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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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'

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

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.