CHAPTER 2
SEARCHING FOR GOD AT FIVE THOUSAND FEET
Let go of plans gone wrong. Things have a
way of working out in the end.
No matter how hard we try to control our plans, things can go wrong. As a result, we may find ourselves in a state of confusion, worrying about everything. We look around for something to blame, and sometimes we blame ourselves for not planning better, as if we have perfect foresight. Other times we focus on the imperfections of everything around us. We blame the chaos itself, feeling as though we are the only one it touches. We may wonder, Why me?
This tension ultimately gives way to anxiety, crippling any action, which we feel would be futile. We find seemingly endless logical reasons not to try anything because, in that mind-set, it feels like it will all end so badly. “What’s the point?” we ask, giving up all hope.
But life has a way of constantly shuffling things around, shaking our understanding of what’s possible and what’s not. And somehow, in some cosmically unpredictable way, life unfolds and things work out—never as expected, but sometimes even better.
Many years ago, when I was about to graduate college, my parents took my sisters and me to visit Vaishno Devi, a mountaintop holy site where the god Mata Rani is known to reside. Eight million Hindu pilgrims visit the deity each year, walking about 7.5 miles from the main city of Katra, in the state of Jammu and Kashmir, and climbing to an altitude of 5,300 feet.
My two sisters and I were not too keen on going on this journey, but we felt obligated because we had made a commitment to support our mom in her strong religious beliefs. In Hindu culture, it is said that if the thought of going to visit Mata on this mountaintop comes into your head just once, then you must do it to ease the mind. And my mom’s mind was zoned in on making the journey. Plus, we wanted to see what the fuss was all about. Was God really up there on this mountain? What really is up there? Deep inside all of us was a hidden spiritual curiosity, and we couldn’t give up this chance to satisfy it.
Being the type A person that I am, I took charge of all the preparations—and boy, was I prepared. I had booked the flight from New Delhi into Jammu’s only airport. Ascertained the temperature to ensure we all had proper clothing. Figured out how many mountain guides we were going to hire and the prevailing wages so that I could negotiate properly. The backpack was all set with extra scarves, extra socks in case ours got wet, a towel, and a Swiss Army knife—in case, as my sisters joked, we were stranded up there and I had to go hunt for food.
As we were about to leave for the airport in New Delhi, my aunt mentioned that we shouldn’t take any belts or wallets made of leather because, being made of animal hide, they wouldn’t be allowed inside the holy site. As we rushed out the door, we dropped our wallets and purses with my aunt.
When we got to the airport to check in, it seemed as if every other person cut in front of me at the counter.
“How come there are no lines?” I screamed in frustration at the clerk. “How come there’s no order in this place?”
“Sir, please give me your ticket now and I’ll check you in,” the clerk said, without apologizing for taking the four people who had cut right in front of me.
Landing at Jammu’s airport, in the mountains of Kashmir, was truly breathtaking. From the perspective of the metropolitan cities, you tend to forget the true beauty of India. After negotiating with a local taxi driver to take us to the base of the mountain to begin our trek, we felt great—confident, enthusiastic, and happy to begin the journey, prepared to meet God herself.
The narrow, slightly paved path up the mountain was filled with other worshippers, some making the journey up and others on their way down. Many were barefoot. My mom was ahead of the pack and, along with other worshippers, started chanting, “Jai Mata di,” which means “in praise of Mata.” This chant is often used to bring forth shakti, a force or spirit by which one can better shape one’s destiny.
The chanting was a little odd to my sisters and me in the beginning, but we started getting into it as the hours passed and we needed some encouragement to keep us moving up the mountain. My dad was not as comfortable. His bad knee prevented him from walking up with us and, as a lot of older worshippers do, he was taking a horse up the mountain, led by the horse’s owner.
We made it up the mountain in eight hours, stopping for a bit here and there to go to the bathroom and to drink tea purchased from some of the many makeshift tea, food, and souvenir stands that dotted the mountain path.
It was about 2 a.m. when we arrived at our destination. We stood in front of a tiny passageway carved through the mountain by eons of fresh mountain water from the melting snow. Cold, tired, and a bit hungry, we made our way to the point where we were supposed to deposit all shoes and baggage. After ensuring that we were carrying no leather or other animal materials, the pandits (holy men) showed us toward the washing area, where we used the freezing mountain water to wash our hands, faces, and feet. The idea is to purify yourself before visiting Mata. This is as close to God as you’re going to get and you can’t be dirty.
My mom rushed to the front of the line, an eager, sincere devotee of Mata. I could sense the humility in her slow, precise washing with the freezing water.
“There’s a line here but not in the airports,” I remarked snidely.
“I didn’t know we were supposed to be going through this tiny little space in a cave,” my scared younger sister said to me. She was fearful of small spaces and terrified of going through a cave, worried that it might collapse on her. “I’m not going in there.”
My mom went first, followed by my middle sister and then me, holding my younger sister’s hand. My dad went last. It was a vertical crevice, only fit for slim people, with little light except for the moonlight on the other side of the cave. Freezing mountain water running down one side was a constant reminder that we were actually inside a real mountain.
I shifted my shoulders toward the side of the cave that had been smoothed by years of running water. Barefoot, I made my way through the cave toward what appeared to be an opening. I could see candles in front of a small shrine representing the semi-exact point where God herself resides. I say “semi-exact” because nothing is ever exact in India.
In an area large enough to hold only two or three people, including the pandits, I stopped and prayed. I looked around to find something that gave some indication of a supernatural force. I’m more spiritual than religious, but I wanted so much to believe. I was genuinely trying to pray, hard, to feel the divine presence. What did I have to lose? Even so, it was dark and I couldn’t really make out anything remarkable. All I could think of was how cold the water was beneath my feet.
“Keep moving,” said one of the pandits as I started to get into deep thoughts about the existence of God.
Like my sister, I’m not a fan of closed spaces, so I was relieved to get out of the cave. I gave a little smile to my mom, who seemed to be experiencing her own moment of bliss as she took in the darshan (visit of God). She was in heaven.
After gathering our belongings, we took in the dark mountain scenery as well as we could at 3 a.m. and then began our journey down the mountain. With sore muscles, hurting backs, and empty bellies, my sisters and I were a little cranky. I gathered everyone around and suggested that we join my dad in taking horses the rest of the way down the mountain. In order to make our flight back to New Delhi and then our flight to the United States the next day, we would need to hurry, and walking wasn’t going to cut it.
My sisters leaped at the suggestion but my mom wouldn’t have any of it. She preferred to sacrifice in the name of God and to finish the way she had started, on foot. Something about suffering as a way to reach God.
I took charge and negotiated with a couple of horse guys, and the rest of us went galloping down the mountain. OK, it was more like a slow pony ride.
When we reached the base of the mountain, we felt exhausted and really sleepy. “We can all have a nice rest on the plane back to Delhi,” I said as I rushed us into the taxi for the airport, trying to keep us all on schedule.
As I gave the woman at the check-in counter our U.S. passports and tickets back to New Delhi, she said casually, “The flight is not operating today, sir.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that.”
“No flights to Delhi today.”
“Sorry, I don’t understand. Today is Tuesday and it says here on our ticket that there is a flight to Delhi today.”
“Fog today.”
“So, you mean it’s canceled?”
“No flight today, sir. Fog. Maybe later. Maybe tomorrow.”
“I don’t understand. Is the flight canceled or is it not?” I asked in a loud and definitive way, signaling the need for certainty on the subject.
I wasn’t going to get any certainty. Only later did I learn that, for most Indians, there is no certainty. They’ll never tell you a flight is canceled. They’ll say that it’s not operating today—I guess because “canceled” is very definitive and nothing in India is ever definitive.
Angry, hungry, exhausted, and utterly confused at the lack of any civility, I threw up my hands and walked away, joining my family standing nearby. They had already learned that our flight was “not operating today.”
“How are we going to get back to Delhi in time to make our flight home to New York?” My sister asked the obvious question and everyone else turned to me, looking for an answer.
I had no idea. No one else did either.
Being stranded in a small town with an outdated airport, waiting for a flight to resume the next day, is normally no big deal. What made it difficult this time was the hunger, the two days’ lack of sleep, the freezing weather, the blisters on my feet from going up and down a mountain, and simply not knowing when we would be going home. The lack of certainty was causing me a great deal of stress and anxiety.
After an hour or so of trying to understand the flight situation as explained by a helpful agent, my mom and dad came back and told us that we would have to wait at the airport until the fog cleared up in Delhi, because they might reopen the flight today. For the time being, the flight was not operating, but it might, eventually. There was still no certainty; it was a maybe. I hated maybes.
“Why can’t anyone in this country say something definitively?” I blurted out in frustration.
I couldn’t deal with a maybe. I suggested that we take a taxi into town and get something to eat. At least with some food in our stomachs we might be able to think straight.
As we were about to get out of the taxi after a fifteenminute ride into town, I reached for my wallet. But there was nothing in the back pocket of my jeans.
I felt this “Oh, no” approach all of us in unison. We had left all our wallets and purses back in New Delhi, at my aunt’s place, after she reminded us that they don’t like leather up at the holy site.
No one had brought a wallet. Each of us had thought someone else was going to, so no one had any money! Zip. Zero. Nada. No rupees. No dollars. Nothing. Whatever loose change we had started out with had been spent on tea on our way up the mountain.
It took me a nanosecond before I began to freak out.
“You have to be kidding me!” I exclaimed.
We were all exhausted and hungry and we had nowhere to stay. No food. No cell phones. And no certainty about our trip back home. All my perfectly laid plans were going out the window. I was freaking out, spinning into a spiral of anxiety.
With the aroma of hot, fried vegetables circling all around us, I stood in the middle of a crowded market, paralyzed. After apologizing to the taxi driver, we found a couple of empty spaces on the cold, exposed brick steps of a restaurant and just sat.
My sisters and I were miserable, thinking and thinking about what to do next, but I couldn’t see any way forward. Nothing seemed to bother my dad, though. He sandwiched himself between two local men who were smoking a hookah on a small cot made of rope. At ease with the whole situation, he blended in, almost reveling in the chaos that we were experiencing.
Seeing him so relaxed made me more tense and anxious. How can he relax at a time like this? He’s not coming up with any solutions, for crying out loud!
I could taste those savory pakoras (fried vegetables) being prepared at the stall next to us. Anxiety started seeping into my mind, like oil from the pakoras, dripping into my body. I was debilitated by my stiff neck and arched back, and I felt there was no reasonable path in front of me.
Stressed, worried, and anxious, I sat there, still trying desperately to hold on to the plan that I had not foreseen going wrong. I blamed the airlines and the ticket agent and this crazy country, and I remained so focused on the past plan and what had gone wrong that I became closed to any new ideas.
But my mom was still standing, and she said, “All right, let’s go and try to do something at the airport.”
“What’s the point, Mom?” we all asked.
“We’re stuck,” I said. “There’s no way out of this crummy place. We’ll have to suck it up and wait at the stupid airport until tomorrow.” Clearly, this confusing country was the cause of our disrupted plans.
She grabbed us by our hands and, pulling us up, calmly said, “Let it go. Just let it go. It happens. Stop trying to figure out why. Let go. Now, come on. Let’s go and see if the airline can do something for us. Let’s try.”
Not wanting to disappoint our mom, we reluctantly got up. We begged a taxi driver to take us back to the airport, promising him money after we secured a solution. He felt sorry for us and gave us a lift to the airport.
“Sorry. No flight today. You can talk to the airline office nearby the airport if you want,” the ticket agent responded, after we pleaded with her to find a way to get us back to Delhi in time for our homeward flight.
“See, I told you. There’s no point, Mom.”
“Keep moving. Let’s try the main office. We have nothing to lose,” she said.
Thanks to the continued kindness of the taxi driver, we managed to get to the airline’s main office, five minutes from the airport.
Feeling as though we were making some progress, and hopeful of finding a solution, we headed into the office. A young man in the customer service department sat us down and essentially gave us the same answer.
“Sorry, flight is canceled today and, weather willing, will fly to Delhi tomorrow. We can’t do anything for you. You will have to wait at the airport.”
“Is there any other way of getting back to Delhi?” I asked.
“Well, there’s the train. You can check to see if the train will reach in time.”
This seemed to be all he was going to give us, so I started to say thanks and walk away. But not my mom. She forged ahead, asking very specifically, “Sir, can you please call someone to ask if there is a train going to Delhi today? We are desperate to return and could really use your help.”
The young man looked at us and made a call.
“The Rajdhani Express overnight sleeper train is leaving in two hours and there are probably some seats available. You can buy the tickets when you get to the station and it should put you in Delhi in the late morning. You should be able to make your flight back to the U.S. with no problem.”
This was a start. But my mom persisted.
“We have no money to buy tickets for the train,” she said. “Could you kindly find a way to refund us the money from the flights so that we can buy the train tickets?”
“I’m sorry, but I cannot do that until your flight is officially canceled. Right now, the status is officially delayed, due to fog in Delhi.”
“Please. See if you can do something. Please, sir. We need to get home,” my mom insisted. She pressed on with sincerity, persuasive enough to warrant the man having a conversation with his manager.
After speaking to his manager, the young man came back and brought us something we never thought we’d see: money! He gave us a refund and said with a smile, “Good luck.”
With the money, we would be able to secure a sleeper car and arrive back in Delhi in twelve hours! We ate a little, paid the taxi driver, and headed to the train station. We were able to secure seats on the train to Delhi and even had a few rupees to spare. Plus, we were told that we had first-class tickets and could have access to the station lounge.
Unfortunately, it was more like a Turkish prison than a first-class lounge. I’ve seen Midnight Express!
Sitting on our backpacks, my sisters and I were miserable. But then we noticed our dad, again sitting between two locals. He seemed comfortable, like he belonged there. He had seen this movie before, too, and he was laughing at the punch line that was coming.
That punch line turned out to be the biggest rat I’d ever seen, coming toward us as if to indicate his right-of-way, unafraid of anyone. He was on his own turf, free to roam for food just like the rest of us on the platform, in broad daylight.
My sisters and I burst out laughing—at our exhaustion, at the whole experience of this miserably unorganized, unpredictable country. Lack of proper infrastructure. No one tells you the straight facts. Something always goes wrong.
But it was one of the most memorable and fun moments of my life.
Once on the train, we got into our sleeper compartments, which were decent, though my bed felt like a small wooden door laid flat and suspended by a rope tied to a nail or two.
First class? I thought. Whatever. It really doesn’t matter, as long as it takes me home.
It’s funny how the imperfections don’t bother you so much as long as you feel like you’re headed in the right direction.
Then a man came through the cabins, handing out the most savory bit of sustenance I’ve ever had in my life: two perfectly round aloo parathas, Indian bread with potatoes inside. Heavenly. It might have been the greatest meal of my life.
My sisters and I talked, joked, and reveled in the scene outside the window of the Rajdhani Express as it took us back to civilization. My mom was enjoying delicious hot tea with a generous helping of sugar. The air was cool and crisp and we didn’t mind the blend of perspiration that floated about the compartment. We were headed home.
We were giddy on that train back to Delhi. We drank tea with a handful of local travelers who told us fascinating stories. Looking out the tiny windows of the Rajdhani Express, we were able to see India in a different way than we saw it while flying through the clouds above.
Feeling the steel of the rails underneath, I started to realize that what I was searching for on the top of that mountain actually already resides deep inside all of us. It is this force, an innate strength that has guided us through history. It is an unshakeable urge to give the body motion, an ability to keep walking, to keep trying, and to continue moving forward despite not knowing what will happen.
What I had missed seeing and feeling five thousand feet above, in my search for the presence of God, I discovered only when I was forced to let go of the plans I had made, when I stopped trying to understand why things went wrong and simply accepted it. Instead, I found that presence hidden inside the generosity and kindness of those who notice our effort and help us on our journey, in the luck and randomness of things all around, and in the encouraging, action-oriented spirit that propelled my mom to let go of overthinking, to accept, to have faith, to believe, and to just keep moving forward.
Looking out the window, smiling at what I had learned, I drifted slowly off to sleep, passing by farmers in fields; huts made of dung, lit inside by kerosene lamps; men on carts pulled by buffalo; and the rolling of a black bicycle rim propelled forward on a dirt road by a stick in motion, carried by the sheer joy of a young boy trying to get home.