Momos in soup at the Tibetan Om CafÈ, Bodhgaya, a locale particularly favoured by out-of-town spiritual questers dropping by that holy city. Not only is it a fabulous spot for the sceptical eavesdropper, it is a fine, flea-free, low fee place to eat. The soup was full of garlic, green chilli and some kind of leafy weed, a hearty, nay, pugilistic counter to the chilly, depressing situation outside and, indeed, to the drippy sanctimony of the clientele.
Barely visible in the background is an excellent glass of strong milky filter coffee. The Om crowd stopped comparing meditation stories for a few moments as it was brought to me, the punchy aroma of coffee in the morning briefly obscuring the incense burning in the corner. As their eyebrows fell and their gazes turned from my glass and back to their own, full of chai, hot ginger and lemon, Tibetan tea and lassi (salty, no doubt), I wondered whether the mild stimulus afforded by coffee drinking was viewed with some chagrin in this sacred place. Was mine a paranoid reaction? Hard to say, but in the half second before the puzzled, slightly disapproving glances stopped and the dharma chatter resumed, every demon in my chart urged me to yell out, Dudes, it’s my karma, right?, like some obnoxious precocious adolescent diva in a coming of age film set in Northern California. I kept the noise down and concentrated on broadcasting the vibes via my cosmic ham radio instead.
Barely visible in the background is an excellent glass of strong milky filter coffee. The Om crowd stopped comparing meditation stories for a few moments as it was brought to me, the punchy aroma of coffee in the morning briefly obscuring the incense burning in the corner. As their eyebrows fell and their gazes turned from my glass and back to their own, full of chai, hot ginger and lemon, Tibetan tea and lassi (salty, no doubt), I wondered whether the mild stimulus afforded by coffee drinking was viewed with some chagrin in this sacred place. Was mine a paranoid reaction? Hard to say, but in the half second before the puzzled, slightly disapproving glances stopped and the dharma chatter resumed, every demon in my chart urged me to yell out, Dudes, it’s my karma, right?, like some obnoxious precocious adolescent diva in a coming of age film set in Northern California. I kept the noise down and concentrated on broadcasting the vibes via my cosmic ham radio instead.
1 comment:
ahahahahaha.
I really wanted to go to BG on my way to EU. maybe on return. at least i know now i didnt miss out on the Om crowd. they were last near Byron realigning eachothers chakras.
jedna kava, prosim.
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