walk the downtrodden path

We met three years ago in Dagpo Shedrupling Monastery, Kullu, Himachal Pradesh. I joined a month Buddhist pilgrimage tour as Catholic-raised agnostic who seek mind-blowing cheap India trip. While Pritika was diligently listening to Je Rinpoche’s transmission of Buddhist teaching, my eyes were roaming appreciatively the nice biceps belonged to the monks. Before dawn, they have to prepare traditional non-yeasted bread for hundreds of people. I called those biceps as blessing for humanity.
I met Pritika in our hotel, owned by the last living Maharajah on earth. The hotel rooms used to be the stable and we even felt luckier than the horses. I hugged her and greeted her. We grinned as wide as the Sahara desert. Rajasthan was also a dessert, but it was February. During the day the weather is 19 degrees Celsius and at night 10 degrees Celsius. “We have peacocks in the garden! Monkeys everywhere! Can you imagine it? I want peacocks as well at home!”

From the hotel, both of us went to Mehrangarh For, to attend the World Sufi spirit festival 2014. I packed poorly, so I took the hotel bedcover as survival tool for the outdoor concert. We arrived and saw the fort. Jaswant Singh (1638-1678) had lovingly poured all of his efforts and ideas to improve the sandstone fort.

We entered the fort’s courtyard and I opened my arms as wide as possible and I tried to embrace the majestically stunning azure sky. I jumped up and down, the music from afar went crescendo more magnificently. “Pritika, this is so georgeous! Thank you, thank you for bringing me here!”

As Chintoo Singh’s voice pitches high, my heart soared. How couldn’t I, in the Sringar Chowk, a smaller plaza with surrounding tall windows, were full of human smiling, sitting or lying, leaning to the bolster on the flawless white sheeted mattresses? The sun glinted its last light. Scarlet, ruby, vermilion, cerise, carmine, claret, coral, and maroon were slanted in the sky, thousand of birds flying above it.

It went colder, and I took out the bed cover from my backpack. The temperature dropped. As pure tropical-blooded woman I congratulated myself for my ingenuity. Shamss Ensemble from Iran played tanburs and daf. Even as ignoramus, I know decades of practice were only one of the most important factors that can make Persian musical sufi tradition touched every single soul in Zenana Deodi Courtyard. Their love was pouring because Sufi, as the Darwis artist swirled, whispered about God’s and humanity's love.