Rashma N. Kalsie - The Buddha And The Bitch: Two Women, Two Worlds, One Practice

Hay House Publishers (India) Pvt. Ltd.
Muskaan Complex, Plot No.3, B-2 Vasant Kunj, New Delhi-110 070, India
Hay House Inc., PO Box 5100, Carlsbad, CA 92018-5100, USA
Hay House UK, Ltd., Astley House, 33 Notting Hill Gate, London W11 3JQ, UK
Hay House Australia Pty Ltd., 18/36 Ralph St., Alexandria NSW 2015, Australia
Hay House SA (Pty) Ltd., PO Box 990, Witkoppen 2068, South Africa
Raincoast, 9050 Shaughnessy St., Vancouver, BC V6P 6E5, Canada

Email:
www.hayhouse.co.in

Copyright 2018 Rashma and Phebe

The views and opinions expressed in this book are the authors' own and the facts are as reported by them. They have been verified to the extent possible, and the publishers are not in any way liable for the same.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, by any mechanical, photographic, or electronic process, or in the form of a phonographic recording, nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted, or otherwise be copied for public or private use other than for fair use as brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews without prior written permission of the publisher.

The authors of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the authors is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself which is your constitutional right the authors and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Rashmas photo credit: Karanvir Singh
Phebes photo credit: Connie Springer

Women Writing for (a) Change is a registered trademark for a non-profit writing organization based in the U.S.

ISBN 978-93-86832-39-9
ISBN 978-93-86832-40-5 (e-book)

Printed and bound at
Rajkamal Electric Press, Kundli, Sonipat, Haryana (India)

RASHMA

This book is dedicated to my husband who has been supporting and funding my writing for over a decade, to my brothers for being there for me in my writing journey, and to my daughter who wants me to write like J.K. Rowling.

PHEBE

To all my writing sisters in the Thursday morning classes at Women Writing for (a) Change.

Rashma

At the start of every journey is the fear of the unknown. Our lifes first journey begins with a sense of lossdont babies cry at birth?

I was anxious the night before the Pondicherry trip which was slated for November 2013. Not terrified, just mildly nervous. My travel companion, a senior American woman, depended on me to tackle devious touts, agents, cabbies, and other such pestilence one encounters on travels. I was solely responsible for my co-travellers safety in a country considered unsafe for women. Had I been a jet-hopping corporate woman, I wouldnt have been so ruffled. But I am a technologically challenged, absentminded woman who loses her way every now and then. I was apprehensive about our trip, fearing we would board a wrong flight or not find the hotel we had booked or run into some unforeseen calamity.

***

I am a conflicted writer, a tad unsure whether I am pursuing a profession contrary to my talents. I was plagued by self-doubt when I had started writing two decades ago. It seemed to me that the whole universe was conspiring against my dream. There were no avenues, no mentors, not even a word of encouragement. I wasnt dreaming of Broadway or Bollywood. My small dream was to become a writer (of sorts). In my kind of homes, aspirations end with a job because poetry is too abstract for the plebeian class. Most girly dreams are emasculated by the ticking clock of age. My ambition was limited to publishing short stories in popular magazines. Writing novels seemed like an elitist occupation pursued only by the superior pedigree of human species. As for the plays, they seemed to be the handiwork of gods. All the reputed Indian authors, barring the ones who wrote in the vernacular languages, were either alumni of an esteemed foreign university or were born of illustrious parents. By virtue of their lineage or education, and in most cases both lineage and education, these celebrated authors had had a close association with the colonial language and literature at a young age. Unlike these big daddies of writing, I had no grounds for cultivating ambition. I was a bird in the cage who had clipped her wings because she had nowhere to fly.

Eventually, I published a novel after turning 40. Ohh! Gods Are Online (published 2013) was co-written with an English gentleman, Phil Cherry, whom I have never met in person. I had friended Phil on Bibliofaction, a website for short story writers. Ohh! Gods Are Online had started as a writing game. Phil and I decided to write one chapter a time without discussing the plot or even the characters. We were writing to each others chapters with no clue about the storyline. But I did not start writing my first novel because I had found any new confidence in my talentperhaps it was the fear of approaching midlife that had pushed me to write.

When I met Phebe, I was writing the aforementioned novel and toying with the idea of applying for grants to stage my play, The Lost Dog. I was struggling to express my inner world; ten years of self-imposed exile and faceless existence had eroded my confidence. Phebe, the teacher who became a friend, arrived in my life when I was reclaiming my lost self.

***

Even before I had a chance to ease in the taxi, the driver, clad in a thick shawl, unsettled me. Which terminal, madam? he asked.

Start the car and keep going. I will tell you in a bit, I replied immediately, worried about making a poor impression on the driver. Phebe and I scanned the ticket to no avail.

Domestic terminal for Indigo, I said firmly.

Dont worry madam, well figure it out at the airport.

I realised I had done grave injustice to womankind by reaffirming a patriarchal mans worldview where women depend on men to run their lives. Later in the day, he was sure to regale his friends with the story of two women who had hailed his taxi without knowing which terminal to board their flight from.

After checking-in my duffle bag and undergoing a brisk security check, we sauntered to the waiting hall. I scanned the flight information display board in the hall to check for any last-minute gate changes. No sooner had I scanned the LCD screen than I realised we were on the Delhi-Kochi flight with a short stopover at our destinationChennai. All along I had presumed we were on a direct flight and this new revelation jolted me. My writers imagination broke loose. I fretted that my bag would land in Kochi and I would lose my inexpensive clothes and precious books. I was clueless as to how to claim my bag and in which city would I have to claim it, just in case such a problem arose. I ran to the information counter at the other end of the hall. The young man behind the counter examined the sticker on my boarding pass and said with the off-hand attitude men have towards women, Dont worry, your bag will get off the flight with you. I had goofed up twice already. At the start of our journey two men had told me, Dont worry, which implied, Poor ignorant women!

***

During our online chats, Phebe and I had sown the seed of our wish to travel together and write a book. I was poised to live three dreams: travelling with a friend, writing a book, and revisiting Pondicherrya town I had fallen in love with on my first visit. Our journey was not an instance of serendipity; it was a contrived act of free will. Free will of two women who wanted to write a book because they believed they should preserve and share the treasure of their dialogue.