do have to smile as I watch them mainly because I do see my younger self in them. To order your food you write what you want on a piece of paper and give it to the cook, either Papua or Jimmie. It took about an hour for the food to come and it was delicious, well worth the wait and the 80 rupees. With the dirtiness of the place I wonder if I will get sick, but I figure I will just have to chance it. I head back to my room. It is 7:00 p.m. and I am exhausted. I pile on my warm pajamas and ear plugs, it is very noisy, and I go to bed and sleep – yes, I sleep well for ten hours.
December 31
my librarian at Mahabodhi Temple library
I wake at 5:00 a.m. and go to the hallway toilet - a squat toilet that is. I had read about this very different toilet in my research for the trip but the reality of it is still quite startling. The squat toilets are usually porcelain but they are simply a hole in the floor with two “non-slip” foot rests on each side. Some have a flush and some you flush with a bucket of water. The objective is to literally squat on top of the opening. The real shocker for Westerners is that there is no toilet paper involved. Indians instead use a container of water and their left hand to clean themselves. The left hand is then not used for much of anything else (this is a problem for myself as a left-handed person - I’m sure I looked shocking eating with my left hand). I wasn’t quite up for this system and I brought my own paper. From the Indian perspective, they think it is gross that Westerners only use paper and wipe rather than water to wash clean. I must say it is a tremendous saving of paper and trees to have one billion Indians using their left hands.
I awkwardly accomplish my task and go into the hallway where about a dozen people are sleeping on pads and under heavy quilts – that explains some of noise level last night. I wash up and brush my teeth at the sink out in the hall with cold water. It wakes me up quite well. I make my bed, do my meditation and prayers, and I feel great. It was so good to get a night’s sleep. I feel very refreshed. I walk over to Pole to Pole and have a tomato and cheese omelet, a bowl of honey and banana seminola porridge, and a glass of chai - an absolutely fantastic breakfast. There is a poster on the wall announcing that tonight, the millennium eve, there will be an all night puja, offerings and prayers to the Buddha, at Mahabodhi Temple. It sounds like a great way to start the new year to me.
I decide to use this morning to do research on Jataka tales. I first go to a bookstore that is associated with Mahabodhi Temple. A benefit for me is that English is still a primary written language in India due to the long occupation of the county by Britain. There I do find one small book of Jataka Tales I do not have and I buy it. I then go to the temple’s library. It definitely has the feel of a 19th century library with not even a card-catalogue system that I saw. When I first see the librarian I think it is Dustin Hoffman in disguise as an Indian. He is a strange little man and it takes me a while to build some communication with him, but once we get going he is most helpful. I sit at the table and mark stories in books that I want to copy and he rushes from one case to another finding more possible sources for me. By the time we are finished I have quite a pile of photocopying to be done. He says I can pick them up tomorrow at about noon. I do some scouting around and find a little locked up bookstore associated with the Mahabodhi Society. I try to get it opened up and it turns into quite an ordeal. The person who is supposed to open it doesn’t want to and finally a man in a nearby office does it for me. He doesn’t know what they have so I simply start browsing. To my amazement I come upon a huge two-volume set of Jataka Tales – it is the mother lode. The thousands of pages contain what appears to be new versions of all the stories I have found and additional ones as well. I am excited! The man cannot find a price for the books anywhere and asks me to come back in two hours.
I decide to go to the bank and exchange some traveler’s checks for rupees fearing I might be short of funds for the books. The first exchange I did in the airport at Mumbai took about ten minutes. I walk, or should I say squeeze, into the bank through a strange metal gate that is chained open just enough to let you wiggle through. It is as if I have entered a Franz Kafka story. After much confusion and no help on where to go I find myself in a very long cue of numb-faced, stunned tourists. There are endless lines and forms to fill out. The men at the bank — and yes they are all men — are almost comically rude and indifferent. They take away all our passports and traveler’s checks and we have to form another cue with our little metal numbers and wait to be called. After a two hour process and at least a dozen power outages, I am called to the window. The glaring man thrusts a wad of rupee notes and my passport at me. I take them and in my sweetest voice possible I say “Happy New Year.” He is stunned. He looks up and smiles and says, “Happy New Year.” The tourists in the never-ending cue all burst out laughing.
I find the entrance and squeeze out of the gate. Enough time has passed that I go back to see if I can pick up my books. The woman who is supposed to run the place is now there and finds the price for me. Both volumes combined are 450 rupees – a little over $10.00. They would be ten times that in the United States if you could find them, which is unlikely.
I decide to do a little shopping on my way back to the room and I pick up a little carved stone Buddha head for Sammy’s altar at home, some prayer beads for both of us, and a knit scarf and cap in anticipation of a cold evening at the puja tonight. I rest at the room and eat some fruit for lunch. I then pack up my painting gear and head out for Mahabodhi Temple. At the temple I settle in and do two sketches. I have quite an audience but I’m getting more comfortable with the situation and enjoy talking with such a variety of people. The sketches go well and I pack up early to go to the temple office to pick up a pass for the puja tonight. Back at my room I rest a bit and go for dinner at Pole to Pole. I have no idea what I’m ordering but as always, it is great. I dress as warmly as possible for the evening putting my flannel pajamas on under my clothes and layering up as much as possible. It is already cool.
I arrive at about 6:30 p.m. and position myself and my cushion back away from where the monks are gathering. In no time at all the monks spread back to me and I’m joined by two very pleasant Australians. There are thousands upon thousands of candles burning on the stupas and walls, marigold garlands are draped everywhere. A tremendously elaborate altar with offerings is set up under the spreading branches of the Bohdi Tree. The monks begin chanting with incredibly beautiful musical accompaniment, one of the most heavenly flutes I have ever heard. It is absolutely magical. I meditate and sway with the sound. To my surprise a monk sitting next to me nudges me. He points down on the ground in between us where a rat has been caught in this maze of sitting people. No one is a bit alarmed and the rat doesn’t seem too bothered either. One of the Australians wonders if the rat was a monk in a previous life. My mind goes to the Jataka Tales I have read where the Buddha was a rat in previous lives. Maybe
