Have you ever wondered how your subconscious would read if it was printed out like a dictionary? Filled with shadowy meanings that morph, our undercover definitions would, no doubt, bear little resemblance to our memorized mantras. Take the word, "slum," for example.  Until just yesterday, my operative definition might have read, "a comfortably blurry place glimpsed through closed windows while speeding along an expressway." Not so today. The car is pulled over, empty. The door— left ajar.

 It was my first trip to India.  A client from California had spoken highly about two friends— an American named Patrick and his Iranian partner, Shahla— who had started a school in Rishikesh. I emailed them and they shot back an enthusiastic invitation.

A buzz-cut volunteer from the school, named Tommy, met us on the sleepy lane in front of our guesthouse. Together, we hailed a rickshaw and rumbled into the flesh-choked chaos of downtown Rishikesh. Weaving around a water buffalo standing with an air of aristocratic indifference in the middle of the growling traffic, we pulled over and headed by foot down a narrow alley way, passing whole families huddled in small cave-like indentations in the cement walls that bordered the zigzag path into the heart of the slums. A dirty band of children—happy and squealing—ran past us, dodging a hunched figure in rags. I looked down.  A thin film of urine trickled beneath what I once considered  "my sandals," but would henceforth see as half a year's rent for a family of five forced to curl in the same "C" shape in order to fit into their doorless concrete cave. I plugged my ears and leaned against the alley wall as a motorcyclist forcefully parted the ambling river of  "untouchables"— the lowest caste in India.

Deep in this maze of disturbingly sane, dirty and contented humans, we came upon a tall iron gate freshly painted candy orange. Above it,  a canvas banner read, "Mother's Miracle." Tommy lifted the rickety latch and, instantly, we were transported into a scene that—given the surrounding squalor—could only be described as Disneyesque:  small groups of freshly-scrubbed, well-dressed 7-10 year olds sat cross-legged, erect and focused in a series of open air classrooms that arced around an immaculately groomed, tree-shaded courtyard. A buzzy earnestness filled the air. I breathed it in like an essential oil, releasing an inaudible sigh—cynicism giving way to fairy tale.

"Are these Indian teachers really as adolescent as they look?" I asked.

"Yes," explained Patrick. "They're the only ones these Hindi-speaking kids from the hill tribes and alleys feel relaxed enough with to actually learn something from."

Scanning the various blackboards, it wasn't hard to determine the subjects being taught— English, math, science, computers. Then it occurred to me: I had completely overlooked the bizarre, choppy sound track overshadowing these otherwise serene and disciplined pods of learning. My eyes landed on a group of kids grunting in high-pitched unison as they practiced their Karate moves—a required class for all students. Later, we would learn that the karate teacher was the only one on property who had the authority to administer corporeal punishment. Paradoxically, the only way to break the girls of their passive, inferior conditioning and actually get them out there throwing punches into the air next to the boys was to threaten them with a whack. Ouch. My fairy tale interpretation felt a sting.

Patrick continued ushering us around his impressive, overflowing compound. Barging into one of the newer, brick-enclosed classrooms, he confidently interrupted a teacher to interview the kids about what profession they aspired to once they finish their studies. With daring sincerity, these sons and daughters of street sweepers and laborers stood up to proclaim their destiny as doctor, teacher or politician.

As I wipe away a tear falling down my privileged white cheek, we settle in on some wicker patio furniture for chai and cookies with Shahla, who speaks with defiant buoyancy about the years of bureaucratic red tape and institutionalized prejudice toward foreigners they overcame in order to finally secure the five-year business visa that allowed them to transform this abandoned lot into a place where they could, day after day, give themselves away.

Suddenly, a flood of dewy eyed, chocolate-skinned faces framed in carefully groomed, ink black hair pour out of one of the classrooms and sit cross legged on the cold cement in front us. Someone hands me a guitar. A row of shiny eyes beam, expectantly. As the illusion of free will dissolved, an eerie confidence came over me as I asked the children to stand up and say their names. I made up a short song— sometimes silly, sometimes touching— about each of them. Occasionally, a particularly musical Hindi name turned into a chant and the whole troop joined in, blurring the line between comedy and satsang.

As daylight turned to dusk, each squeal of delight falling against me like a shovel full of dirt, my self-consciousness finally achieved the illustrious status of  "buried alive." Later, I would ask myself, was this the day my heart was irreparably scarred or miraculously blown open?   Does it really take stories of impoverished parents beating the backs of their useless, dowry-draining daughters to ward off my stage fright?  

            On the long, jerky ride home—with one hand clenching the rickshaw's lurching metallic frame and the other lying  defeated in my lap— I fell into a trance. A hissing flame, it seemed, was boiling each attempt at comprehension like a slice of bitter, tuberous root until my entire consciousness was stained with the strange, medicinal flavor of surrender.

Later, as I curled up in my sleeping bag under a bare light bulb, the workings of karma seemed fiercely incomprehensible, but this much I knew: the same hypnotic force that had sucked Patrick and Shahla, irretrievably, out of their comfortable Marin county lives into this heart-breaking yoga in the slums was now tugging menacingly at me.  

Hunter Reynolds

Astrological Counselor

Skype: 707-236-8011

Website: www.astrodharma.org

Breath is not holy or evil;

Dear Great Souls,

Tim & I just returned from a stay in Rishikesh during which we visited our dear friends Patrick and Shahla at Mother Miracle School All in all, a treasured time once again in a city very dear to our hearts. Enjoy the photos! Here is the direct Link to our photo album:

http://picasaweb.google.com/IndiaYogi108/MotherMiracleSchool#

<http://picasaweb.google.com/IndiaYogi108/MotherMiracleSchool> .

As many of you know, they have recently moved into a new place just a 15 minute walk from the previous location. It consists of six buildings which provide for four regular classrooms, a large computer classroom, an office, music room and a kitchen. There is also a large outdoor area for 6 outdoor classes. The place is “compound-style” enclosed by brick walls. The grounds are not as extensive as the previous location, but still very nice and the children are looking forward to gardening.

This has been a tremendous time of transition with the move and new children coming to the school. Also they have had challenges getting money from donations into the country, and some people have had to discontinue their sponsorship because ~~ as we all know ~~ these are challenging economic times. But Patrick, Shahla and the older boys have been enthusiastically renovating and making the property acceptable for the children. However, even deciding how much to spend on paint can be an issue. On the very day they decided to get the better quality paint, Tim & I were visiting when three western women came by the school. They said they had heard about the school (no one knows how) and wanted to see it for themselves. Patrick showed them around the classrooms and construction areas. They probably stayed about 20 minutes. As they left, they put a fair amount of rupees in Patrick’s pockets ~~ enough, it turned out, to pay for the paint. Divine Mother’s blessings always.

The school currently has 288 children enrolled and crowds (literally) form on testing day as more and more children try to gain entrance to this bit of promise in the “slums.” The area they are in now is known as the slums, but it seems fine to Tim & me. It’s actually cleaner than a lot of places we see in India! Some parents are so desperate to have their children enrolled that if they don’t pass the test to get in they send their child back the same day in different clothes! Shahla peers at them, ‘Weren’t you here earlier?” They have lost a few children because the distance is too much for some of them, but one of my favorite stories is of Keshant. I call him “the little meditator” and he was in a previous slideshow of ours.

They took him back home where his mother was crying and told her what happened. He is now happily back at school.

We also celebrated Dushehra with them and it was great fun with games (musical chairs), dancing, and the burning of Ravana. The little girl’s dancing was adorable; the photos don’t do them justice, but we tried.

On Friday, Tim & I gave a beginner’s class on photography. The children used cameras that have been donated by previous visitors and seemed to enjoy the class very much. Patrick and Shahla want us to do another class next time we visit. Stan Giles from Scotland was there teaching math and music. Altogether, it is a very busy time there and very productive. Even these photos (on the Picasa site) were out of date by the day of our last visit. We hope to go again for the dedication Puja with Vanamali Devi, but we’ll have to see if it is meant for us to go.

All in all, a treasured time once again in a city very dear to our hearts. Enjoy the photos! Direct Link:

http://picasaweb.google.com/IndiaYogi108/MotherMiracleSchool#

<http://picasaweb.google.com/IndiaYogi108/MotherMiracleSchool> .

Namaste, Lisa