Reflections.....

A week back in New York and my world as I know it has blown up and I am left picking up the smoldering, dismantled pieces. Ironically, prior to my departure, I asked for this, prayed to be challenged and pushed, to be forced to change my life. As expected, God responds and has rocked me to the very core. Spending the last week digesting the magnitude of the trip, I attempt to sort out my emotions and adjust back to America. To be honest, I am struggling, as I am so internally affected by India, by the culture and alternative means of living. Consequently, I am unable to resort back to my previous ways, for my perspective is inevitably altered, my eyes now wide open. Changes are eminent and I am slowly uncovering the depth of what I experienced on my incredible adventure. As my final blog entry, I reflect back on all the lessons I receive as a result of exploring India. Some are novel, never revealed to me prior to this journey. Others have been reoccurring, lessons I know all too well but may have lost sight of and in need of reminding. Regardless, I am touched profoundly, in ways never before witnessed and feel the intense responsibility to share with others what is transpiring within the depths of my soul.

The best decision of my life thus far is to leave the comfortably familiar and venture around the world. If New York is the center of the universe, then India is its pulsating heartbeat. Despite my limited travels, I am insanely, passionately, irrationally in love with this country. Triangularly jutting into the Indian Ocean, this is an energetic land of sensory overload. The steamy subcontinent of mountains, deserts and lush coastlines overflows with life. The vibrant people, manifesting truth in their eyes and joy in their hearts, are the most beautiful beings I have ever encountered. They are a more primitive society, valuing the simple things and enjoying each day's process. There is a palpable collective consciousness, not individualistic like much of the Western world, but energetic, alive and graceful. I feel their warmth and wisdom permeate the air. India is a scintillating array of food, festivals, and feelings layered with spice and sweat. As my henna designs fade, I struggle to keep my Indian spirit alive, dressing in brightly colored clothing and scarfs, wearing my bindi on the streets of Manhattan, sitting in my meditation room surrounded by new treasures. I am unable to resist eating with my hands, drinking Chai with my afternoon snack, and constantly prowling for Indian restaurants. When I am particularly homesick, I light my incense and play native music, transporting myself back to the hot, humid land of love, whose roots are embedded in the truth of our existence. I recall the overwhelming beauty that seeps into everything, for it is the most magical place of insurmountable spirit. I look forward with great anticipation to the day I return. I know with conviction that my origins lay embedded somewhere within the thick, rich Indian soil.

With a refreshed perspective, it is strikingly apparent that this world is in utter disarray, an asylum of politics, greed and misplaced priorities. We foolishly believe the causes of sufferings are external to the self, when in truth everything lies within and is available at any moment. The misery we experience is a result of missing ourselves, attention fixed on mistaken identities and self-limiting beliefs. We attempt to control every gesture, stifling and judging every impulse, alienating us farther away from our true nature. As a universal consciousness, we are disconnected from the scaredness of our own being. Stuck in disharmony is every emotion, thought and muscle. We must abandon all memory and imagination, our allegiance to the past and future, and remain rooted in the present. Every single human being is responsible for the mindless ignorance that pervades our world. We reside in absolute darkness, high on ego and possessions, unaware of reality. The problems prevail because we think we are separate, creating an oppressive and defensive environment, overflowing with disquietude and isolation. Allowing our heads rather than our hearts to lead, we miserably run crazed in absolute indecision and confusion. The mind is forever trying to control, redundant and dull with its patterns, rituals, routines. It believes itself and consequently, binds us down and shackles our spirits. The only real freedom is freedom from the mind, from suffocating conditions. We are the unknown and must learn to use the mind but never be used by the mind. I refuse to be mutilated by the majority. Truth is never the masses, it is the individual, the few and rare. The heart is always total without divisions. The whole of existence is divine. It is vital we try not to escape from situations, but rather become more aware, striving to be in the world and not a product of it. Uncover the latent good within. Begin to understand the spellbinding, mysterious self. Fall in tune with your soul and quench the craving for the real, impassioned connection with the divine. Do not miss the utterly rapturous gift of your being.

I understand more fully that Yoga is the way to overcome the mind and its limitations, not exclusively held to twisty poses and standing on my head, but rather the mystic union of the self. Developed by courageous people who denied blind faiths and the convenience of religions, yoga focuses on investigating the wantonness of my innermost being. It is a science of subjectivity, a means to understand my own nature in order to develop a strong foundation where all other relationships emerge. I am ready to become a wanderer of my consciousness, developing the discipline to be a free spirit. Self-examination through this practice will reveal my true essence. I am wiping off the layers of grime from my thoughts, impressions, and desires in order to live a simple and natural life, a creative life where individual growth is the focus. I understand it does not happen within relgions or universities, for these are prisons of morality followed out of fear. I realize no priest or Bible promise can help me attain the inner transformation I seek; rather, I must have trust and confidence in myself, for this journey is made alone. The real examination will be the universe itself. To succeed, I must remain sensitive, allowing myself to feel uncomfortable as I move away from the mind and closer to the heart. I am prepared for it to come to me and through me, letting the ego evaporate, with the intention of being unconcerned with ambitions and desires but instead saturated with love, peace, and emptiness. God speaking directly to me and the trust I have in that voice is my religion.

I am discovering my life passions and pursuits, my true purpose for this life. As a genuine creator, I am a vehicle possessed by the untamed forces of God. Work that is my love and prayer. Through it I find my being, as a mirror that reflects back. A passionate affair in which I gain absolute fulfillment, where my whole life is worship. Society may not pay so although I chance remaining poor, it is a risk worth taking because my inner riches will cascade forth from my core. I am unable to settle or make concessions, for whatever I feel to do, I must do. No one grants permission because living is free and accessible to everyone. We are given life but our responsibility is to create meaning out of it. Existence precedes essence for one organic unity. First, I must change my inner climate in order to become a infinite source of positive energy. That in effect will reach others by its own accord. My very energies will thus spread forth to all the world. Wherever I go, I bring that atmosphere with me.

I am aware that the most important thing is to be true to myself, to fall into my own being and listen to the inner voice that whispers, however quiet and muffled. I follow my instincts, whims, and whatever attracts me even if I am lead off the beaten path, for this is truly where life resides. I am undergoing a revolution of my heart, and in doing so, must remain rooted in myself. As much as I love travel, I understand that there is no where to go; I carry all that is necessary within at every moment. Allowing that which is hidden to be manifested, my deepest being flows through me . I am aready carrying the seed, we all are, albeit in need of the proper care and nourishment.

Traveling reveals to be fully alive, I accept the possibility of being lost, the uncertainty of the unknown, the discomfort and inconvenience of the unfamiliar. I will not remain paralyzed by fear. No one can insure my life. In our world, nothing is guaranteed. If it were, the thrill disappears; we stagnant and die. I can no longer pretend to be asleep. Life is beautiful because it is insecure, because there is death, because it can be missed. I am allowing myself to be enticed towards adventure, seduced into living dangerously and accepting the call of the unexplored. I am on the move, never anchored anywhere. I refuse to settle into security, comfort zones and safety nets. I will not be a part of the human dis-ease. My road and principles are not fixed beforehand. I am choosing to flow naturally; that will be my way.

And when I am able to live with my heart in charge and my soul leading the way, my life will become a love story. If I carry the light within, then there is no fear. Darkness can reign outside. Better to be cold and remain with truth than surrounded by lies and feel warmth. My light is sufficient; it illuminates my path. For I have within my being the inexhaustible sources of energy, the enduring and mysterious power of life. I am a seeker of truth, I follow no set path for this is not a journey, but a let-go. Unburdened by my past, unconcerned with my future, I experience the real and become a witness. Utterly drunk with God. I allow my heart to be the real source of my strength, overriding any situation, thought or belief. As long as I follow it in the effort to find the truth of life, then nothing can prevent it. Growth is a responsibility. Great courage is necessary. I must live an authentic life. Welcome to my heart.

The New York Noose

Over twenty-four hours of travel time, we land in New York. It is 7am in the morning, rainy and overcast. Not exactly the homecoming I am expecting, hoping that spring and warmth would welcome me. My parents pick me up, overjoyed and relieved, as we hug tightly, making up for lost time. They are amazed about my changed appearance, the golden tan and nose piercing, tattoo and bindi fixed upon my forehead. We share a car ride back to my apartment where I fill them in, gushing about the incredible events of the trip. It is so good to see my parents; they are what I missed the most.

After several difficult trips of carrying my suitcases up my five-story walk-up, I am left to unpack and settle in. I painstakingly go through everything, carefully uncovering all the treasures I have accumulated over the past month. Three hours later, I am ready to venture out to the grocery store to restock my kitchen. Up and down the aisles, I scour for anything resembling Indian food. I am repulsed by many of my old favorites and feel desperate to find the fruit, vegetables, spices and sauces that have become part of my daily diet. I spend a large part of the afternoon, rummaging up and down the aisles, spending an extended amount of time in the ethnic food section. I make some small joyous discoveries. Papaya and mangoes, lentils, shredded coconut and okra. I find packages of Indian spices to douse on vegetables and recipes to make Goan shrimp and chicken Tikka Masala. I feel like a child on Christmas morning with the array of goodies in my basket. That, however, is short lived when I reach the checkout counter and the cashier informs me that my bill is one hundred and thirty dollars for my measly two bags of groceries. I damn near fall down in shock. I did not pay that much for the entire MONTH of meals! There has to be some mistake. I am suddenly slapped with the stark reality of New York prices. I forgot momentarily how expensive this city is, how absurdly priced something as basic as food costs. I am certainly missing my wad of rupees right now.

After my makeshift meal of bananas, cashews and shredded coconut, I decide to take a walk through my neighborhood, reacquainting myself with the sights and smells. Every other time in my life, I have been happy to come back to the city after a vacation. Usually, I see the New York skyline and my heart leaps, for I know this is my home. Something has changed this trip. I do not feel the love I once had from this city. It is possible for it to return, as I am sure it will over time, but today, it seems cold, harsh and lonely. The foggy skies thicken everything, as I sense how depressed and unhappy people are here. I cannot find a friendly face as I stroll down Broadway. Barely anyone even makes eye contact, as all of my smiles go unnoticed. Occasionally, I feel judging eyes stare at me, questioning my new vibrant wardrobe and Indian jewelry. I am unphased, as I intend to keep the internal bond I have made to Mother India.

Traveling offers an amazing perspective. Being away for a month, I gain so much clarity about how we, as Americans live. I ride the subways and witness the mindlessness of this place, the lack of human contact, lack of empathy. More than half the train is entranced with his or her cell phone, blackberry or ipod. Everyone in their own head, absorbed with thoughts, not present and lacking any awareness of surroundings and others. I feel like I am in a crowd of robots, half dead and dying slowly. We live in such an unnatural environment, trees replaced by steel rods of buildings. Under too much stress and priorities asked, it is no wonder misery pervades. Americans think they have problems here, which I am sure many of them do. I am not trying to diminish the strife anyone experiences in life. But back in India, most people are concerned with survival, basic needs of shelter and clothing and their next meal. Many of them have no more than the shirt on their back but they exhibit more happiness than the millionaires that run this city. Before leaving for this trip, I was one of them. Concerned with the pettiness of my simple life, thinking my problems are gargantuan when really they pale in comparison to most of the outside world. I always knew how fortunate I was, to be born in this country, to have the freedom and monetary means to live as I please. But now, it rings true even more so than ever.

A few days and already I feel the New York City noose tighten around my neck. I am fighting to keep my free spirit alive and kicking, not burdened down by the weight of Western mentality. I am focusing on being rather than doing, attempting to avoid the rushing, crazy energy of this place. I take solace in the newly decorated peace room, where I retreat whenever I feel strangled by the city.

I know that I have a choice on how to live. I can easily slip back into the rat race, focusing on how many hours I need to work and how much money there is to be made. Or I can live more naturally, more creative and in-tune, taking time to meditate or walk in the park or write a poem. I do not have to live in my self-contained, self-absorbed bubble of existence. I can take a minute to smile at a passer-by, to slow down my walking pace, to really enjoy the simpler things in life.

It's in the bag!

I was warned before arriving not to over pack, to bring only a few things that were absolutely necessary. But of course, my city girl instincts insisted that I pack an abundance of cute outfits with matching jewelry, shoes and bags. I did, however, bring a half-filled suitcase, at Sebastian's advice, for he knew that I would shop and need extra room to bring back all my purchases. Little did I know how much I would actually buy! When it came to packing, I was in a world of trouble. I had mounds of stuff but no way to get it home. Our first attempt, I packed up a huge cardboard box and went to the post office to try and send it. Over a hundred dollars and a two-week wait helped me decide otherwise. Alice Auntie made countless phone calls to the Air India in the hopes to find out the permitted number of bags and weight allowances. Inevitably, it was one hundred and twenty five dollars for each additional bag and a fifty-dollar charge if over the weight limit. After hours of strategic planning, when all my stuff was eventually packed, I unfortunately had three suitcases, one large box, one stuffed duffel bag and one extremely heavy backpack. Trying to just fit all of our bags in the car was a feat, having to sit on Sebastian's lap because the baggage was stuffed into the trunk and wedged onto the seats.

I was forced to check two extra bags and Sebastian had to pay for one extra heavy suitcase. In total, we spent three hundred dollars just to get our belongings to New York. For all the money I saved on the great deals and bargains, I spent at the airport on their exorbitant fees. I know better for next time. Bring much less clothes and accessories, for all the more room to load up on Indian goods!

Family Ties

Despite the five states we cross, through all of the adventures of traveling and exploring, as well as all the diverse people we encounter, the best moments of the entire trip occur in the quiet comfort and warmth of Sebastian's grandmother's home. What a gift to have such a unique opportunity to live in a true native's house and experience day-to-day living. Though Ammachi is Malayalam for mother, it is the name Sebastian and his family call their maternal grandmother. Advancing in age, I feel thankful to meet her. Our very first encounter is quite comical, as she motions for me to kneel down next to her chair face to face, so she can get a good look at me. With a slight shrug of the shoulders, she tells Sebastian, "not bad." We all laugh and I come to know this very funny, endearing matriarch. Standing slightly slumped, with a rounded upper back, Ammachi is a strikingly beautiful woman, with burnt chestnut skin that maintains it's youthful glow, especially in her rounded, cherub cheeks. She usually dresses in a long white nightgown with delicate flowers adorned throughout, although on special occasions she chooses from her extensive collection of saris. Her smile, however infrequent, warms the room and infects all that surround her. She has a missing tooth on the right side of her mouth, further augmenting her character. Ammachi's hair is silvery gray, streaked with white highlights, shoulder length with gentle waves. She usually wears it pulled back in a low ponytail, which to me resembles the tail of a cute little dog. My favorite feature is her eyes, big and bright, that speak volumes of wisdom and truth and experience. Her life can be seen through the chocolate brown irises, a life of love and family. Speaking in broken English, I make out a few words but mostly relay on other family members to translate. She says the Rosary five times a day, a faith that both amazes and inspires, as I feel her depth and conviction. Ammachi has two favorite television programs she watches, daily Mass and Animal Planet, sitting on her couch, feet raised, with a giant pair of headphones on, resembling more of a hip-hop DJ than a grandmother. I cannot help but laugh every time I see her with the gigantic black headset on. She has a specific routine for meals, using a large silver plate with different compartments so she can keep her food in separate piles. Next to the plate, she keeps a small tray, filled with curry leaves she picks out of the different dishes and small pieces of mango pickle. Occasionally, she belches, loud and proud, and we all get a good chuckle from her lack of inhibition. She wears a simple pair of studded earrings, a long gold chain, one bracelet and one watch, which she takes off at mealtimes. Although in need of assistance to move around the house, she only allows one of her daughters to help and refuses the offers from Sebastian and I. As the month progresses, I feel myself growing closer to this woman, my connection to Sebastian's origin, as I accept and transform deeper into the Indian culture. After every shopping venture, I am excited to return home and show her all my authentic purchases. I am happy she notices my bangles, my henna, and my jingling anklet. She approves of my nose ring and likes that I clean my plate after every meal. We do not have much physical contact, except on the last day, when she affectionately touches my hair, not realizing she is actually touching my heart.

Ammachi's house reflects the cordiality and love that emanates from her being. Large and spacious, it has high ceilings, numerous windows for allowing in the natural light, and a functional yet classy design. Creamy ivory with brown accents of the outside, the house sits at the top of a short, rocky driveway, pass a beautifully ornate iron gate. There is a front porch with two wicker chairs and a table, where Ammachi sits and reads the paper, snacking on some fresh, local fruit. A back porch overlooks the small but dazzling garden, abounding with green trees and plants, a cage with an array of colorful birds, a house for the watchdog, Chikku, the black Labrador. The most perfect seat is the rocking chair, off to the corner that overlooks the entire space. I spend many an afternoon, rocking, contemplating and observing life in the garden. The interior walls are rosy pink, accented with mauve marble floors and cherry wood red furniture. Four bedrooms, each with its own bathroom allow for plenty of personal space and privacy. There is a communal living room, and eat-in kitchen where we share all the meals, as well as a side kitchen where the food is masterfully prepared. My favorite feature of the house is the large square skylight that hangs over a stone surrounded pond full of coy fish. Because the skylight remains open, when it rains,it streams through the two-story house and splashes on the water's surface. I also love the rooftop, perfect for tanning since it gets the full force of the Indian sun with little cover or protection. It is a welcoming house, allowing me to feel as ease and at home , making for a very smooth, easy transition from New York.










During my month stay, I also become very well acquainted with Alice Auntie, Sebastian's mother's sister. What strikes me the most about this woman is her beauty, the roundness of her face of crisp sienna skin and full rosy cheeks. She has long, thick black hair, usually worn pulled back in a low bun. Alice Auntie also has beautiful eyes, richly dark and inviting, a feature that welcomes and pulls me in. She has a mole on the right side of her nose, a characteristic that amplifies her beauty. Her smile, big and bright, has the power to uplift spirits and infect all those around her, something of which I am most attracted. She wears colorful Indian salvar kameezes, draped to the knee and a loose pair of complimentary pants. Simple, good jewelry adorn her neck and wrists, as well as a circular pair of stud earrings. The best thing about Alice Auntie is her laugh, her humor, how after something funny is said, she falls back into her chair in a belly laugh, hands drawn to cover her mouth, crackling like a young school-age girl. Her laugh is absolutely infectious; every time I hear it, I break out into hysterics. Additionally, she is a multitalented woman. I have tasted her exquisite cooking, seen her bargain with stubborn salesmen, care for her mother with such ease and grace, make her own jewelry, sew her own clothes, and share so much knowledge about this country. Similar to myself, Alice Auntie is always hungry, nibbling on some tasty snack that she delivers up to our bedrooms. Just like my own mother, she holds my hand during the nose piercing and reminds me always to wash my hands before meals. Paying close attention to detail, she notices my Indian transformation, complimenting my outfits and matching jewelry. Her generosity touches me, surprising me with little gifts or treating us to a good meal. She has a relaxed, calm energy so that nothing disturbs her peace of mind. Something about her reminds me of an angel. I think it may be her big, open heart.



Chandran, Ammachi's driver, is particularly one of my favorite people I meet on this trip. My first real non-family Indian I encounter, I am taken back by his eagerness to please. A small man within his miniature frame, Chandran's kindness has no bounds. He wears a short sleeve, light colored button down shirt over a plain white mundu, usually worn to his feet. His shoes are open sandals and he wears a watch on his left arm, with the dial underneath his wrist, rather than on top. He has tan, shiny skin on his elongated face, pronounced more so by his receding hairline which forms a bushel of curls at the base of his neck and a thick beard around his face. His eyes remind me of a child, sweet and innocent, while his nose resembles that of a parrot beak. His grin is goofy and friendly, revealing a mouthful of different color and oddly shaped teeth. Chandran is a master at the infamous Indian head wiggle, a gesture of greeting, acknowledgment, and acceptance. I learn this skill by first observing and then mimicking him. He is forever scurrying about, jumping into action before hearing the full set of instructions. There is a slight nervous energy about him, mostly from his desire to do his work well and fast. When he speaks, Chandran raises his left arm and rotates his wrist, as if unscrewing a light bulb. I am unaware as to why he does this, but nevertheless it is quite endearing. I am flattered and happy when he calls me Madame, when he opens the car door for me every single time we venture out, and when he happily acknowledges the my internal change taking place. I always opt to sit in the front seat next to him, an unusual choice in this country but I do not concern myself with divisions between the server and served. I enjoy watching him drive, careful attention to making the sure the car as well as the passengers are safe. He is usually unsure of the routes and we get lost quite a few times, but through his unyielding efforts, perseverance, and countless stops to ask for directions, we always arrive to our destination. Any time he is picking us up, he appears out of nowhere as soon as we are ready to live, scampering quickly to the parked silver Ambassador, eagerly awaiting our return. It is obvious he has a heart of gold, as well as immense respect and love for Ammachi and her family.

Lastly, however the minimal interaction, I must acknowledge Kumari, Ammachi's personal cook, as well as Mollymanti and Kuttichenuncle, Sebastian's other aunt and uncle. Mostly the anonymous presence in the cooking kitchen, Kumari consistently prepares the most delicious foods I eat in India. The range and variety of ingredients, spices, and creativity blows me away at every meal. We have difficulty communicating due to the language barrier, but I feel a connection to her nevertheless. Very unassuming and reserved, she keeps her place in the kitchen, preparing recipes that she learned firsthand from Ammachi. Dressed always in a traditional sari, usually in white and with a back dot perfectly centered on her forehead, there is grace and beauty in her face. I sense she has lived somewhat of a difficult life or something burdens her soul, but I am unable to determine what. She has the most beautiful smile, especially when I fumble in Malayalam to tell her how much I enjoy her cooking. I usually display my squeaky clean plate as evidence.

Mollymanti, Alice Auntie's older sister, is the leader of the group and responsible for designing Ammachi's lovely home. Now retired, Mollymanti and Kuttichenuncle spend half the year in India and half in the states, visiting their grandchildren. In doing so, she knows all the best local places in Trivandrum to obtain whatever we request, from fabric stores to train tickets to piercings. Though our time together is fleeting, I am impressed by how well she runs the household and keeps everyone and everything running smoothly. Kuttichenuncle, Mollymanti's husband, is the most soft-spoken man I ever met, at times barely audible. As a former doctor and avid reader, he is a man of great knowledge and wisdom. What sticks out the most, what I recall with most clarity is the gentleness of his eyes, the softness of his demeanor as though he is a big, lovable teddy bear. He walks daily and practices yoga, something I would have liked to do with him if time permitted. Both Mollymanti and Kuttichenuncle left within the first several days of our arrival, but I do wish we had the opportunity to spend more time to get to know each other better.

For the month, these people become my family, with whom I feel safe, accepted and loved. Feelings of being homesick are not present, for my new family surrounds me here. I feel so fortunate to be a part of such a big circle of love, to be included as an outsider and treated like an insider. Not for one moment do I feel awkward or uncomfortable; rather, I feel at ease, welcomed, and at home. When I reflect back on India, I will take the most solace in the moments I spend with Ammachi and her crew, in the countless meals shared over the kitchen table, laughing while eating mounds of Kumari's cooking in our hands. I will never forget the afternoons, when lunch is full in our bellies, when the house is peacefully quiet, each of us retired to our own respective rooms for a short nap before coffee and snacks. When I think of India, this will be in the forefront of my mind. I have been given such a rare opportunity, such an incredible gift to live in Ammachi home, to know her and Alice Auntie on a more personal, deeper level, and to experience Keralian life as close to as native as possible. I am saddened to leave this place, to depart from my new family, having to give up living in such a beautiful home. I know I will be back. In my bones, I know it.

What Will be Missed

O India...
My new found love

How I will miss you
As I fly above
For now I know you are my roots
In your soil, reveal my truths
I will miss those burning dark native eyes
The annoyance of mosquitos and buzzing flies

Jeweled bindis worn with pride
My new relaxed walking stride
Long black braids down sari backs
Piles of goods atop heads stacked

Stray dogs and cows blocking streets
The electricity of my heart's beat

The unrelenting, burning skin heat
Walking barefoot with dirty feet

Bargaining for the cheapest price
Every meal eating mounds of rice
Afternoon naps cool under the fan
Digging my toes into the shore sands

Sweet, warm cups of chai
I love this land, I cannot lie

The adventures of the infamous rails
Washing myself with water in a pail
The persistent, drenching sweat
Savory foods that I will never forget
Coconut chutneys, spicy sambar and chicken curries
Never feeling rushed or in a hurry

Learning how to just be
As I rock under the shade of palm trees

Practicing yoga in the day's early light
Not worried about training for a fight

Reading books and writing poems
Hearing my mother's voice whenever I call home
Uncovering my life's next step
Appreciating the beauty and this land's great depth

Countless people coexisting without strife
Truly these are the best days of my life

I will miss the city bustle of Bangalore
Not a single moment of feeling bored
The Kerala backwaters down a river I float
So warm outside, no need for a coat

The majestic cape in Tamil Nadu
The ocean waters in Goa, so blue

The vibe, the energy, the love in this place
How it helps me uncover a different face
Allowing me to look within and take stock
My inner most feeling beginning to unlock
I am happy, alive and in love with this land
All I want to do is travel and expand

And share the gifts I have been blessed
Please excuse if I become obsessed
India shows me the secret and key to living
Spreading love, it's all in the giving.

Trade Routes

Back in Kerala, we try and slow down time. Only a few days remain before our eminent departure. It feels good to be back at Sebastian’s grandmother’s home, our headquarters throughout the trip. We spend time sun tanning on the roof, enjoying delicious meals, and tying up loose ends. We visit local shops to purchase last minute Indian goodies before returning home. Our first stop is Chips, a store specializing in a slue of sugary candies, fried fruits and vegetables, and spicy, crunchy puffed bits with peanuts known as mixture. Walking into the store, I am bombarded with the sweet, enticingly scrumptious smell of freshly fried bananas cooking in the front window. I stock up on several bags on this salty, flat chip, as well as different kinds of mixture and India’s infamous cashews. I can’t resist buying some ladu, my new favorite treat, as well as caramel covered peanuts coated in sesame seeds. Two steps out the door and my self-control wanes. I break open a bag and start nibbling, taking pleasure in the deliciously addictive snacks. It is impossible to eat just one.

Next stop is the spice store. I have come to love Keralan food so much that I decide to learn how to cook my favorite dishes. Surrounded by stacks of seasonings, I feel overwhelmed by the countless array of choices. Luckily, Alice Auntie helps me select all the essentials. Coriander and cardamom, vibrant orange turmeric, tiny brown sticks of cloves, sweet smelling cinnamon, and plump black pepper corns. I load up on nutmeg, my new favorite, as well as dried red chili peppers, skinny twigs of vanilla, and the adorable shaped starinas. The anxiety of going home and not being able to eat Indian food lessens, as I exit the store with a bursting bundle of spice.

In a spontaneous decision, Sebastian and I visit a local fabric store specializing in custom-made women’s garments. At first reluctant, I soon decide to get my very first salwar komeez, the other traditional Indian ceremonial dress aside from the well-known sari. I casually begin looking at packages of different color fabrics and embroidery, unsure of what to choose. Numerous salespeople start flooding the counter with all kinds of materials. I narrow it down to blue and request something pretty but with a modern flair. I finally find the perfect one –teal blue over midnight black with sequined paisleys. One of the young girls leads me into a private room where my measurements are taken. I am asked a myriad of questions regarding the design, ranging from the kind of collar I want to the length of the pants. I choose the type of sleeve, the kind of lining, placement of the zipper and every other imaginable feature. Of course it would not be complete without accessories, commonly called fancy, so I pick out a set of earrings and matching necklace and dazzling bangles. We are informed the salwar will be ready later that day and all for a mere forty dollars!



Our last stop is the Keralan government store, SMSM, which exists solely on the basis of selling for the profit of the city. It is a huge building, bursting with a variety of handcrafted goods, ranging from twenty-ton elephants statues to sandalwood key chain rings. They sell carved wooden pieces, vases and dining ware made of bronze and silver, oil paintings and sculptures, and brass figurines. This is my last opportunity to shop, so I make sure to get any remaining souvenirs for my long list of family and friends. While perusing the great room of artifacts, I am unable to resist buying myself a few more items native to Kerala handicraftsman, such as over the shoulder cloth bags, a incense holder, a hand-painted miniature elephant, and decorative pillow covers. A few more bangles, some colorful scarves, a hookah and I am all set. Out of money and out of time.

Within a month, I purchase enough items to transform my eating, dressing, and living habits. I have enough Bindi’s to last a year and sufficient spices for a few tasty meals, new jewelry in every possible color and several boxes of Indian coffee. I have enough crafts to redecorate my apartment and numerous boxes of incense so I never forget the smells here. The sadness I feel about leaving lessens with each new acquisition, as I now have so many reminders of this extraordinary country. Armed with all my new authentic purchases, I am able to modify my New York City life with some Indian flair.

Slow Goan

We spend five long, lazy days at the beach in Ashwen, bathing in sunshine and the warm ocean. I slather on coconut oil and bask, usually while dreaming, sleeping, or reading. There is nothing to do, nowhere to go, enabling me to thoroughly enjoy each moment. This is the first time in my life I go topless while tanning, shedding my self-consciousness like the layers of my clothes. I have no worry about how I look, for I feel fully free and self-accepting in all my full glory. There is no creepy stares or inappropriate gestures like I expect; rather, most of the other women on the beach are also without bikini tops. It seems that on this side of the world, females are more comfortable with their bodies and significantly less inhibited. I am reminded of girls from the gym, in the locker room hiding behind tiny white towels, so afraid and ashamed of their beautiful bodies, terrified of being seen. I do not want to live in hiding anymore. I taste for those few fleeting minutes, the pleasure of loving and accepting myself, without the burden of nagging, judging self-consciousness.

A ubiquitous aspect of our beach experience is the countless, persistent, brightly dressed beach vendors carrying bundles of sarongs, dresses, cover-ups, and beaded jewelry. At first, they befriend me, asking about my American life, and my naivety fails to allow me to see that this is a ploy to sucker me in and profit from my friendliness. From one older woman, I receive a pedicure, deep plum with sparkling rhinestones. I purchase three sarongs from another young girl. Word spreads that I am a good customer and soon I am surrounded by a group of desperately pleading girls enticing me with good deals and prices. My bouts of relaxation are challenged as I feel my patience begin to lessen. I nicely tell them to leave repeatedly, but they refuse to unless I promise to buy something later. My desire to be nice gets me in a mess of competing women. I sneak back to the hotel anytime I see them coming, leaving Sebastian to deal with the crazied sand hagglers.

On our first day, we find an outdoor restaurant, Paradise, located directly in front of the water’s edge, where we dine daily. The menu is extensive, ranging from fresh seafood caught that morning to pancakes stuffed with chocolate and cream. I am pleased to find oatmeal, commonly called porridge, for I have not eaten it since my last morning back in New York. Of course I order it, adding coconut shavings and sweet bananas for a little Indian flair. Sebastian tries a new entrée everyday, the most memorable being a huge rockfish he selects from a display of the day’s catch. Grilled Tandoori style with an abundance of spicy flavor, we literally taste the freshness seeping through the tender white meat.

We meet Mudina, an owner of a small shop next to the Paradise Restaurant, selling beach clothes and seashell jewelry. I soon learn that she is also a henna artist and I excitedly request her services to decorate my right hand. I ask for an original piece, something she has never done before and not found in one of her sample books. A bit troubled at first, she begins dipping a skinny wooden stick into a cap of jet black ink. Starting with the Om sign, Mudina creates a beautiful pattern of coiled, spiraling lines and blossoming flowers. Her hand is steady, her eyes focused, her creativity transferring onto my palm. I sit relaxed, sipping a cold glass of Sangria, watching the sun sink lower into the horizon, reminded once again of the essence of India. I love the look of my hand so much that I opt for another design, this time on my right foot. She draws a similar pattern, beginning from just below my ankle, spiraling down in two directions, one towards my big toe and the other curving around my outer bone. It looks authentically beautiful, and feel myself further transform into an Indian princess.





On Friday night, we take a drive to Arambol, a beach on the edge of northern Goa and a last remaining stronghold for the aging hippie population. Much different from Anjuna, these are authentic hippies, mid-60s with leathered skin and sun bleached hair, drifting through this blissed-out corner of Goa. I assume many of the people have remained here since they arrived decades ago. Not standoff and unfriendly like the others we encounter, Arambol hippies are indifferent, absorbed in their own world, either unaware or uninterested in anyone other than themselves and their friends. It is perfectly fine to remain unnoticed, for Sebastian and I sit at a neighborhood bar and have the thrill of watching them dance to the music of a local band. It is a free, childlike romp, with flailing arms, closed eyes and swaying hips. The band plays rebellious jam music with long, twangy guitar rifts that fuel unreserved self-expression. It is a microcosm of the Woodstock ideals of peace, love and no worries. A particular near elderly woman stands out among the boogying crowd. Likely the oldest person there, she dances as if she is the youngest, in a hot pink, short fitted dress and matching bandana tied guerrilla style around her forehead. She seldom takes a break, only for a quick sip of a cocktail to refuel, then saunters off floating about the room. She possesses zero self-consciousness, fully immersed in the music, uncaring of how she may appear to others. I smile at such a beautiful sight, even slightly envious her unconstrained, candid movements. Never have I seen a woman so happy, so liberated, so free.

Saturday evenings in Goa are famous for the Saturday Night Bazaar, who roots lie in the first hippie flea markets back in the 60s. Open from 6pm until 6am, Sebastian and I decide to go, taking a 30-minute cab ride through our old neighborhood of Anjuna and stopping along the way to greet an elephant. Used by Hindu brahmins to collect money for their local temple from curious passer-bys, they allow us to pet the animal. Until that initial meeting, I am unaware of my fear for such a large animal. Reluctant to get too close, I am afraid that the trunk may knock me over or that I will be crushed under the large, stomping foot. After several tries, I finally build up enough nerve to position myself close enough to capture the great photo opportunity.



Set on Arpora hill, the Saturday Night Bazaar is a vibrant and colorful scene attracting both locals and tourists, making it the most diverse crowd I experience in India, with its obvious abundance of languages and races. There is an outpouring of creativity and crafts, alcove shops full of handmade jewelry and clothing, wooden carvings, richly embellished fabrics and eclectic artwork. We pass by stalls for tarot card readings, Ayurvedic massages, hair styling and information booths offering diving tours and rafting trips. Besides being at night, the main difference with this market is that it is centered around a stage, where a variety of performers, ranging from resident musicians to belly dancers, come every Saturday night to entertain the crowds. There is a huge international food court, where we snack on fat pieces of sushi and momos, Tibet’s version of steamed vegetable dumplings. I buy several marble stone necklaces and Sebastian picks an authentic Indian drawing etched into dried bamboo stems. Attempting to juggle our small plates of food, our brimming cups of Sangria and our bags full of purchases, we stroll through the swarms of people, in this little world unto itself, taking pleasure in being a part of the cultural playground.



Ten days in Goa pass in an instant and we are on our way back to Trivandrum, Kerala to spend the final days at Sebastian’s grandmother’s home. We share amazing Goan experiences, from roughing it in the tents of Yoga Magic to shacking it up on bountiful beaches at Yab Yum. We have practiced yoga and bargained in markets, got tattoos and rode a scooter, played in a pool and swam in the ocean, ate organically grown vegetables and just-caught seafood. We mingled with hippies and made friends in other countries, became experts at using eco-friendly toilets and survived without phones, lights, and Internet connection. We were challenged, pushed and forced to adjust all by the warmth of the Goan sun, proving to be an immensely rich learning experience, changing the way I view myself and altering how I choose to live life.