Dharamsala

When I first visited India in December 1990, I had already spent four and a half years in Japan, and had grown very accustomed to life there. It was quite a shock, from the moment the plane from Bangkok landed in Kolkata (then known as Calcutta). Seriously, the moment the wheels touched the ground, while we were still speeding down the runway, all the other (99% Indian) passengers stood up, opened the overhead luggage compartments, and jockeyed for a spot near the door. “WTF?!” I thought, for the first of many times during the next three months.

Of the four stages of cultural adjustment to a new country/culture, my Honeymoon Stage (characterized by happiness, anticipation and excitement) ended upon arrival, and I entered the Hostility Stage. The black market money-changer in the airport ripped me off; my backpack, which the taxi driver insisted on putting in the trunk, emerged with some black grease stuck to it (when I complained, he said simply, “This is India,” which I would hear several more times during my trip); the price of an item depended on how well the customer could haggle (to me, an unknown skill); brand-new clothes, washed in cold water, bled colors and ruined whatever had previously been white or of a light color; people urged me to continue going straight when I asked directions, though they had no clue; the re-used oil in which food was cooked—even in hotel restaurants—made me sick; people wouldn’t wait in line to buy train or bus tickets, but force their way to the counter; long-distance busses blared Hindi music through crappy speakers; clouds of exhaust choked the streets, which were always jammed with drivers who constantly leaned on their horns; the list goes on, and on…

And yet, there were some things that—eventually—grew on me, such as the Victorian architecture of what had been British India’s capital; the ancient statues at the Indian Museum on the corner of Chowringhee and Sutter Street; the joy of reading a 1.5-rupee newspaper while having a breakfast consisting of a bread omelet, curd and mocha (chocolate & coffee) in an open air, 3mX3m restaurant; the earthenware chai cups that were meant to be smashed on the street after use (I started collecting them, so I’d always have one to smash, the next time something pissed me off); the majesty of the Himalayas; busses in Bihar that, when full, allowed passengers to ride on the roof; the fact that, in hill stations like Darjeeling—which also had Victorian-era buildings—people liked rock music (wandering around one day, I heard a band rehearsing, tracked them down to a room in an empty hotel, and spent a blissful half-hour listening to covers of Thin Lizzy and the Scorpions); temples, shrines, and churches of six religions all over the place; massive temples carved out of mountains, such as the Ellora caves; the philosophy of ahimsa, or non-violence; ashrams and the teachings of great saints of various traditions; this list also goes on, and on…

And so, 18 years after that first, fateful trip, and over a dozen subsequent visits to India and Nepal (from which I twice made a pilgrimage to Mount Kailash in Tibet), during which I passed through the third, “Humor” stage of acculturation, I arrived at the “Home” stage and, in 2008, moved to the outskirts of Dharamsala, home-in-exile of His Holiness the XIV Dalai Lama and 15,000 other Tibetans, in the foothills of the Himalayas, where I awaken each morning to the chirping of the birds.