On occasion, my father talked about “Flying the Hump” in India during World War II. Whenever he spoke of India, I was enthralled. I, too, wanted to go to India and have adventures. I wanted to see and experience this amazing place for myself.
The closest I could come to emulating my father’s career was to join the airlines as a “stewardess” (that’s what we were called back then—oh, and we were also called “girls”). I had my own set of adventures to exotic places, but not to India. Then, in 2002, my flying career came to an abrupt end when I was severely injured in turbulence.
My father had also lost his flying career when the plane he was dead-heading on crashed short of the runway at Calcutta’s Dum Dum Airport and burst into flames. He never spoke about what the loss of flying meant to him, but I knew it had hit him hard. Struggling with my own injury and loss of my flying career gave me a window into why sadness shadowed my father, and how difficult it was for him to live the remainder of his life—53 years—knowing he would never fly again.
This is the seed from which my trip to India slowly began to unfold. It had been building for a long time, so that when I finally was able to make the trip, it seemed almost to come out of the blue and at lightening speed.
Part of my struggle in coming to grips with the loss of my beloved career involved a spiritual crisis. By the end of my CPE residency I knew I was no longer comfortable defining myself as a Christian. After two years of taking a long, hard look at my life and asking some difficult questions, I took refuge as a Buddhist. Now India had another compelling hold on me: she is the land of The Buddha.
So last November I finally went to India. My first stop was Jorhat, to see where my father had been stationed. It is located in Assam Province and definitely off the beaten path.
The owner of the hotel where I stayed (the only 3-star hotel in Jorhat) was surprised to see that I was travelling alone. Finding out that I am not married was a conversation stopper. (In my experience, Indian people are not shy about asking questions!) So he and his family appointed themselves as my guides and host family for my stay.
November is Durga Puja or Diwali, Festival of Lights. Newly made Durga statues are carried in processions, lights are strung everywhere, and fireworks explode over the cities. My host family decided I should experience Durga Puja by visiting a temple. We drove about an hour to a huge temple complex, containing temples to Shiva, Durga, and Vishnu and a shrine to Ganesha.
As we entered the compound someone grabbed my arm. I turned and saw a Hindu Holy Man, dressed in saffron, sitting in lotus position, hair askew, and markings on his forehead. Before I knew it, he wrapped a blessing string around my right wrist and gently slapped my forehead.
"Oh good! He has Blessed you!" my host exclaimed.
Next, we bought prasad, flowers, and incense and entered the Durga temple. I had no idea what to expect; I just followed my host’s lead as we circumambulated the sacred altar area, sprinkled flowers, offered incense, and rang bells.
When we had finished, the priest, sitting in lotus position, was still chanting, so we stayed a few moments to listen. When he finished, he looked up at me and in perfect English said, “Where are you from?” I hadn’t expected that. I recovered and we had a nice chat about California.
It was hard to leave Jorhat. My host family took such good care of me that I felt quite at home. I had gotten used to the stares—it seems I was the only Western face in town. Indians have a saying, “The guest is god," and everyone I met in India seemed to embody that saying. The hospitality and warmth of the Indian people graced my path at every step.
My next stop was Darjeeling. I wanted to see The Himalayas, the formidable barrier ("The Hump") over which my father flew.
The closest airport to Darjeeling is in Bagdogra, 90 kilometers away. In those 90 kilometers, you ascend 7,000 feet. The road is one lane, masquerading as two, with turns that give new meaning to the phrase “hairpin turn." Because of the monsoon damage, the road is extremely bumpy. By and large, Indians don’t use seat belts; however, they do see a use for them in keeping you in your seat as you bump your way up the hill to Darjeeling! Finally I arrived at my hotel, a former palace of a maharaja. I could learn to live like this...
The next morning I left the hotel at 3:30 am and drove to Tiger Hill to watch the sun rise over the Himalayas. As it ascended, a pink glow spread over the mountains. This first sight of the Himalayas took my breath away. I knew I was in the presence of something profound, with no words to describe it.
Suddenly I realized what I was experiencing: it was Darshan (the blessings communicated through being in the presence of a holy person or place). The entire time I was in Darjeeling, the mountains, especially Mt. Kangchendzonga, and I shared Darshan.
On more than one occasion I found myself whispering a prayer of thanks to the mountains for sparing my father. Only now could I fully comprehend what “Flying the Hump” had meant. These pilots were the unsung heroes of the war, risking their lives in tiny, fragile, and overloaded planes. The weather they encountered was the most severe in the world, making these flights more dangerous than a bombing raid in Germany. So many planes went down that the pilots joked you could follow “the aluminum trail” to China and back.
Time after time, my father and the other Hump pilots quietly did their duty. With inadequate instrumentation, he struggled to keep his aircraft on course. He fought for control of his aircraft, in severe up and down drafts that could toss his plane 1,000 feet or more at a time. I guess you could say that Dad had his own "Darshan" with the mountains.
This trip had one more gift to give me. One morning I went to the Dali Monastery. The student monks were finishing their singing in the plaza in front of the monastery. Suddenly it was if maroon and saffron had been shot from a cannon; young monks scattered everywhere as they ran to their classes.
After the rush was over, I went up to the temple doors only to find that they were locked. I asked an older monk if it was possible to see the temple. He said, no, it was locked. Sadly, I walked away. I found a side chapel and entered. It had a beautiful statue of Manjushri on the altar.
After praying, I turned to go. I looked down and saw what must be the oldest Tibetan monk in the world, sitting in front of a huge prayer wheel. Through gestures, he motioned me to sit down in front of the prayer wheel to his right. I did, and he showed me how to turn it. I closed my eyes and settled into the rhythm of the wheel as I said the mantra, “Om mani pedme hum”.
I lost track of time. A monk gently tapped my arm. When I looked up at him, he asked if I was a Buddhist. I replied that I am. He said he thought so and asked if I had seen the temple. I explained that I hadn’t because it was locked. He said to wait there. Soon, he returned with the key and he took me into the temple.
It was the most beautiful, serene place I have ever experienced. He showed me the 5 huge statues of Buddhas and Bodhisattvas. Standing below the statue of Chenrezig, I looked up. My first thought was, how nice, they painted the eyes so they seem to be seeing you.
Suddenly, something shifted and I knew I was being seen. It was Chenrezig Darshan. Not only did I see Chenrezig, but I was seen by Chenrezig. And not just seen—I was accepted with all of my faults, imperfections, and brokenness. Once again my heart was touched, beating as one with something so much greater than myself.
My life will never be the same. Who knew I would have to travel half way around the world to experience that which is both transcendent and immanent?
Buddhism teaches that nothing lasts forever, that change is the essence of life. I would like to think that through the changes still to come, I do carry something unchanging in my heart and mind—those moments of Darshan, of being in contact with the Holy—that have changed me and continue to work magic in my life.
