I arrive to a sun-filled afternoon in Taipei. This seems to contrast with the feeling of moisture, as in feeling like a wet, browbeaten dog. Pushing that thought aside (recent yoga training), I take a bus and then an even longer high-speed train back to my home in Taichung. Along the way, I begin to have more and more empathy for the peasant farmers who used to stand beside me in the tramway in Krakow some forty years before. All unwashed bodies smell the same, I remark: pungent, but honest. Yes, I am an honest man: this madness at the Indian border was not my fault – the doubt remains, however. Life is, ultimately, always your fault. I trundle my luggage up to my apartment and begin to unpack. Gosh I have generated a lot of laundry in just two-and-a-half days! At his death, Gandhi owned less than ten possessions, (1) I obviously have a lot to learn!

 

Now to the task at hand: the return. This is a more difficult and, some would say, insurmountable task. Firstly the visa: it normally takes five business days to receive the approval for an e-visa. Secondly there is the new ticket. At first blush, the embassy staff in Taipei quote my friend Michael, who has helped arrange the whole trip, the unconscionable amount of US $300, almost (NT) $10,000: an untouchable sum. This [because of my age, the emergency (the impending yoga conference) and, can you believe it, understanding] is whittled back to around (NT) $3,000. Next comes the ticket: there are no winners in this pursuit, only losers and bigger losers. Done and the cost of the trip doubles: but done!

 

The next morning, I feel positively febrile as I race, once again, towards the airport. It seems surreal. Haven’t I just done this: maybe it’s déjà view? (2) No: this is real. I am truly on my way. Not to provoke the ire of the travel gods too easily, nonetheless, this flight is through Singapore. A new Chinese travel experience will have to await another calling, another time. The Singapore airport is always, well, Singaporean: everything works – including the Wi-Fi. Technology is truly delicious when it serves us, isn’t it? I am here for only four hours: onward. On my arrival in New Delhi, I look around in rapt terror for the border officer who had refused me entry: guilt seems to be concomitant with your level of naivety. I am suddenly reminded of the question; “Have you ever been struck by lightning?” The truth behind this response, of course, is nonsensical, for if you had been, you couldn’t answer this question anyhow — you’d be dead! My bureaucrat, the man who admits me into the country, is decent, brief and functional: perfect.

 

I look for the connecting flight to Coimbatore in the south. In the terminal, I am given a decidedly edifying experience. An officious, blue-uniformed porter approaches to assist with the carrying of my luggage. This is unnecessary for I have only two relatively small pieces (the result of my talk with Gandhi). He presses the point and I am encouraged by the badge emblazoned on his chest: “No Tips.” As we trundle along, my curiosity gets the better of me.” Does that sign really mean no tips?” I query. “Only when there are cameras,” comes the rather cheeky reply. In the end, the poor chap tries to ask for the rather large sum of Rs 100. “No dice”: I offer Rs 20 and he storms off in a huff. Later I am informed that I should have offered nothing for the Indian government is desperately trying to change its international image: charlatans being bad for tourism, apparently. The Air India flight is not my image of India. There are no passengers clinging on to the wings and the aisles are devoid of dirt, ducks and debris. A nascent thought comes to me: Maybe my CNN image of India is totally, totally false: hmm.

 

I settle into a comfortable four-hour flight, via Mumbai. On my arrival in Coimbatore, I enter an extremely large steel-domed edifice much like a Mongolian yurt. (3) Airports worldwide, large or small, humble or grand always aim to impress. This terminal is no different. I descend from a huge height into the arrivals hall and find my luggage at one of the three revolving carousels. I am here: now the real India begins. It is impossible to experience 1.26 billion people until you open the exit door from the airport building. I am initially loathe to do this. Having fought for days to get here, I am suddenly, curiously, reticent. “Leon wait,” I tell myself, “a wash and a shave first.” My ablutions completed, I have no excuse but to face the world: a world that I have only read about. I open the door and go out. India is a visual country. What strikes you first is the humanity, the number of individuals with no apparent task but to stand there and stare at you – no contempt, no envy, no adoration – just stare: the thousand-mile-stare, (4) so detailed in American, Vietnam War movies. Much giggling and cackling: I am reminded of a French village square on a Saturday morning.

 

The taxi stand: the two attendants scream “fraudster.” I proffer the address of my home-stay family. After much discussion in Tamil (my Tamil is a touch weak), I am presented with the price, Rs 850. It is obviously inflated: I offer Rs 500. This gets their attention! We “grind and grind and grind,” all to no avail. The price settles at Rs 750, a slight reduction, but not a “win.” Regardless, the taxi appears. I jump into the front passenger seat. I am studied by the attendant mob: that old foreigner is odd. Next comes, probably, the most terrifying ride of my life. I am in an F-1 racing car produced by Tata. (5) We sail past cars and lorries and scooters and three-wheeled taxis and motorcycles and, yes, bicycles: all to arrive somewhere, sometime and, of course, somehow – as in alive. After an hour and two misdirections, we enter a small compound of some 50 bungalows. My home-stay family is waiting. They are elderly, gracious and welcoming. Their home is elegant and lovely. I have achieved the first waypoint on my journey. To be continued …

Baltasar Gracian (1601-1658) leaves us with a thought: We live by information, not by sight. We exist by faith in others. The ear is the gate of truth but the front door of lies. (The Art of Worldly Wisdom: LXXX)

 

A closing thought: The other day, I was sitting in an elegant restaurant engaged in a decidedly serious conversation with a group of profoundly intelligent people. We were discussing earth-shattering issues, or so we thought. As the conversation reached its crescendo a black-tipped butterfly began its directionless dance around our table. I was reminded that I give everything value, or not. The butterfly gives grace to life itself and all its myriad manifestations. I make my life simple or complex: the choice is mine and mine alone.

 

A small joke: Why do dogs always race to the door when the doorbell rings? It’s hardly ever for them.

This week, please reflect on your own quiet moments of thought.

Every day look for something magical and beautiful

Quote: What do I know for sure? I know that I am alive. I am not sure if you are alive, but I know that I am. My task in life, in my estimation, is to achieve real connectedness with all beings – human and not human.

 

Footnotes:

1)   5 Key Lessons in Simplicity from Gandhi the Ultimate Minimalist

2)   Déjà vu

3)   Original Mongolian Yurts

4)   Thousand Mile Stare

5)   Tata Motors