In Part 1, I shared the story of how and why I shaved my head while visiting Bodh Gaya in late 2009. As I mentioned in that piece, the following day, I began a Vipassana course at Dhamma Bodhi.
Vipassana is a highly disciplined meditation designed to cultivate equanimity and balance of mind. 10 days of silent introspection – the relinquishing of all 'sensual entertainment'; no speaking, reading, writing, exercise, physical touch nor eye contact – nothing with which to distract the senses.
It is not for the feint of heart.
One must sit for 10.5 hours a day, scanning the body in repeated, shifting patterns, becoming increasingly aware of even the most subtle of sensations – training the mind to simply observe rather than react – to be swayed neither by craving nor aversion; the two primary causes of suffering, according to Gautama Buddha.
It is understood that, through this method, one may perceive the true nature of reality, as experienced within the framework of their physical form. Through dedicated practice, students gain a deeper awareness of 'anicca'; the forever-changing impermanence of all that is – learning to navigate life's peaks and valleys with more equilibrium and grace.
I was no stranger to the rigors of Vipassana; this was my third time 'sitting'. Having found my previous efforts to be difficult yet profoundly rewarding, I was very much looking forward to the valuable insights I believed I'd gain.
On day one, I had full confidence in my tenacity – so committed to doing the work that I chose to remove the mirror from my bathroom. If I truly wanted to turn my focus inward, I felt I had to do away with external reflections; as though the mirror were somehow to blame for my wayward attention.
It was a good idea, in theory – the pairing of my visit to the barber with such rigid self-examination. My intentions were admirable, yet – having never before experienced the acute sensitivity of an exposed scalp – I greatly underestimated the challenges that lay ahead.
Creative Distraction
It was mid-December when the course began. The weather was mild; a touch chilly at night, but comfortable enough.
Though bearable at first, temperatures dropped significantly as the days passed. Traveling only with clothes meant for hot climates, I was ill-prepared and unusually distracted by my increasing discomfort.
While generally a model student, this time – I just couldn't do it.
Despite wrapping myself in layers of thin scarves, I was losing precious warmth through my freshly bald skull. And – try as I might – I was incapable of thwarting the relentlessly hungry, ever-present mosquitos; they simply drank their fill of my apparently delicious scalp, entirely undeterred by the flimsy fabrics I covered it with.
Rather than 'just observing' these unwelcome sensations, my mind continuously wandered to cozier places. I spent countless hours imagining my ideal coat – fantasizing about its warmth – buttoning myself into it during the coldest days – pretending my chilly noggin was wrapped safely in its soft, generous hood. It was all about the hood, really.
As the course came to a close just after Boxing Day, my hair had grown just enough to be soft to the touch. The sun was shining, yet the crisp air was unyielding in its bite, and the jacket...would not let go its steady grip on my mind.
Finding Dada
Back in Varanasi, the weather remained unseasonably brisk and foggy. As I battled the cold, looking rather ridiculous in socks and flip-flops (my only shoes), my idea became an obesssion, compelling me to begin searching the old city, rudimentary sketch in hand.
By mid-January, I'd found a tiny shop owned by a kindly gentleman named Dada. It was little more than a modest stall, really – just a few meters deep and no more than a few across – with bolts of fabric lining the walls, cushions strewn about the carpeted floor and a small table with an old Singer sewing machine near the front; a wordless declaration of the shop's purpose.
Dada was charmingly unapologetic about his higher than average prices, believing, without question, that his tailor – a quiet, exceptionally skilled 4th generation craftsman – was the most capable in all of Varanasi. So steadfast was his conviction, he made me believe it, too.
For several weeks, I spent my days in his shop. I'd linger there for hours, drinking chai and chatting with Dada – learning bits of Hindi – coming to know the smells and sounds of that narrow alleyway.
A Jacket Is Born
I so enjoyed those weeks with Dada – choosing fabrics and buttons and working out subtle details – watching his tailor attentively stitching – marveling as, little by little, my jacket was brought to life.
The design process was relaxed and effortless – simply another means of creative expression, as whimsical and unforced as the sketches that filled my notebook. I was amused, more than anything, by the notion that – what had so recently been little more than a fanciful concept was now a delightfully wearable reality.
The physical manifestation far exceeded my imaginings; a beautiful work of art made of different weights of raw silk, a hidden layer of wool for extra warmth and the embroidered hem of a sari adorning the lining's edge.
Everywhere I went, strangers stopped me to admire my unusual coat, wanting to know where they could get one. More than happy to support Dada, I sent everyone to him...'Just ask for 'Zipporah's jacket!'
In the weeks following the completion of my coat, quite to my surprise, Dada received orders for no fewer than 7 more. Of course, each 'replica' had some flair that made it uniquely its own. No two shared the same fabrics nor colors, yet the basic design was repeated with each one.
Though flattered by the consistently positive response, I had no interest in turning a profit from it, nor did I foresee a continuation of that 'I-must-have-it' reaction.
'You really should sell that...'
I figured the jacket's appeal was isolated to fellow travelers who preferred a uniquely 'indo-western' style. Yet, upon my return from the subcontinent, I experienced the same phenomenon – in Vancouver, BC and San Francisco – with men and women alike – people fascinated enough to stop me on the street to inquire about my jacket.
It happened so often that I actually began to wonder if some sneaky friends were playing tricks on me, sending random people to ask about my coat as they watched from somewhere nearby, giggling at my repeatedly surprised expression!
People often suggested I make more to sell – a notion I didn't seriously consider...until a unique opportunity presented itself in early 2013.
I'll share that story – the tale of how my jacket evolved into a clothing line – in Part 3. Please stay tuned!
