Leaving Pushkar For Bombay

Puskhar was the longest time I spent in a single place in India: five weeks. I had the spiritual awakening I had sought. It was high time for some big city action. But during such a relatively long sojourn, it was impossible not to form relationships with a number of the locals, who were saddened at my departure beyond anything I could have imagined.

Fareen, of eBay start-ups, medical and dental adventures, gave me a way-cool shirt. Then he showed me a passport photo of me that had fallen out of my bag, without my knowledge. He asked if he could keep it. I thought it was a silly question, because it seemed clear that he most definitely should. I took the picture out of the little sachet to make sure it wasn’t too bad of a shot, as photogenic, I am not. On the back, he had written “André. The best man in the world.” I couldn’t believe it, and was instantly reduced to tears.

Monu, of motorcycle and Mountain Baba fame, gave me blessings, complete with red tikka, and then garlanded me with marigolds. Having seen the garlanding ceremony in Bollywood movies, I understood that it was an exceptional honor to bestow on someone, and had always had something of a vain and silly fantasy of receiving one for myself. Nevertheless, it occurred to me that I was going to look absolutely ridiculous traipsing around Ajmer, and later Jaipur with this thing around my neck. I wore it anyway and with some pride at that.

Accompanied to the train station by a veritable entourage, for once, the usual disturbances that foreigners endure from beggars and touts, were kept safely at bay. Everyone boarded the train. Hugs. Promises of return trips. Tears restrained, but barely. These wonderful people, who had only done good deeds for me, showering me with hospitality and boundless generosity, were genuinely distraught at my leaving. It was a unique and overwhelming experience which I will have and hold in my heart forever and ever and ever. Thank you Pushkar. Thank you so much.

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Jaipur is a nondescript provincial capital. Anyway, I just overnighted there, anxious the reach the Big Lights. My heart lept with joy upon sighting our Jet Airways craft on the tarmac. This carrier is hereby awarded Skye Frontier’s Best Airline of the Decade Prize.

For all my whining about India’s dreadful infrastructure deficit, Bombay’s domestic airport is spanking new, clean, efficient and modern. Through the kindness of others, I managed to get a coveted room at Bentley’s Hotel, with air conditioning, running hot water and cable TV. I had a McFish combo at the Golden Arches, since I was in desperate need of some animal protein, not to mention variety, after the culinary monotony of a small town. I even had Domino’s deliver a pizza to the room for dinner. Zoom TV provided me with everything I’d been missing with respect to what the heck is going on in Bollywood, so I can hit Nariman Point’s Inox cinema. I may emerge from there once I go in tomorrow. We’ll only know if it actually happens. The highest cinematic priority is the premier of Johnny Gaddaar, which opened to mixed reviews, but is nevertheless my best shot at 15 minutes of fame.

However, that won’t be before I put on the dancing shoes I’ve been lugging around since Delhi, and set the dance floor ablaze at a party in Juhu Beach.

Final Night in Pushkar with God

Health recovered, and with an acute case of cabin fever, I spent Erev Sukkot at Beit Chabad. A different set of rabbis were flown in from 770, and intrepid as I am, we sat together at dinner. I asked some good questions.

The universe can be explained up to a point by both science and religion. However, at a certain juncture, there is a void that requires a leap of faith. Faith is a funny thing. While one cannot rely on it entirely, or only on rationality for that matter, blind faith strikes me as having a strong element of infantilism. Nevertheless, that final gap of understanding remains, any way you slice it. Question: how can you be sure God exists?

Long discussion. Many people chiming in. The answer, roughly and in sum, is to look in the small things. Trying to find proof of the Divine with questions like why did this or that happen is like looking in the broom closet for a glass of orange juice. What’s more, at risk of spouting a cliché, throughout creation, to my mind anyway, there is some rather compelling evidence pointing to intelligent design.

OK. So assuming that God actually exists, what was His purpose in creating the universe?

Another long discussion, with quotes, verbatim and paraphrased, from all manner of sources, including the Zohar. Once again, the answer isn’t so simple, but here’s my abridged take on it, adapted to my limited understanding and worldview.

Beyond space and time, which we do know are relative and even subjective, there exists the Infinite Light. When that contracted and the universe was created in the so-called Big Bang, everything was set on course to return to Source after a given period. All cultures in humanity, with its capacity for abstract thought, expressed through language, music, mathematics, and so on, also seem to be hard-wired for religious or spiritual expression. This is no accident. This spiritual constituent of humankind is the force driving the universe back towards the Source, somewhat through ritual, but mainly through good deeds. The impetus to do such deeds comes from the Godly component, i.e. the atman, which exists in each and every one of us.

This collective divine energy agglomerates, propelling the whole universe towards what many faiths term as a type of messianic salvation, where the nature of the world as we know it changes for the better, and the ills of this illusory physical existence, such as sickness, death, and all forms of evil, no longer plague us, and we will be treated to a greater knowledge, understanding far beyond what we are capable of today, and closeness to the Creator. The details of this ultimate transformation vary from religion to religion, but there seems to be much overlap and concurrence, even in some polytheistic faiths. Discard the fire and brimstone. This is merely a grab, historically successful, at social control.

Taking strong hints from Zoroastrianism, we Jews have had the mission and honor of bringing the concept of monotheism to humanity, for which, incomprehensibly, we have been persecuted and punished from time immemorial, up to and including today. In these times, it mainly takes the form of Israel-bashing.

Whatever your opinion on the Jewish State (and Skye Frontier’s has been spelled out pretty explicitly in these pages) what you think about Israel is mistaken. It is the ultimate locus of paradoxes. You think you know it. You think you understand it. You don’t. It is a mystery. Jews, and especially Israelis, may be a problematic bunch from a behavioral perspective. But to focus on that and the details of the Middle East conflict misses the point entirely. This conflict has a solution. The seeming impossibility of reaching it is diverting the spiritual energy necessary for the salvation of the world through love and selfless good deeds. Compromise means nobody gets everything they want, but hey, that’s life. Tough cookies. Addiction to victimhood, thirst for revenge, hatred, prejudice, divisions within society and between peoples, especially when perpetrated in the name of God, must certainly be one of the greatest desecrations of God’s name, work and intentions.

Health recovered, and with an acute case of cabin fever, I spent Erev Sukkot at Beit Chabad. A different set of rabbis were flown in from 770, and intrepid as I am, we sat together at dinner. I asked some good questions.
The universe can be explained up to a point by both science and religion. However, at a certain juncture, there is a void that requires a leap of faith. Faith is a funny thing. While one cannot rely on it entirely, or only on rationality for that matter, blind faith strikes me as having a strong element of infantilism. Nevertheless, that final gap of understanding remains, any way you slice it. Question: how can you be sure God exists?
Long discussion. Many people chiming in. The answer, roughly and in sum, is to look in the small things. Trying to find proof of the Divine with questions like why did this or that happen is like looking in the broom closet for a glass of orange juice. What’s more, at risk of spouting a cliché, throughout creation, to my mind anyway, there is some rather compelling evidence pointing to intelligent design.
OK. So assuming that God actually exists, what was His purpose in creating the universe?
Another long discussion, with quotes, verbatim and paraphrased, from all manner of sources, including the Zohar. Once again, the answer isn’t so simple, but here’s my abridged take on it, adapted to my limited understanding and worldview.
Beyond space and time, which we do know are relative and even subjective, there exists the Infinite Light. When that contracted and the universe was created in the so-called Big Bang, everything was set on course to return to Source after a given period. All cultures in humanity, with its capacity for abstract thought, expressed through language, music, mathematics, and so on, also seem to be hard-wired for religious or spiritual expression. This is no accident. This spiritual constituent of humankind is the force driving the universe back towards the Source, somewhat through ritual, but mainly through good deeds. The impetus to do such deeds comes from the Godly component, i.e. the atman, which exists in each and every one of us.
This collective divine energy agglomerates, propelling the whole universe towards what many faiths term as a type of messianic salvation, where the nature of the world as we know it changes for the better, and the ills of this illusory physical existence, such as sickness, death, and all forms of evil, no longer plague us, and we will be treated to a greater knowledge, understanding far beyond what we are capable of today, and closeness to the Creator. The details of this ultimate transformation vary from religion to religion, but there seems to be much overlap and concurrence, even in some polytheistic faiths. Discard the fire and brimstone. This is merely a grab, historically successful, at social control.
Taking strong hints from Zoroastrianism, we Jews have had the mission and honor of bringing the concept of monotheism to humanity, for which, incomprehensibly, we have been persecuted and punished from time immemorial, up to and including today. In these times, it mainly takes the form of Israel-bashing.
Whatever your opinion on the Jewish State (and Skye Frontier’s has been spelled out pretty explicitly in these pages) what you think about Israel is mistaken. It is the ultimate locus of paradoxes. You think you know it. You think you understand it. You don’t. It is a mystery. Jews, and especially Israelis, may be a problematic bunch from a behavioral perspective. But to focus on that and the details of the Middle East conflict misses the point entirely. This conflict has a solution. The seeming impossibility of reaching it is diverting the spiritual energy necessary for the salvation of the world through love and selfless good deeds. Compromise means nobody gets everything they want, but hey, that’s life. Tough cookies. Addiction to victimhood, thirst for revenge, hatred, prejudice, divisions within society and between peoples, especially when perpetrated in the name of God, must certainly be one of the greatest desecrations of God’s name, work and intentions.

High Holidays in Pushkar

Spending the birthday of the world in the place it was created always seemed like an interesting idea from an ecumenical standpoint, even if it was with Beit Chabad, a movement not familiar with such a standpoint.

Pushkar is a holy city of pilgrimage, and like Rishikesh, meat, eggs and alcohol are not permitted within city limits. I wondered how Chabad would respond to this on the high holidays. To my pleasant surprise, we had a vegan feast, attended by some 350 travelers, 99% of whom were Israeli. The entire program was in Hebrew, which after six weeks of near total disuse was nice to hear again. The Diaspora Jews could have been counted on a single hand. I sat opposite one, a nice young Canadian woman, who spoke the world's most sublime language: Montreal Moroccan French.

Before services, I found one of the few English books on the shelf, and began immersing myself in the kabalistic secrets of the Hebrew alphabet. Knowing the language, but being able to read the explanations in English made the subject resonate all the more fully. I was able to discuss the topic and my experience of Vipassana with one of the rabbis present. On the tail of this pleasant experience, I was actually looking forward to Yom Kippur.

Of the five weeks I spent in Pushkar, I was stoned 90% of the time for four of them. That’s a lot of time to be stoned. And not just buzzed. I mean really whacked. It was an experience no less rich than doing Vipassana. But wanting something “different” after bhang lassis day in and day out eventually got me into trouble.

The best alternative to bhang is charas, that black Himalayan hashish. Charas is made by rolling cannabis paste in your hands until it becomes a soft block. Entire villages in the Parvati Valley live from the trade. It is usually children who do the final rolling. One can imagine that their hands are not exactly clean.

The first charas lassi I had was made with half a tola, which is about 5 grams. This is actually a huge amount, and as a result, I was stoned off my face for two days straight. It was a lot of fun, but a bit too intense to repeat so quickly afterwards. Nevertheless, in breaking the block down into tiny pieces, which I did myself, a small piece got lodged under the nail of my left index finger. It became infected. The infection turned into an abscess, which sported a green-yellow color, and sent me straight to a Mittal Hospital in nearby Ajmer. A small surgical procedure removed the right third of the nail, put my finger in a splint, and brought about the realization of how important the left index finger is for a plethora of daily tasks, most significantly left ear and general nose picking.

As if this wasn’t enough to teach me, about ten or so days later, I decided it was time for another round. This time, I had the concoction made for me, with only 2.5 grams. It was good stuff. I tripped out and even hallucinated a bit. I also managed to contract a bacterial infection in my intestine, because charas ultimately is meant to be smoked and not eaten. As soon as the symptoms set in (no appetite, nausea, crapping sauce) I went straight to the doctor in Pushkar, who incidentally had his clinic literally next door to Beit Chabad. It was Erev Yom Kippur. I got the necessary doctor’s dispensation to eat, although it was exceedingly difficult before the medication set in. I only managed part of a potato.

After a series of intense and sensual experiences in Bangkok and Delhi, being in Pushkar for the latter part of the Hebrew month of Elul, which is meant for meditation, contemplation and repentance, as well as the High Holidays, was meant from the outset to be a quiet, centering experience. It was. I realized that instead of fearing failure, I should embrace it. You cannot learn without it. This mitigates fear. Courage is not the absence of fear. It is the strength and equanimity to face it head on.

Back at Beit Chabad, the usual crazies that tend to agglomerate there were in full force. Maybe they like being told that they’re the spiritual master race. The idea of the Lubavitcher Rebbe rising from the dead to reveal himself as the messiah and dispense great miracles at will is also a comforting Big Daddy story. Nevertheless, for as theologically problematic as these issues are, it does not subtract from the fact that there is no other Jewish organization in the world that undertakes this kind of mission work on such a grand scale. And they do have very positive outreach programs. I suppose this mix is more innocuous outside of Israel, where Jewish religious groups have no influence on government policy, per sé. So as always, I’m left feeling ambivalent.

Nina, my adoptive mother from Kibbutz Yotvata, is coming to travel with me in mid October. This and the change of seasons is powering my push back down south. Next stop: Bombay again for two weeks. Then, off to Cochin to meet Nina. The journey continues. Drug free now. Ironic that it should happen in India of all places.

Mountain Baba

I have been lead to understand that Rajastan is nominally a desert. At this time of year however, approaching the tail-end of the monsoon rains, it is green and alive. Indeed, surrounded by a low-lying mountain range, with a holy lake, complete with bathing ghats, Pushkar is an absolute gem. Gazing from any one of the ghats, one can see that near or at the top of each surrounding mountain, there is a temple. And while Pushkar is the Brahma city, there are many other temples in and around it.

The three main deities of the Hindu pantheon are Brahma, the Creator (who created and then didn’t do much else afterwards), Vishnu, whose avatars include Ram, Laxman, Krishna and many others, who are born into this world every time the balance between good and evil tips towards the latter, and Shiva, the deity of destruction and regeneration. While there are many others, running literally into the hundreds if not thousands, it is impossible to overstate the popularity of Shiva. His image and temples abound everywhere in India. There’s an element of violence and raw energy to Shiva, and one easily picks up on the power of his cult.

Each of these three deities has his own respective holy city. Pushkar is for Brahma, where according to tradition he created the world. Rishikesh is for Vishnu. And Varanassi is for Shiva. Like the Taj Mahal, Varanassi, while indubitably a fascinating place, is one I’d rather skip. Being the city of Shiva, chaos reigns supreme 24/7, with excited pilgrims stoned off their faces, hoards of beggars, and garbage that hasn’t been collected in a few millennia. Nevertheless, when I met a Breslev (the cult I love to love) family in the Enigma Café, who were on their way to celebrate Rosh Hashanah there, I must admit that the juxtaposition did intrigue me, and I considered making the trek for a moment. But alas no. The New Year will be spent here in Pushkar, the city of creation, with Chabad (the cult I love to hate). My experience with Shiv Shakti power shall remain limited to friends who are devotees.

I have spent most days in Pushkar in the Enigma Café. Like many a traveler who decides to stay on for a while in a given place, I have had the good fortune of getting to know this one’s local cast of characters. The café is owned by a hard-nosed widow with two sons. The younger isn’t really in the picture, but the older one, Monu, figures prominently in the daily life of the restaurant. His task mainly seems to be to play the role of oldest son of owner, which he does well. Other than that, he smokes pretty much endless chillums, and as a result, does not actually manage the restaurant staff, who, not knowing what is truly expected of them, are not terribly effective. This is mitigated by some genuine culinary talent, and by Fareen, until two days ago the head cook (after which there was a conflict that I was unsuccessful at mediating).

Both young men are 23. Both are at that age where defining oneself is of central importance. But Monu is burdened by the asset of the café, his mother, and too much hash. Though brash and charismatic, he won’t be able to realize his own or the café’s true potential until he puts his nose to the grindstone. At that point, the sky is truly the limit. As an aside, he had an old jalopy of a motorcycle, which he fixed in my honor, and we spend many an afternoon touring the region. I have found the activity that rates the highest on my list of favorite things to do: slowly perambulating on country roads.

Fareen, quieter, astoundingly handsome, and with some talent of his own, aspires to design and sell shanti style clothing, in addition to doing more in the restaurant industry. Not exactly ambitious, he is nevertheless making a valiant effort to improve his life, something which I really admire. So we have spent quite a lot of time building an eBay site for him to hawk his wares. I’ve pointed out that failure in this space may actually be more beneficial than success: he’ll learn far more and build a much stronger foundation if he makes lots of mistakes now in this laboratory setting. But I’m crossing my fingers for his success.

Fareen and I also do the doctor thing together. On my left index finger, I had an infection, which developed into an abscess, and subsequently had to have the nail removed for effective drainage. This put my finger into a splint for almost a week, but each time I needed to go to the (impressive) Mittal Hospital and Research Center, we also went to the dentist for him. One tooth disintegrated. At first we went to Pushkar’s only dentist, in a one-room clinic situated in a rabbit warren in the township. I asked to have my teeth cleaned. He was suitably impressed by my clackers, but only polished them with equipment so antiquated that I wondered if he had dug it up at an archeological site. Apart from charging me a usurious Rs 500 for the privilege, he announced that in Fareen’s case, nothing short of an extraction would do. Before I let this happen, I suggested getting a second opinion in the nearby town of Ajmer. “Why don’t you want to take out?” the good dentist inquired.

“Well,” I began, “it might be a good idea to know the alternatives before leaving a hole in his mouth.


“Yes, one hole,” he replied in agreement.

We went to Ajmer the following day. In any case, the tooth did need to be extracted, and a whole bunch of other dental work had to be done, so together with my finger, every few days we had our joint set of medical errands.

The day after my minor operation, Monu took the bike, me in splint, and Surinder, a mutual friend of the guys, up to a Shiva temple on a mountainside. Rajastan is truly the Indian heartland. The crushing majority of the population are native Rajastanis. Interestingly, there are no small number of gypsies in the region, as well as a significant community of Sikhs, who have a magnificent temple on the outskirts of town.

Surinder is a Sikh, but the first I’ve met who doesn’t wear a turban. Although English is practically non-existent he does not see this as an impediment in talking my ear off. Additionally, he is a fascinating specimen of religious tolerance: keeping his faith, but hedging his bets in the spiritual realm. So when we went up that mountain, Surinder was gung-ho about paying homage to Shiva.

The temple was tended by a real sadhu, or holy man, the first I’d ever had a chance to sit and talk with. We can call him Mountain Baba. No dreadlocks, but with a trademark loincloth, he had renounced the material world, and lived in a tent on the mountainside, taking donations for the upkeep and improvement of the temple. He dispensed advice to pilgrims, told many stories and parables, and was most generous in his hospitality. He also had his own marijuana plantation, with big, green, fragrant buds soaking up the country sunlight on the mountain. It was a sight to behold. And in India, it is perfectly legal. Ha ha. He also had some special bhang on hand (all the way from Haridwar) to make my favorite drink, so leaving Mountain Baba was much more difficult than coming.

For the most part, I have enjoyed reasonable success breaking away from the world of Western overconsumption. All my possessions weigh 20 kg and fit in a back on my back (the Hi-Tech Knapsack goes on my front when in transit). In all honesty, I want for nothing. While I’m a long way from being a real sadhu, I am not a JAP (so much anymore) and I consider this an achievement. On that note, I believe myself to be deserving of a pat on the back, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be heading over to the Enigma Café for my daily bhang lassi.

Rajastani Time

I did not go to the Taj Mahal. I'm almost proud of the fact. It is the one cliche thing that all tourists to India absolutely must do. But I have no doubt that the day trip from Delhi would have been one of my more frustrating adventures, with filth and touts and assailants coming from every direction to frazzle me in four dimensions. With all due respect to the Taj Mahal, I came to India for something a bit different.

As much as discovering first hand all the secrets and glories of this country, I made a point of setting out for one calendar year. All my escape-from-the-computer fantasies back home had one common element: enough time. More than that Mughal costume, perfect beach or holy moment in pilgrimage, is the sense that there's time to spare, time to burn. The experiences you can have only when there is an abundance of time are really the ones I wanted to live.

I went to Delhi for the Monsoon Festival 2, curated by my old friend Himanshu. Indeed, I made it to the opening night, where by virtue of being white and underdressed, I was interviewed both by the Times of India and NDTV. The works focused on monsoon fashion, and were fresh and eye-catching. Held in the British Council, most appropriately in the Queen's Gallery, the crowd was rather posh, and it added to the cachet of the evening. I took full advantage of the free wine.

Quite by surprise and completely unconnected to my artistic adventures, I found myself in one of those wonderful affairs where you both fall in love and have all the time in the world to explore it. And even though I knew it was going to hurt at the end, I had the time and opportunity to live it anyway with eyes wide open.

So Delhi was an extra special experience for me. It was an amazing city. I did all the tourist stuff. And I was in love. Triple blessing.

In three weeks it played itself out, and I came to Puskhar, in Rajastan. I have decided that I will now only visit places that can be reached by first class train or airplane. No more remote backwaters that can only be accessed by a pre-Independence diesel jalopy whose crosseyed driver is stoned, illiterate and directionally impaired.

Pushkar is the site of India's only Brahma temple. Tradition has it that Brahma, the Creator in the Hindu pantheon, created the world right here by dropping a lotus flower into what then became Pushkar lake. A good part of Rajastan is desert, but Pushkar is in a valley surrounded by tree-lined mountains, and the monsoon had done its job by the early September during which I arrived. While somewhat bustling for a small town, it apparently really comes to life in November, when they hold the annual Camel Festival, which while fascinating in itself, I think I'll just skip this year.

Emerging from my hotel the first thing after arriving, I went to seek out the one concoction that has made Pushkar famous, especially among Israelis: bhang lassi. And I found it, right downstairs, in the Enignma Cafe. Green and gooey, with sugar and chocolate sauce to take the edge off, this drink, made mainly from ground cannabis leaves, ensures complete mental retardation within 90 minutes of consumption. When I first looked up, a whole week had passed.

Owing perhaps to good past life karma, I had been adopted by the family and attendant young men that run the Enigma, and they kept me fed and around plenty of foamy cushions. Taking twenty minutes to decide on the virtues of changing position really means that you have the luxury of time. Needless to say, the service is dreadful. The food is good, but boy oh boy is everything as slow as molasses in January. Yet it doesn't seem to faze me. It isn't that I have other worries to attend to. I don't have any at all.

Yes, I have finally found the ultimate cafe experience, and with the High Holidays approaching, it is good to know that the cult I love to hate (Beit Chabad) has a branch office here. This year's holiday menu includes an item of "Heated Discussions".

Pushkar, Rajastan

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