I hadn’t done any exercise in four months, and it was showing. A mildly warm day, and several kilometers of hiking ahead. I was already tired, and I knew I was going to continue to feel that way for a long time. It didn’t help that I was wearing jeans too.

We were staying at an upscale lodge a half-hour’s drive above Nanital. Nanital is on the Kumoan side of India’s Uttarakhand state. It is a land of hills and mountains that eventually give way to the Indian and Nepali Himalayas.

Saturday’s itinerary had been much easier — sleeping. After a nightmare Friday night bus ride, we had finally reached our destination. Night transportation is supposed to be for the traveler’s comfort. The bus driver drives, and the passengers sleep. But on this non-AC bus, the bus driver did nothing, and we all watched.

Turns out that the bus owners didn’t want to incur a double toll tax, so they kept us in Delhi until after midnight. If they left and returned to Delhi during the same “day”, they would only have to pay once.
We, of course, were the ultimate victims. What could have been a six hour trip grew to twelve hours in length.

But now I am breathing mountain air and traversing up mountain lands. And once again, a funny thought occurs to me. I could be back in California’s Sierra Nevadas. I could be back in Yosemite. Pine trees, cool(er) air, stone, rocks, dirt.

Only difference? The locals selling chai. A sign outside also offers tooth extraction, STD treatment, and other health-related services.

In high school, we knew the drill. If the university sent you a response in a normal-size envelope, you had been rejected. If your mailbox contained something stuffed with documents, you were on your way to a college education.

Of course, summer language programs don’t necessarily have the same pomp and circumstance. But when I found my acceptance letter in the form of an email in my inbox, I knew that things had come a long way.  I had been accepted into an intensive 3rd Year Hindi program. And I had the American Institute for Indian Studies (AIIS) to thank for their generosity.

All I know is that Jaipur is going to be hot.  Delhi is already up to 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Jaipur is supposed to be “even hotter.”  I shudder to think what that means.  My understanding is that Delhi is expected to rise to somewhere between 110 and 120 degrees by the summer’s peak.  “Even hotter?”

But the good news is that I’ll be safely tucked away with an air-conditioning unit in a Hindi school.  And I’ll be joined by other AIIS students as well.  The program is one of a series of language courses administered by the American organization across India.  Its goal is to provide a support network and resources to those pursuing academic research and PhDs related to Indian studies.

I have fond memories of my first two years of Hindi studies.  I was an undergraduate at UC Berkeley, and one of Professor Usha Jain’s many many students.  The graduate students in my classes were an eclectic bunch.  While I plotted my rise up the student government hierarchy, they attended class diligently — and did their homework.

So now I have my chance to redeem myself.  And get to know a new batch of interesting, eclectic people.  And experience Jaipur heat.  And improve that language that has always bounced around in the back of my head — Hindi.

Scott is working on his second soft serve cone. I’m polishing off my second coke. And Catherine? She’s got her own menu favorite too.

We are now well into Hour #2 at McDonald’s. At Scott’s gentle persistence, we investigated two locations for our fast food fix. When I first heard that Agra, home of the Taj Mahal, had two McDonald’s — well, I was skeptical. Did the autorickshaw driver already know that the first McDonald’s had closed down? We may never know.

If it weren’t for the Taj Mahal and related palatial projects, Agra would just be a hot, dusty city with more than its share of noxious fumes. When I first arrive in Delhi back in late 2007, the capital city was suffering under a temporary air pollution peak. In the city of Agra, it is more like a plateau. A thick, hazy, smoky plateau.

On the ride into town from the train station, our young autorickshaw driver excitedly talks in Hindi about Mayawati, Uttar Pradesh’s chief minister. The state’s elected chief is a woman who hails from low-caste roots, and she is apparently in Agra for a couple of days. She’s here to dedicate a new center bearing the name of Dr. Ambedkar — the historic leader for many of India’s dalits (formerly “untouchables”).

Mayawati got international attention when she came to power through a political alliance of high-caste brahmins and low-caste dalits. International reporters didn’t really know what to make of it, but the headlines were good regardless. Today, many dalits can point to this head of an Indian state with a certain kind of pride.

But the nuts-and-bolts of good governance may still remain elusive. It would be unfair to blame Mayawati for Agra’s longstanding industrial air pollution. But one still wonders if the creeping threat of dirty air is something that leaders locally just accept. In contrast to Los Angeles’ smog alert days, this seems like a full-scale respiratory emergency.

So after a morning spent tromping around the Taj Mahal, we have now escaped to the air-conditioned confines of McDonald’s. The air is clean. There are no merchants asking us to buy Taj-shaped trinkets. There are no autorickshaw drivers insisting that they have a “better” hotel for us — even though they probably do.

Just a lot of shiny, fashionably dressed, upper-income Agra residents getting their McAloo Tikki fix.

Peter and Jessica instructed us on what to do with the white scarves. Hand them to the elder monk to drape over your necks. We were visiting Geshe-La Gendun Samdup and an elder monk who had come from Spiti.

It was a simple home and office space, with beds, a computer, and filing cabinets all competing for space. All tucked into a corner below the winding streets of Dharamsala and Mcleod Ganj. With the Himalayan foothills and the actual Himalayas behind them, looking from a distance.

We were fortunate to have an hour or two with Geshe-La, who was essentially the Tibetan Buddhist equivalent of an advanced PhD in religious studies. He had the shaved head and maroon robes of a monk. While I’m terrible at guessing ages, I’d be surprised if he were more than 10 years older than us. His face beamed with a youthful radiance.

The questions we asked were simple and crazy. What is suffering? How does reincarnation work in the Tibetan Buddhist system of thought? If Tibetan Buddhism endorses the idea that our present lives are the result of past actions, does that justify acceptance of status quo oppression? (“That person may need help and is hungry, but they did something to deserve it in a past life.”)

English was apparently Geshe-La’s third language. First came Tibetan, then came Hindi, and then our Western tongue. And so it wasn’t surprising that Geshe-La didn’t get all the nuances of what we were asking in English. So eventually, I switched to Hindi. I couldn’t have done it six months ago, but suddenly I could ask a basic question about Buddhist thought in a language other than English. And Geshe-La could quickly answer.

As we left, I was reminded that I could meet Geshe-La again. In August, he would be back at the Nechung Buddhist Center in Albany, California. Just a stone’s throw away from San Francisco.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was expecting something out of Star Wars. Or maybe The Lord of the Rings. Some kind of city shrouded in clouds, where the Dalai Lama and his government-in-exile magically weaved Buddhism and international politics together.

It is a good thing that appearances can be deceiving, because when I first arrived in Dharamsala (“THUH-rum-SHAH-lah”) and neighboring Mcleod Ganj, I felt like I was some place else entirely. Sure, the Himalayan foothills loomed over us. And sure, the real snow-capped Himalayas loomed over them.

But the travel brokers, hotels, and hippie tourists gave the town an inauthentic feel. Yes, there were Tibetan flags everywhere. And yes, there were plenty of Tibetan (and a few foreign) monks as well. But the touristy shops seemed to sweep away any kind of geographic mysticism that I was expecting.

Fortunately for my American friends and I, a local guide had befriended us. He was “local” by way of Seattle, but Peter and his Mexican-born wife Jessica had been living in Mcleod Ganj for nearly a year now. He was an international radio journalist, and they were both students of Buddhism.

My friends Scott and Cat had arrived from the U.S. a few days before, and we had all decided to take the 13 hour trip from New Delhi to the Dalai Lama’s home. First, an overnight train through Punjab to the tiny town of Pathankot (“puh-TAHN-coat”). Then, a 2.5 hour taxi ride out of Punjab and into the state of Himachal Pradesh, where thousands of Tibetan exiles had found a tiny corner they could call home.

When a slim Seattle-esque white guy asked us about sharing the taxi, we said yes. And in time, Peter and Jessica would introduce us to the world beyond souvenir shops, guest lodges, and euro-dreadlocks. There is a real community here, and we’ve been fortunate to get a peek.

I am being attacked by ladybugs. They arrive, one by one. They tarry for a bit, getting to know my backpack. Or my jeans. Then they open their red shells and fly away.

I don’t know what it is about this beach that draws the ladybugs. It is a distinctly Indian beach. No bikinis or sun tanners here. Just women in salwar kamizes and men in shirts and swim trunks. And, apparently, camel rides for the kids.

I arrived in Orissa last night. This coastal state to Kolkata’s south is a mix of Oriya and tribal cultures. Here in Puri, a long stretch of beach draws Indian tourists from that city to the north and elsewhere.

Hawkers peddle necklaces made from alleged coral. Village fishermen offer rides on their boats.

And I get to hang out with my ladybug friends.

It took a week, but I finally hit my groove in Kolkata — or “Cal”, as everyone seems to say. “How is Cal?” “Are you enjoying Cal?” My Indian friends’ SMS messages all sound like wierd references to my alma mater, or my home state. But California isn’t the only Cal, and no one is thinking about U.C. Berkeley here. Calcutta is its own center of gravity.A chat with an attractive Swiss woman at an internet cafe leads to a drink at a bar. Kathrin has just finished her nursing degree, and she is spending a few months volunteering at a local NGO. She gets a new experience, and in return, people with leprosy get extra care. Meanwhile, I get a ticket out of social isolation — and into a new world of people.

It is my last night in “Cal,” and I am at a goodbye party for one of Kathrin’s peers. I meet a whole cast of characters. Lyn the Israeli who is returning home. Rahul the German-Indian Hindi teacher from U.C. Berkeley.

And after a few glasses of Swedish “glug,” a song by The Coup comes over the Ipod speakers. I’m surprised to learn that two young Frenchmen at the party like the Oakland hip-hop group as much as I do. We start talking about an angrier slice of East Bay hip-hop — Dead Prez.

My French acquaintances can’t quite relate to the duo’s defiant Black nationalist message. But they do like the Dead Prez song extolling the virtues of a vegetarian diet.

If you are going somewhere important in this massive nation, there’s almost always a perimeter you have to cross. It isn’t the security perimeter that I’m talking about — it’s the human perimeter: taxi drivers, trinket sellers, beggars, and pavement merchants.

I figured the Kalighat Temple would be no different. But as I got off the Kolkata southbound subway, I was proven wrong. Instead of finding a crazy perimeter, I discovered what I can only call a “Zone of Intensification.” The closer I came to the actual murti (religious deity) — the worst it got.

And at the core of the problem? Some of the Hindu pandits themselves.

For Bengali Hindus, Kali is the most revered of the Hindu faces of god. She has various forms, including the popular four-armed figure with fangs, rageful eyes, and a garland of human heads. Destruction, after all, is an important element of the balanced universe.

For some of the pandits who administer the Kalighat ceremonies, though, there is an even more popular deity: the Indian rupee. And as I walked closer and closer to the Kali shrine, I got a first hand taste of the intensity of their faith.

Blocks away from the temple, self-described pandits zeroed in on me, flashing a “registration card” that demonstrated their authenticity. For anywhere from 20 to 50 rupees, they will give you a place to leave your shoes and perform some preparatory Hindu services before you enter the temple. Of course, none of them would take no for an answer.

The first “pandit” was so persistent that I started screwing with him. I slowed down and walked behind him. As he slowed down, I slowed down even more. The second pandit? I told off. The third? I politely declined. But as I finally approached the temple, the fourth started hounding me. I’m not sure how someone who didn’t even look like he had started shaving could be a pandit.

And that was just on the outside. Once I entered the room where the large Kali deity sat, it got worse. There were two lines: one for the regular people, and one for those who paid extra. I took the longer, slower line, but it didn’t matter. When I got to the front, and it was my turn to participate in the Hindu rites, the older pandit in front of the Kali deity began the hard sell. He wanted 501 rupees.

In between applying the tikka (colored streak) to my forehead, and giving me a garland of flowers, he kept asking for the money.

Now 501 rupees ($13) is a lot of money. To put it in perspective, it is 100 rides on the Kolkata subway. It is 20 days of street vendor lunches for a middle class downtown Kolkata worker. It is two drinks at the most expensive bar in town. It is one night’s stay at a midrange hotel. And it is a day’s earnings for one of my Hindi teachers.

But the hard sell continued. The pandit told me how he had been standing there all day working without a drink of water. And he asked for 501 rupees. He told me how Kali was protecting me with all four of her arms. And he asked for 501 rupees.

And before it was my turn, certain others got the same shakedown. One Indian man left the shrine with a look of anger on his face.

At the exact moment when a Hindu is supposed to be contemplating god, I was getting the hard sell from a spiritual hustler. There was no space for a spiritual moment — just a rushed ritual interrupted by frequent mentions of money.

Never before had a visit to a Hindu temple felt so hollow.

Nobel prize laureate Amartya Sen had just finished his lecture when the announcement came: Former Pakistani Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto had been assasinated. Kolkata may be as far from the Indo-Pakistan border as you can get, but it doesn’t really matter.

On the subcontinent, what happens in Pakistan reverberates across India.

I found out about Professor Sen’s lecture in the Metro section of Kolkata’s Telegraph newspaper. And it was in the next day’s edition that I read about a rival ex-prime minister’s trip to Bhutto’s deathbed:

As word of Bhutto’s death spread throughout a shaken and distraught Pakistan, [Nawaz] Sharif rushed to the Rawalpindi hospital where she died and sat silently next to her body. “Benazir Bhutto was also my sister, and I will be with you to take the revenge for her death,” he said afterward, his eyes at times welling up with tears.