Yogananda's Invisible Hand

(Left: The Gupta Bungalow)








Saturday morning found Bharat Gupta going through the same routine as every other day of the week. The fact that it was the weekend was irrelevant for the Suzuki auto and cycle dealer. He was not shy of hard work and, in fact, seemed to take comfort in keeping close tabs on the company he and has brother, Vinod, started from the ground up. Dressed in his pressed yellow linen shirt and light cotton pants, Bharat and I shared breakfast across the round dining table once again. The consummate host, he repeatedly asked if I wanted more while instructing his servants in Hindi to serve me first.

Not more than twenty feet from the home, people scavage through rubbish for leftovers and work all day in the sweltering muggy heat for less than 50 rupees each day (equivalent to approx $1). This is India. Poverty lives right to the edges of great wealth. Many of the servants in the Gupta household have been with the Guptas for thirty years. This was a good gig and they had few alternatives, if any. Although nearing the age of retirement, they had no 401(k) plan or social security check heading their way. Either they work or their children have to support them, assuming their children can afford to do so. People make do here, mostly because they have to and also because they don’t have many alternatives.

Feeling at home in my new routine after just a few days, after breakfast I waited in the courtyard for Roopa’s driver to take me to the yoga class at Simran and Shubi’s condo in the “Serenity Heights” Bldg B. The two-story condo was beautifully appointed with tan marble floors, beautiful handcrafted furniture and original artwork from Japan decorated the walls. This was a palace in the sky by Indian standards. And again, as with the Gupta family bungalow a few kilometers away, the condo was perched over wealth and poverty.

Views from the condo included massive glass buildings commonly seen in business parks around the U.S., however were two striking differences, the first being that there was no company name or sign anywhere on or near the building identifying what company operated inside. What happened behind those mirrored windows? And why was there no signage on the building? Simran explained it to me with one simple sentence, “Those are America’s call centers”. JP Morgan Chase, HDFC bank, AOL, Dell and several other US and a few British companies had made their anonymous claim to real estate just across the street from the Gupta condo.

Fascinated by the fact that I had probably called phone lines answered in those very buildings, I made a mental note to get a glimpse of them at night when I would be able to see past the reflective windows. The second difference between these clusters of mirrored buildings and similar business centers in Amercia was the thousands of people living in makeshift homes directly across the street. There was no buffer, no zoning, no apparent planning, just families with children living in trash with no plumbing, electricity or even a front door.

Putting my awe of the dramatic socio-economic scape aside, I joined Roopa and Shameem upstairs on the yoga mat waiting for me on the floor near the family in-house temple. Shameem, my new favorite yoga instructor, worked on a headstand pose with me demonstrating it herself with ease. I struggled with many of the poses, but enjoyed her focused attention and correction.

After class, we headed downstairs where once again, Roopa explained that divinity had its hand in my trip. She rattled off all the apparent “coincidences” and spirit at play in the upcoming week, “I spoke to a friend this morning, and she told me Sri Sri Shankar is going to do a puja and satsanga in Delhi tomorrow.” Immediately I was thrilled, but then realized, “what the heck is a puja?” and “do I want to be satsanga’d?” and who is “Sri Sri blankar”? I didn’t want to appear a complete novice so I inquired first as to the person to whom she referred as “Sri Sri”. Roopa explained that he was one of the few true “gurus” alive on the planet. And on Sunday, he was going to perform a puja and satsanga for Shivrati in Delhi. Oh I see, that explains it . . . not.

Still dazed and confused I returned to the comfort of her enthusiasm and the knowledge that she had assumed the task of personally overseeing my well-being while in India. Thus far, she had done an outstanding job, but my mind was beginning to spin with the new program. And there was still more good spiritual tidings from Roopa’s lips, “They are giving a talk and meditation at the Paramahansa Yogananda center today in downtown Bombay. Isn’t that a coincidence?” That did seem fortuitous. After all, it was Paramahansa’s book that forged a bond with Roopa. Now, a disciple of Paramahansa was giving a lecture at 5 p.m.. In spite of the almost 2 hours of traffic we would fight in both directions, Roopa was determined.

But there was still more to Roopa’s master plan seemingly coming to her as a vision the previous night. On our way to Paramahansa’s lecture, we would detour to the Ayushakti Ayruved Health Center where Dr. Pankaj Naram would diagnose my state of being using the ancient method of pulse reading. Dr. Naram has given many lectures in the U.S. and performed pulse reading for celebrities worldwide, the Dalai Lama included. My curiosity peaked, we pushed our way through the usual traffic congestion in the mid-day heat like a snail on the pavement under a magnifying glass.

At first take from the dirt road outside, the center appeared to be a small roadside café with a few rooms on top. As with many things here, it is difficult to judge what lay inside by the façade. On Roopa’s heels, I walked up the smooth concrete steps of the Keralan style (Southern State of India, usually open air) building into the tranquil ayurveda café where groups of three and four people mingled with tea cups in hand seated at small café style tables. Without delay, we headed upstairs to the actual clinic where I was handed a patient information form. This struck me as odd as I was not ill, but trusting Roopa’s direction, I completed it without question and Roopa forked over 150 rupees ($3 US) for my patient fee, apparently “pulse reading” was not on the list for covered services by Blue Cross.

After a twenty minute wait, we were let in to see a stand-in for Dr. Naram as the good doctor was working in Bangalore. Dr. Meetha was to be my pulse reader. Petite, in her mid-fifties and wearing a light purple sari with a bindi between her eyebrows, Dr. Meetha wore clear black rimmed glasses over her dark eyes which pierced into my soul. Immediately, she reached for my right wrist, strategically placing three of her fingers on my veins already bulging from the heat. She maintained an expressionless face and continued to talk as she held her fingers in position. I was waiting for her to finish talking so she could get to the reading, but then unceremoniously she announced that I had “high pitta and vatta”. Uh oh doc, let’s get down to it, “Am I going to live?”

The answer was yes of course, at least for the moment, but that didn’t stop the steely doctor from writing a prescription for ayruvedic pharmaceuticals to cure my fiery condition. Already burdened with acidopholus, grapefruit seed extract and apple cider vinegar pills from home, any additional pills would have to pay their own way to get into my bag. We thanked the doc and headed for the exit to rendezvous with our fateful Yogananda lecture across the city.

Thirty minutes late to the lecture, we were ushered into the theatre where an older and wise looking man in an orange robe, seated in lotus position on stage, was speaking gently into a microphone adjusted for his seated height. The theatre was serene, all eyes focused on the stage, a nice respite from the hustle and bustle of the streets outside. My enthusiasm was slightly dashed when just ten steps into the theatre I realized that the lecture was being delivered in Hindi.

We remained in our third row seats for the rest of the lecture as Roopa occasionally leaned over and whispered a few key translations in my curious ears. What was he saying? Does he know the secret to life that I will never know because I don't know Hindi? Is he imparting some long lost wisdom that when heard alters people’s life path? Roopa tried to put some of these questions to rest when we were back in the car headed home. The answer is within and all the information is there for the taking for those who choose to be conscious.

Spirited Action

Anxious I would miss the opportunity to do yoga with a personal instructor, I awoke before my 8:15a.m. alarm. Roopa was sending a driver to fetch me to her daughters' home where they receive yoga instruction five days a week. I removed my shoes and hurried upstairs believing instruction was starting at 9 a.m. sharp, but this was not a formal class so the instruction started when the students were ready.

Shameem Akthar, yoga instructor and therapist, a look alike of Debbie Allen from the hit t.v. show “Fame” (yes, it was a hit), was ready to begin. She walked us through many poses explaining the importance of each movement and the focus of the mind. The personal instruction, corrections and focus on breath were a prelude to a day of spirit.

Yoga behind us and breakfast waiting, we went downstairs in the beautiful thirteenth floor condominium where again, several men had prepared a multi dish feast. I would have settled for a plain bowl of oatmeal or even a protein bar, but Indian food was once again on the menu. I am less surprised each day, but I find it interesting that the food eaten at each meal use roughly the same level of spice and ingredients with just slight variations giving it significantly different taste. All of this is not to say breakfast was deficient in any manner . . . as long as you weren’t expecting Aunt Jemima to speak to you from the edge of the table while you inhaled organic whole wheat pancakes.

Rested and still exhilarated from her 3 day conference on human values, Roopa had been inspired during the preceding night by many new ideas for my trip. Her enthusiasm was racing so much that I had no time to seek clarification or pronunciations. She spoke of different Ashrams in different cities, meditation classes in Mumbai, ayhruvedic pulse readers and book shows. She pulled no fewer than 12 books relating to spirit off of her shelves thinking they might be of interest to me. I was overwhelmed, but holding on for the ride. This was the India I came for and my train had just pulled in the station.

The thought of getting back on the road in Mumbai was not appealing, but Roopa was determined to show me an ashram. She said there was one an hour away, outside the city limits. Not wanting to dampen her enthusiasm and appreciative of her interest in sharing, I hopped in the backseat of the shiny black Honda Accord as we headed off to the Swami Mukuntanda Ashram.

Getting out of the city involved using the brakes more than the gas, but once we got to the highway out of town, it was clear sailing. As we reached the city limits and beyond, the traffic dwindled, which was welcome relief, but that seemed to license those on the road to get crazier and play mini games of chicken. The drive was pretty as India revealed it’s first bit of countryside to me. Reminded me of many countries I visited before, typical of most agrarian societies with a patchwork of land being farmed by a family living in a small makeshift thatch roof hut on one corner.

We arrived at the ashram in the countryside just after 5:30 only to learn that it closed at 5:30 and I would not be permitted inside without first registering and that time was 8:30 in the morning. Managing our disappointment, we strolled the street in front of the ashram for a few minutes (mostly so I could pray to the traffic gods) and then began heading back to the city. I fastened my seatbelt as a beautiful orange sun set in the countryside. One thing about sunsets is that they never seem to get old, no matter where you find yourself. Just seems that when you are traveling you get to see them more as daily routines are temporarily resigned.

Roopa, Simran and I shared some crackers and Roopa took a pencil to paper as she explained the relationships of the various gurus and spiritual stories. At one point, my eyelids staged a coup as they fell to half staff, fighting both fatigue and the dry air from the fan whirling above. I was no longer hungry nor could I retain any more information, my system needed a reboot in the form a bed. Showing signs of wear as well, Roopa and I agreed to continue our discussions after a night’s rest.

Providence Returns

(Above from left: Shubi, Roopa and Simran)

After my first day in Mumbai I was exhausted still feeling the lingering effects of the time difference and from the heat and the energy expended sitting in traffic for 4+ hours. It was comforting to know that I was returning to my air conditioned room at Bharat’s bungalow oasis amidst the surrounding tall apartment buildings and active, if not chaotic street hustle and bustle. It was 8:30 p.m. before we pulled into the gated courtyard, again in the mint green Peugot and it was approximately an hour before dinner, just enough time to exhale and wash the road dust, dirt and pollution off of my sticky skin.

Bharat and I had a drink on the patio as we sat on his bench swing under an electric fan and discussed my future travel plans. Again his generosity was flowing as he helped me determine the best places to visit and when and how to get there. I set my travel plans for Kerala (a southern state), then Rajasthan, Delhi, Varanasi and Rishikesh. Earlier in the day I considered the reasons I had come to India. Was India going to be different in some way from other countries I had visited? I had heard many stories of mystical India, but sitting in traffic in Mumbai for hours upon hours had lost its mysticism with me. Maybe India was going to be more of a sight seeing trip than I had planned.

Dinner was served by the same crew of men I had seen preparing the meal the previous night. It was another stellar meal with at least five separate dishes, none of which I can pronounce, but all of which I ate voraciously as my second meal of the day. You could have called it poison oak and I would have buried my scooped it up with my hand without hesitation. And yes, I said hand, as it is common in India to eat with your hands, actually just your right hand as the left hand is reserved for more unsavory tasks (insert imagination here).

We finished our meal and a milky white mochi like dough ball was served for dessert. Sure, it wasn’t chocolate, but it soothed the savage sweet tooth. Conversation at dinner had waned and I was preparing to retire to my air conditioned room to decompress. But unbeknown to me (I’m usually the last to know), there was another plan in store for my evening.

The dining room was quiet enough to hear a spoon drop when from out of nowhere, Roopa swooned into the room filling it with vibrant, electric energy. Although Bharat introduced us, I barely caught her name in my distraction from her energetic entrance and contagious smile. She took a seat at my side of the round burgundy and white marbled dining table. Immediately she started in on me, “Why are you here in India?” Hearing her question reminded me of my own similar question earlier in the day, “Why am I here?”

For one of the rarer occasions in my life, I paused to find a deeper answer than, “to see the Taj Mahal” or “to eat real Indian food”. And then I decided to let the cat out of the proverbial bag, “I want to explore the spiritual side of India.” Roopa’s face, already aglow, lit up another shade and immediately we had a connection. She had just returned from Bangalore at a 3 day world conference on human values and spirituality attended by dignitaries, priests, swamis, rabbis, heads of state and a symphony of 3,800 musicians from around the world. Fresh from this experience she was eager to give me the download.

We chatted at the table for at least an hour, although I couldn’t tell you how long as time was without a seat at the table. I explained that on the night before leaving the U.S., I had returned to my book collection tucked away in a bookcase I rarely opened and pulled from the shelves a book whose pages I had not cracked for more than a decade. “Oh, I am big fan of Paramahansa Yogananda”, she exclaimed with great enthusiasm. That was the moment. By the “moment”, I mean the moment when you are on a path that has multiple routes ahead, some of which you are aware and others still flying below the radar of consciousness, and something which you had not foreseen clicks.

Having lost my wallet the night before I departed, moving my bedroom belongings to another room for friends that would use my bedroom while I was traveling, and in between phone calls to cancel credit cards and say goodbye to family and friends, the book, “The Autobiography of a Yogi” by Paramahansa Yogandanda came to mind as worthy of being toted along on my back for the journey. Now, my recent reading of the book and the very mention of it had cracked a certain spiritual code.

Roopa Gupta is the wife of Bharat and mother of two daughters, Simran and Shubmayee (“Shubi”). Roopa is a cancer survivor having undergone surgery, chemotherapy and 33 radiation treatments. Just listening to the short version of her fight to live zapped my energy, but it seemed to give Roopa more energy. If it had any effect on Roopa’s outlook, it confirmed her conviction to live in the Now. Her smile went from cheek to cheek as her dark eyes shone a sparkle. And upon learning of my interest in spirituality, I was about to become a fast study in Hinduism, spirituality, gurus, pulse readers and other alternative forms of faith.

Before the air waves could settle from our post dinner conversation, she phoned her younger brother, Minta, telling him that we were coming to his home to discuss my travel plans. Minta is a much sought after Hindi film camera man who has traveled the world filming many of the 400 films per year turned out by Bollywood. 11:30 at night and we presented ourselves at Minta’s door. Clearly he was tired as he had worked all day and was preparing for a family camping trip to Hampi and Goa the following morning. That did not phase Roopa’s resolve. In fact, it may have been her energy alone that kept Minta from saying “no” to her invitation to his home.
Again with wonderful generosity, Minta and his wife began pulling out books and maps to discuss the various areas of interest in the country. Some hours later, we were saying goodbye having overhauled my itinerary to fit with a different flow. Exhausted, yet internally energized I returned home courtesy of Roopa’s driver. Showering was desired, but the draw to sleep was stronger.

Rikshaw Tetris and A New Career Dawns?

Morning of Day 2 on the Indian subcontinent repeated much of Day 1, minus the close shave by straight edge. Bharat arranged for me to take his driver for the day after he headed off to work. So the driver and I headed out on a journey of unknown destination, unknown duration and no communication, zippo, zilch, none. I was excited to see what lay beyond the walls of the bungalow I called home in the heart of Mumbai.

With my enthusiasm running high, it did not matter that there was dead silence in the car (language barrier). We pushed forward toward the “Gateway to India” erected by the British to mark where they arrived in India circa 1911. I guess Thanksgiving with the other “Indians” was already taken so they decided to erect a monument instead. The monument itself was unimpressive and given our 2 hour journey to travel only half the city, it was a disappointment save the opportunity to get out stretch my legs and test my resolve to say "no" to the touts asking if I wanted to buy stuff I would not have taken if it were free.

What was most amazing about this day was not the destination, but rather the journey. Driving through Mumbai was completely insane. Between the autos, the massive multi-colored Tonka looking trucks and the bizzillion rickshaws (equivalent to a lawn mower/moped with a backseat) all creeping up on each other so that you literally could not fit your palm between the fenders, the scene resembled a human tetris game. It took hours and a lot of car jockeying to go less than 20 miles and I am told this is typical of getting around town. Fortunately a rikshaw ride for the many hours is probably a hundred rupees (equivalent to about 2 US dollars). Even more fortunate is that I was not in a rikshaw with no relief from the fumes, heat and noise from the two stroke engine.

There are tens of "almost" collisions every minute and, occasionally there are the "bump and push" collisions as well. In the first half hour, we managed to broadside a motorcyle carrying two passengers as we turned left from the lane of our choice down another street with no name, or at least no signage indicating the street had a name. No one was hurt, a few Hindi words were exchanged, and both parties just recovered and kept driving. I had been prepared for World War III. Had the same incident happened in the U.S., one of the following would have happened:

1. The parties would have gone to blows (physical altercation).
2. The police would have been called to file a report.
3. Both parties would call their lawyers and sue each other for a million dollars for emotional distress, gone to a chiropractor for 4 months and taken a week off of work.

Not so in India. Despite the tremendous overpopulation, poverty and frustration of traffic all day everyday, the Indians maintain calmness in the face of adversity. Throughout the rest of the day, there was yet another motorcycle "bump" and many side mirror introductions, which brings me to my new career plan. After kissing many side mirrors (mostly my side) on our travels, I began to inspect the mirrors of cars in India (lots of extra time in traffic). Upon examination, it's clear a niche market is about to be born . . . side mirror touch up service. Yes, that may be why I felt compelled to travel to this enchanting land. Over a billion people with a red hot economy, purchasing more cars than ever, and with more disposable income than anytime before. Now I didn't major in business, but the law of supply and demand seems to scream on this idea, so please don't tell anyone. It will be our secret. ;)

Another take away from my local jaunt was the impact that technology is having on India. Contrast more striking than ever can be seen between the massive anonymous campuses hiding the operators handling customer service for American and British companies and the manpowered carts drawn in the streets by a single grape vendor. As technology blossoms in abundance, so the gap widens between the middle class and poor. Perhaps the grape vendor has little to worry about (unless someone starts selling grapes on e-bay), but the sole proprietors manning their shop 7 days a week are in jeopardy. Big corporate America is here and not without impact. Malls dot the city with Subway, Ruby Tuesday, Pizza Hut and many of the top fashion stores. "Coming Soon" signs are everywhere and one gets the sense that there is a lot more coming than just those stores.

India may be exporting its engineers and doctors, but America is exporting its culture. Whether it is wearing blue jeans in 95 degree heat with intense humidity, the sound of American music emanating from the malls, cars and home stereos, or the fanfare of American movie stars, India, like many countries, is quickly adopting many American cultural elements. What is it about American culture? In speaking with the Simran, the daugther of the family with whom I am staying, she said that her friends who live in America change once they are in the U.S. for some time. In her view, they become more selfish and less respectful of their parents and Indian rituals. Maybe it is that a core trait for Americans is the idea of independence from government and as individuals? And exposure to this way of thinking inspires new ideas or ways of being (good or bad) for those immigrating to the U.S.? But India is the world's most populous democracy so why would living in the U.S. change a person? Perhaps the American character just has an added infectious element that captures or speaks to the spirit of all non-
Americans fortunate enough to experience Americana? I don't provide the answers, I just ask the questions. For answers you have to go to the following website, www.toddstripfund.com.

Peace and love from Mumbai.

Touchdown!

Awaking as the cabin lights went dark and the overhead bins began to rattle, my 747 transport set down in Mumbai, reverse engine thrusters firing to punctuate our communion with the ground. My pursuit to visit India (after two failed attempts in 2001 and 2005) came to a close. Now the game was on. 1:35 a.m. and a cool, but palpable 85 degrees. Passport control was a breeze, customs almost non-existent, but as with many developing countries, the famed crowd outside of the airport with signs for “Mr. So and So” and “Taj Tours” were not dissuaded by the late hour. My only question at 2 a.m., would my name be on one of those signs?

The crowds outside the airport hall were almost reassuring, confirming that indeed I had arrived. I rounded the corner to the exit slowly to ensure I did not miss my anticipated sign. Is someone here for me? Please let it be so as haggling for a taxi and a room after twenty-four hours of non-stop travel were somewhere on my list between visiting the dentist (even if he is related) and hanging upside down by my toenails. As I emerged from the airport doors into the crowd of sign holders, my eyes scanned the crowd at a measured pace being sure not to miss my name which often bore the misfortune of misspelling even at home.

“Taxi?”, “Hotel, sir?” came from a few men standing off the side from the main crowd. Confident that one of the signs ahead contained my name, misspelled or not, I pushed forward paying little attention to their offers. My confidence began to dissipate however as I began to run out of signs not having met my contact. How could there be all those signs and none bearing my name? As I neared the end of the receiving line, my heart relaxed as my arm and pointed index finger jutted out toward the gentleman holding the sign with my correctly spelled name almost knocking him over in a reflexive effort to get his attention.

There were two men waiting for me. I introduced myself, shook hands and followed them to the mint green Peugot waiting in a nearby parking lot. Those were to be the first and last words exchanged between the three of us that night. Their English was equal to my knowledge of Hindi (virtually non-existent except for about 5 words I memorized on the plane). We drove through the dimly lit streets filled with nocturnal dogs scavaging the day’s trash and a score of tuk tuk drivers making a few rupees transporting night owls about town. Under the street lamps along the route, clusters of people slept under blankets on the sidewalk or on the edge of the road where no sidewalk existed.

We drove for approximately 20 minutes when the car pulled up to a gate and the driver laid on the horn. A man I had not noticed was roused from his sleep slumped in a red patio chair behind the gate. He stood dazed and moved in a sleepwalk like fashion to open the gates. Thirty yards beyond the gate, a house of unknown dimensions and color, was to be my home for the night. One of my greeters pulled my luggage from the car and led me into the house after removing his shoes. Hastily kicking off my lace shoes, I followed him quickly into a dining room and then behind red velvet curtains to a tan marble floored hallway with an empty bedroom at the end. He pointed to the bedroom and a bathroom across the hall. Less than a minute later, he was gone and I went into late night overdrive surveying my luggage, washing before bed and sampling my iPod for a few familiar songs.

The next morning, I awoke twenty minutes after seven to the sounds of crows, dishes clanging, men’s voices and car horns in the distance. Where was I? Does anyone else live here? Despite getting only a few hours of sleep, my curiosity hoisted me out of bed and into the bathroom to meet the family with whom I was staying. It would be bad form if they were to meet their new houseguest complete with morning breath and bed head. With cat like maneuvers, I slinked my way to the bathroom hoping not to be detected before I could freshen up.

Undiscovered by my host family, I strolled into the kitchen and dining area where a young man, maybe 16 years old, stood combing his hair. I introduced myself and soon discovered that again my limited knowledge of Hindi would reduce our communication to a impromptu game of international charades. I inquired as to the whereabouts of my main contact, Bharat Gupta, but pantomiming a person whom I had never met proved my failure as an international actor. It would be a few more hours before I met my host.

After returning to my room for a brief morning nap, a man in his 50's summoned me and motioned for me to follow him. Around the corner from the hallway, Bharat greeted me in English and invited me to sit. I immediately thanked him for his hospitality and inquired as to my intention for the trip so that he could be of assistance where possible.

Although I spent the night at his home, we had never met in person nor spoken on the phone. I came to know of Bharat through his nephew, Prakash, who lives in Los Angeles and is in business with my cousin. This meeting was the culmination of a seemingly chance conversation Prakash and I had months ago.

In early December, 2005, I phone my cousin, Andy, to say hello. While speaking with my cousin, Andy, I mentioned my upcoming trip to India at which point, Andy with little introduction, and barely time to have him repeat Prakash's name, he handed the phone to Prakash. Less than two minutes into our conversation, Prakash had invited me to stay with his family and see the city with their assistance. It was a generous offer from someone I had never met, and normally, I might have politely declined believing the offer to be more symbolic than substantive, but Prakash’s voice was sincere and he repeated the offer many times.

Now in Mumbai, I am even more grateful for Prakash's offer as the city is akin to Manhattan without street light, street signs and 100% humidity. Landing here without direction and only a guidebook could lead the eager first time tourist straight into the mouth of the anonymous abyss of humanity. A massive city by all accounts, population, land mass and confusion. Fortunately for me, I was staying with a native to the economic stronghold of India and he would chart the course for my stay.

First on the list of “to-do's” would be to eat breakfast at 11:30 a.m.. And this breakfast was not sponsored by Quaker Oats or Wheaties. No, it was filled with curry, potatoes and fried dumplings of sort. My first bite was met with a huge burst of fresh flavor. The food, prepared by cooks on Bharat's staff was fantastic.

Second on the list of post arrival activities was stretching my neck out so that a complete stranger, with whom I could not communicate, could clear away my light stubble with a straight blade. Full from breakfast and sleepy with the time difference, my head was woozy under his blade as I stared up into the bright sky. My eyelids felt like those of a newborn chick, heavy and half shut. I was moments from lapsing into sleep with the razor grazing my skin.

Breakfast and a shave turned out to be the peak of my activities for my first day on the ground. Although I was energetic and ready to hit the dirt when I first awoke, my body craved sleep. Having only known me for an hour, Bharat astutely determined that I should stay home the first day to rest. It was the right call as waves of sleep rolled over me in the mid-day heat.

Michael Carlo

While cleaning my house in preparation for my departure across the ocean's divide, I came across this obituary I cut out of the NY Times in the months following 9/11. It's the only obit I've ever cut out, in fact it's one of the few I've even read. But Michael's story hit home for me. We're the same age, he was single and his spirit seemed like one of adventure.

Saving Michael's obituary was my personal reminder to live each day to its fullest. The quote at the end of his remembrance is one of the all important reminders about pursuing your dreams, whatever they may be, and keeping what is really important at the forefront of our daily lives. It is so easy to forget, but as word of my journey spread, I was pleasantly surprised at all of the well wishes from those close to me and the strangers that helped equip me with gear advice and other travelgoers' tips on where to go and what to do.

What surprised me the most was how many times people said they would jump at the opportunity to take a similar trip, yet most had no upcoming plans for such an experience. Why not? Why did it take me so long to get on the road? Is this the reality of our busy daily lives, to live on the phone while eating and watching t.v. or staring at the computer screen? At no other time in history has humankind had the advantages (I'm reluctant to use the word "benefit") of more time saving gadgets, yet we are busier than ever. And do you also have the sense that time is accelerating, almost as if a minute is only thirty seconds now? Did I miss the time conversion memo?

So now I am throwing myself onto the conveyor belt of life without ties to Father Time. Will time slow down? speed up? become timeless? And how do other cultures experience time? Is perception of time just a by-product of culture? How much more efficient can we be? Don't answer that . . . and put the phone down while you're reading this, but if you have a chocolate chip cookie in hand, then, by all means proceed. I won't get in the way of such delicacies, but you have to tell me all about them because I don't think they've discovered the way of the choco chip cookie in India or the Asian continent for that matter. Maybe I will go down as the Marco Polo of the choco chip cookie after I open "Mr. Todds"? That could help the grossly unbalanced trade deficit. Sorry, I know better than to mix politics with cookies.

Perhaps taking this trip will mean that I am borrowing from my future and I'll retire 4 months, 1 year or ten years later than if I hopped into a new position straight away. But then again, who knows if they'll make it to retirement anyhow? And what do you do when you are retired (I'm no Tiger Woods)? I don't know the answers, but before I left the corporate law world, I got a lot of interesting nods of approval and hand shakes with the "good luck" wish as if I was heading to Iraq. At the very mention of India as a destination, I heard, "You're braver than I am." I began to wonder if there was another war I hadn't heard about, but after a quick sanity check (and returning the Kevlar vest), I realized it was just a matter of perception. That's all everything ever is.

My upcoming adventure has little to do with bravery. Bravery was epitomized in the actions of Michael Carlo. For me, I am going back to school with the world as my classroom, but this time instead of sitting in the back row, I'm moving to the front. Join me over the next several months as I share the people I meet, the stories I am told, the lands I visit and the experiences of casting away from the shore.

This will be my last entry until I reach Bombay on Tuesday, February 21. Until then, be well.

Providence in Motion

As Day 0 nears, I glance back at the factors converging to make this possible for me. There are many, the most significant of which from an economic standpoint was my severance package from a Fortune 40 company that did not have to sever me, but as I hoped and prayed, the severance was granted. True freedom . . . at least for awhile.

A very close mentor and friend recently read me the following poem titled "Until One Is Committed":

Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation) there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream "of events issues from the decisions, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way.

Whatever you can do,
or dream you can, begin it.
Boldness has genius,
power and magic in it."

Goethe

To me, the above poem highlights the point that the road upon which I have traveled thus far is intricately intertwined with my upcoming globe trot. There is no clear demarcation line, except for maybe an airport run from here to Delhi. While it was not always apparent, there were many occurrences, incidents, call it what you will, that conspired to prepare me for this very moment. From my first steps learning to walk, to my first time at summer camp away from home, to a political science education, to my third world travel experiences to date, to my company merging with another, all of this was in preparation for today, the now. These are the tools which do not travel in overhead bins or backpacks, they travel within.

Finally, a quote first shared with me by a friend's mom this past May at his wedding in Ireland. She is a mother to eight children, all of whom are adventurous in their own way. One of them is a good buddy of mine with whom I have traveled to many far off lands. At the wedding, I asked her how she raised all of her kids to have this open outlook to the world. She said she had a quote hanging in her living room that reads as follows: "Ships in a harbor are safe, but that's not what ships are built for." My sentiments exactly.

Potpourri From Home

T-Minus 3 days before my departure. Tibetan Buddhists believe that saying the mantra Om Madi Padme Hum invites the blessings of Chenrenzig, the embodiment of compassion. They also believe that you can send this prayer into the world by spinning a wheel (like that to the pictured to the left) containing the mantra.

Compassion plays a central role in opening to cultures different from our own. At the outset of this journey I remind myself to have "beginner's mind". No expectation, no preconceived notions, no prejudices. Easier said than done to be sure, but awareness and practice can only lead to greater understanding of others through the self and self through the others.

As one skilled in the art might surmise, I attended my first meditation practice today at Spirit Rock in Marin County, California. It is practically in my backyard and boasts the likes of Jack Kornfeld. For some reason I have had a mental block about attending, even meditation itself, but today that block is no longer. Sylvia Boorstein was the meditation and discussion leader. She was excellent. That said, by what standard do I have to measure? I guess it does not matter if she was objectively excellent, it is what each person takes away from the meeting. The experience is probably different for all, just depends on the where you sit.

Sylvia read an excerpt from the "Third Patriarch of Zen Verses on the Faith Mind". I won't recite it here, but I recommend it if you are interested in finding your truth or perhaps "The Truth". I know I don't know "The Truth", but perhaps in the coming months, "The Truth" will reveal bits of itself to me. This realization is up to me as it is with each of us.

Also I cannot fail to mention that Bill Moyers spoke at the Paramount Theatre in Oakland, California last night (Valentine's Day). Very powerful information imparted by Mr. Moyers. He discussed the unfolding situation in Wash D.C. where more than 64,000 registered lobbyists spend billions of dollars annually to influence the senate, house, the president and even the judiciary. The evidence mounts, primarily for the Republican party at the moment, but the Democrats are not fairing much better. While the country is divided, even polarized into a two party system, some of the very foundation of our democracy is eroding.

Moyers pointed out that the politicians are public employees, yet they give away oil on federal lands to private companies without charging any royalties. (See NY Times front page article 2/14/06). The lobbyists represent special interests of the few and leave the majority of Americans further behind than ever before. Moyers points out that a few decades ago, CEOs of the top 100 corporation in America made 30 times the salary of the average worker. Today, the CEOs of the top 100 corporations make 1000 times the salary of the average worker. This growing disparity is eroding our republic as these corporations use their immense wealth to influence elected officials who are charged with pursuing the public interests, but paid to ignore the greater good. And since getting elected isn't getting any cheaper (1.6 billion spent on campaigns in 2000 and 3.4 billion spent in 2004 on campaigns), it seems America's large corporation are hiring senators, congressmen and women and presidents these days. Applications are being accepted at a corporation near you.

Moyers quoted another author Jared Diamond (from his book "Collapse"), reminding us that when politicians and top CEOs live in private gated communities with private security guards, drink bottled water and send their children to private schools, it becomes much easier to make decisions in DC that under equip the public police force, ignore the importance of clean water and leave students of public schools out in the proverbial cold.

Why write about this now in a travel blog you ask? Two reasons. First, it serves as a reminder for my travels so that when I am asked why the United States is acting as hegemon around the globe (as I was by a very pleasant Ugandan gentleman in 2004), I can explain what has transpired in US government over the last 30 years. Not an excuse, just an insight of how things are today, hopefully not how they will always be.

The second reason I chose to mention Moyers' speech was that he referred us Californians to AB 583 already passed by the State Assembly. AB 583 would enact the California Clean Money and Fair Elections Act of 2006. The Act would authorize eligible candidates for state elective office to obtain public funds for their campaigns. So unlike the Federal government's recent oil donations to corporate America, State governments may start a trend where instead of costing Americans tens of millions of dollars in lost royalties, it will cost a mere $5 or $6 dollars per person to have our representative republic restored and perhaps only then will the government stop giving away that which belongs to us all.

Apparently legislation similar to AB 583 has already been enacted in Arizona and is showing signs of healthy reform (research Arizona state subsidy for Medicare prescription benefit) as candidates no longer need to pander to special interests (read as large corporations and/or the religious right) and those elected can truly represent the public interest instead of worrying about their re-election fund. Whether you are a Democrat, Republican, Libertarian, Independent, Purple, Green, or other, it should not matter, the concept of fair elections without the intrusion of wealthy special interests is a fundamental tenet upon which this country is founded. Government by the people for the people is not a guarantee, rather it has been a social contract by which the country's founders and each generation thereafter have continued to agree, but contracts are only ideas on paper having no real effect unless those agreeing to be bound actually live by them.

These are some of the ideas with which I will travel as I venture into other democracies, social and even communist "republics". Whether you were born here or immigrated here, intrinsically we know that America is a special place unlike any other governed land on the globe. Through my eyes, I will share how some people in the world view the United States today.

Om Madi Padme Hum

Contemplating the trip

After 4 months, 10 months or realistically more than 10 years of planning, hoping, researching and imagining a journey to far away lands, the day nears at T-minus 5 days. How long will I travel? Where will I go? What will I see? How many strangers will I meet? How many of those strangers will become friends?

Did I pack the right stuff? What will I forget? Will it matter? Are there still places in the world where you can't buy a toothbrush? Or is the world shrinking as technology expands? And if it is, is globalization good, bad or both?

And no departure for India is complete until the requisite 50 + people detail the varied ways in which a human can suffer from dirt, bacteria, terrorism and kidnappings. First piece of advice for future traveler's to the grand subcontinent: after the first 5 people tell you horror stories they've read, heard, made-up or imagined, start telling people you're going to New Zealand instead. May help reduce the anxiety of traveling to a country many Americans perfer only to call when they need tech support from Dell or customer service from United Airlines.

The Plan: Over the next several months, I will thread through the world, starting with India, weaving my way through SE Asia and up through the new power on the world block, China, and then onward to a former 20th century power, Russia, via their mutual neighbor, Mongolia. Where I go from Russia is undecided and will likely involve a game of darts and a blindfold (I don't have the stomach for Russian roulette).

My primary aim will not necessarily be to see how many top sights I can see before I die, contrary to a very popular book, but rather my personal lithmus test on the differences between people, culture, politics, religion and values. My travels thus far lead me to believe that I will not find signifcant differences at the core of most people, but have events like 9/11 and wars in Afghantistan and Iraq changed that? Will I encounter hostility towards me because I was born in the US? Does anyone care for whom I cast my vote? Hopefully it's not a shoot first, ask questions later scenario. If it is, I hope I'm quick enough to point to my countries national flag . . . with the beautiful red maple leaf.