How I found peace at an Indian McDonalds

A California Nightmare: McSpicy Paneer Burger

You'd think in the city of light (Banaras) you'd find peace everywhere. Actually, this is a gross misunderstanding.

A couple weeks ago, I was in Delhi at a conference where someone was talking about Banaras (Varanasi) as THE place to go to find peace and harmony. I said, "Uh... have you ever been there?"

He replied, "No, actually."

"I wouldn't say that Varanasi is THE place to find peace exactly... unless, of course, you mean a different kind of a peace--the kind of peace that no one really is looking for."

I returned to chaotic Varanasi after this Delhi trip, away from the air conditioned conference and buffet catering, understanding that Varanasi offers a different kind of peace. A peace that you cannot see, hear, taste, smell or touch. Actually, most of the time I can't even feel it.

That is until yesterday. At McDonalds.

OK, yesterday was somewhat typical of a Banarasi (Varanasi-like) day in the sense that you can't get simple things accomplished without multiple snafus of various magnitudes.

In the morning, I got roped into a video interview with the vice principle of Asha Deep School for a documentary being made. The journalist (documentarian?) and I got to talking about how difficult it is to get anything done in this hot, humid weather.

It's hard to imagine that just a week earlier that it rained, making the air so cool that I had to wrap myself in the shawl I got for the Allahabad trip to the Sangam, which feels like such a long time ago. Where has that weather gone? It's fallen and died in a deep, dry hole somewhere with Persephone, eating pomegranate seeds.

So as I was saying... a typical Banarasi day. The journalist put us in front of the camera and just as she started to ask questions... CLICK. The camera automatically turned off. She said, "This has never happened before." Then it was like dominoes: The fully charged battery indicated as empty, the totally empty memory card indicated as full, we needed to change the batteries in the microphone, a mangy puppy kept trying to sneak in, a squeaky door, a beat up truck with a super loud motor. All while we were sweating; since we couldn't turn on the fan during the recording.

Make Shift Shoot: Photo from an earlier interview

Even so, we were able to pull off a relatively short interview, locking in topics like caste discrimination; the lowering of the poverty line; drugs and the tourist industry; the big, fat annual day show; and education. We watched the time since we knew we should try our best to beat the noontime sun. From noon to four in the afternoon, the sun can kill you. Bake you. Fry you. Get under your skin and eat you.

So after the interview, I put on what I think of as my Banarasi astronaut suit: First, I plug up my ear canal snug with my iPod  earphones--sealed shut from dust and noise pollution. Then, I wrap my face and head with a "gamchaa"; kind of a scarf for Banarasi men. Think of it as a male-veil or a scarf for studs. Finally, I put on my sunglasses bought across the street from Manas Temple for 90 rupees ($1.75)--probably NOT UV protected. Oh, well. Then, I roll down my sleeves, get on my noble steed (i.e. a borrowed bicycle), and ride into the blazing sun, heat, noise and swirls of dust. I call it an astronaut suit, but I'm the one that looks like an alien.

Look, it's no joke. Earlier in the week, I went to my friend's house for a funeral reception at his home (the 13th day after the actual funeral ceremony). On the way home, the roads were in the middle of construction. The amount of dust in the air was UNBELIEVABLE. Even though I had my male-veil to protect me, I was coughing non-stop for three days afterward. THREE DAYS, just from dust.

Irony Kills: This is the poster I designed.

Ironically a few days later, there I was helping that same friend design a science poster on none other than "Particulate Matter and Its Impact on Human Health." I looked at him with bitter irony as I pointed out on his poster my own symptoms from inhaling tablespoons of dust on the way back from visiting his home. He listened unfazed, since he was having to take the same route multiple times. That's when you realize it's stupid to feel sorry for yourself.

So, peace at McDonalds. Is that what this post is about? Yes... almost there. Keep reading.

Yesterday. Hot, sweaty, malfunctions. Oh yeah, the journalist mentioned that she had done hundreds of shoots, but this was the first time she experienced so many malfunctions. She had talked with others and they had said they experienced the same--surprising malfunctions while shooting in India. "It's the heat," she claimed.

So have I established the fact that it's hot, dusty and chaotic around here? It is. And I had planned to say more, but let's fast forward a bit and get to the end.

... so that is why I think my friend proposed that we go see a movie. After, of course, one or two chaotic moments getting to the theater in the evening, we finally got to the air conditioned shopping mall and sat in our seats for the film. During the film, there were things that would put Americans into a frenzy; like people talking loudly on cell phones (which, for Americans, is justification for homicide) and a guy going up and down the aisle asking for orders from the snack bar DURING THE MOVIE and not in a whispery voice. However, I ignored those things--focused on enjoying the movie, the overpriced popcorn and time with my friends.

Somehow afterwards we ended up at McDonalds. (YES, FINALLY AT MCDONALDS!)

I pointed out to my friend how there are probably only three things on the Banarasi McDonalds menu that are the same with the US menu: The soft drinks, the french fries and the Filet-O-Fish. The rest of the menu reads like a McDonalds lover's California nightmare: McVeggie Burger, McSpicy Paneer (cottage cheese) Wrap, McAloo Tikki Burger. I ordered a spicy paneer burger myself--a huge slab of fried cottage cheese with special sauce, of course.

The restaurant (I know McDonalds calls itself that, but really... is it a "restaurant"?)... As I was saying... The "restaurant" wasn't to max capacity, but it was still pretty crowded with kids and mostly young guys who had no clue how to form something called "a line" or how to order in a way that makes sense, however the manager taking the orders showed extreme tact and patience.

I can't exactly remember what my friend said, but something like, "This place is driving me crazy." Lately, "[Fill in the blank] driving me crazy" has been a bit of a mantra for my friend. "These kids are driving me crazy." "These mosquitoes are driving me crazy." "This typist is driving me crazy." "Banaras is driving me crazy."

This is the kind of the peace we want.
That's why it is marketable.
That's why I delete this message
every single stinkin' week!

Then he mentioned that his mother noticed this and how she said (something like), "You know what your problem is? Your problem is that you are looking for peace from things outside of you. You need to have internal peace."

You know how you've heard something like 50 million times and it's like you know it but you don't actually know it? Yeah, that's when I slapped the table and said, "Your mom is totally right!"

We talked about how we have everything (food, shelter, friends), yet we are still not at peace. Later, my friend pointed out a little girl quietly twirling in a swivel stool. I joked with him, "THAT is inner peace!" In the chaos of McDonalds, the girl found something that she could enjoy, and it didn't matter what others were doing or thinking.

In fact at times, it is sad to see people grabbing at external sources of peace and happiness, as if they are enough to satisfy us. This includes myself, I guess.

So in the middle of chaotic Banaras--in her dust, heat and mayhem, we're stripped of external sources of happiness. We are Persephone wondering when will and how can I and why is it so freaking hot?

And we have to look for the kind of peace that we didn't want to find.

The kind that says, "Nothing is enough until nothing is enough."


Related post: The holy uncaring cow of peace

The holy uncaring cow of peace

What I learned yesterday was that the remedy to stop the common bull fight in the middle of the road is to throw water on one of the bulls.

You know what I found out?

That doesn't really work.

India in general, but Banaras in particular, lives with animals, large and small, as part of her traffic landscape. Note Exhibit A (photo) below.

Large animals, part of the Indian traffic landscape. Yeah, deal with it.

A couple days ago in the middle of morning traffic two fat bulls, horn-locked, fought aggressively in one of the few gaps in the road divider of Lanka; one of the most congested areas--both in terms of traffic and particulate matter--in Banaras. I was riding my bicycle past the scene as men shouted and people ran for their lives.

One man had a small mug of water that he splashed onto the rump of one of the bulls to somehow magically calm them down but (surprise) to no avail.

Eventually, like in every episode of Animal Planet, one male succumbed and one was the victor, and the cow ran away unfazed.  But unlike the Discovery Channel, this was not in some jungle, this was in the middle of morning traffic.

Mostly, I enjoy the presence of animals in my everyday life. Unlike many, I have not been attacked nor mistakenly poked by any bulls or cows. It's probably due to sheer luck, but I like to think of myself as a "cow whisperer." My friends caution me as a crazy videshi (foreigner) when I approach cows or bulls to pet them.

I think what attracts me is that they are such large animals but very docile. Even in the middle of Lanka traffic honking horns at their tails, they sway at such noise as if walking through serene pastures. Once a friend and I saw a baby calf drinking its mother's milk from the udder in the middle of traffic. My friend said, "Isn't that the most beautiful thing in the world? A baby drinking from its mother's teats." I agreed, awkwardly.

While other animals react to our every move--dogs bark, birds fly off and monkeys scratch their rumps at the sight of us--cows seem the least bit concerned about our presence, as if we're not even there. And maybe that's why I dare to get close to them--I feel invisible.

Maybe I reach out to them because at times I feel they are the only ones at peace in this chaotic world of ours. Sometimes when I pet a cow, she does turn her large face toward me. Maybe they look at us and think, "You're the supreme species in this world, why do you run around and make so much noise? What do you have to worry about?"

Huh.

What do we have to worry about?