Devotion in Kolkota

I'm falling in love with Kolkota. Like all love affairs, or at least the few I have experienced in my thirty years, it's not without it's challenges. It's noisy, the constant stream of people and traffic is endless, the traffic rarely moves, the smog can be suffocating, and as a westerner you are a walking rupee sign, which on reflection I don't blame the indian nation for, but flipping 'eck it can get tedious, especially when trying to get a taxi home after a long days work. The other side of this, is the beautiful colours, the constant flow of local chai tea on every street corner, the jolly smile and indian head wobble of the chai vendors early in the morning, the delicious abundance of street food. I wake up most mornings at 6:30am, ready to meditate and do some yoga, but recently I've given in to my growing resistance to this structure and a new pattern has arisen. I put my flip flops on and head out to the street, which slowly wakes, yawns and stretches itself in the cool morning sun. Small framed indian women wash their children, who stand like lifeless puppets on top of a brick or bucket, then they crouch to do their kitchen ware, and finish off with themselves, unselfconsciously swashing and scrubbing in the road. The locals stare at me as I walk past, I say good morning and they smile. This morning I sat with a small glass of chai and just watched. There is so much to see, the rich, coloured ambience fills me with a curious wanderlust.

This morning there was about forty chickens, all cooing and shuffling together, on the corner of the road, they were there for a reason, to be skinned alive and chopped up. I had my first experience of this a few days ago, and I stood in horror as the small indian man chopped it's feet off then tore its skin from the flesh, and I could see life in the pink, wriggling, wet looking, quivering muscles of the chicken. I was only a metre away and I tried to keep looking but I couldn't, so I grimaced and left. The butcher laughed at me. This morning, as I sipped my chai next to a very jolly chai vendor, I noticed this daily massacre from the other side of the road, yet this time there was more distance between myself and the live show. I watched carefully, for what reason I am not too sure, partly I am curious, about the man, his job, his history, if he chooses to do that, what effect does it have on him, would he do that to a human? Also I wonder if it'll help me to see impermanence more clearly, that famous Buddhist teaching! So I continue to watch and simultaneously maintain awareness of my tendency to judge the chicken slayer, and it comes to my mind that this is actually more humane than the endless rows of plastic packaged meat we see shelved up, pristine and clean, diverting our minds from the reality of the life that animal has lived. 

So I am very much in love with this place, even the daily mass chicken murders, and now I sit on the roof terrace ( I am ill, like most of the team, a bug is doing the rounds, so we are all dropping like flies) and I can hear the locals setting up for tonight's puja down below. I asked them what for, but I can't for the life of me pronounce what he said, but it's a Hindu god of some sort. Now, I don't find the Hindu religion very agreeable, as it works hand in hand with the intolerable injustice of the caste system, but I do however love the fact that this nation is constantly celebrating and reverncing something higher than themselves. You only have to walk five minutes and you will see a small shrine and garlands of flowers, and someone ringing a bell in name of their devotion at the side of the road. This is what I love. The colour, the devotion, the nation collectively behind something which, for them, is of beauty, and speaks of something unexplainable. In England, this feels non existent. I can remember the first time I made an offering in a Buddhist puja, at the London Buddhist centre, the performer in me felt like I was just doing another performance, but somewhere deeper in me was a looming shame at what I was doing. Desperate embarrassment that I was lighting a candle and bowing down to a Buddha figure, I mean, what on earth would my family and friends think! 

Slowly but surely I have overcame this, and now, if I'm moved to, I can cartwheel, dance, howl, lay down in front of a fully lit shrine and a room of Buddhists! And every now and then the shame rears it's head, I sit silently with tears flowing as I see my own pain and the devotion of those around me, whole heartedly engaging in ritual. Pain and beauty sit side by side, so closely together.

So whilst Hinduism supports the caste system, which I find utterly shocking, I do find such pleasure in a nation that bows down to something higher than themselves. Religion and the stories that go with it get misused, misguided, misunderstood, we all know this, from the atrocities of the twin towers to world wars, to violence among Buddhists (who are actually meant to practice non-violence) in China. So yes, in my view, Hinduism has it's faults, which I just can't ignore, yet being in a country where ritual is part and parcel of a days work feels special and as I sit on the roof terrace listening to the locals set up for tonight's Hindu puja, I feel delighted that I am surrounded by celebration and devotion.

And for all it's imperfections I feel myself slowly falling in love with this country. One day, perhaps, I will fall in love with someone else and all their imperfections, I long for this on a daily basis. But first, this trip has revealed to me, the work is with myself. My grand imperfections that I constantly attempt to hide and reject. Every morning I wake up and mediate and exercise, in the hope that the broken being I have woken up will get fixed before the day starts. This morning, as I sat silently next to the chai vendors and his wife, and watched the guts of the chickens spill onto the road, I realised, just for a moment, that I am fine, just as I am.