Читать книгу Painted Oxen - Thomas Lloyd Qualls - Страница 19

Lately, I’ve been having these dreams where I’m in the middle of a jungle and I’m looking for something, some place, some time. Though I’m not sure what—or where—or when—it is. I am older, wiser, more surefooted. It seems that my quest is not just a personal one. At the risk of sounding dramatic, I have a sense that the world is at stake.

I had this thought this morning as I was waking up. How is it we get to and from the dream world? If all things are connected, then the dream world must be connected to the waking world somehow. What is it, then, that binds the two? What is the bridge, the connective tissue, the path from sense to chaos and back?

I don’t know the answer to that, but I have this theory of dreams I’ve been working on. Monsters, of one kind or another, are common in dreams. And there’s all this stuff in history, mythology, and psychology about monsters and demons and the courageous heroes who fight them. But I don’t think fighting monsters is all that courageous. I think the ultimate act of courage is standing still in the face of a monster. Courage is looking closely enough into its jaws to see it for what it is: an illusion. The monster isn’t real. It’s your fear of the monster that is real. And just about anything in life can look like a monster if the light is just right.

Trying to figure out what is real is full-time work. Even more so, figuring out what matters, what is essential. I’ve been told I shouldn’t think about these kinds of things so much. That I shouldn’t constantly be searching for these kinds of answers. That I shouldn’t be such a malcontent, because I have a really good life with nothing to complain about. No school shootings in my history, no suicide bombings, no waterboarding. It’s true, there are people who are starving all over the world, people living in war zones, people being made to cover themselves from head to toe and obey misinterpreted scriptures. People who never know love. It is also true that I’m a bit of a malcontent. But that doesn’t mean I should stop questioning. And it doesn’t mean I’m not right about my belief that desire matters. That it is essential even.

Some Buddhists say we should liberate ourselves from desire. But I believe that’s got to be a problem of translation. Not all desire is bad, is it? Shouldn’t desire be qualified? Shouldn’t there be a distinction between pure greed or obsession and healthy wants or even passion? I mean, isn’t the Buddhists’ quest to liberate themselves and others from sorrow another form of desire? Of passion?

I believe we should demand the things our souls need. And not compromise. Not push these desires to the slagheap because we’ve been told they serve no useful purpose in our adult lives. Not tell our souls to go to their rooms because we are having this party for adults called life, and they will just be in the way because we’ll be talking about things the soul wouldn’t understand anyway. Not say it’s okay if we aren’t granted these things we need, because other people’s lives suck too.

All of life is constantly in motion. Desire keeps us moving. Desire inspires us to be brave, to dream, to create. Desire is our divine connection with the creative force of the universe. Desire also drives me to get outside right now, to connect, to start the next chapter, to let my curiosity roam free through this place and its people.

****

The Aussie dons his flip-flops for the walkabout, but I remember the state of the road walking in here and opt to keep my close-toed shoes on. Just an hour later and the Paharganj is completely transformed. The stalls are elbow to elbow with throngs of people, mostly locals, but also backpackers. I should probably tell you that many backpackers prefer to be called travelers. They believe this title sufficiently distances them from tourists, and somehow, I suppose, makes their experience more authentic. There is a legitimate point in there somewhere, but it also seems a little pretentious and delusional. I think backpackers is accurate enough, without having to pick a side.

I wander through the bazaar’s maze of shawl wallahs, chai stalls, street food vendors, and all manner of other shops selling anything from shoes to incense to jewelry. The streets are so narrow there’s barely room for a car to fit through. And yet there are all manner of vehicles here, including bicycles, rickshaws, and even a pair of camels weaving through the crowd. Along with so many turbans, saris, and children rushing past me, the visual onslaught of color and motion is almost paralyzing. Many of the children want to hold my hand or sell me something, or hold my hand so they can relieve me of something. But I am prepared for that much, with anything of value safely tucked away.

I want to capture this moment, to be able later to recall in detail the colors and the faces and the goods for sale, to describe these things to others. But my senses are overwhelmed, and I just can’t hold all the fiercely raw beauty. At the same time, I’m struck by another sensation. One that whirls through my hair, fills my nostrils, and runs like a herd of gazelle through my veins. My recognition of it is so faint that it must whisper its name in my ear: I am freedom. Not the freedom we sell in America, not the creative freedom people like me crave, not even the free-love freedom of the Sixties. This is let go, cut-rope, free-fall freedom.

Upstairs in a café about twelve feet square and three stories high, on a corner where two channels of market-dwellers meet, the Aussie and I have a seat, order Limcas, and look down on the theatre below us. Down on the tangle of electrical wires which create a knotted trellis precariously tying together the buildings lining the streets. Down on a pulsing artery of Indian life. I am more of an observer than a participant here. An angel looking down on a fragile but beautiful creation I am not allowed to touch.

As I watch Indian street life unfold below, I am distracted by something out of place. It looks like a large reptile, some unknown creature slithering across the ground through the rickshaws and bicycles and loaded carts. In, out and around the hundreds of feet moving this way and that. The Aussie turns to see where my attention has been cast and we both stare until we decipher the shape of a mangled boy. His legs are twisted into question marks and he is dragging himself through the streets on his belly.

Without exception, the locals ignore him except to step around him or to move out of his path. Westerners move to the other side of the street when they notice him. Except for a young woman with dirty blonde dreads, who gets up from her seat at a chai stall to press some bills into his hand and then quickly returns to her companions. The Aussie tells me the boy is an untouchable, the lowest caste in India. Some believe if they touch him, or even pass through his shadow, they will become unclean. They also believe there is a natural order to this hierarchy which should not be disturbed. More shocking, the Aussie tells me that poor families will sometimes cripple their own children, in order to ensure they’ll be able to make a living as a beggar.

I complain out loud about the cruelty of a system that locks a person into one category for life, with no hope for a better future, with no chance for social mobility, education, or prosperity. Come on, the Aussie says, you think America is that different? I start to argue, but after only a moment’s reflection, realize it may not be. America has its caste system, the Aussie proclaims, it just doesn’t admit it. Think about it, celebrities, star athletes, and billionaires are America’s Brahmin, the highest caste. Your politicians are your Kshatriya, the rulers. Your successful business owners are the Vaishya, or merchants. Almost everyone else, in other words most of you, are Shudras, or laborers. And then the welfare class and those in your overcrowded prisons are your Dalits, or untouchables.

While I’m digesting this idea, the power goes out. But no one really seems to notice. I turn to the Aussie who says this happens all the time, sometimes several times a day, sometimes for hours at a time. Looking down at the confusion of black wires, tied together with tape and scrap wire, it’s a wonder the grid is functional at all.

We finish our drinks and leave some change on the table. The power is still off, so we wander the streets, buy some veggie pakoras served in a newspaper cone, and check out more of the market’s mélange. Though it is barely mid-day when we’ve made a complete pass around the bazaar, we surrender to the nagging tug of sleep and head back to the guesthouse for a nap.

As we’re about to duck inside, I turn to see the faint shadow of the moon hanging low over the crumbling buildings. I am caught for a moment. As if I’m under her spell. And then it sinks in. Where I am, how far I’ve come, and that the journey has officially begun. I’m filled with nervous excitement, trepidation even. There is no knowing what’s to come. Maybe I’ll find a guru, shave my head, and never return to the States. Maybe I’ll be killed in the crossfire of a religious war. Or maybe I’ll lose my bag, my passport, and have to beg for food. Whatever my path, I must find the stillness and the courage to look it in the eyes and somehow not flinch, so I can see if it’s real.