Namastories

To Right a Wrong

2010-09-03T06:27:00.004+05:30

There has been considerable time since my last blog entry. It may be that no one ever returns to read this, for it is long overdue. But I hope for the few that do take a moment, you understand and accept my apology for not writing sooner.

First and foremost, all credit is due to Sebastian, for planning and organizing the most amazing, life changing and perfect adventure. To this day, India was the best days of my life. I knew little of the effort, energy and patience required to create such an experience. Only now do I fully grasp the magnitude of what he invested to make such an extraordinary trip possible. However much time has passed, I still remember and reflect on what we shared together...every detail, every day, every moment. I treasure and honor his commitment not only to the trip, but to me as well. I will never forget it.

Secondly, I want to thank the matriarch of the family, dearest Ammachi, one of the gentlest and kindest people I have ever encountered. When I think of India, I think of her. For me, she is the soul of that great country. Although her smile's contagious, it was Ammachi's love and acceptance towards me that created such a comfortable and welcomed atmosphere. Her beautiful home matched her warm spirit. When I reach back into my memories, I remember Ammachi wearing huge headphones while relaxing in her wooden chair . It is quite a comical sight, but one of such innocence and delight. I miss her deeply.

A special thanks to Tatanti who will always be my favorite family member. I felt more connected to her than anyone else I met on the trip. Her humor and love touched me, as well as her frequent afternoon snack deliveries. Tatanti's presence created an extra special sweetness to India, for we shared so many wonderful moments together. From nose piercing to souvenir shopping, she was present on so many of our adventures. I remember her fondly, as she holds a special place in my heart.

Although our time was limited, I am thankful to have met Mollymanti and Kutichenuncle. It was such a pleasure to share a new country with wonderful people. They provided me with an opportunity to experience life in India as part of a family. Although their presence was greatly appreciated, I still wish I could have gotten to know them better.

Thanks and gratitude to Chandran, who was not only lovable but also had the best head wiggle. He made it possible to explore Kerala with the luxury and ease of a car, as well as the knowledge of where everything was located. Despite fearing for my life while driving, I really enjoyed our daily excursions of laughter and exploration. He alone gave India such a thrill.

Much appreciation to Kumari, Ammachi's fantastic cook who offered the gifts of fresh, nutritious and diverse foods. The smell of her cooking was enough to make my mouth water. I miss the array of delicious dishes, as well as her quiet presence in the kitchen. I offer my sincerest gratitude to her, as she is responsible my deep affinity towards Indian cuisine. I have yet to encounter anyone who comes close.

To Mr. and Mrs. Alappat, I am forever grateful for giving both Sebastian and I the blessing to visit your home, a place where I ultimately feel and consider to be my home. I have long since kept my Indian spirit alive. That trip lives in me and I will never be the same again. My sincerest thanks and acknowledgment for giving me such a life altering, eye opening, deep human connection and experience. It is one of the greatest gifts to my life and I know will forever remain that way.

And finally, thank you to all the readers who were dedicated to our journey and followed along for the ride. You were my driving motivation. I looked forward to sharing each moment with all of you, helping to feel connected from around the world. It was an absolute pleasure to write for such a captive and dedicated audience. I thank you for taking your time to read along.

My apologies for not acknowledging and thanking all of you sooner. Sometimes lessons become clear long after the initial pain was caused. It is with my sincerest apology that is entry was not written in a timely manner. As always, I offer only love and peace. I come from a place of goodness.

To all of you.......Thank you.

Reflections.....

2009-04-10T00:48:00.001+05:30

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

2009-04-01T18:54:00.003+05:30

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!

2009-04-01T17:59:00.003+05:30

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

2009-04-01T07:42:00.004+05:30

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

2009-03-31T04:16:00.006+05:30

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

2009-03-30T07:19:00.004+05:30

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

2009-03-26T23:46:00.006+05:30

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.

Tat-n-Tale

2009-03-25T20:31:00.005+05:30

It has happened. I threw my nonconforming ideals to the wind and got my very first tattoo. Having debated this for sometime, I always felt unsure of what to get and where to put it on my body. I did, however, trust that I would make the decision on this trip.

At first, I asked Sebastian to sketch some symbols, creative designs in an attempt to incorporate my essence. I considered things that I hold closest to my heart, such as life and love, peace and truth, family and travel. Ultimately, nothing he drew inspired me enough to permanently mark my skin. (DISSED!) In passing, without much conscious thought, I mentioned wanting to find a guru while in India who would give me a symbol that would later become my tattoo. That cherished morning at Yoga Magic, when I discovered the heart patch lying upside down on the dried up lawn, I knew I had found it. It was a sign, my omen from God, the answer to what I was seeking. My tattoo is the union of three hearts, two small ones embedded within a larger heart. Three hearts in one representing the mind, body, spirit connection. It symbolizes what I embody and manifest and share with everyone, love, my divine essence and what I know to be the truest thing in this life. My root belief in the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. A reminder of the magical day I danced with God, the day my soul moved to a different beat, connected on a deeper level. A symbol of my beloved India and how I feel on this trip, with all the adventures and the freedom and change that resonates in my being. An emblem of all that I was, all that I am, and all that I will grow to be. I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve and now it will forever be imprinted on my skin. Plus, three is my favorite number.

In the days that followed, we check out several different tattoo shops until we find the perfect one. We befriend Andy, the British expat owner of a shop located on the beaches of Anjuna, Goa. Covered in ink, he has been an artist since he was twelve years old. The parlor is gleaming clean, with all the needles individually wrapped and sanitized. We book an appointment for our final day in Goa since swimming and tanning is prohibited for a minimum of three days. I consider backing out, but as the due date approaches, I know I am going through with it. I am committed.

Already tattoo savvy, Sebastian goes first. He selects the word “origin,” written in Malayalam, the language of Kerala, across his left forearm. After Andy disinfects his arm and shaves the hair, he transfers the sketched pen image onto his skin to ensure its proper placement. The tattoo guns begins buzzing, reminding me of a dentist’s drill. My skin crawls, my jaw tightens up. I watch Sebastian, gritting his teeth, nostrils flailing every time Andy hits a sensitive spot. Forty-five minutes later, it is complete and looks tribal, fierce, intense. Hardedge black letters with a delicate touch, we both immediately love it.

My turn. I go through the same process of disinfecting, of transferring the sketch onto the perfect spot. I choose my back, under my shoulder blade, off towards the side of my body, somewhere in between my bra line and waist, touching my lower rib. I lay in a half fetal position as Andy begins his work. The initial piercing of the gun stuns me and I am tempted to quit. As he creates the outline, I feel the tip of the needle burn into my skin. I draw on my strengths as a fighter, my calming mentality as a meditator and courageously bear it. Every few seconds, he stops to observe his work while refilling the ink, giving me a chance to breath and refocus. Thirty minutes of feverish pain and it is finished. Stunning, so perfectly symmetrical, in the most beautiful location. It is truly me, my essence, manifested in art, now on my body. It was not until after he started did Andy confess I chose one of the most painful spots to get a tattoo. Appropriate for me, for when I do something, I never take the easy way!

We celebrate at a beachside bar watching the sunset, drinking cold beers as we scrutinize and study our new tattoos. We gush excitedly over how great they look, despite the slight burning pain. I am in shock that I actually went through with it. Taking stock of the moment, of literally marking this moment, we kick back and allow the magnitude to set in, humbled by how fortunate we are and how amazing life is. We sense its coming to a close soon, but we will never forget this experience. Every time we look at our own individual tattoos, we will be transported back to the beaches of Goa, gazing out into the Arabian Sea, relishing the sunset and in the sharing of life.

The Perfect Day

2009-03-25T14:57:00.004+05:30

After several days of sunbathing, we wrench ourselves off the beach and head out for an adventure. Originally planning to tour Old Goa, a section of town with numerous buildings and churches, we decide instead to visit Fort Tiracol, in the neighboring state of Maharahstra, as recommended by some Goan natives. Rising early and sharing a small pot of French pressed organic Indian coffee, we straddle the scooter and set off for an unknown expedition. The spontaneity thrills us, the excitement of uncharted territory intrigues as we travel through picturesque scenes. I look out into the endless blue horizon of sea, a shade darker than the sky, so soothing and inviting. A quick turn of my head and I am staring at tiny villages and towns bustling with people, all surrounded by the blossoming life of trees and undulations of grassy fields. Families walk to church, aging women sell fresh fish on street corners, random cows graze along the road. I hold onto Sebastian, squeeze his ribs tightly every time we hit a bump. My cheek squishes as I rest my head on the nape of his neck. A gentle kiss as he drives, I taste the sweet combination of coconut and salt, remnants of our long days at the beach.

We ride for the better part of an hour until we reach a jetty at Kerim beach. A free ferry awaits, a rusted royal blue double storied boat that smoothly transports us across the Terekhol River, separating the northern most section of Goa from the bordering state of Maharahstra. A brief uphill ride, we reach our destination, Fort Tiracol. Through the black iron gates, towering over a green manicured lawn and a fence of blooming trees is the immense 16th century structure. Perched hilltop to overlook the Arabian Sea, Fort Tiracol is an astounding architectural achievement. With its scaling heights, this former defense sentinel is in glorious isolation. Invaded by the Portuguese, they rebuilt it in the late 1700s in defense for Goa and later, this stronghold aided freedom fighters during the Goan liberation. Currently, it serves as a heritage hotel and a multi-cuisine restaurant.

Through a dark marble hallway we emerge into a charming courtyard, with the century old Church of St. Anthony, opened only on rare occasions, situated in the center. The entire edifice is bright, pure white with trim of ochre yellow and midnight black. Climbing large steps, we reach the restaurant, which serves authentic Goan and Portuguese food as well as its infamous, majestic views. Completely awestruck, never did a sight appear so perfect. The eternal blue sea, alive and rippling, reflects the sun’s brilliance. Waves create uneven sandy shores of foaming white suds. Full and towering, curving palm trees with massive green leaves stir in the swirling breeze. There is not a single cloud in the sky to interrupt the incessant overflow of blue. Sebastian and I are dumbfounded, small in the presence of such sheer magnificence. Wonderment abounds as we step into ramparts, peeking out little portholes at the panoramic seascapes.

We sit on the veranda, at a glass table under a pointed edge umbrella and share a deliciously light brunch. Fluffy egg omelets, fried bananas, and coffee savored as we relish the spectacular view. In amazement, I watch the Terekhol River flood into the Arabian Sea, merging without end or beginning, an ongoing flow of water. Despite the old gun-enclosures, the stark white walls intensifies the structure, seemingly more pure and tranquil. The most exquisite thing is the silence, the piercing, beautiful lack of noise that ever grazes my ears. I am too far away to hear the breaking waves or the children laughing playfully. There are no squawking birds, barking dogs, blaring horns, or human speech which plague every moment of every day. Incessant chatter is stopped and what remains is an energetic stillness, conveying immense depth, a hushing peace. We stay long after the meal is finished, drinking in the sublime experience.

Enthralled, we continue on our journey through Maharashtra to the Ganesh temple at the Redi fort. Not found in any of the travel books we have been pouring over, it too, was suggested by Goan locals. Almost lost, we attempt to follow maps of unnamed streets and hidden roads. Luckily, with the guidance of a friendly pedestrian we follow a dirt road in the backcountry land until Sanjay stops us, a mid-30s man with a warm smile dressed in a red flannel shirt and beige shorts, motioning us to park our bike and follow him. It seems a bit peculiar, heading into the forest alone with this stranger, but I trust my instincts and begin walking. After a short distance, we climb over a crumbling wall to visit the Ganesh temple. It is nothing as I expected, looking more like a deformed rock than the infamous elephant god. Beyond closer expectation, I make out the hands and trunk set deep into the stone. This statue was found in the Redi mines after one of the workers dreamed about it and asked for the mine to be searched. When the mines were eventually dug, the Ganesh idol was uncovered and has become a holy sight for Hindu worshippers.

Sanjay suggests we hike up to the Redi fort that overlooks the appropriately named Paradise Beach. As we begin the ascent, I find a long branch begging to be used as my walking stick. We trail Sanjay as he leads us through the decrepit fortress, untangling thickets of brush to clear a walkway. From the exterior walls into the central compound of the fort, we navigate the once mighty bastion, which has now devolved into a marriage of nature and crumbling human construction. Banyan trees hug the walls, creating webs of branches in varied directions. An empty, steep well causes my stomach to turn as I cautiously peer down over 200 meters. We duck under low curving doorways, leading us into old rooms where soldiers stood guard. I sense that people have died here, for we feel the sacred, hallowed ground under our feet. Eventually, we arrive at the fort’s apex, which provides us with the spectacular view of Paradise beach. Sharing an unripe green mango, we stare out into yet another perfect scene. Upon the descent, Sebastian and I both agree that the charm of the Redi fort is that it is left alone, allowing nature’s growth to inhabit the once functioning and operational edifice. The government does not invest money to clean it up or restore it to the original state. Rather, it remains untouched, a jeweled secret for only a select few to enjoy.

Before heading back to the beaches of Goa, we stroll along the gentle shore of Paradise beach. To my great surprise, it is littered with shells, ranging from tiny intricate spirals once carried on hermit crabs’ backs to smooth white halves of a broken clam’s home. Immediately, I start combing the sands, creating an overflow of treasures in my cupped hand. I am taken back instantly to the annual family vacation I took as a child to St. Thomas. I recall it so vividly. My dad rests on a lounge chair, eyes hidden behind brown shades, hands behind his head cradling it as he sleeps. My mom tans while reading a big, thick hardcover novel. My brother swims in the ocean, snorkels all afternoon looking at fish. I spend hours on the beach under my terrycloth visor, protected by a huge white t-shirt my mother insists I wear to avoid sunburn. I collect countless buckets full of shells, big and small alike, in all shapes and colors. I set aside a special pail for my favorite ones, the really great finds.

And now, as I squat down in between my legs, a world away from the Caribbean where this long lost hobby began, I am a child again, digging and searching for the ocean’s jewels. I gasp at every great discovery, running into the water to wash of the traces of sand. I find an old, crushed plastic cup and begin piling up my riches, knowing full well that I am bringing these back to New York. Their new home will be my apartment, a reminder of a time I quickly have forgotten, yet able to recall with such love and clarity.

Thankful to Sanjay, we climb back on the scooter to return to our shack. Initially, I am reluctant to sacrifice my adored beach but the adventure proves to fulfill my love for unplanned, organic quests into unfamiliar soils. I am reminded that stepping into the unknown, trusting the mysterious direction I embark upon will always be rewarded with unforgettable gifts, memories I will cherish when I think back on this amazing Indian journey.

Beach

2009-03-23T10:54:00.001+05:30

Beach I

The beach speaks to me
Shares the day’s secrets
Toes wedged into sand
I am reminded of the universe
With its infinite beauty
And infinite possibility
Speckles of sand
Poured from my delicate grasp
Drift into the wind
Carried away
To another place and time
Crashing waves
Feel like the waves of my heart
Of my being
Wilding slapping the shore
Each one different
Never the same beat
The sun nourishes
Feeds my insatiable appetite for warmth
I lay open to receive
Winds caress my cheek
The sweet divine lingers
Thoughts float away
Like clouds in the expansive sky
Not holding on
Looseness in my body
Stillness in my breath
Heart gaping like the sea’s waters
I am floating....
Floating.....
Floating away
Drifting into a dream
Where truth is revealed
Where nothing exists
But the soul’s connectedness

Beach II

Walk out into the sand
Stare out into the azure horizon
Be moved, in awe
At the grandeur of God
His creation of life
Blessed to feel the grainy sands
Burning saltwater in eyes
Lifted by the sweeping shores
Gliding atop eternal waters
Vastness surrounds
Drunk on sunshine
The mind empties
The heart explodes

Beach III

Life’s problems can be solved
By sitting at the beach
Meditative sound of water’s swell
Sunshine on skin
Seduction of sand to play
No worrisome burdens
Nothing to do
But sit
Be still and silent
Drawing in the salty smells
Answers revealed
Without effort
Without the mind’s fruitless searching
God speaks directly
Through the waves
Crashing onto the crooked edges of shore
White foamy bubbles left behind
Covering tiny rocks and seashell bits
Pure, alive existence felt
The simplicity of the moment
Sit
Be still and silent
The beach with answer

Shackin' Up at Yab Yum

2009-03-23T10:19:00.004+05:30

We arrive….to the beach that is! Fitting with this trip, my heart and mind explode once again by the splendor of our next hotel, Yab Yum. This eco-friendly lodge is located in northern Goa, a short drive from our last residence, situated in the fishing village of Ashwen. Down a rocky, steep hill, we are confronted by huge wooden doors, which open upon our arrival into an enchanting emerald land. A magical breeze ripples through the overgrowth of leaves. Coolness touches my skin for the first time in India, as I stroll under the lush grooves of banana and coconut trees. My flip-flop feet melt into soft white sands, as the sun coats everything with a radiant shimmer. Numerous dome-shaped dwellings and little white cottages connected by short pathways, dot this magical world. Crashing waves are heard over the rolling dunes. Sebastian and I are lead to our new home, one of the domes at the edge of the property, constructed of natural, locally harvested resources of lava blocks, palm leaves, mud and sand. Outside the shack sits a small wooden table covered by a coral pink tablecloth and two matching chairs, positioned perfectly in the afternoon light. Suspended peacefully between solid stems of bark hangs a blue, flying carpet hammock, one of my most favorite things and something I mentioned to Sebastian months ago. I am grateful he remembers. A silver bowl of coldwater waits at the bottom step, reminding us to rinse our sand coated feet before entering.

Up two steps, through miniature doors with rounded edges, I brush aside the hanging ivory cloth curtains and enter the large circular room. It is purple, Crayola crayon purple. The color saturates the floor, sitting area, and the lower half of the walls. The upper portions that merge into a spherical ceiling are panels of braided coconut tree leaves, functioning as natural skylights, allowing sunbeams to filter through the tiny cervices. Several large windows create a bright airiness balanced out by the strength and sturdiness of the structure. A large, hard bed rests on a platform, enclosed by a mosquito net secured to different parts of the hut. A moderate size bathroom, with a western-style toilet and hot shower, lay behind a mirrored door. A white paper latern serves as a chandelier and rocks gently with the swirling zephyr. The room is equipped with a small table made of tree bark, a few shelves stocked with matches, candles and incense, two bamboo mats, and some extra lounging pillows.
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Like playful children, we scamper around the room, peering out the windows and climbing under the mosquito net. We rock in the hammock, gratefully use the bathroom, and unpack some of our belongings. Discovering the treasure of a table fan, we sit in front of the rotating blades and relish the cool breeze, something that we have been denied the past few nights. We drench ourselves, unmoving, careful not to disturb the airstream. Pleased, Sebastian and I rove through the grounds along the path leading to the beach. A few steps and my heart’s pace quickens. Vast sands, sprawling seas and a low setting ginger sun surround us. There is but a few souls lingering, some on reclining chairs, others walking languidly at the shore’s edge. I am jolted by the emptiness of the coast, its lack of crowds and noise yet simultaneously, feel grateful it is such. After three weeks of travel, of city hopping and exciting ventures, I feel eager to bask in the sun, to color my skin a darker shade. Thoughts turn to thick pina coladas with paper umbrellas and pineapple wedges sipped over a good read, of colorful bikinis worn under swathing sarongs, behind a large pair of movie star shades. I anticipate the long lengthy hours of beach days, of time spent drifting in and out of catnaps, a brief dips in the ocean water to cool off. I take a breath deeply, filling my lungs with the salty, dense air and let the unwinding begin.

Anjuna Adventures

2009-03-21T11:54:00.003+05:30

For a few days during the trip, we stay in Anjuna, Goa, a small beach town where our hotel is located. Excited to explore, we rent a scooter, dull gold with an upbeat horn and enough room for Sebastian and I to sit comfortably. It is the fastest, cheapest and most popular form of transportation, especially among residents. Rickshaws are rare and the occasional cab appears too big for the narrow, snaking streets. We test out the bike as well as the local community, driving around, stopping at roadside shops and restaurants.

There is a definite vibe emanating from the combination of European ravers, long term hippies, midrange tourists and New-Ager baby boomers. We sense a condescending, almost standoff energy. Since we are not part of the inner circle, they do not acknowledge us in any way. Our smiles are unreturned. The friendliness and eagerness to talk and connect yield no response. We, apparently, are outsiders. What a stark difference from the love and acceptance I feel from the Indian people, who are not only curious, but also warm, welcoming, and friendly. Ironically, the vast majority of people inhabiting this place are white, not natives. They have no more right to enjoy Goa than anyone else and yet they exude such entitlement, possessive ownership of the land and lifestyle, not accepting anyone who does not wear raggedy, drooping clothes with knotty, unwashed hair. For a bunch of peace loving people, they definitely fail to show such emotions. There is also a flagrant drug culture here, permeating everything and everyone, causing a lethargic, muffled mentality and dawdling way of life. Everyone seems spaced out, burnt out, or high on some substance, despite their interests in yoga, vegetarianism, and meditation.

Sebastian and I refuse to let the low energy of unfriendliness dampen our spirits, so we become friends with the guests staying at our hotel. Since it is a very intimate place, with the communal pool and shared meals, we have numerous opportunities to interact. Andrea and Cory, two Canadians working in the public health industry, are on a trip from Mumbai for an international conference on cigarette smoking. They decided to fly to Goa for a mini vacation while in India. Both married and Cory with two children, they share great stories full with laughter, shock and jovialness. It is refreshing to meet interesting people with a similar sense of humor. Alex and Lauren, a late-20s couple from England, are on a month long trip to India, taking a break from their careers in the music industry. Similar to us, they loosely planned their adventure, exploring an array of different places. It is interesting to swap stories, great finds, and suggestions about this amazing country, comparing cities, foods, and experiences. Lastly, we acquaint ourselves with Allison, a mid-30s Scotland native serving as an ambassador in Kabul. Very unassuming and intelligent, she is obviously battle-tested, speaking of her bulletproof body amour and escapes to bomb shelters. Sebastian, as the group’s event planner, selects a local restaurant, aptly called Sublime, for a fantastic dinner of good food, drinks and conversation. From all different parts of the world, with all of our different reasons for being in India, as well as our varied backgrounds and beliefs, we are able to connect, to relate to each other, laughing as if we had been friends for years. There exists no separation, no boundaries at this international encounter. What an extraordinary gift traveling is, meeting and sharing with people from all over the globe, who we would have never met otherwise, planting the seeds for future friendships.

We practice yoga every morning, attending the class held at the Yoga Temple at the hotel. In the early light of the morning, with the wind fluttering through the leaves and the birds cheerfully chirping, we begin each practice with deep belly breathing and the mysterious beautiful Om. The classes are small, with less than five people and structured very similar to the kind I am accustomed to back home. Peter, the exceptional teacher, guides us through each pose, reminding us to breathe as he makes slight adjustments, intensifying each position. He is a living practitioner, full of intention and grace. No wasted movement or words, as everything is done with mindfulness and attention. It feels great to hang in downward dog, to meditate in the corpse pose, to breathe into the pigeon, creating space in my body, opening up tight muscles. It is the perfect start for a calm and balanced day, as Sebastian and I saunter back to our tent, relaxed, nimble and full of blithe.

Another memorable part of our Anjuna stay is riding the scooter through the maze of streets throughout the small town, shaded under the canopy of overgrown trees. A bit nerve-racking at first, Sebastian soon maneuvers the bike like a pro with the necessary confidence to handle the fast speeds of locals and the trepidation of tourist drivers. We check out local beaches, different tattoo shops, and all the great restaurants and boutiques. I opt never to drive, for I am content being the passenger, loosely holding on around his waist as the wind strokes my hair, tangling it into a big mess of curls. Shades on, I feel slightly mischievous by the rushing thrill of riding. Barefoot, I stretch my legs out, wild and free, as the air tickles my toes. No matter how many times we ride, my being always floods with thankfulness, for the beauty of this place, for the freedom I feel, for the love that beats in my chest.

On Wednesdays, Anjuna holds its ever-expanding outdoor market on the beach. We take a break from our poolside lounging and explore the clutter of stalls, one after the next, squeezed together in a jumble of goods, stretching out for what appears as an eternity. Over three hours, we browse different tents of Tibetan and Kashmiri traders, old tribal women, and authentic hippies. We wander around in awe at the sheer amount and variety of cultural crafts. It is a real Goan experience, as Sebastian bargains for jeweled masks and wooden rings, for hemp-sown bags and carved chess sets. We barely spend any money but purchase an assortment of treasures to bring home. I try to maintain my composure, my sheer giddiness at the amazing deals we receive, never having to pay full price for a single item!

Sebastian and I each receive an Ayurvedic massage, which uses techniques to improve circulation, relaxation, and elimination of toxins through pressure points and reflexology. With little massage experience, I did not know what to expect but am excitedly curious to find out. The massage is not held at a luxurious spa with ample privacy and fluffy white robes. Rather, it is in a shack, made of dried coconut tree bark with a dirt floor on the outskirts of Yoga Magic’s property. The masseuse, Krishna, is an older man, with missing teeth and a heavy accent. He wears a ragged white tank top over his protruding belly and khaki pants held up high on his waist. He has a crazy gleam in his eye, as if he knows the universal truths of this life. A green checkered cooking apron is his uniform while working. After a small chat, I learn that he is a practitioner for over 40 years, assuring me that God works through him, for he is nothing more than a vehicle for healing. As I lay on the table, open to receive this gift, I feel myself transform into putty. Similar to a typical massage, though he uses aromatic oils and the occasional pressing of a particular point sending shockwaves throughout my body. I feel energy pathways open up, the blood flow more smoothly, the tension and knots melt away. Krishna moves each limb through its range of motion, stretching muscles and cracking joints. An hour seems to pass in an instant and I remain still in a puddle of mud. I feel the effects of it throughout the next day, as my body detoxes, cleansing and purifying itself, leaving me feeling rejuvenated and a huge believer in Ayurvedic healing.

Although our short stay passes quickly, Sebastian and I are both ready to continue on with our adventure. We feel satisfied to spend time at a Yoga retreat but the lack of air conditioning and other modern amenities, in particular a toilet, begin to annoy rather than excite us. The novelty ends after the four sleepless nights of mosquito attacks and profuse sweating. We are ready to relax, to take it down a notch and unwind. We head to my most favorite place in the world…the beach!

Dancing with the Divine

2009-03-18T22:20:00.004+05:30

God has yet again intervened on my behalf, astounding me with the brilliance of my own life. I do not believe in randomness or coincidence, for I know this is part of a divine plan. Unbeknownst to Sebastian and I that when we booked this hotel we would be staying during a visit from a famous Indian guru. Shree Vishwatmak Janglidas Maharaj, commonly referred to as Babaji, is a living yogi saint, visiting Yoga Magic for a morning of silent meditation and satsang. He runs an ashram in Maharashtra and gives care to poverty stricken people and orphaned children. I have never heard of this man before but I am curious to participate in such a rare opportunity. We are instructed to dress in all white and bring open hearts and minds.

The morning begins by yoga practice by the poolside in preparation for the spiritual journey. Communal breakfast is served with an assortment of fruits, buffalo milk yogurt, and fresh coffee. Visitors arrive at the hotel, appearing pure and devout in loose colorless garments. We assemble in the yoga hut, each person setting up a small plot of earth with blankets, pillows and other props. We sit silently, in earnest anticipation for the adored guru. Although Babji has millions of Indian devotees, he has only a small number of Western followers, many of which are attending this service. While Hindu devotional music fills the room, Babaji enters, an exceedingly petite man, with long scraggly hair and wide innocent eyes, draped in a white cotton cloth. His body looks like that of an emaciated adolescent but has eyes of a wise old man. No one is certain of his age but it is rumored that he is over one hundred. Immediately upon entry, the energy of the room uplifts, pulsates at a higher frequency. He does not speak, only sits in lotus position, eyes closed. For almost an hour, the group mediates in stillness. I am reminded of the craziness of the mind, with its distractions and thoughts, never wanting to give up control. Babaji’s approach is to not try and still the mind or passively watch thoughts float by, but to actively contemplate the Atman, the Soul or higher consciousness, with love, kindness and respect. He believes that this Atman is the sole existence in the universe, residing in all people regardless of religion, and can never be destroyed, for its very essence is immortality.

The meditation ceases when the music begins playing again and Babaji exits the yoga studio and slowly, carefully walks into the thatched hut located next to the swimming pool. Small intimate groups take turns sitting in his presence, receiving a glossed card of his philosophy and a ladu, a sweet North Indian delicacy. During my turn, something remarkable occurs in my body. I am suddenly swaying in circles gravitating to my left side. This is completely involuntary; I have no control. I am cognizant that it is happening inside of me, fearful of what it is, fearful that it might end. I have never moved in such a manner before but soon realize that it is God’s presence, divine energy stirring in my bones, blood and heart. Completely connected, I do not resist, rather observe and allow my body to be taken over. I am touched by grace.

Walking out, I am in a trance like state. I avoid the crowd of people and find a plot of grass. I begin walking in circles, aimless and formless, out of my body. I am searching for something. I am losing my mind. I have no thoughts, just circling and circling. I feel crazy. Sweat is pouring down my back, down my legs. God is radiating through me. Parched grass is chafing my feet. Squinted eyes focused on the ground, then the sky. I am lost and found in the same moment. Suddenly, something grabs my awareness. A pinkish red object laying on the grass. Instinctively I reach for it, turn it over. It is a heart, outlined in red with two smaller hearts embedded within, a small dot at the core. It is a sign, an omen from God. This I am sure. The treasure grounds me, excites me, and pushes me deeper into faith.

I return to the group so deeply touched that it is hard for me to speak. I sit alone during the gathering of musicians who play beautiful music for Babji. There was a hanging drum, a guitar, a bark flute and an instrument resembling a combination of a sitar and violin, as well as an array of tuning bowls forming a deep barreling Om sound. Whereas everyone is still and silent, I find myself swaying again, this time voluntary. I am dancing with God. I allow the music into my being, feeling the divine presence combine with my own soul until we create the most intense movement I have ever felt. For the entire hour I do not open my eyes, afraid that I may lose the connection, lose the spirit within and come back to this earth. Mine certainly is a dancing path and this is my very first dance with God.

The spiritual gathering ends with a collective lunch prepared by the incredible staff at Yoga Magic. We gather on the floors around the dining area, buzzing bodies talking excitedly about Babaji’s visit. We are served curried lentils, yellow rice, green beans and cabbage on paper plates made of banana leaves. It is deliciously nutritious, fitting with the nature of the day. I am physically, emotionally, spiritually fulfilled.

For several hours, quiet and introspective, I digest the events of today. Although I respect Babaji, I do not feel any real connection to him as a man, but rather to his energy. I am flowing with gratitude for such a profound experience, a necessary progression in my soul’s evolution. Before arriving to Goa, I sensed that somehow I would lose my mind here. Foolishly, I thought it would happen at some psychedelic rave party on a beach, not on some dreadfully hot morning in the presence of a frail guru, walking chaotically in circles. It is no matter though, for now I feel the most in tune, aware and committed to God and my life path than ever before.

Yoga MAGIC

2009-03-18T21:39:00.002+05:30

I have landed in paradise. I pinch myself because this trip continues to amaze me. Everyday unfolds seamlessly, perfect moment after perfect moment. We arrive in Goa, Indian’s smallest state on the western coast bordering the Arabian Sea. Only an hour from Bangalore and I feel as though I am in another world, from the fertile hills of the Ghats to the palm fringed tropical sands. The Portuguese colonized Goa for almost 500 years until it became a part of India in 1961. As we ride in the cab to our hotel, down a labyrinth of narrow curved roads, it is evident how the Mediterranean influence intertwines with a beach community of small huts, shops and barefoot locals. Everyone is relaxed and sun kissed. I immediately notice the large majority of Caucasian inhabitants, a result of hippies discovering Goa years ago. Many a person is dressed as if it is Woodstock, in loose flowing clothes with dreadlocks and tattoos. I am curious to explore this strangely interesting place….

After meandering through unnamed roads fringed with banana and coconut trees, we reach our hotel, Yoga Magic, an oasis of peace surrounded by a water creek and paddy fields of diverse birdlife. Walking up the cool stone steps, we enter into the small but charming lobby of dark carved wood and smelling of incense. Juliette, one of the owners, gives a tour of this majestic lodge. It is a tiny place, with several tents and a handful of shacks and teepees, spread out around flourishing grounds and meadows. There is a canopy of roses covering the pathways. A swirling-shaped pool of crystal blue is surrounded by floating gardens, rocks with gushing waterfalls and thatched roof huts to escape the sun’s heat. Several tables, floor cushions and a bar serve as the dining area where gourmet vegetarian Indian food is served, prepared using spices, herbs and vegetables from the organic garden. The energy here is alive, pure, pulsating of natural life.

The lodges are modeled after Rajasthani hunting tents, with two adjoining rooms built from mud, stone, bamboo and coconut wood, each specified by a particular color corresponding to one of the chakras of the human body. The furniture is simple, set against colorful saris and hand printed cotton draped from the elevated roof. The bed, large and comfortable with fluffy pillows and silk cushions, is crafted from locally made iron. There is a spacious dressing room of mud cobble walls, arched windows, and a sculpted sofa bed. It is open, airy and free, with a veranda molded from baked mud and cow dung. Two reclining chairs face a sweeping field to watch the sunset or gaze at the stars. There is no door or locks, fans or air-conditioning. The eco-chic tent features solar halogen lighting throughout, so there is no need for power outlets. The roofless bathroom consists of a natural composting toilet, which uses mango woodchips and effective micro-organisms to return everything back to nature. There are clay urns filled with well water for bathing and hot solar showers a short walk away from each tent. Everything is shaped from locally sustainable materials such as clay and palm leaves, including the yoga temple, where daily classes are held. Fresh flowers float in pots next to statues of Buddha, bells gently chime in the breeze while oil lamp aromas permeate the warm air.

Although the beauty and serenity of this place astounds me, I feel nervous and uncomfortable. I am in the middle of nowhere, an open field out in Goa, living in the simplest manner I have ever experienced. I am out of my comfort zones, questioning how I am going to survive without my safety nets. Until now, the transition has been smooth and to a degree, painless. But everything has changed; I am being forced to let go. For the next five days, I must surrender. I craved nature. I wanted the simple life. As usual, life responds to my desire and gives me exactly what I seek.

Buyin', Boozin' and Bumpin' to the beat of Bangalore...

2009-03-17T21:40:00.003+05:30

The next leg of our journey is underway. After spending a week in the richly radiant state of Kerala, we head to Bengaluru, commonly referred to as Bangalore, the progressively modern IT capital in India. A quick flight lands us in a newly constructed airport of impeccable cleanliness, with contemporary architecture of brushed silver columns set against tainted teal windows. I am suddenly bombarded with the freshness and wealth of the city. This is not the India I have been exposed to thus far; rather, it is a metropolis of construction cranes and paved roads. An hour drive to the hotel allows me to observe living conditions. The slum dwellings and broken shacks are replaced by gray, rigid, stout buildings known as campuses, where the offices of huge IT giants outsource much of their work. Harsh and overpowering, I shrink in their presence. Bangalore also has a slew of lavish hotels, large and luxurious, painted white with gardens of flowering colors. I recognize chains of retailers and fast food joints, ranging from Addidas to Pizza Hut. Hoards of men dressed in finely pressed starched shirts and stripped ties overflow the streets and restaurants. However, the most prevalent, blaringly obvious aspect of this strange place is the traffic. Not the changing lanes into oncoming traffic like I experienced in Kerala. This kind of traffic I know all to well from spending a decade living in the Big Apple. Modern city traffic with the accompanying smog, horns and grumpiness. Accidents and scuffles are common occurrences. People have less patience and seem angrier. It feels crowded in a suffocating manner, with too many people and cars, an army of rickshaws filling in any tiny space, surrounded by buildings and billboards and stores. I am reminded of the madness of urban dwelling.

Bangalore is known as a shopping extravaganza, resulting from the disposal income of the young IT community. After Sebastian and I check into our centrally located and very cheap hotel ($40 a night!), we head out to Commercial Street. This entire section of town is lined with tiny stores, little alcoves filled with multitudes of items embedded among larger, better known shops. Everything from shoes to jewelry, fabrics to spiritual statues are bought and sold. I am overwhelmed by the variety, the chaotic energy, the pressuring of salespersons to make a purchase. We peruse through several bangles stores until I find Yassi, a pro at creating the most beautiful sets of bracelets I have seen since I arrived over two weeks ago. We spend well over an hour in his shop, as I meticulously select special colors and sizes, with beads and jewels and glitter, for all my favorite girls back home. In awe, I watch Yassi move with fierce quickness, artistic grace and compelling confidence as he creates set after set, one prettier than the next. Poor Sebastian sits patiently in the corner, quietly observing and smirking, for his knows I am thoroughly enjoying this moment.

We continue walking, weaving in and out of different shops that grab our attention. We master the art of haggling, bargaining for golden trinkets and embroided fabrics. It proves to be a thrilling rush of a game, insulting the seller with a ridiculously low offer and walking away when he adamantly refuses. Without fail, every single time, we are chased and begged to return, agreeing to our suggested price. I purchase an immense amount of decorations for my home and gifts for friends and family for what I consider to be pennies! Compared to New York prices, it is a steal! I learn that the best case scenario is to earn in dollars and spend in rupees.

Both days, although exhausted from shopping in the unyielding heat, we decide to experience the nightlife, another known aspect of Bangalore. It is the first opportunity I have all trip to get dressed up, to exercise my city girl style. Women do not wears stilettos here so I reluctantly wear flats, a major fashion no-no back home. We meet up with Carthik, a friend Sebastian made and has kept in contact with since the last time he visited two years ago, a mid-20’s native with boyish charm and an innocent smile. He and his girlfriend Tanushree, also a native and working professional, know the most happening places to party. On Friday, they suggest a local club, Hint, where most of the young work force frequent after a long week. The club is extremely dark with loud, thumping music. We pay ten dollars at the door for unlimited food and drink. Stunned, we begin to take full advantage of this absurd deal. Hint also has an outdoor balcony section overlooking the small city. Although not very many buildings, it still offers the appeal of a lit up skyline. Not fans of club music, we suck it up and join the dancing crowd. I feel like I am sixteen again, dancing free and open, careless as Sebastian twirls me around the dance floor. We are giggling and smiling, savoring the boundless freedom.

On Saturday, we attend a more upscale spot called Athena at the Leela Palace, an extraordinarily magnificent hotel oozing affluence. It is a sexy lounge, as though it came straight out of Manhattan, complete with dim lighting set against a futuristic spaceship décor. Drinks are expensive, the music is pumping, the crowd is intoxicated and letting loose. Again, we tear up the floor, dancing wildly feeling like young teenagers in love. For the few minutes the DJ played hip-hop, we unleash our New York gansta-roots. Having an abundant amount of experience, it is obvious these people know how to party, despite their outdated music. I realize that though the location may change, human beings around the world enjoy the same things, are moved by the same beats, feel the same emotions.

A bit hung-over and exhausted from back to back nights of partying, we head to Goa, the laid back hippie beach community. I am thankful to spend the weekend in Bangalore, enjoying the pleasures of the flesh. Although I appreciate buying, boozing and bumping to the beat, I ache to return to the quiet, simpler life away from buildings and swarms of bodies, cars and technology. I grasp how city living is not conducive for spiritual growth with its countless distractions and superficial pleasures. I want nature, God, the slower pace. I am ready to go the other extreme.

The Great Indian Railway

2009-03-13T00:41:00.001+05:30

Riding the Indian Railways is a must for anyone visiting this great country. The subcontinent’s railway system, part of the British Empire’s legacy, is the largest kind in the world and one of the busiest. It transports MILLIONS of passengers and tons of freight daily, traversing the length and breadth of the country, as it covers 40,000 miles.

The excitement begins at the ticket counter when given the option of what kind of car we want to ride. Maybe a sleeper car? Or should we choose air conditioning? How about the second class car? So many choices for such an exciting experience. We decide to purchase seats in second class for the access to windows and fresh air. It is early during rush hour and I am reminded of New York during the heat of summer, crowded and pushy. Moving bodies of sweat everywhere. The smell of urine is awful. Everyone has somewhere to go, half sleepwalking while boarding the train. We find our seats and I plop myself right next to the window. Big and open, it allows me to take in the rural landscape of my beloved India. I am anxious and excited to see more of the countryside. As the train whistles and starts chugging forward, as the scene around me morphs into vast lands of green, untouched lands, I begin to appreciate the significance of this experience.

We pass farms with cows sporadically grazing in the morning sun. I witness shacks the size of closets, with no running water or electricity. I observe poor communities with nothing more than a few pieces of wood and some dried banana leaves for shelter. I wonder how people live under such conditions and feel blessed for my life’s abundance. I see countless outhouses, clotheslines, coconut trees, and rice patty fields. Undeveloped land stretches for as far as the eye can see. During the entire trip, every few minutes, a man dressed in a stripped shirt carrying a silver tank of his shoulders bellows “Chai, Chai Chai” or “Cappi, Cappi, Cappi,” and distributes little cups of the warm beverages for a mere twenty cents. Others walk up and down the narrow aisles selling everything from favorite snacks to books and lottery tickets.

The ultimate experience, however, is going to the bathroom on the moving train. I know it is not an easy task, but I am not prepared for this. I walk into the tiny space and there in the floor is the infamous hole. Except I see straight down to the tracks. This explains why the stations smell so bad! Whatever falls down the hole is splattered smack across the tracks. I will avoid too much detail but it is not easy squatting over a hole, holding up your clothes on a fast moving train and trying to aim appropriately. And let’s not forget there is no toilet paper! I definitely need some more practice. I'm not very good at it.

Upon arriving at our destination, I feel like I undertook some grand adventure. There is something thrilling about riding the rails, nostalgic reminders of a time gone by. I appreciate it as a unifying force, not only physically linking distant regions but it also connecting a myriad of people. Different castes, languages, and religions all dynamically moving, coalescing together. Its history is rich and its growth reflects the greatness of the country. Varied are the faces and countless are the stories on THE GREAT INDIAN RAILWAY.

Beauty of the Backwaters

2009-03-12T22:11:00.005+05:30

As if this trip can’t get any better, it does. My world has been blown up, for I have lived one of the most amazing experiences of my life. After a two-hour train ride on the infamous Indian rails, Sebastian and I arrived to Alapuzha, a town north of Trivandrum, to go on a daylong boat trip. Commonly referred to Kerala’s “backwaters,” Alapuzha is a tropical village of shady trees built around a lattice of canals spilling into vast highways of water. It is the epicenter for renting houseboats. After a short drive, we reached our beautiful vessel, befittingly called Glory.

The boat, designed like a kettuvallam or rice barge, was made of jack-wood planks joined together with coir and coated with a black resin made from boiled cashew kernels. Not a single nail was used during construction. I felt as though I stepped into a large braided wicker basket. It was a floating five star hotel, complete with lakefront seats for scenic viewing, a dining table for meals, an air-conditioned bedroom, and a modern bathroom. A portion of the kettuvallam was utilized for the kitchen and crew’s sleeping quarters. Ol’ Glory came with a staff of three, a chef, a captain, and one assistant, who greeted us with fresh coconuts filled with juice.

At precisely noon, we departed from the dock to embark on our overnight journey. For the first several hours, we sat in amazement at the stunning landscape. Absolutely breathtaking was the stillness of the palm-fringed lake, set against the piercing brilliant blue sky and the verdant green carpet of vegetation. The air was so fresh and the silence was tangible. Being that it was my first opportunity to sunbathe, I sprawled myself on the cushions alongside the boat and soaked up the rays, completely addicted to the warmth. We laggardly reclined on chairs, talking and dreaming, reading books and playing endless games of backgammon.

Lunch was prepared and served with traditional Keralan variety and spice. Twelve dishes to choose from, including chicken and fish curries, rice, red spinach called cheera, seasoned string beans, and dahl. Sebastian, being a native, and I a neophyte to Indian cooking, both agreed that it was the best meal we had EVER eaten. A bold statement but the absolute truth. We drank toddy, a fermented coconut alcoholic beverage made fresh and purchased from a local hut off the river. With full bellies and busting hearts, we continued to drift slowly on our exotic barge.

In the later part of the afternoon when the sun started to slip and the heat subsided, we docked the boat next to the boundless rice patties fields to take a canoe ride down the smaller grids of tributaries. Crossing through a stone arch passageway, we entered into a secret, enchanted land.

We meandered through narrow canals covered in floating grooves of lily pads. Palm trees hovering over the water created a canopy of shade and succulent breeze. The sun cast a prismatic glow on the wild green growth. The canoe passed through a small town, where the vitality of the fresh, flowing water became evident. Old men in moondas lathered up, squatting women scrubbed pots, children waded freely. Daily life and routine, from chore work to families gathering in their front yards, was visible as we sat, drifting. I left my body, left my mind and became connected to the environment as in a moving meditative state. The presence of God, of the divine life force was palpable. The hairs on the back of my neck were electrified. Never have I felt so close to omnipresence of spirit. The stillness was magical.

We arrived back at our boat in just enough time to savor the sunset over a bottle of chilled red wine. Again, speechlessness befell us both at the sheer magnitude, grandeur and appreciation for this gift. A blazing orange sun, larger than I have ever seen, slowly sank behind the ocean of green rice patties, eclipsed by the bending coconut trees. The contrast of color, combined with the rippling sound of water created a moment of pure tranquility and utter peace.

Dinner was provided with the same authentic flare and abundance as lunch. The colossal prawns we purchased from a local fisherman earlier in the day were crisply fried and seasoned, begging to be devoured. We feasted on a multitude of local vegetables, fruits and seafood until our bellies, rotund and satisfied, could not fit another morsel. We slept soundly, deeply, as the boat gently rocked afloat the waters, protected by the mosquito netting surrounding the bed. I felt youthfully playful, as if the net was a fort and we were securing our perimeter from any pesky, flying invaders.

Our faithful crew beckoned us early, around 6am for a sunrise meal. The newness and placidity of the morning invigorated my being. The air, clean and cool, awoke my senses. I felt rested, restored, wholesomely balanced as the magnificent sun rose, blooming the sky in soft shades of pink.

Still full from the previous night’s dinner, we dabbled in an exquisitely delicious breakfast and enjoyed the warm sweetness of local coffee. Heading back to the dock, Sebastian and I were a bit melancholy; although we enjoyed and appreciated every second of our voyage, time sped by in a fury, leaving us with the memories and the lingering love for the backwaters of Kerala.

Rickshaw Riding

2009-03-12T18:11:00.003+05:30

Riding in a rickshaw
Is certainly not a bore
You may even get a little bit sore
From holding on so tight
And using all your might
The driver bobs and weaves
Down winding alleyways careens
As you laugh and chuckle with delight
It is certainly worth the fright
Lots of noise and tons of beeping
There definitely won’t be any sleeping
Three wheels and a small buggy box
Not even doors with locks

Keep your limbs in no matter what
Ignore that scared feeling in your gut
Just enjoy and go along for the ride
Eventually the nausea with subside
It’s cheap, it’s quick, it’s worth the rush
No need to worry about being crushed
You’ll arrive at your destination in no time
And sure enough you will be fine
You may be sweaty from all of your fears
But the adventure of it will be very clear!

Pon-GALA

2009-03-10T19:27:00.004+05:30

Today, by God’s divine plan, we were in Kerala for the annual Attukal Pongala Festival. This unique holiday occurs somewhere between February and March, when congregations of women gather from different parts of India and around the world to give thanks by offering boiled rice in an earthen pot. Each female gathers for her own personal reason, some to offer gratitude or to receive blessings, to appeal for material gains or request the health of family. As Sebastian and I strolled to our favorite local restaurant for breakfast, rows upon rows of sari-dressed women were setting up in preparation for the big event. Throughout the entire city, down every street and alley, in every nook and cranny, magnificently dressed women of varying ages withstood the sweltering, unrelenting sun to pay homage on this holy day.

The traffic and blaring horns that I have become so accustomed to had ceased. Instead, large speakers of blaring devotional music filled the streets with a spirit of celebration. Every spare space of sidewalk, curb and street was occupied. Each woman set a brand new clay pot on top several bricks. Dried bark from coconut trees laid in bushels ready to be burned for fire. There were banana leaves as pot covers and coconut shells as ladles. The smell of incense permeated the air. Crowds were gathered, children stood excitedly, and at ten o’clock, the chief priest lit the fire from which all others ignite.

Women began boiling water in order to make paisam, a sweet Indian dessert, to be offered at the temples. Plantains sliced with expertise, overflowing handfuls of cashews stirred in, coconut kernels carefully added to make this thickly sweet and dense rice pudding. The air became opaque, full of rising smoke from each cooking station. As I walked in meditative amazement, my eyes burned and teared as I struggled to observe as each woman tended to her bubbling pot, carefully churning, stirring, shimmering. Some prayed as they cooked, others methodically blended the fresh ingredients together while the occasional woman howled like a wolf lost in the wild.

The cooking ritual continued for several hours, completed when the chief priest, known as the melsanthi, sprinkled sacred water from the temple. It was only then that the food was dispersed and shared with others.

We were given a large banana leaf plate teeming with syrupy balls and bulges of mashed, sticky goodness. Eating with our hands, we sat curbside in disbelief and wonderment at the incredible festivities, so thankful that we were lucky enough to be a part of such a memorable holiday.

Within a couple hours, there was no trace of the celebration. Everything in the city was systematically cleaned up, despite the extraordinary expansiveness of it all. Though I aspire to convey the depth, richness, and magnitude of such an unimaginable moment, one must experience it firsthand to truly understand something so phenomenal.

Chameleon

2009-03-10T12:35:00.003+05:30

I am a chameleon. I have many skins.
In a boxing ring, I am a fighter.
In a bed, I am a lover.
I have no boundaries.
My roots are Indian.
My heart, a New Yorker.
With a book, I am an intellect.
With a beer, I am one of the guys.
I have no form.
I’m an artist with a paintbrush.
I am a cook with a pot.
I cannot be confined.
I’m a boy in baggy shorts and a baseball cap.
In stiletto heels and miniskirt, I am a woman.
I am the rhythm of my breath.
I am feisty and free and ever grateful.
I am rigid and stiff and contemplative.
I am an old soul
In love with urban dwelling.
I carry the spirit of a child.
I am a hip-hop lover, rock and roll groupie, a break dancing beat.
Club girl, grunge girl, girly girl.
I’m a hippie with a heartbeat.
Worldly and small town.
I stand on my head.
I sleep under covers.
I am flexible. I adapt.
Giver and receiver, healer and dreamer.
Intense and aggressive.
Sensitive and sweet.
I am a teacher and a student.
I am divine mystery.
Darkness and light.
Body and spirit.
Heaven and hell.
Sexual, creative, sacred.
Mine is a dancing path.
My body is my Bible.
My master is rhythm.
No dogma, no traditions, no rules.
I am ever-changing.
Free to express.
I live by the wilderness of my heart.

An Array at Chalai

2009-03-10T01:22:00.003+05:30

Today we perused through the broken alleyways of the Chalai Market. Entering through a decrepit, crumbling archway, I am surprised by the abundant buying, selling and bustling interactions. At first, the stench of dead fish combined with the scorching heat nauseates the senses almost to the point of collapse. Swarms of buzzing flies hover and circle, making me feel itchy as their tiny legs crawl over my skin. I am careful where I step, trying to avoid puddles of smutty waters and the remnants of rotted vegetables. Vendors set up shop on the dusty ground, laying their produce to display on old ripped sheets. The variety of vegetables is confounding. All the usual suspects are present…verdant green bunches of lettuce, peppers of different colors and potencies, plump ripe tomatoes, piles of thick orange carrots, flowering balls of cauliflower, yams covered in dirt, gleaming green cucumbers and heaps of crisp string beans. There are also fruits, copious amounts of bananas hung on stalks, beefy ripen mangoes, bunches of swollen grapes. I notice pieces of produce never before seen. Neon green cylinder shape fruits covered in bumps that resemble warts. Huge dark brown prickly skinned ovals, much larger than a watermelon, that tastes like a combination of pineapple and peach. Small firm, lime green balls of tart bitterness. All of the produce lures me with their color, their juiciness, seducing me to take a bite. I feel like Eve in the Garden, trying to resist the temptation of the enchanting deliciousness.

I saunter through the potato sacks full of spices, from coriander to turmeric to mustard seeds. Fresh rows of eggs and milk sold in plastic bags wait patiently to be bought.

We walk through the seafood department, where the morning catches are cleaned, scaled, bloody and headless. Some of it lies drying in the sun. Mounds of prawns sit next to silver radiant sheens of fish. A little further into the market and I stumble upon the meat section, witnessing a chicken preparing to get killed, skinned, and hung for potential buyers. The stagnant smell changes as I pass the mutton, hanging fleshy white meat with blood blue veins, the four legs visible but lacking a head.

I continue moving, mesmerized at the surroundings, realizing that this market has functioned in the same manner for ages. There is nothing sanitary about this place, no hygienic procedures or precautions. Raw meat and fish are handled with bare hands. Rusted knifes cut and chop and slice, looking as though they belong in some museum rather than utilized to prepare food. People are shouting, bargaining, vending and transacting. It was such a stark difference from the supermarket back in New York where I frequent to buy groceries. I am transported back in time, before shopping carts and cash registers, before scanning items and checking receipts. This is primitive living at its finest. Archaic and repugnant by our standards but nevertheless, fascinating.

Keralaxin'

2009-03-09T20:33:00.002+05:30

Keralaxin’

Kerala chillaxin’
Is all about relaxin’
Slowing down and unwinding
Energy here is spellbinding
Paddling on a crystal lake
Life seems like a piece of cake

Visiting the market to buy fresh food
Everyone here is in such a good mood

Taking a stroll through the resplendent park
Admiring the stars when day becomes dark

Gazing into the garden while rocking in a chair
Everything done is with love and great care
Leisurely lying curled up with a book
Allowing yourself time to take a good look

Stretched out on the beach soaking up the sun
Doing ordinary things in ways that are fun
Enjoying a nap after a good meal
Being in touch with how you really feel

No rush, no worry
No need to scurry
Here life is taken down a few paces
Instead of crazed and hurried races
Restoring balance to its natural state
This life is really quite great

Unplugging

2009-03-09T00:37:00.001+05:30

As I walked for the first time in the crashing waves against the shore of the Arabian Sea, I noticed the stringent difference between life in India and life back in the states. The energy pulsates to a different vibration, slower, more relaxed and free. There is no overload of texting and blackberries, laptops and ipods. Cellphones are not glued to ears or interrupting conversations because of their pestering ringtones. No one is in a great rush to do anything. No long to-do lists keeping minds occupied. Indian people really live each moment. They talk to each other. They take naps. They stroll in parks with children, laughing while sharing a cup of vanilla ice cream eaten with wooden spoons. Almost daily, a crowd gathers at the coast to witness the amazing sunset on the rippling waters. There are boisterous and friendly gatherings of people mashing and mixing varieties of foods, thoroughly enjoying the eating experience. They don’t dine in front of any type of screen, except for that of another person. I have not seen one single McDonalds or Starbucks, no Gap or Wal-mart. Everything is authentic and simple. We, as a country may be more technologically advanced, more modern, and organized but somewhere along the way, we lost the essence of what it really means to be human beings, to really live, enjoying and appreciating life. Most of the natives live in a small box of space, no bigger than my Manhattan miniature bathroom, but they carry and inhibit such an incredible sense of contentment, of being resourceful and thankful for what they have. Indian culture does not revolve around consuming the best clothes, the fanciest cars or the newest designer bag. They have a much deeper appreciation for the smaller things, the things that we as America overlook, are too busy for, and take for granted. We are too wrapped up in doing that we forget about being. Our lives have no time for slowing down, shutting down, powering down.

It has been amazing to have no cell phone while traveling. Not able to be reached. Completely unplugged. I am left with a lot of time to myself without the distractions I have become desensitized to. Upon returning, I hope the essence of India remains, reminding me to relish in each day I am alive. To slow down and give thanks for all that beauty that exists in the world.

What I'm Not Used To.....

2009-03-07T17:53:00.001+05:30

What I’m not Used To

There are certain things in this country
That I am finding kind of funky
Things that are strange
And forcing me to change
Like squatting over a hole to pee
Scattered piles of debris
Toilet paper is some water and a pail
Women walk around covered under thick veils
This place is definitely not New York
No one eats with a fork!
But rather uses their hands
And every house has a fan
For the relentless, sweltering heat
Constant black dirty soles under your feet
From walking barefoot on the broken street….

The blatant stares of men
Feelings in the air of Zen
Burning lips after eating spice
Everything sold at a bargain price
Rice served at every meal
Gold jewelry is such a steal
Vibrant colors of yellow, orange and red
All the different chutneys to spread
Persistent mosquitoes that often bite
Taking my learning to new heights
Small cups of afternoon chai
Clean clothes outside on a line to dry
Crazy driving of swerving rickshaws
I can’t help but to stand in awe
At the incredible energy of this place
Under the grim and dirt covering my face
I’m not trying to disgrace
But rather make a case….

For the beauty so alive here
On this side of the earth’s sphere
Nothing like I have ever known
Thankful I took a chance and flown
Far away from where I have grown
No access to a phone
Out of my safety and comfort zones
Putting my city life on postpone
And although sometimes I may groan
Or be scared to the bone
I’m setting a new tone
Going out alone
In order to reach my highest throne.

A Diamond in the Rough

2009-03-07T07:15:00.004+05:30

I pierced my nose today. While walking through the Chalai Bazaar, a crazed outdoor market of shops and stalls, we stopped at one of the many jewelry vendors. To a degree it was spontaneous decision, but I did come here with the intention of getting it done. Thankfully, Sebastian’s two aunts accompanied us and were able to talk in their native language to ensure a sterile needle and earring. I selected a small diamond stud wrapped in a delicate gold setting. After using a pen to mark the appropriate spot, an intimidating middle-aged man dressed in a long blue gown and an unfriendly stare, pulled the small ridge of my nose away from my face and in a instant shoved a needle straight through. I wasn’t sure if it was complete as it all happened so quickly. But he handed me a small mirror and there it was... a sparkling stone on the right side of my nose. The pain was minor, a bit stingy and throbbing but not enough to worry me or keep me from smiling. In that moment, that particular instant, I felt my American roots begin to shed and transform into another culture. Now, although my skin didn’t match in color, my facial ornamentation did. As I write this a few hours after the piercing, I still have a hard time believing I actually did it. I do not know how long I will keep it in, maybe just until the end of my trip, but I am loving the mystical sexiness it gives off, delicate, pretty and sweet. As the old saying goes…When in Rome…..

Tumblin' Thru Tamil Nadu. . .

2009-03-07T06:29:00.005+05:30

Our first full day in India, we decided to recruit our driver, a small man by the name of Chandran, to drive us into Tamil Nadu, Kerala’s neighboring state. We planned several stops in route to the southern most tip of the country, Cape Comerin, where three main bodies of water meet: the Bay of Bengal, the Indian Ocean and the Arabian Sea. Having slept most of my first day overcoming jetlag, I was anxious to get exploring. It is difficult to describe what I experienced while driving shotgun sitting to the left of Chandran, but in summary, it was sheer sensory overload. There were people and cars and buildings everywhere. No order, no streetlights, no sidewalks. Everyone was coming or going, in rickshaws or bicycles, mopeds or by foot. The scariest vehicle, however, was the lorries, huge flatbed Mac trucks painted in vibrant colors and florid designs with some religious word or person painted above the windshield. I gripped the seat frequently, every time we switched lanes into oncoming traffic and missed the approaching cars by mere inches. There was constant, incessant, blaring horns beeping. Beeping as in “Watch out, I’m coming, get out of the way!” No stop signs, no traffic lights, no street names. Nothing except for constant bobbing and weaving. What occurred as strange to me was that no one was upset or cursing or flipping the middle finger. Everyone was calm and relaxed yet I was the one terrified, fearing that an accident was imminent and unavoidable. Having been living in the city for almost a decade, I foolishly assumed New York taxi drivers were the craziest of all but they pale in comparison to Indian drivers. I was even more concerned when I saw signs for “Accident Prone Areas” and warnings not to “Drive Rash for Your Own Safety.” After almost an hour of my heart racing, dripping sweat, sheer terror, I began to settle down and realize that this chaos somehow all works, not organized chaos like what I am accustomed to in the city. There is absolutely no order here, no rules, and no road etiquette. I sensed that I needed to make an adjustment because I would never survive the drive unless I learned to relax. Its difficult to believe such clamor and disarray works, for I would have never believed it would until I experienced it firsthand.

I was also amazed at the diversity of people, the beauty and allure and intrigue each one possesses. Men with scarf’s wrapped around their waists or their heads sat on floors vigorously fixing some broken item, or carrying a bundle of goods, or conversing about what I assume would be the daily happenings. Women with bulging bellies visible through the most exquisitely colored saris carried babies or baskets or both, walking with intent and purpose. School children dressed in neatly pressed starched button down shirts and knee socks and overstuffed backpacks strapped onto their fragile frames waited anxiously for the arriving school buses. Old, wise men with straggly white beards and emaciated redwood skin, walked crookedly along the roads as the blazing sun glistened off their striated shoulders. All of this animated energy and movement occurred against the backdrop of crumbling buildings, two or three stories high in faded shades of pinks, blues, and beiges. Everything was broken, battered, chipped. Posters of Bollywood stars or political leaders or advertisements for new products scattered on every available space. There was missing windows and doors, garbage strewn in piles, dirt and dust covering everything. Little boxes of space were utilized to sell everything from fresh fruits to building materials to plastic buckets and used appliances. The lack of and efficient use of space was astounding. Stray dogs with protruding ribs, small packs of goats, cows being lead on frayed ropes, and even small elephants mixed into the surroundings, adding another layer to this whole dynamic. As we drove, fleeting smells permeated the car first of rotting sewage than of spicy meat then of burning incense. I received the “ST” from almost everyone we passed, men, women and children alike. At first, it made me feel uncomfortable, as this was the first time I really remember being a true minority. But the more people we drove by, the more I found that if I smiled at them, the awkwardness diminished, the uneasiness and questioning looks faded, the intense gaze softened. We were able to connect, if only for a moment. Barriers no longer existed, as I got the sense they realized I was no different from them, just another living, breathing human being.

Our first stop along the way was to the Padmanabhaparum Palace, where the first kings of Kerala lived over 400 years ago. Surrounded by a lush garden and rolling hills, it was luxurious in its simple manner, stately and strongly constructed of teak wood.

There were banquet halls and the Queens quarters, council rooms for meetings, and a stone dance hall with mirrored floors for entertaining guests. Touring it resembled transversing through a maze, each room leading into another nook that lead into another hall. It was incredibly spacious, with carved ceilings of lotus flowers and dragons of Chinese influence.

Next, we visited the Suchindran Temple, visited by Hindu worshippers for over a thousand years. The temple was constructed in rows of white carvings to tell the epic story of ancient India. It was erected to honor Hanuman, a monkey god, for protection in battle, and offerings of rose water and butter leaves stacked around his feet as a sign of respect and admiration.

Lastly, we arrived at Cape Comerin, commonly referred to as Kanya Kumri by the locals. Standing literally at the southwestern most tip of the country, I was in complete awe at my surroundings. Crystal clear blue water shimmered as the sun’s rays sparkled against the surface.

The air was fresh and charged with energy, with divine presence, with life. We decided to take a short ferryboat ride to two small landmasses out in the sea.

Our first port of call was the Vivekananda Rock, built in the 1970s to honor the visit of the great spiritual leader. It was there that Swami Vivekananda went to meditate and achieve enlightenment, later becoming a reformer and philosopher. Ironically, last year during a visit to Woodstock, I met a Swami of my own who suggested I read one of Vivekananda books and now nearly a year later, I stood at the very tip of India at his memorial site. Life certainly is amazing. As I sat on the steps leading up to the small room, I began to clearly see how each phase in life prepares you for what is to come, how life is always serving your highest good.

Our next stop was the Thiruvalluar Statue, a monstrous 133-foot high marble statue of a Tamil poet and saint. It was completed in 2000 and dedicated to the millennium as a beckon of light to guide human life.

We then took the boat back to the mainland and visited the Gandhi memorial. Reconstructed after the 2004 Tsunami, the memorial pays respect and homage to India’s great leader, as his ashes were spread in all three bodies of water. It was interesting to learn about the story of his life and how is nonviolently attempted to improve this country.

We retired for the evening at the Convent of the Daughters of Saint Mary, run by Mother Mary Monica and Sister Piuslia, located on a beaten down, barely paved road a few miles from the Cape. For a small donation, we scored a room (with separate beds of course), two home-cooked authentic meals, access to their garden for picking fresh fruits, and a very needed, air-conditioned night’s sleep. I laid in bed content, under my thin cotton sheet on my small cot, thankful to have lived such an incredible day.

Passage to India

2009-03-05T01:50:00.008+05:30

I did it. I arrived half way around the world to beautiful Mother India, the farthest I have ever been away from home. After 27 hours of time travel, of planes and buses, lines and waiting, a huge snowstorm and losing all sense of time, I made it to my final destination. I am a swirling bulge of emotions as I reflect and digest the journey thus far. As I stepped on Air India’s plane, I sensed that this was not going to be any ordinary trip. Everything from the orange and maroon ornately sewn seats, to the stewards’ saris, to the vegetarian meals served, life began preparing me for all that is to come. The fourteen hour flight passed quickly in a blur of sleepiness and snacks, and the blatant, borderline uncomfortable stares from an array of Indian men. Sebastian amicably referred to this as the “ST” and forewarned me that is going to be a frequently occurring experience during my travels.

We arrived in Mumbai around 11pm, never having lived Tuesday but feeling as though I traveled through space, perpetually dark outside the plane’s window. I was greeted with an assault on my sense of smell. It aggressively invaded my nostrils, as I fought not to let it sicken my stomach but rather inhaled it in and attempted not to fight it. A mixture of heat and ailing help, toxic pollution and smog, heaviness, putridly aggressive. I immediately thought about turning back and going home. Where am I and what have I done? But within a few breaths, the smell’s harshness lessened, and I began to take it in, to let it penetrate. And in doing so, it uncovered more of what India was about…struggle and progress, spirituality and the knowingness, the origins of love and divine connections and temples of burning incense, of truthfulness. The smell of millions of bodies crammed together in the intense humid warmth, breathing this one breath, as one organism existing as a whole. There was no need to long for home or to be afraid, for I stood in the soul of the world.

Having a seven hour layover in Mumbai, we were denied access to our departing gate because of the filming of a Bollywood film. Another typical occurrence Sebastian explained. As we watched a hunky guy in a cutoff sleeveless shirt being chased by airport security guards, my attention was distracted but the rambunctious gang of children running and screaming and playing on the luggage trolleys. Some barefoot, some dressed in westerners clothing while others in sequined dresses, but all with the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen. Big, brown, almond shaped with long lustrous eyelashes, bearing innocence so pure, so divine that I couldn’t help but stare and admire. I immediately made eye contact with one sweet girl in a white skirt and matching belly shirt, a toothy grin, and a warm smile. Oftentimes, she would run and halt completely in front of me to gaze wide-eyed and curious. After several times, all the children followed and they stood, anticipating with such love and questioning and friendliness that I had to fight the urge to reach out and hug them all. We began talking, or rather trying to communicate through broken English, broken words. We discussed the film and how they were extras in the movie. They excitedly told me about school and sports and their favorite past times. They were fascinated when Sebastian played a movie on his laptop. They listened intently as I told them about the biggest snowstorm of the winter and how it almost prevented us from leaving New York that very same morning. They were curious as to why my cheeks were pink and where my home was if I liked to eat mangoes. We spent the next two hours in the airport terminal, playing games, laughing, and living.

Ironically, a couple months ago, I had a vision that someday I would be working with Indian children and now here I sat, no more than an hour into my landing, surrounded by this sweet group of children, and already my eyes were being opened to the different possibilities my life path could take. I felt so strongly the whole trip was worth it for such a perfect moment. Communication boundaries no longer existed, for we connected on a deeper level. I will never forget those children. Never. And as we hugged tightly and said our goodbyes, I feared I would never see them again but felt richer for knowing them, however fleeting.

We boarded our final plane headed for Kerala, our final destination. Exhausted and delirious, I fought hard to stay up and watch the sunrise. Finally the darkness lifted, revealing blazes of gleaming golden pinks and oranges, sparkling blues and greens. A symbolic omen to me, as the sun was rising so a new chapter of my life was unfolding. A new dawn, a new day, a new life. Within minutes, the colors disappeared into pure white light and the luminous sun pierced through the plane’s windows, warming me to my core. As we flew over Trivandrum, Kerala’s capital city, I could see coconut trees for miles, flourishing hills of lush greens along the austere coast of the Arabian Sea. A quick drive though the most chaotic, horn blowing, crazed driving I have ever experienced, we arrived at Sebastian’s grandmother’s home, beautiful, inviting and spacious and with modern amenities. My own room and adjacent bathroom, air conditioning, a driver, a cook, a gardener. I spent most of the afternoon meeting relatives, taken back by their kindness and welcoming warmth. I sat on a rocking chair overlooking the garden, giving myself permission to slow down, to let go, and adjust to the much slower pace. To do absolutely nothing but just to be. I have had the pleasure to enjoy delicious home cooked meals of rice and vegetables, seasoned chicken, curries and spices, fresh fruits and juices. Retiring for an afternoon nap resulted in me sleeping for almost seven hours. And now I sit, wide awake in bed as I write my first blog entry, charged with energy and anticipation of all the awaits, all that lies ahead.