Elvis of Muni Ki Reti

We stick out. The local population is very aware of Westerners and what we do, where we go, and who we see. My regular feeding and medicating of the dogs brings attention. Some look at me strangely, some quizzically, and others look with smiles, and approval.

As far as the dogs, I've become attached to the regulars. I know I shouldn't.

The one that first drew my attention to the Ram Juhla dogs was a sickly dog that would lie curled up at the entrance to the Sivananda Ashram hospital (Human Hospital, of course). He was miserable. He was lethargic, uncomfortable, and filled with raw open sores. He would try to snap at the flies that would go to bite his wounds, and would then recoil in pain from the crackling and tearing of his raw sore skin. He was badly infested with fleas and mange. He was a small white Spitz. Even in India, these are prized as pet dogs. How did this one make it to the streets? Was he taken in by some family and let out when he lost his puppy cuteness (as it often happens in the West)? Was he dumped the first time he snapped in self-defence at some inappropriate physical mistreatment by unknowing "owners"? Did he simply get lost at a young age, and this was the safest location he had found in which to stay and now call home? Whatever it was, this once beautiful dog, this dog that should still look glorious, looked bad, miserable, and disposable. He was dirty, thin, and covered with fleas, mange and open wounds.

He seemed to have given up, and was deteriorating. Did he go to the Sivananda hospital somehow intuitively hoping to get treatment,[ where none would be given], or did he go to Sivananda himself for a final prayer for comfort and ease? I touched his head, I looked at his eyes. There were no tell tale signs of neurological disorders, distemper, rabies, etc. He just looked wounded and infected from too much struggle with street life, with small predators feasting on him, and getting the better of the match. He put up little struggle as I treated him with antibiotics, mange medications, and cleaned his sores and rid him of fleas. I syringed liquids into his mouth. The antibiotics worked, fast. A remarkable sight in India with the dogs is just how fast antibiotics can work. These dogs have not been over exposed to any of these medications as we and our pets have in the West. The quick results can be amazing, and a visual testament to the power of antibiotics. His skin started to heal and his energy level rose. I gave him further medications and anti-parasites. He improved. It turned out he had a fondness for sweets, and putting the meds into Indian sweets became an easy way to medicate him and he took his medication eagerly once his appetite returned.

His improvement was fast, and he left the stairs to Sivananda Hospital and went back to his usual spot, the auto rickshaw garage next to Omkarananda. He was happy to see me now, as he thought it meant a sure sweet. I couldn't help it. I know they are not "good" for dogs, but he loved them. He had little trouble finding his own food as there are two food stalls near his resting spots ... under the large white Ambassador taxis, shaded from the sun, and close to the food. So when I offered him "real" food, he wasn't even that interested and would often turn his nose up at it. When he could sniff the sweets, he dances, and claps his two front paws together. I've never seen another dog do that. A quick hop up in the air, and a clap of the front paws. This was sometimes followed by a quick spin and then another hop. He was overjoyed to see me, and the possibility of sweets. He was delightful to watch.

One morning I had no sweets, and didn't go looking for him, but I was not too far from his garage spot. He found me. I heard a shrill, squeaking yelp and automatically turned to see who was injured... I held my breath. No injury, but "Elvis" letting out his happy song, and not stopping once he was beside me, but going on and on singing with joy. I looked around, laughing, and the shop keepers and passers by were laughing as well. This boy could sing; hence, the name "Elvis," for Presley of course, the King. He followed me along to the ghats, singing and dancing the whole walk, bringing other dogs along with his cries of joy. Although the food I has was not to his liking, when there is competition from fellow street dogs, he'll eat. Turns out he could catch anything that flew his way. One of the tricks in feeding street dogs is to toss food to one, and have more ready for the next dog so they are not all scrambling for the same scraps, and fighting over them. This usually works, with practice and timing. But not when one so agile as the Spitz Elvis is near. He could effortlessly and agilely catch anything. As quickly as it left my hands, Elvis had it with a snap.

The guy was a natural. I became accustomed to the greeting of the singing, and the joyful dancing. Out of nowhere, Elvis would be by my side, dancing along and singing. Is this an inherent skill, or taught? I don't know, but soon, an all black 6 month old pup showed her musical skills, as well. Not as refined as Elvis'; more coarse perhaps, but then, Elvis has a year or so on the pup, with more time to have honed his talents with the song. But there they were, the two of them, one all white, one black, vocalizing with joy. The Himalayas may have their barking deer, but Muni Ki Reti has their dogs that sing, for joy. Our feeding-singing routine would draw crowds and smiles. A star is born, I couldn't help think. The singing dogs of Muni Ki Reti.

The little black pup was another one of the first dogs I saw at Muni Ki Reti. At my first meeting with her, I found her to be emaciated physically, and frail in spirit. A few of the other dogs were taking food from me on some stairs, and she came by. She stood there, not even trying to come close to the food. I offered her some food and put it down in front of her. Instead of eating she just looked up at me, puzzled, and seemingly defeated. I encouraged her to eat and she did, a little, all the while not sure if she should trust me. I also treated her for mange and parasites, and didn't see her again for some time. When I did see her again, she took food more readily, and definitely looked better. Was she gaining trust in people? It looked like it. Is this good or bad as far as survival? Good if you come upon someone who wants to help you; bad, if you come upon someone who wants to harm you. Sadness, suffering through illness, starvation is unpleasant to say the least, but it is the intentional cruelty inflicted upon animals that we so often see in the west that is unfathomable to me.

Her health improved and her demeanor changed. She was hanging in the same spots as Elvis, and was looking well fed. The greatest change was in her sheer joy at seeing people. This girl wants to connect. She craves connection more than she craved food. She would stay with the other dogs for some play time, but would be the first to greet me, and the last to let me leave. I was soon greeted with kisses, hugs, and doting eyes. I had a lead on a good home that was looking for a puppy. I thought she would be the obvious choice. She's a fine, loving faithful companion. Besides, she can sing. Adorableness, talent, and love and devotion; what more could anyone want? Somehow the information was crossed, and when the family found out she was a "street dog," she was unwelcome. They wanted a "purebred." She's growing fast, and her puppiness is leaving her. This was probably her only chance for a home with a family. She would have been perfect for them. But our prejudices, and our attachments to what our "mind" tells us does not always serve us well, does it? Her life would have been improved, and theirs could have been filled with joy; but a "street dog" was not welcome in their hearts.

I took a quick trip to Rajasthan to visit several successful and highly regarded animal shelters. I went on a days round- up of answering distress calls for sick or injured animals. Maggot wounds are still rampant this time of year, and ghastly. One of the calls was from an "owner" for their sick dog. We came, and the dog was hiding in an opening close to the outside wall. Tucked away, miserable, suffering and looking for rest and perhaps relief. The family forced him out of his hiding spot with a stick. The catcher and I were both horrified with what we saw. The dog was badly eaten by maggots at his throat and the back of his neck. His spinal cord was visible under raw, sore skin. The catcher skillfully and gently placed him in the rescue ambulance. He admonished the family for not calling sooner. It was another white Spitz, much the same size of my "Elvis," I couldn't help but notice. He was filthy, and smelled bad, and you could see the maggots crawling on his open flesh. Somehow, he was moving around, still alert, and non-complaining. One of the shelter workers casually mentioned that he would probably be euthanized. ... I pleaded for his case with a volunteer vet. Maggot wounds are difficult to treat, but after he had endured so much, doesn't he deserve a chance, I pleaded. The next day I found he had been treated rather than immediately put down, and so far, was doing well. These dogs ask so little of us, I was grateful he had been given at least a chance to heal. Then what, I'm not sure, but still, it somehow seemed "fair" to me that he had a chance.

I was only gone a few days, and as always, happy to be back. I made my rounds, everyone looked good. The local caretakers took good care of those I had asked to be watched over. I didn't see Elvis, but that was no cause for alarm, he had been well, and obviously knew how to find his own food. I made my way to the river, to sit on the stairs and watch the sunset. Watch the dogs, watch the people, give biscuits to the children who work selling flowers for puja; say my hello's and receive my greetings. One elderly woman who makes a living selling bits of food for the fish (chapatti dough rolled into little balls) says hello, and starts to tell me something else in Hindi ...

She is letting me know there has been an accident. More people come to help translate. It's Elvis. Stories vary from hopeful, to very hopeful with a happy ending, to tragic. I spend the next few days trying to track down the dog, and the "Truth." Facts can be difficult to determine in India, and they may have something to do with the Truth, or they may not. I knew in my heart what the Truth was; that I would never see Elvis again.

There are times to question, and times to accept. There are times to witness, and times for detachment. There are times to love, and there are times to grieve. My attachment to him wouldn't let me rest. Somewhere in this tangled mess of fear and hope I came to find that Elvis is dead. The songs of the joyful dog of Mini Ki Reti have briefly stopped on the ghats of the Ganga, and in my heart.

I loved you Elvis; long live the king. He had his "accident" the day before I came back. Had he been left alone, I would have been able to help him. But he was moved, became a burden, and then disposed of, once again, in his short life. He died tragically, painfully, and unnecessarily.

Again the question of balance comes to me. Is it that literal? Did my pleading for the white Spitz of Rajasthan save him, at the cost of the white Spitz of Muni Ki Reti? Does it matter, and is this question too simplistic? I don't know, but I can't help but wonder, and I can't help but miss the songs of my beautiful boy. I spend every morning at the ghats of Muni Ki Reti where Elvis would sing and dance for me. The flower children help me send prayers and blessings in the Ganga every day for him ... "for the White Dog..." they beautifully chant as they nod their heads in respect and offer the flower boats with their lights and blessings for Elvis, to the grace of the Ganga.

Another Story For Another Time, and The Silence Between The OM

India! ... ... ... ... Chennai.

I arrive quite late as our flight was delayed due to the involuntary disembarkment of the six passengers with the improperly (un)checked cargo/baggage. Still, I'm pleased to be in India and see the lovely Indian faces. I forget I have to pass through customs, but as I approach the exits I remember, and see that the lines are short, the airport is clean, and it's nothing like New Delhi airport. I'm happy ... and then the line slows. The customs agent for my line is a young man with an intense expression on his face. As I approach, I get the same intense glare, and then he looks me squarely in the face, eyeball to eyeball. He scowls; "How long will you be in India?" Hmm, "Is this a trick question? It's a six month visa, what's the right answer? "Oh, less than six months, or, so," I answer noncommittally. He stares back. Stamps my visa with an unnecessary fierceness, and hands me my passport. Whew, where did he learn customer care skills, with the KGB? Anyway, India! My heart wants to sing, but I know I have to first find a hotel room, and it's now past midnight. I have a list of phone numbers I got off of what looked like a very helpful website compiled by a traveller. Also, I thought I'd try the tourist bureau. I exit the immigration lines ... and I'm outside the airport. ... Warm, and bustling, with the smell of India! in the air. The tourist bureau is not so clearly in sight, so I keep walking, and walking. The usual lines of taxi drivers holding cards with the names of their clients surrounds me. I momentarily wish I had a card with my name on it, but, well, I had not much time for such planning considering my visa was only hours old.

I keep looking for the tourist bureau. Not finding it, I ask a security guard where it is.

"Where are you going?"

"Chennai. I need a hotel."

"Where did you come from?"

"Sri Lanka."

"That's international, that's all the way back there."

"Yes, I just came from there. Once you go through immigration, you're out the door. (Did he just smirk?) I didn't see a Tourist Bureau. Shall I go back there?"

"No, it's in the National Terminal."

"Oh, do I enter here?"

"No, yours is an international ticket. You can't go in here."

Chennai, I'm starting to think not quite wanting to grind my teeth.

"So, I can't go there, even though I want the Tourist Bureau?"

"No, you have an international ticket."

"I'm a tourist" I try.

"You have an international ticket, you can't enter here. Anyway, it closes at 9:00."

I did see a smirk.

Not wanting to ruin the joy of returning to India!, off I go to find a phone with my helpful phone numbers. More walking. Phones inside the national terminal ... but then, I'd have to go through Checkpoint Charlie again. I try; no go. "Yours is an international ticket ..."

Across a street before a parking lot I find a phone. I make my calls ... not one goes through. Seems the helpful traveller with the website forgot the prefixes for all these hotel numbers. None will go through, and when I ask for help, I get a phhh ... these aren't complete numbers and a wave of the hand. Off you go.

What to do? Hotel New Victoria? I refuse to give in. There were a number of hotels on the same road, so I negotiate a ride from the pre-paid taxi counter. They were not so helpful either, and the driver I got looked like a combination of drunk and sleepy. He drove without swerving, so I'll go for just sleepy.

"Where are you going?"

"Egmore." The name of the area.

"Why are you going there?"

I start bashing my head against the window; the pattern of always giving the wrong answer to drivers, be they Indian or Sri Lanken is starting to wear on my nerves. It's now almost 1:00 a.m., and I need a hotel room.

"Where would you like me to go?"

"No, where are you going? Do you already have a train ticket? Why don't you go to ..."

He names another city and tells me we can go right back to the taxi booth tear up the pre-paid voucher and he can drive me all night to the other city.

Does this guy live there and would he like to go home and just get paid for the ride? Possibly. Or will he just get a lot more money for this? Possibly. Or does he already have a fare from there, back to Chennai? Possibly.

Nevertheless, his motivation is to his advantage, never mind that I need to go to Chennai. "Take me to Egmore." He tries to talk me into his chosen destination a few more times; I just hold my head in my hands and don't reply.

Finally, he leaves for Egmore, complaining. He drives much too fast, and the traffic is actually quite congested from the airport into the city even though it's late. We make it to Egmore, and I explain I don't have a reservation, so could he please wait until I make sure I have a room. Hah! Steam practically starts coming out of his ears. He keeps trying to leave me in the street, but I won't give hm his voucher until we try a couple more hotels (they are all on the same street, just a few meters from one another). They are full, or really looking bad, and it's past 1 a.m. at this point. So, The Hotel New Victoria for one brief moment, looks not so bad. Should I try? No, I really am convinced I'm on their "banned" list, and I don't need another smirk or failed effort at this point. So, even though the driver is hurling insults my way, I refuse to cave in, and keep looking for a room on this street.

Eventually I find a room, still perplexed as to why so many people would want to stay in Chennai, oh well. It's while I'm getting ready for bed that I turn the TV on and see the breaking news about the bombing in Hyderabad .... and six men had to be disembarked from my plane I can't help but remember. I plan to get up very early to get to the train station to make sure I can get a ticket to Delhi. The regular seats will have been sold out, but there's a very good chance that there still will be seats left on the tourist quota.

I'm at the ticket counter early, never mind breakfast, that can wait. I'm the only one there, except for a few joking counter workers, who are taking amongst themselves. No one acknowledges my presence. "Uh, hello ..." Their conversation continues, and finally the conversation breaks up, well, moves into another room, anyway. Now what -- "Hello!"

Someone finally looks at me with complete indifference, and gets up and walks away. Another ten minutes goes by, and a woman walks in just as I'm stuffing my face with the crackers I remember I have in my purse. As I start to spit crackers out with my greeting, she disarms me with her warm smile and sweet tone. "I'm so sorry you had to wait ..." She was lovely, and apologetic, and making faces at the idiots who did not explain her absence to me. I got my ticket quite easily, and my only complaint is that the train leaves at 10:00 p.m., meaning I have a full day to kill in Chennai. She recommended a restaurant near the train station, "Where you won't get sick" and offers all sorts of advice, including "and don't drink before you get on the train - it's not nice." Is she a mind reader, too?

I have my ticket, almost the seat I want (I can always re-negotiate once I'm on the train), and I'm off for breakfast ... with a whole day to spend in Chennai. This is getting exhausting. I wander along, hoping to find the restaurant she's mentioned. I can't find it, but am clearly searching for something. In other words, a sitting duck for scamming rickshaw drivers. One finds me, and I'm too tired from the heat and humidity, not to mention lack of sleep, so I get in, with little struggle at negotiations. We negotiate some, but this guy is trying a soft sell. His scam is to agree to a somewhat reasonable price at the start of the ride, and then go on and on about why it should be higher. As I said, I'm too tired to struggle. He offers me an all morning rate, and although I know there's more involved here, I agree. What's the difference at this point; there will be no honest rickshaw drivers in Chennai. I check out a few quick spots, have some breakfast, and I'm ready to go back to the hotel. He's talking all the time. He offers me an afternoon sightseeing package, and he suggests some spots, and admits to knowing the one spot I do want to go to; something other rickshaw drivers wouldn't do, as it's a bit of a drive. So, we agree he will pick me up at my hotel around 1:30 ... He's there early, already suggesting shopping, places to get water, and alternate locations. We start off. Yelling at each other and the price keeps going up. We go past the beach, and I see the water, the boats, the people, and make him stop. I walk out and he sits back. It's lovely. The fishermen are coming in, a few are heading out, and children jump and squeal with joy at the luck of the catch for the fishermen. This is exciting, and immediate, and real. Not a video game, not MTV, but real people making a living and children rejoicing in the excitement of the success. Women in burkhas in the water with their children, splashing in the waves. Perhaps it should have looked odd to me, but I could see the enjoyment of mothers playing with children; it was beautiful. Men picking up whatever garbage they can use for recycling, and lovers stealing a kiss under beached boats. Vendors preparing their carts for the afternoon crowds, and dogs and goats roaming about, scavenging for food. A peacefulness to the sea, and an embracing warmth to the air.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Regrettably, my driver came looking for me ... "you're taking too long here." Who's hired who, but I'm too tired to object. We go to the next site, and I just want to return to the beach. He's finally silent for a while, the traffic horns seem to have quited for a moment, and there are seconds of stillness, with a sun shining down that is warm and clear. I start to melt. Somewhere in these moments I fell in love with India, and Chennai, all over again. There's a dazzling surrender, a question of "what is it?" that's so special here, and a knowing of "it just is."

It's when the noise stops, even for a moment, that India can work her magic. Something just moves in. It's always there, but the distractions of the car horns, arguing drivers, agitated hotel clerks, and distraught shop keepers can posses our mind, and we remove ourselves from the beauty and peacefulness of that magical presence.

In meditations on the sacred "OM" it is often brought up that it is the space between the Om, where it is that one arrives at the state of Perfect Bliss. It is the space, the silence, that fills us and brings us to fullness, peace, and love. India, always there, between the noise, the agitation, the weather, the challenges, always there; Magical. I fall in love with India, all over again, and of course, now everyone smiles, is at peace, full of love and hope, and absolutely perfect. As it always is, in the stillness waiting to be discovered, over and over again. I had tears in my eyes that evening as I left Chennai, wishing I had more time for the beach, the beauty, and the magic.

Swiss Cheese and Sri Lanka

I had to renew my visa ... and Sri Lanka seemed the way to go. What did I know? I didn't want to travel, but I had no choice. No visa, no India. To get there, I took the train to Chennai, and then flew to Colombo, where I could get a new visa. The train ride was fine. Second-class AC sleeper. I slept much of the way, or relaxed looking out the window, taking in the scenery. I'm one of those people who love trains. You can rest, look at the passing scenery, and meet people. A few men sat across the aisle from me, and seemed to be traveling as a group. Lot's of catching up to do, and lots of conversation and fun for them. They were middle aged, and looked business-like and middle class. Not too interesting for me, and that was just fine. I was tired, and had not been sleeping well. I spent the previous day in a wild goose chase trying to find a temporary placement for one of the puppies I've been feeding. It left me with no time to rest, or pack, or prepare for travelling. So, a group of men with no interesting conversation for me seemed just fine as travelling companions.


At some point, one of them politely said hello and asked what I was doing in India. I told him of my intentions of starting an animal welfare program in Rishikesh ... and he hopped out of his seat and in the blink of an eye he was sitting across from me. "Really?"


"Yes ..." Turns out he is a major animal rights advocate in India and abroad. He's given me lots of names of people in India who may be helpful to this cause, and a place to stay in Delhi. Sounds promising, and a future contact I will certainly pursue. We arrive in Chennai. He goes on to another train and another city, and I must spend the day and night in Chennai, taking my flight to Colombo, Sri Lanka the next morning. Not knowing what to expect in Chennai, and not really in a mood for travelling, I'm quite overwhelmed by Chennai. It's not that hospitable to Westerners, and at first sight, just another large city with traffic, greedy rickshaw drivers, and and few Westerners to get info from. I can't say it was love at first sight. It took a while to find a suitable hotel. It was more than I had hoped to spend, but it was ok, had an available room, AC, and, I was told, a complimentary breakfast. In hindsight, it was actually a good deal, and I would go there again, but I may be on their "banned" list and not have that option. Ah, well. It was supposed to include my complimentary breakfast.


I checked in at 9:30. The hotel clerk told me I could have my breakfast now, until 10:00 a.m., or tomorrow, at 7:00, as I had to leave for the airport at 7:30 per his advice. Breakfast at 7:00, leave by 7:30, arrive at the airport at 8:30 in time to catch your flight. Sounds good. I'll shower now, and start the next day with my complimentary breakfast, and head to the airport. Well, not so fast. I spend a day trying to find something to do in Chennai that doesn't involve the "sightseeing madam?" rickshaw scam. They promise you an afternoon of sightseeing at what seems to be a reasonable rate. They pick the spots; what do I know? Sure, take me sightseeing. First sight ... some museum with a ridiculously exorbitant entrance rate - for foreigners. Next to nothing for locals. No thanks. Sight number one, of the agreed upon three. Sight number two, an elaborate temple which looks interesting as we approach. Hmm, not bad, maybe this isn't a complete scam by my driver ... but before I can fully take in the exterior splendor in the midday heat and sun of a summer's high noon in Chennai, I'm being yelled at and spat on by the fury and outrage of the self-appointed "Temple Man" who's yelling that this is for Hindus only and get my infidel feet off his holy ground. Shit. I suggest he calm down and that this fevered sentiment can't possibly be good for his blood pressure as he is of a certain age ... but he just keeps on spitting and spewing his wrath in my direction. Shit. I look at where I have to check my shoes, and it's really far from the entrance. I don't have the kind of feet that like to walk barefoot for long distances on hot cement pavement with lots of gravel and cracks, or any distances for that matter. Plus, I've had more than one good pair of walking shoes go "missing" at Temple shoe check-ins, so, I decide that I'll just put my shoes in my bag. Well, this really sets off the "Temple Man" who apparently hasn't taken his eyes off me. "No shoes inside, no shoes inside," he screams, the veins on his face really bulging out now. I try to reason with him, but, since reason is not a part of this interaction, I give in and go to check my shoes, wondering what this is going to cost me.



"Don't lose the tag" the shoe check-in man tells me.





"Don't lose my shoes," I reply.



He smiles; I glare.



I try to take broad steps across the hot pavement without cutting my feet. A minor cut in India can mean a scrape today, an amputation, tomorrow. I'm a walker; I like full use of my feet. I make it in. Lots of buildings inside, with lots of people. I follow the crowd thinking I can't go wrong. As the one blond westerner in the crowd, I stick out. I'm suddenly being yelled at, pointed at, and having fingers snapped at me. Oy vey, now what? Is everyone in Chennai in serious need of Xanax? Tempers seem to boil really fast here, and I'd been told that people in the south are easy going. This is easy going? I'd hate to see them when they're really upset.



"This is for Hindus, only." "Eh ... ?" Thinking fast on my feet ... "But I'm a practicing Hindu" I stretch the truth just a little already knowing this will not be good enough. "Get out, get out!" More finger snapping and pointing. I hold firm and ask "why"... "why"... This really gets them going. They're not in a mood for philosophical discourse. One older woman suggests "No photos, no photos." No, no, I'm not taking photos; I think I may have an ally. The priest says something to her in Hindi, and my "ally" starts screaming at me .... "GET OUT - YOU CAN PRAY OUTSIDE! GET OUT - YOU CAN PRAY OUTSIDE!"


Yikes, a crowd is forming. Shit. I remember I have a plane to catch the next day, with the purpose of renewing my India visa. It occurs to me a black mark on my last legal day in India might affect my visa renewal. Shit. I hold my head high, give them my most innocent and holy look, turn my head and walk away with what I pretend is dignity, trying not to burn my feet on the scorching pavement.



My rickshaw driver has been witnessing much of this. He lowers his head and knows not to ask how much I liked this site number two of the agreed upon three.



We pull out, and I'm wondering what wondrous sight he has in store for me next ... Next stop ... "Shopping?"



"No, no shopping."



"Why?"



"I don't like shopping."



"Just a little shopping." We're already in front of a shop.


"No, no shopping." When did "shopping" come into my hard-negotiated plans with this man. Did I say something that sounded like "shopping?"


"Shopping?"


"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, No shopping!" I've gone to a museum I don't know that's too expensive to enter, a Temple where I'm not allowed, and now I'm at the mercy of some crazed shopaholic who won't take the rickshaw another meter unless I "shop."


"NO SHOPPING!"


Now it's his turn,


"Why not?"


I finally get it; they get a kick back from the shops for bringing in westerners. I don't shop. I don't see my third sight, and I go back to the hotel hot, tired, and spat on. Oy; get me out of Chennai and where's the closest bar. I shower again, watch TV, and look forward to getting out of town, with that lovely complimentary breakfast at 7:00. I don't think a single woman in a bar in Chennai is the way to go, as I scout the entrants to the Hotel bar, all men, so I opt for an early night of reading and bed rest. I sleep quite well, actually, and consider sleeping late and skipping my breakfast, but then, as it's "complimentary," I rationalize that I'll be hungry later, and who knows when I'll be able to eat again, in Sri Lanka, another country, after all. So, I shower, repack, and boldly go downstairs for my special breakfast, 7:00 a.m., sharp. Hm, I'm the first one here, still looks dark in the restaurant. I go to check with the desk receptionist.


"Complimentary Breakfast?" I ask the clerk.


"Complimentary breakfast, 7:30."



"7:30? I have to leave at 7:30, to catch my flight ... Sri Lanka." I try.



"Complimentary breakfast, 7:30."


"But the clerk at my check-in told me breakfast at 7:00, finish at 7:30, and leave for the airport." I say in just as happy a tone as the previous days clerk.


"7:30."


I try another tact. But the restaurant is open, "See the sign says 7:00. The room service card says restaurant open, 7:00 a.m."


"Yes, restaurant open, 7:00."


"So, let's see here. I can buy breakfast at 7:00, but I can't have my complimentary breakfast until 7:30."



"Yes."




This goes on for a while, and I'm in no mood to cave in. I got up early to have my complimentary breakfast. I make him call his manager, after being told this is "not possible," (favorite Indian words -- instructions to India neophytes when you hear this phrase, and you will, calmly reply "yes, possible"). I go through the same argument with him. Will I have lost my mind in Chennai, I start to wonder. Who will find me, will I be wandering the streets repeating the words "complimentary breakfast?" What twilight zone have I entered? I won't give in, no time to crumble, now. Finally, I get a complimentary coffee, and toast. I have to remind the waiter about the toast. I'm the only person in the restaurant, and he forgot my hard won toast. Shit. This puts me a few minutes behind my planned departure of 7:30. At 7:35, the clerk comes looking for me, demanding my hotel key and that I check-out, now. I tell him I checked in after 9:30 ... 24 hour check-out time, what's the problem? He shows me the hotel paperwork. Yesterday's clerk had put down "7:30" check-out time ... all this because I asked him what time I should leave to make it to the airport in time. The same clerk who told me "Complimentary breakfast at 7:00, leave for the airport at 7:30, in time to make your flight." Shit.




More arguing, more phone calls, and I'm still waiting for my toast. I finally check out, and discourage two prospective clients from checking in. "Go across the street," I tell them. "Very bad hotel here." "Very bad?" "Very bad." They leave. The clerk stares at me, makes another call, and writes something on my hotel paperwork.




I think I'm banned from future entry into the "Hotel New Victoria." I retaliate; I write "terrible service" on the customer's remarks section; not something I would typically do. Oh well, I can't imagine ever wanting to return, I tell myself.




Well, well, ... maybe..., but then, who knew? But that's another story, for another time.







SRI LANKA




On the one hour flight we were fed twice. So much for my fear of "but when will I eat again?"



The food was great. Were there time on my one hour flight, I would have asked for seconds; Sri Lanka Air, great food. Sri Lanka began with promise. Little did I know this was to be the highlight of my trip to Sri Lanka.




Colombo ... big city, not much character, and no good deals. Expensive, hot and humid. I meet someone at the airport ATM who recommends a hotel she regularly goes to, and as I've done no homework on hotels in Colombo, it sounds fine, and we share a taxi. We get there, and there's a problem I later find out is plumbing related. No rooms. So, he offers us rooms in his house. I'm a little dubious, but I've no idea of where else to go, so I go along to check this out. My new friend who's lived in Sri Lanka in the past tells me this is not uncommon, and even a matter of status in Sri Lanka ... that ones home is suitable enough in standards for a "Westerner." We enter what is probably a Sri Lankan mansion. I'm dressed like an Indian style bum; I like to travel light. I wonder how I could possibly have impressed him; I may need to shop for clothes I'm already thinking, to not embarrass my host.



He's some old style colonial Sri Lankan; English schooled, plantation owner, and an avid hunter. The room I'm offered belongs to his son, who's away at school, hunting, who knows, I forget. It's filled with stuffed dead animals, family photos of sporting kills, and mounted rifles. Have I mentioned I'm a vegetarian? This kind of creeps me out, and yet my "Old English School Boy" host is trying as hard as can be to be hospitable and gracious. A different world. We talk; he learns about my plans, tells me how much he loves animals, and wishes he could do what I'm doing ....



Okay, maybe we should start with "stop killing animals!" I want to politely mention...



As if to anticipate the obvious, he explains, these are different, they were a menace to the people and the plantation. The "trophy" photos of calm, civilized, smiling hunter and family could have been taken at a family outing on the beach. They're relaxed, easy, and routine. The dead animals are posed and propped up for the best angle for the camera. Not the style of family photos I'm accustomed to. I wonder if I need to sleep with the lights on ...



Although this is a mansion, it's still in Sri Lanka in September. It's hot, and oppressively humid. I don't think I've ever sweated so much in my life, while sitting still. Whirring overhead fans just don't cut it. Open gardens in the middle of the house are common, too. Lovely to look at, and the bugs like them, too. Quite a few of them landed on me my first night there, although my host insisted no mossies can touch you when the fans are on. Okay, these weren't mossies; they were much too big and landed with enough of a thud to wake me several times in the night. Shit. One was a slow moving giant cockroach lumbering up the side of the bed. Not as big as the one I had as a roommate in my first hotel in Laxman Jhula, India, but that guy was friendly after we had come to a certain understanding. Upon our first meeting, my giant cockroach roommate in India scared me and I him. He hissed and turned white, and froze in his tracks as I opened my bathroom door and startled him. I froze in my tracks and couldn't believe he was hissing at me. Later I found he could fly, as well. No end to the talents of my giant cockroach roommate in India. We came to an understanding that he was to stay in the bathroom, only the bathroom, and only at night. If I entered the bathroom door during the night, he was to freeze, I would close the door, and he would have enough time to hide in the drain, or wherever. When I opened the door again, he was to have removed himself from sight. It usually worked, except for the night he ventured beyond the bathroom and got caught in my mosquito net. It was that day that I learned he could fly, as I took the mosquito net and him outside and shook him out. I expected him to fall down to the garden below, but insted he flew a good 25 feet onto an opposite courtyard wall. Bye, bye. But I digress. Anyway, the Sri Lanka giant cockroach didn't have nearly the size of my India cockroach roommate, nor the personality. I slept with the lights on after that, as this one seemed to hide when the lights are on, and according to my host, "it's impossible for the mossies to land on you when you have a fan on" ... So, even though he'd already had a few when he said that, I preferred to believe that principle, and I slept with the lights on, to keep the Sri Lankan cockroach at bay. The thought of pinning him to the wall, mounted next to the stuffed "trophy" animals almost never entered my mind. I'm kind.



The humidity takes it's toll on the street dogs, as well. They look pretty well fed in Colombo, at least the ones I saw, but mange was rampant. The moisture and humidity collecting on the skin makes it a good breeding ground for skin infections. In this, they looked miserable. But one very positive sign I did see was donation boxes for the Blue Cross, an animal spay/neuter program, everywhere. Graphic photos of dogs being dragged away, with a caption of avoiding scenes like this by spaying and neutering and controlling the population, and hopefully to better the quality of their lives, covered the boxes. They were big plexiglass boxes, and looked to have decent amounts of money in them. They were found in grocery stores, and upscale department stores, which even had employees wearing hip T-Shirts with spay/neuter slogans. Very cool. An animal awareness program in Sri Lanka; Colombo, anyway. Also as a pleasant surprise, lots of animal care products in the grocery stores. From dog vitamins to shampoo to flea and skin control products.


I was eager to get to the India High Council, to start my visa process. Got there early Monday a.m., and it's already mobbed. Using the unstated privilege of being a westerner, I head to the front of the crowd straight up to the door. I feel more than a bit odd about it, but no one objects, and well, if I don't have to wait in a line for hours and hours ... The guards let me right in. This is a pattern I'm starting to notice in Asia. Western and white ... straight to the head of the line. The guards let me in, but the men at the first desk are not so accommodating; fill out this form and come back Wednesday. Wednesday? But it's Monday; "No, no, no" comes quickly out of my mouth sounding much like a seed mantra. I can only think of more days in the Colombo heat, giant bugs in my Sri Lankan mansion's dead animal trophy bedroom, and a ridiculously high cost of everything, and nothing to do. "No, no, no ..." I plead.



"Okay, come tomorrow." I come tomorrow, they want to take five working days to get my visa, the place is mobbed, lots of lines, and people desperate to get out of Sri Lanka. I angle myself to the front of as many lines as I possible can, and convince them to give me my visa by Friday. I plan my escape from Sri Lanka by Friday night, assuming I have my visa by Friday evening. Close timing.



I leave for Kandy, thinking it can't be any worse than Colombo, and I'm really bored and hot in Colombo. I've seen the Buddha's foot prints, the Old BuddhistTemple with lots of giant Buddhas, and a museum like gallery of Buddha paraphernalia from all over Asia. I'm asked if I've seen the Buddha's tooth; I answer, "... Uh, maybe, ... I think so. I've seen quite a bit of the parts of the Buddha ... or life-like replicas ..." I try to politely answer. The Old Temple has one section of an army of Buddhas. They're lined up in tiered rows and remind me of the terra cotta army in China. It's kind of creepy. It looks more like a warrior army than any kind of spiritual rendering. Strange; I'm also surrounded by armed guards where I'm staying. It's not far from where the President, or Prime Minister lives, and much of Sri Lanka is heavily guarded, especially the main politicians residential area. Then I learn about the politics with the Tamil Tigers, and that there was a bomb in Colombo a few weeks earlier, in the south part of Colombo. "Which part is this?" I ask.



"The southern part."



"Oh."




"You didn't know?"




"No."




"Oh."




"Yup."



Okay then, on to Kandy.





CASH COW IN KANDY


I get to Kandy. It's not far, and the scenery changes favorably along the way. It's in the hills, lush and green. The countryside and the towns look more "authentic" and not "wannabe western" styles. That's the good news. The rest is, hold onto your wallet, get used to exhorbitant rip-off attempts, and oh yes, no one looks you in the eye except to see how much money they can get from you. You are their source if income. You are not an individual, you are of no individual interest. It's your suspected cash flow that is of interest to them, and competition for your western dollars is fierce. Rickshaw drivers and hotel managers compete with one another and offer bad raps against each other. If you'ld already made plans for an event, take a room from someone other than the latest person who is after your cash, well, be prepared to hear how low and degenerate that other person is, and that you've undertaken a deal with the devil and you travel at your own risk. I don't exagerate. So, lovely scenery scarred by ugly sentiments and words. And, are the people with whom you've made arrangements pleasant and polite? No. They are busy telling you how much more you should be paying them than the previously agreed upon price, and how would you like to go shopping. NO SHOPPING!! And yes, I want to go to the Elephant Orphanage, like we said, not your friends elephant farm. Everything is argued, over and over. Frustrated and disgusted, I tell my rickshaw driver I will never come back to Sri Lanka. People are only looking at tourists as money machines. He wholehartedly agrees; ... never admitting to being a part of this.



The economy is bad, and inflation is high. Tourism never picked up from the Tsunami, and government spending on the military to fight the Tamil Tigers has escalated. But instead of treating the few tourists that are there graciously, we seem to be fought over, and never mind that spoiling the spoils will do no good, but only further damage the tourist trade. The general consensus with the five fellow travellers I met in Sri Lanka was, no thanks, no more Sri Lanka and how fast can I get out of here?



I do make it in time for the end of the Perahera!. Elephants get dressed up and people crack whips, dance and play music, all the time passing around the Buddha's tooth. [Another one?] Something to do with a long ago drought that the Buddha's tooth fixed. What the body piercings on the dancers were about, I wasn't sure. Anyway, it gets packed with locals, and usually tourists. This year however, packed with locals, and not so many tourists. Standing room only, I get a good deal on a completely tourist seat on a private balcony. I want to take photos so I figure a birds-eye view on my private terrace will be worth the price. "How many people?" I ask my salesperson as I gently test the security of the tin balcony I'm on. "Only you, maybe 3-4 more." Okay.


Only me, until the parade starts. The family that lived in the apartment politely carried on business as usual before the festivities began, seemingly quite respectful of my paid for space. That is, until the Perihera! actually started. With the first sound of the cracked whip signalling the start of the processin, child after child was hoisted over the window wall onto the tin second floor balcony. Did I mention "tin" enough times? This is not a real balcony, just a tin roof suspension built to hold some advertising signs. Where they hid these children in that tiny one room apartment, I'll never figure out; but they kept coming and coming. This family of Houdini's were a marvel unto themselves. Child after child, magically produced. I was now surrounded by a pack of happy squeeling children.



"Eleephant, eleephant!"





"Eleephant, eleephant!"





"Eleephant, eleephant!"


There were over 100 elephants, and they went around the route 23 times. It was a long night. Not even enough elbow room for photos, and too many bouncing heads in front of my lens. One couldn't leave, there was no space to move on the street. People were packed together, and in for the long haul.






Body piercings; no explanation of what this had to do with drought and the Buddha's Tooth.












The next day I go to the elephant orphanage. The handlers scam you for money for taking photos, and the elephants graze. Bath time is fun to watch; here the elephants look relaxed and free. They are taken to a river and they spend a long time there, and can play and roam about. It was fun to see their personalities and interactions. Pre-historic looking beauties.
















I prepare to leave the next day, back to Colombo in hopes to get my visa, early. I finally meet the two other guests at my hotel, and they are great. They are Swiss "from the French part!", funny, kind, and they know how to party. "Theiry" pronounced "Cherry," and "Harriet."



"Hello Cherry, Hello Harriet, Nice to meet you."



"It's 'Cherry' not 'Cherry,' Everyone thinks I'm saying 'Cherry'."



"You are." I say, silently.


They go back to Switzerland the next day, and have planned to prepare a Swiss Fondue for the Sri Lankan hotel staff, and me, as it turns out. I'd never seen more than two members of a hotel staff, and neither had they, but at the Fondue Table, there were seven. The owner/manager, the cook/cleaning woman, and five more ... Our Swiss hosts had all the fixings from Swiss Cheese, garlic and wine to a follow up with hard pear liquor. A couple of unintentional fires, lots of liquor, and tiny squares of bread that you dip in melted cheese perplexed the Sri Lankan guests. They politely indulged in the dipping of soft white bread into bland melted cheese. When more bread was needed, "Uncle" went into the kitchen to re-stock. Why waste time dipping and re-dipping? "Uncle" (no one seemed to be sure as to just who he was) came back with four slices of bread folded in quarters, all stuck on his fork, and proceded to dip. We all had a good laugh, and "Uncle" seemed to be pleased with his cleverness of economy and efficiency in showing us how to eat Swiss Fondue in Sri Lanka. I got up very early the next morning to catch my train back to Colombo. "Uncle" was there, asking if he could have a lift. "Sure," I said. We rode off together, he exchanges some words in Sri Lankan with the rickshaw driver, and he hops out, just before the train station, and says "Thank-you." "You're welcome, Uncle." I have no idea who he was, but he was adorable.



Back in Colombo, I make it in time to finish my visa proceedings. This did require some careful slithering to the head of more than one line. No Sri Lankan objections, but not so from a tall, weary Spaniard who admonishes me under his breath. "You know what you did."


"Yeah, I made it possible to get the hell out of Sri Lanka and onto tonight's flight ... " I silently reply. This is wartime. Every good woman for herself. I was pleased at the prospect of leaving, and happily made it to the airport express bus; or so I thought ...



"Express Bus?"


"Express Bus."


"Airport?"



"Airport."



I jump in and get the last seat. The heavens open, and monsoon returns. A quick thought of, "will I be spending the night in the airport due to heavy rainfall?" is quickly dismissed. We take off, a little delayed, but I still think I have plenty of time to make it to the airport. One hour later, we're still in Colombo. I'm getting a little impatient, but still, it's Friday, rush hour traffic, and we are in quite a downpour ... and ... I start to notice, we are stopping every few minutes to pick up more passengers! EXPRESS? This is no express! They're standing on top of one another! I decide to stay calm, I am after all leaving Sri Lanka; this thought alone is enough to keep me happy, for a while. I'm on the way to the airport. Finally, really close to my departure time, we stop and everyone gets off. I look around, a little deja vu ... uh oh, where's the airport? He points to a rickshaw. "Trolley." "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO" I scream. "You take me to the airport, now." The radio is blaring, I'm incensed and this guy wants to throw me off. He heads back towards Colombo. He is stopped at a security check point where the guard speaks some English, and I tell him I'm being kidnapped. Words are exchanged in Sri Lankan, and the bus is turned around. He's driving furiously on the shoulder of the road in the rain. I make it to the airport. Lines are not long, as most people I assume have checked in already. I get on the plane. Finally. We sit a while, and a bit longer, and then still a bit longer. I'm happy to be getting out of Sri Lanka, I keep reminding myself. Although this will put me later into Chennai, past midnight, and I don't have a hotel room reserved ... still, I'm getting out of SriLanka and I'm going back to India!



Finally an announcement comes on. "Ladies and Gentlemen, we had to remove six passengers from the plane ..." They had gotten excess, unchecked cargo onto the plane, and the captain wanted us to know what a good job security was doing in getting these six people off the plane. [Hyderbad had been bombed that day.] "They got unchecked cargo from six people onto the plane?" I couldn't help but immediately think ... Oh well, what will be will be, certainly at this point.


We take off without further incident, and arrive in Chennai. Again, the food was good, and I'm back in India. Make that Chennai.

Hey, Krishna

Krishna is at it again; this guy doesn't know when to stop. He invites himself in to any and all gatherings that interest him. I'm walking down the hill to the ashram this morning, and I have to walk through the market square. Off in a corner, having some sort of serious pow-wow are about seven sadhus, deep in conversation. The tone is grave, with deep engagement. They are in a circle, some seated on a bench and few chairs, some standing. A gathering of orange and white, heads nodding, and who's there amongst them, head going back and forth attentively following the conversation? Why, Krishna, of course. His orange and white coloring so closely matches the colors of the sadhus that it takes a moment to take note that that's a dog standing amongst them. Yup, there he is, engaged, holding his own, and completely a part of the discourse. His backside faces the square, and all onlookers.

I make it down to the ashram without his seeing me. Relieved, I take my seat on the veranda for morning meditation. I'm glad he doesn't see me as he would follow, take a spot next to me, and then severely get his butt kicked when he's spotted by a certain ashram regular we'll just call "Him." I breath a sigh of relief when I get there, as no "Him" in sight, and it's only a matter of time before the morning Sadhu/Krishna meeting breaks up and Krishna will pick up my sent. Sure enough, a few peaceful minutes go by and in saunters Krishna. He sees me, and yes, there's a smile on his face, a jump for joy and he comes running over; never mind how many crossed legs and laps he's got to leap over! Happy day; he hasn't seen me for at least twelve hours, must be time to celebrate. I try to tell him to cool it, he pretends he doesn't understand. Keep in mind this is a very intelligent dog. "Playing dumb" is not beneath him.

Although "Him" is nowhere to be found, a new meditation-hanger-on spots Krishna and summarily begins to bash him. I have to intervene.
"He's not allowed here."
"Says who?"
"Him."
Before a few choice words can leave my mouth, none other than Maharajhi himself steps out of his room. As he is frail and elderly, this is extremely rare. No time for conversations or conversions, we all respectfully pranam and Krishna lays low. More amazing as this is not a direct walk to the hall, and a bit of time transpires. It's raining, and Maharaji's escort thinks it would be a good idea to get something to cover his head. He leaves Maharaji standing alone at the doorway while he runs back inside, and comes back with a towel for his head. I thought he was going for a pair of shoes, as Maharaji is in his stocking feet. The caretaker looks down, but they decide to proceed. I've never seen a living saint tiptoe through water puddles to the next building. You really would have thought shoes might have been a good idea. Well, who knows? Maharajhi continues on to the bhajan hall, and we follow. Ladies sit on the right and gentlemen on the left. Maharahji not only stops to visit, but sits down and joins the singing. This is really extraordinary, and a great honor to be in such company. I take my seat ... and so does Krishna. He literally walks in with me and makes it to the floor before I do. I can't help but think, you're making me look bad, and I do have some thoughts of asking for a bit of space on occasion for the animal welfare program I am starting ....
"Shove off ... !" Won't budge. The best I can do is take a few steps back and sit outside the room. He follows. It's a wide open space, so it's almost like I'm right there; but still, I'm outside. Thanks, Krishna. Who decides to join us, but "Boon," the black and white dog, who doesn't want to be left out of this auspicious occasion.
There I am sitting on the floor outside the hall on this rare occasion with two dogs next to/on top of me. "What next?" I can't help but think, not really thinking there would be a "next."
Well, Krishna decides this would be a good time to dry himself off from the morning drizzle, using my back. There he is toweling himself off on the back of my shirt, with vigor and gusto. "Don't hold back Krishna", and "why did I wear white today" I can't but help thinking, still trying to pretend I fit in with the crowd. Looked like so much fun, that Boonie decides it must be playtime ... I try my best to "shush" them and they decide to really give me their all. Bhajans are sacred chants, words put to music, often very spirited, sometimes hypnotic.
The dogs decide to wrestle and vocalize next to/on top of me ... I stare ahead, innocently. Heads turn, look at me, and all I can do is lower my head and slink away, hoping to not be associated as an instigator in this most "un-reverential" behavior. Shame.
Will have to hold off on asking for that ashram favor. Still. I can only admire this dog's tenacity, his spirit, and his happy confidence in that wherever he is, he belongs, and now is now and now is the time to time to enjoy life. Never mind that he will always get bashed, or kicked out of the same places all the time. Never mind that he's got old scars from old habits. He approaches life with joy and an unquestioning sense of belonging. A lesson we can all learn from and appreciate, and nod our heads to.

Hari Om, Krishna.

CHOICE?

Is choice an illusion? How much choice do we really have?

One of the pups I was worried about was the little brindled dog that hung around the taxi stand. He was young, a typical puppy, with puppy manners, and not accepted by the existing dog pack of that area. Shortly before I left for McLeod Ganj I saw a sadhu feeding a group of dogs in the area; I approached him, and he didn't want too much to do with me, until he realized I was appreciative of his treatment of the dogs. The little dog saw me and approached. I asked the sadhu to watch over him, and feed him while I was gone; he understood and I felt as confident as I could that the pup would have someone looking out for him. I also asked one of the westerners who walked down that path to keep an eye out for him. When I came back, I was happily surprised to see him looking well, and now a member of the pack. He was happy to see me, and I him.
One sad piece of news I did get, was that another pup, in the same area had been hit by a car, and died along the side of the road. He looked like "my" pup, and concern was that it was him. It wasn't, but a still smaller version I had never seen. Is it a trade-off? Had only one of those two had been destined to survive? Did it matter which of the two? Had I found the other pup first and started feeding him, would he have been the survivor? If he had been the focus of attention, would he have been the survivor? Is there some kind of balance that needs to be kept that's already pre-determined? I don't know. Did I have any choice in meeting the one dog and not the other? In the grand scheme of things, is it even important? But to that one dog, or individual, does it matter?

Have we all signed on to these particular roles of our lives, with the script already done, and we keep repeating scenes, until we "get it right." A kind of spiritual cinema, where we are the players. Some events seem too familiar, already acted out and now being revisited. Far too long and detailed for a simple deja vu. Revisited for what? Getting the part right, trying different endings? Who knows. Coincidences that are beyond imagination; this is what India has been offering me. Do I really just sit back and let it unfold?


I met another pup on the walk to Ram Juhla today, on my evening round of feeding a group of dogs by the Sivananda ashram. It's my first time seeing him, and maybe my last. This one is just too young to be on his own. He's no more than 10 weeks old, a shepherd mix, black and tan with half folded ears. His distinctive markings are a set of brindled stripes that curve along each side of his nose. His face is filled with a sweet determination and innocence as he walks along the road, coming out of one of the hidden trails on the hill-side. His tail half-curls, not quite in a complete cork-screw. I feed him, of course, and he eats it up. He looks to see if he'll get more, and as it's enough for one meal, I continue walking. Not surprisingly, he follows behind, and I expect he will stay behind, until he asks for more food, or turns off somewhere. But no, he walks along and then ahead of me, seemingly with purpose. Although tiny, this guy struts his stuff with his broad chest and strong gait. He walks like a "Champ."
I make it to the outer gates of Sivananda where one of the regulars can be found, lately in deep sleep, as he has not felt very well. He's suffering from mange, open wounds from flea-bite allergies, and internal parasites, at the least. He's miserable with his open sores and the fleas and flies that attack his skin. I've been treating him and feeding him, and he's improving. Today's been the first day that he recognized my step, and he sat up to greet me. In the first few days I've found him he's been so miserable, I've had to stir him from his rest, so I could feed and medicate him. One day when he would not get up and all I saw was a tightly curled body, I thought he might be dead. He seemed resigned to die, and was not very responsive. Today was a good sign, and a great improvement. It's these small victories that keep one going, hopeful.







I feed him, and the puppy "Champ" politely asks for more food. I give him a bit more, and both dogs eat side by side, no aggression or food possessiveness on either side. It would be nice if these two could buddy up, I can't help but think. The other dogs at the Sivananda gate pick on the white dog. But I can't stay too long, and I can't promise these dogs an attachment I can never fulfill, or promise of a future that I can't give them. Best I can do for now is feed, medicate them, and ask for a prayer for divine grace and comfort to look over them. Besides, I have other dogs to feed further down the road, and in the market.

I don't know if I'll ever see Champ again. He's too young and too little to be on his own. If none of the sadhus along the road takes a liking to him and gives him help and companionship, this dog won't have a chance. I'll only have the memory of this determined little dog walking along the road to Ram Juhla, between the hills, with the sun setting. The path shines golden this particular time of day, and Champ walks along, innocently alone, to meet his destiny. Confident and dazzling, unaware of what hardships lie ahead for him. Maybe that's all any of us get. Moments of glory, innocent of what may lie ahead. Choice; where is it for this little dog?

The next three days saw heavy downpours of rain, not at all good for such a tiny pup, out on his own; but for one golden moment, he was dazzling.