Request at the Green Hotel

I seem to have made my way into this sort of limbo zone where I feel like I don't have much to write about for a day or two, and then when I say “Oh shit, I have to post a blog” I feel like so much has happened, but I can't seem to recall any of it.

I'll do my best.

Oh right, I did this.

I've been teaching around 5 hours a day. New students pop up all the time; Julie and I are supposed to start teaching a nun and her sister English in exchange for Tibetan lessons. Palsang had some things come up so he hasn't been as consistent a student lately, but he wants to get back into it.

Earlier tonight I got asked to do some slightly different work for a somewhat different client. The story goes like this:

I got out of classes at 3pm. My conversation students told me about what they did over the weekend and as we went through their accounts, they asked “what's the word for...?” and this way we got a list of new vocabulary for them to practice, which includes improvise, puddle, splash, and shelter. Their assignment was to think of another story to tell that included at least one of the new words.

Afterward I headed over to the Green Hotel & Restaurant, one of our favorite hangouts in McLeod Ganj. They've got a pretty decent vegetarian menu and equally decent wifi. In fact, it's the only place I've found so far that can support a video conversation on Skype. This is important. Skype is our friend.

Even so, the internet in India is not what I'm used to at home. It isn't uncommon to have to reconnect a few times within a conversation (as some of you are aware). It's still the most reliable place though, so I plopped myself down at a table facing the windows and fired up my laptop.

At some point during my conversation with my mom, I noticed a smallish Tibetan woman hovering near me. I smiled at her and realized that she was familiar: there is this Caucasian man who lives in McLeod Ganj that we see from time to time, and she is his caretaker. This man must be in at least his 70s, and it's clear that his health is deteriorating. I see him in the Green Cafe and around town in his Hawaiian-style shirts and his Irish cap, always with his Tibetan caretaker helping him sit, stand, eat, and do everything else. I've heard that he's a bit of a fixture around town, and they usually seem to sit at one particular table when in this restaurant. I asked if she wanted me to move. Apologetically, she said that yes, if I wouldn't mind, they would appreciate it.

The old man, who had been waiting somewhat unsteadily in the background, thanked me as I passed him on my way to the next table. I smiled and told him it was no problem.

After a little while Palsang had joined me and I finished my Skyping. I was talking with The Monk, as he's often called in our little circle, and I realized the Tibetan woman was again hovering near me. “He'd like to speak with you,” she said as she motioned to the hunched, bearded man now occupying the seat I'd been in.

I was a little surprised. I sat down on the seat facing him and leaned in, and said hello. “Hello,” he said in a weak but articulate voice, “I'm from the United States.”

“So am I,” I told him.

“I'm from New York City,” he told me.

“Ah, nice! I'm from Chicago.”

“Oh, the Windy City!”

I laughed. I agreed and introduced myself. He told me his name but I admit I'm not 100% sure I heard him correctly, so I'll find out the next time I see him. I shook his arthritic, clawlike hand and he explained “I'm disabled, and I can't use my hands very well. I can't write anymore.” I nodded in sympathy. “Could you help me write something?”

Again, I was surprised. Why me? There are plenty of other nice-looking westerners in town, lots of white girls who speak English. Was it simply because I gave up my seat for someone who clearly was more in need of it that he decided he'd trust me? Or maybe it's just that he figured I was nice enough to do something else for someone I didn't know. It doesn't really matter. I explained to him that I had to get going, but if he was going to be there in the next night or two I could meet him and of course I'd be willing to help him out.

That's why tomorrow evening I'm meeting one of the many disadvantaged locals of McLeod Ganj and doing what little I can to help him out. If all I have to do is take my laptop and write a few emails for an elderly gentleman in failing health, for whom it looks like just getting to the other side of the room requires a Herculean effort, then I'm more than willing to give up a couple hours of my evening. Maybe I'll even make a friend or two out of it. I've always been drawn to older people. I think they're interesting. For as long as I can remember, I've preferred to hang around people older than myself. I think they tend to have the best stories; this man from NYC who somehow wound up in Dharamsala, India, for the end of his life ought to have some good stories to tell.