Welcome to India

[I did not post this when I first arrived, giving India time and space to "sink in" to my being.  Now that it's time to go, let's go back 3.5 months]

Welcome to India.  Sitting in this crumbling dirty hotel room with mosquito nets (thank G-d!), beaten up walls, dirty curtains and complimentary water with miss-matched bottle caps; it is hard to know where to start.  The on-going conversation of the traffic outside, incessant beeping and the occasional screaming is the background, noise to my musings.  The fan overhead is kicking up a small whirlwind in the room as it spins and bobbles, threatening to escape its fixture any second.  The pillows have numerous hairs scattered about as part of the décor, and I’ve yet to examine the sheets.  The furniture is falling apart.  There are stains on the walls.  The shower does not work and two buckets sit under the faucet as permanent back-up.  I sit tired, dirty and motionless, realizing the futility of cleaning myself here, unable to move due to sheer disgust.  The thought of one more day here is not pleasant, let alone a few months of travel.   

Though I’ve read a lot and have been told a lot, it is very different to experience it with my own eyes.  Last night, for just $12 more dollars I slept in an immaculate room, with the latest facilities, freshness, and style in Singapore.  It was one of the nicest hotels I’ve ever been to.  Today is different.  The hotel arranged a pick up that never showed up.  After sitting outside for half hour in the arrivals enclose, turning into more lucrative bait to both mosquitoes and hollering cab drivers, I decided to go to the cab desk (another wave of gratitude here) to pre-arrange a fare.  This was easy enough, $4 later I had a slip in my hand with a cab number and my destination.  Venturing out of the enclosed “safe space” in the airport was also not as scary as imagined.  Simply rolling my cart past different cabs and people sleeping on the ground, I found cab 0991, much to my surprise.  He was ready to go, and thought seemingly more interested in how much I paid for the hotel and whether I arranged it online, than where it is actually located.  Merging, screaming and honking through traffic filled with cars, auto rickshaws, bicycles, people and dogs, I was surprised that we actually saw the neon red letters with “Host Inn” on top of a 20 story building. 

 [Fast forward]

When I wrote this post 3.5 months back, I was on the verge of tears.  I was defeated, having not even stepped foot outside of the hotel room, and horrified to do so.  Since then, I’ve extended my time here not once, but twice.  Now, re-reading these words, it actually does not sound so bad at all!  Eh, just a regular hotel room.  Ignore the hairs and dirt, spread out my trusty travel sheet (or sleeping condom, as Nick calls it), bucket-shower away the dirt, write and sleep.  In hind site, that was likely the worst hotel experience of the whole trip, thought I will never know whether it was by perception or reality.

I end my trip exactly where I started, full circle.  Oddly enough, though I fly domestically, mine is a connecting flight and so I arrive at Chatrapati Shivaji International.  The décor does not look faded, the people are not strange.  It’s all normal.  The fact that it’s almost midnight does not phase me in the slightest.  I don’t wait for hotel pick-ups and don’t even arrange one out o the fear of the unknown.  Easily proceeding to the outside prepaid taxi stand (the line is shorter!), making sure no one cuts in front of me (thus gaining their smiles and respect) I get a cab to Whoorly, Mumbai.  The traffic, thought ever present, is not so bad!  I don’t see the crazy throngs of dogs and people, don’t notice the crazy noise, and the sewer smell that sharply bites my nose from time to time does not surprise me.

I know exactly where I am going and what to expect.  One of the most stylish buildings in Mumbai, the coziest of apartments, the kindest of people.  N and V have housed, fed, nurtured and acclimated me to India shortly after my arrival; post the crazy hotels, cabs and traffic.  Whether through kind words or amazing home-made food, clean shower or simple tips to get around the city, a helping hand to cross the crazy traffic or a cab to the airport, the peace and wisdom that just flows effortlessly from their beings.  Though they are away, friends make all the arrangements for me to arrive and be comfortable.

My first morning in India I woke to the same sound of traffic, not sure whether I would last two weeks in the country or have to make my escape.  My last morning, I wake up to the sound of the Arabian sea and birds, musing about my return to this multifaceted colorful country.  It doesn’t feel like the end of a journey, just the beginning. 

About my Husband

While traveling in India, I’ve become comfortable and patient with many things that used to puzzle, frustrate and bewilder me before my trip.  For instance, the question of marriage.  In the US, we are supposed to hold on to our freedom as long as possible, never settle for anything other than the most perfect best, and wait for our Mr. Wonderful patiently and purposefully while entertaining Mr. Right-now to avoid feeling lonely. In India, much like everything else that Westerners tend to hold on to, the concept of dating, choosing your mate and waiting for the “right one” is slowly making in-roads in big cities such as Mumbai and Delhi, but often in secret from the rest of the family, or in “non-traditional” and “modern” families.  The mere fact that the label "love marriage" versus "arranged marriage" exist and are given by the Indian people themselves leads me to believe that the Western approach to marriage is not the norm. 

Instead, on my first bus journey by myself I got the questions: “Are you lonely?  Are you married?” They came from an oversized man squeezed in next to me in the back row of the government (read: cheap, local) bus which I hoped would be empty.  As we continued with our journey, I became aware that I was the only woman not traveling with a man.  While not always the case in the South, where I later enjoyed the same questions again from men invariably wanting to seat themselves next to me, in the North I rarely saw women traveling by themselves, unless they were Western. 

Remembering the one-off stories from friends and blogs about being felt up on a bus, I decided to start the epic of my dear husband in hopes that being another man’s wife may prove to be a deterrent for unwanted advances.  My wedding ring, a gorgeous rose gold band with high quality zirconium, a farewell gift from my Mother, was slipped to the ring finger of my left hand and I began to discuss my one and only:

The man I married, being a very responsible provider, is working hard back home in the US so that we may have enough money to soon have children (thus anticipating the burning question of “where are your children?”).  He just started a company, so he is very very busy and cannot travel with me.  However, he is incredibly fond of Indian food and Yoga, and therefore he sent me all the way to India to learn both before we start a family.  Wise man, that husband of mine turned out to be.  A great provider with a vast network of friends all over India, I wrapped my husband’s tale snugly around me like a protective cloak which came in handy on almost every single long bus ride alone.

The road to Rishikesh alone proved to be laden with lots of questions from my very inquisitive and respectful back-seat companions.  “Where is your bag from?  How much does it cost?”

“I don’t know really, my husband bought it.”  I shrugged my shoulders helplessly.  My sturdy REI travel companion that I carefully picked out before the trip was not the cheapest thing when converted to rupees and I did not want to engage in a lengthy comparison conversation of how much money things cost in the US versus India for the next 8 hours. 

However, my travel mates were of a different opinion: “How much is your watch?  How much is your phone?  Where did you buy it? How much was your hotel in Delhi?” they continued, each one of the group of 4 asking the one English speaker seated next to me to translate.   

“You know, my husband really does not want me to worry about these things.  When I need something, he simply gives me a gift.  As far as my hotels, he has friends all over India who arrange things nicely.”  I realized that was perhaps not the most welcoming answer but discussing the price of everything relevant to my travel and possessions was not the most ideal way to spend the long bus ride. 

After about half an hour, the merits of my husband, the Great Provider grew exponentially as price and origin of the contents of my bag (everything that I would reach for or touch) was questioned and finally exhausted.  A discussion of politics, yoga, culture, music, anything really other than the “story of stuff” would have been welcome, but my inquisitive companions seemed to be stuck on the financial aspects of my travel and belonging, one of the few things I did not with to discuss in detail.  For the very first time in my life I entered the role of the “clueless wife” that I could never fathom, and even began to appreciate some its merits.

 By the time we arrived in Rishikesh, my husband was a polished epic hero whose tale I would continue to carry with me throughout my trip, gaining more comfort and ease with every new “Are you married” question from random male shop owners, hotel clerks, rickshaw and taxi drivers, as well as numerous male bus companions.

 At times the tale of marriage may have distanced me from those who would have otherwise wanted to get a lot closer.  Perhaps it closed the door to interactions and cultural exchanges that would have been very interesting for both sides.  However, contrary to the constant play on words in India, which turned “Are you traveling alone” into “Are you lonely,” I was not.  I was truly enjoying my own company.  I did not need Mr. or Ms. Right-now.  The more I became comfortable uttering the unfamiliar and hitherto scary word “my husband,” the more I was enjoying my own ability and power to take care of myself on the road.  

One day, thought, I will return with Mr. Right, and show him my India.     

New City Loneliness

“Whenever you get to a new city, there are the initial few days, 3 or 4 at least, when you feel sad, depressed, lost.  I call it ‘The New City Loneliness,’” said Yelena, a striking Canadian blond of Serbian origin.  At 23, post a masters in Philosophy, she was traveling Asia as a break between school and work.  It was not her first trip to the continent and a third time in India.  We met at a yoga class that was part of a teacher’s training that she was doing for a month in Mysore, and having been in town for a week, she had her bearings, her friends, and her routine.  I, however, was off to a slow start. 

“In front of us is Loyal World, the supermarket when you’ll get anything you need.  If you go to the right and then make the third right, you’ll find Green Leaf restaurant which is good.  Thali for 50 at lunch.  There is also Cups restaurant and the Italian coffee places before you make a turn for Green Leaf.”  She was explaining the lay of the land and I was attempting to take it in.

My first few days in Myscore were not as smooth as other towns.   I was already on day 5 and things were coming together but with a bit more pain than usual.  The teacher I came to study with did not work out, and the search for another one was taking time.  The “foreigner” community in the suburb of Gokulum is very yoga focused, and social interactions revolve around one’s yoga shala.  Since I did not have one, I was on the outside and was getting glimpses of the happy yoga cliques here and there, but not fitting in.

The pain of discovery and settling in was not new, and remembering this was a major comfort.  Knowing that Yelena (love those popular Eastern European names) has had the same experience was also re-assuring.  Same, same, as they say in Asia. 

Extended travel is like a microcosm for life, only on speed.  When one is traveling for more than two weeks or a month, there is the opportunity to get a glimpse of how a town really works, to get to know some people through their work and repeated encounters, to take a glimpse inside their homes, their problems, and their grocery store. The easiest way in is through engagement on either the volunteer/work or student level.  Jumping into a formed or forming community of people with the same goal, meeting them day after day and sharing problems unlocks the gates of any city.    

However, in India, chance plays a very powerful role as well.  Exactly a week into my stay in Gokulum and I had company for every meal.  Breakfast was spent with a Birgit, a girl who overheard my search for a yoga studio the week before and took me to her teacher.  The teacher turned out to be quite amazing and I’ve been practicing at Yoga India ever since.  Lunch was an invitation from a foreigner couple (British/Hong Kong) who actually live in Mysore.  I met them at a yoga anatomy class the day before, and they planned out my last week in India with their local expertise and western sensibility, then cooked me an amazing healthy Chinese meal on the terrace of their gorgeous home.  Later that day, laden with veggies for a quiet night in, I bumped into an Indian couple as I was passing them on the road.  They chatted me up, invited me for chai, and over later for free lunch at their work (a hotel buffet) and dinner at their house.  While I politely declined more meal invitations for the day, feeling over-socialized, they instructed me on how to cook the strange vegetables I just purchased, and said they will call me the next day for lunch and dinner.  As I finally continued on my way home, a Russian-speaking student for Kazhastan, whom I met the night before at a restaurant called me for dinner.  With gratitude, I offered “another night.” 

As I look back on the last 2 months of solo travel and transition, the New City Loneliness seems to be the ever-present welcoming committee in every new town.  However, the biggest constant in life is change, and everything does, when given enough of time.  One of the values of travel is perhaps experiencing some of life’s transitions and mapping out the patters.   

Domesticating in Mysore, a parallel travel universe

[This is not to be read in sequence with previous posts, as I am constantly adding and writing.  This is a mere glimpse into life and travel in India]

The laundry machine is humming and splashing (the water pipe is not completely attached to the wall), the fan in whirling, the curtains are blowing in the created cool breeze, the oatmeal is steaming, and the pots and pans are soaking in the sink.   The chocolate cake from my Honey is chilling in the fridge, along with curd (yogurt cousin-brother) fresh tomatoes, cucumbers, apples, mandarins and bananas.  A new pack of giner-lemon green tea is sitting on the counter along with a huge jug of drinking and cooking water.  The shopping bags unpacked, each box and carton in it’s proper place. 

Wait, where am I???

The parallel universe of the Gokulum suburb of Mysore, India, welcomes foreigners with open arms full of comforts, fully set up for foreigners to live for months without a care (more on this later).

Upon arrival in Mysore, a 10 minute rickshaw ride transported me into a quiet suburb the likes of Berkeley, CA where seeing white skin and foreign English accent is not uncommon.  Within minutes, an American girl was spotted on the street (one of the first in India outside of Goa) who took me to the only place I knew about, the Patabi Jois Ashtanga Yoga Shala.  At the front, after stating that I just arrived, I was directed to Shiva who lives a few doors down, by the friendly and energetic gray haired man who seems to be the permanent welcoming committee outside the Yoga shala.  Within 20 minutes (one has to wait at least a little bit for everything in India), I was on the back of the bike of one of Shiva’s boys and transported a few blocks down to see an apartment that one of the local families “rents to yoga students only” as the numerous signs around town explain.    

  Here, I am the maharani of my own 2 bedroom 2 baths.  With the flatmate gone and the foreigner season almost over, I have the whole place, along with a living room and dining room all to myself.  There is a closet in each room! 

  My few items of clothing have spread them out luxuriously in the closet, some resting on the numerous shelves, others hanging on the hangers, exercising their egos and wrinkles.  The backpack, which normally occupies all the available empty space in my various rooms for the past 3 months is lost on the floor.

All that space was appropriated well in no time at all.  The living room, with a gorgeous tree painting on the main wall is now my yoga studio.  

 There is enough room for pilates leg circles and more!  The dining room, complete with a large square low table, couch and cushions became a reading and writing room (the television ignored, as always).   

The washing machine and laundry room lines were filled with the colorful contents of my backpack. 

My first and only stable meal from “my” kitchen (first time in 3 months!) was spiced oatmeal.  Yes, my dreams have come true in India, they make oatmeal specifically for people like me, already pre-mixed with masala and cashews.  They only suggest I add the curd for creaminess, as though reading my mind and indulging my old habits!  I went a step further, and added tomatoes and onions (roasted) and it became a heavenly concoction and a delightful dinner or breakfast.

Wanting to go home in the evening, what a concept?  Sitting down on the couch to read  book or eat a home made meal!  No need for hand sanitizer because my sink has soap, no need to have the “which country?” conversation, or any conversation at all, if so desired.  Just quiet.  In India!  Hmmm of the fan at night, chirping of the birds and Muslim call to prayer in the morning.  Beeping of the traffic, always, though it no longer registers.

Body shuts down.  In all this convenience and comfort, I become ravenous in the evening, knowing that there is food to eat after the restaurant closes (what a concept!).  After yet another home-made fruit lassie or bowl of fresh fruit, curd and musli I pass out.  Sitting on the couch with a laptop or a book, on the bed, wherever in the 4 room maze I might be, fully clothed, un-brushed teeth, out like a light until the middle of the night.  Without external stimulation that happens everywhere in this country, the body seems to go into conservation mode.  I keep having fantasies of watching one of my numerous movies, collected from fellow travelers.  Writing, responding to emails, calling… As soon as I sit down, the next thing I know, it is one or two am.  I drag myself to the bathroom, alternating between the two so no one feels left out, and then surrender into the comfort of clean sheets.

PPH Misfits

Our band of misfits roamed the halls of Swami Vivekananda Yoga Anusandhana Samsthana or S-VYAS, a Yoga University on a quest. Coby, a fellow yoga teacher’s training student from Australia and I were looking for advanced pranayama (yogic breathing and energy manipulation) techniques.  Tal, a Chinese Medicine Doctor from Israel, was looking for instruction and guidance to perform the last of the yogic purifying techniques.   We all came for a yoga intensive, but were triaged into the Promotion of Positive Health (PPH) group, admitted into therapy.

The first day we filled out forms, waited, were piled into a bus for a very short 2 hours from Bangalore, waited, filled out questionnaires, waited, were weighed, measured and fed. 

At the introduction assembly, we knew were close to our answers.

“Uncontrolled speed is the disease,” esteemed Dr. H R Nagendra said in her address.  “Reduce speed on all levels.  Rest.  Yoga is the skull to calm down the mind.  Slowing down trick is yoga,” she continued.  In her address she went over how cancer was sent into remission through yogic breathing techniques developed at SVYASA University.  Depressions and OCD were not diseases, according to her: “Be angry, be depressed, but slowly,” she explained.  “Then you have space between two thoughts and you can see what is.  OCD is a supernormal condition, also not a disease but hyper speed.  There is a great capacity for super focus that is present.  Only difference is it is not focused on the right place.”  Dr. Nagedra assured that through yogic breathing and asana techniques, as well as rest, cure has been attained.  Bliss was near. 

Yoga citta vriti nirodha, we head again Patanjali’s shlokah from the sutras.  Yoga is to gain mastery over the modifications of the mind.  It is in our mind where a lot of dis-ease resided.

“Are you satisfied?” Harish, our therapist and group leader asked us the following day.  We have just completed the second session of the day with special technique.  It was much like the first, slow movements, half poses, sleepy yoga of a parallel universe.  “I know you are not,” he learned to read our face.

Harish hard at work crafting his Positive Health group

After 2 weeks of nearly 2 dynamic vinyasa classes per day, therapy was not the order.  Coby and I came for knowledge, and lack thereof along with lack of movement as we practiced it was torture.  The answers were there, we just didn’t know if they were coming to us.  Yoga therapy was mind management technique, and we needed to manage our mind and expectations because we were being turned from students into patients. 

All around were people who seemed to be ecstatic.  Many older people had come for treatment and health management.  There was a very cheerful young boy, of Indian descent from Canada, with severe limp as he walked and a scar at his throat.  He was smiles, and his mother was in pure joy at the place.  “They have a program here, and I have come here especially for my son.  He has many problems and this place makes him feel better.”  I could see the pain in the mother’s eyes and the magic that it was for her child. 

However, thankfully, my problems were different.  The thirst for knowledge thankfully has no physical side effects other than restlessness, irritation and business of the mind.  The state of being close to the source, hearing the water, but without a clear path to the spring had to be resolved. 

Meeting with the famous Dr. Nagendra the very first evening and explaining the “yoga intensive situation” gave us all hope.  She confirmed, much to our Harish’s surprise, that there is in fact a track for people to come for intensive practice and knowledge.  However, it was off the beaten path, which is usually an incredibly uncomfortable road in the land of rules and traditions.  She wrote out our prescription: meeting with different professors to study philosophy, a teacher assigned directly to us for advanced pranayama practice.  Harish, our therapist and section leader, was left with the task of making it happen, and like a traditional Indian man he had a hard time going outside of his section’s Promotion of Positive Health track for the therapy misfits like us. 

By the third day, most of the program was still not in place.  Though we had begun to meet with professors in their holmes  and attending a lecture here and there, things were not set, and most importantly, there was no pranayama. 

“I told you, it is not so easy.  I must coordinate the professor’s schedules, find you a time when they are free, to know who is free.  Of course, Dr. Nagendra can write, but to make it happen is another matter.  Look, why don’t you come for your section’s sessions.  You will learn something, Just you try!” Harish was kindly promoting Positive Health therapy down our gagging throats. 

Tal, Coby and I would vent our frustrations to one another in between breaks, sharing the pain of going against the institutional grain.  Almost as though by magic, the times that our conversations would reach a heated crescendo nearing anger, patient Upma would show up, as thought right on cue.

“You are so blessed to be in this place!  In all of India, in the whole world, there is nothing like it!  Do you understand how lucky you are?” she would look at us seriously, searching our faces for gratitude. 

The first time she appeared, Coby remarked that she heard from someone that this woman was not well.  The second time, the coincidence was just getting to be a bit much.

“Everyone in this world is so concerned with getting and taking and getting and taking.  We are all given what we need.” Upma walked into the Positive Health section room where our band of misfits gathered to gripe.  “If a child is told, ‘Therefore zebra,’ he would not understand, he would fail the test.  The child must start from the beginning, understand the problem, and the solution should be revealed in time.”

Starting to feel like mental health patients, we decided it was time to take matters into our own hands.  The good old advice from my taxi driver the very first day in Mumbai surfaced again:

“Asking, it’s good for us.”

So, at every meeting, during every meal, and whenever anyone asked how I was, I would relate the advanced pranayama technique and yoga intensive quest. Coby and I were starting to formulate alternative plans.  Should we go to Mysore to study with a teacher she knew?  Can we create a 7 day intensive to get the kind of knowledge before we have to leave India?   Should we risk the time it takes to travel and settle in a new place, leaving the dwindling possibility of reaching the goal for the uncertainly of the unknown? 

Towards the afternoon of the third day, Coby and I met yet another professor with nearly dwindling hope.  Tal did not come this time as he was defeated by an earlier morning incident of a cancelled cleansing technique session.  The manner of this professor was different.  He fussed around us like we were esteemed guests, offering us tea, handing each one of us presents in form of apples.  

“Hmmm, so I think there is one woman who can help you.” He responded to our well-polished intensive search "presentation".  “She is a simple one, but she has amazing insight into pranayama!  These kind of people, when they go deep into a subject, it is beautiful!  I will phone her directly and find out when you can meet.  You and I will meet separately for Raj yoga philosophy”

Coby and I looked at each other in disbelief, but the professor was already on the phone, arranging the meeting. Just a few hours ago at breakfast, I sat at a table with American Yoga teacher trainers and shared my quest.  They let me know about their pranayama class at 4pm and said our group could join!  At 5am there was also a 2 hour teacher dynamic trainer’s yoga class.

Our schedule was starting to come together. 

Om Shut

“The Om meditation lady is very strict, you know, she shuts the door if you are 5 minutes late!” I was told by one of my fellow “patients”.

The following day I decided to wake up in time for the first program.  Om, after all, is quite powerful in terms of its vibration influence on the body, as I was told.  It wasn’t hard to wake up, as the scratching and banging on the doors next to mine was audible at before 5am.  Yet, somehow magically, despite the fact that I was awake before my alarm, my last glance at the clock as I was finally washed, dressed and on my way out revealed that it was 5:29am.  I locked my door and raced down to the meditation hall.  The university was wide awake with sounds of action from every corner.  Water splashing, gargling, doors opening, people rushing back and fourth.  

As I reached the meditation hall with its big neon electric OM sign, where the Torah would be in a synagogue, the screen door was open, but I saw or heard no hit of other patients.  I tried the door, and it was immobile.  It did not move even a centimeter, did not rattle in its lock, but was firmly immobile, like the OM mediators seated inside.  The hall was completely full, the session has begun.

Walking back to my room, I remembered that there was something about discipline in the opening address the day before that I must have blinked through after 15 hours on the bus.  Looking through my notes, I found a whole section:

“You have to get used to discipline and you will, because it is natural.  Discipline is health!”

Sitting in my blue yoga cell, I was wondering if I will be able to survive until next Friday.  My little cage with bars on the windows, a metal bed, a plastic chair, a wooden closet and cheery multicolored sheets was perhaps the most austere accommodations that I’ve ever experienced in a building format.   No reliable internet.  5am wake u.  No inspiring, dynamic yoga.  A yoga intensive with no intensity. 

The tools for learning were laid out in front of me. The books I needed neatly stacked on my marble table of near perfect height.  My new yoga was mat hanging above the clean blue tile floor, the open space just large enough for a careful practice.  The room was comfortably quiet 99% of the time.  Outside, good, clean satvic (pure) food was being cooked 3 times a day.  Walking trails wound their way around the campus like ribbons.  People engaged in rigorous yogic study or relaxation pursuits were already on their way to their goals and it was not even 6am yet. 

I wondered if I would find discipline in my nature or run away and spend my last few remaining days in the country scattered in tourist chaos.

Arambol, finally we meet

It is possible discover paradise, even amidst swarms of Russian rednecks, Israeli stoners, and International beach bunnies and trancers.  Especially after one hour of yoga at sunrise amidst the palms, a lovely breakfast with working (!) internet, 3 hour pranayama class, and another 1.5 hours of yoga and a gorgeous silent (!) sunset on top of a cliff amidst the palms.

 In the evening, a candle lit keyboard, earplugs to drown out the conversations all around, and just the deep sound of the ways, faint restaurant music and distant flickering lights of the main city.  Taking what I need, and leaving the rest.   

Arambol, as our time together is coming to an end, I am starting to discover your secrets and appreciate your beauty, letting the drunken dirty mess of vacationers fade to the background.  You are becoming a safe yet ambitious international seaside village. Turns out that while in one direction your sands stretch endlessly as far as the eye can see, in the other direction your cliffs open up to another, quieter beach, a forest, and a sweet-water lake that I have yet to discover.  While your salty sea is heavy with waves during the day, the sea of candles at night flickers lightly in the night breeze.  Your tasty “continental” cuisine side rivals that of many international cities, with options for every taste bud, if one can dig patiently.  Even Indian food is hiding off the road, behind a coconut stand, or a palm tree.   Seek and ye shall find, just know what you’re looking for. 

Ocean of Philosophy

Amongst the sea of Russian tourists and the waves of hippies from all over the world,  surrounded by palm leafs on a rooftop of Famafa “resort” in the village of Arambol I’ve discovered an Ocean on Knowledge.

They say in India that, “Your teacher comes to you.”  Of course, they say a lot of things and when I arrived in Mumbai, I paid little attention to this saying, thinking only that it would be nice if I didn’t need to research schools etc, if I could just have it all laid out.  On my second day in the country, discussing my love for Yoga in the lovely company of the mother of a friend of a friend who was my most gracious host, I was casually told:

“Ahh, yes, my good friend is a professor of Yoga!  Brilliant man, he comes from the sports background, managed finances for a huge company and trains athletes.  He comes to our building to teach yoga regularly.  In fact, he’s coming over for dinner Monday, would you like to meet him?”  Nirupa, since the day met, always casually offered THE thing that was needed, whether it was the warm hospitality of her home, including her very own bedroom, kind and wise conversation to settle in a freaked out new arrival, or a teacher. It always came at a perfect time too, when needed, just like that Monday dinner.  It was the first day post the wedding I had come for to Indian and my last day in Mumbai.

At dinner, Dr, Ganesh Rao turned out to be a warm geyser of knowledge, and it wasn’t just on yoga.  Though an intense man, when he got into his subject, his kindness shone in his smile, his easy laugh and clear concern for the well-being of those around him. Knowledge is often delivered from a distance, since those that are fortunate to have it often acquire a very large ego in the process of study that places them on a perceived mountain top from where they “graciously” deliver their address.  Dr. Ganesh shared succinct juicy morsels of lore in the same way he offered a second helping of the chapattis that were next to him on the table.  The subjects of philosophy, Russian literature and meditation moved with the ease of our hands in our plates, eating Indian style. Gurdijieff http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Gurdjieff a fairly obscure Russian meditation philosopher, turned out to be second nature!  I was recommended books that would make his work much easier to understand and carry me over the dense stumbling blocks of his original writing.  The explanation of the “third eye” was offered from a precise physiological and historical point of view, removing the mysticism and inserting logic. 

Two months later I met him in Arambol, Goa.  Along with the Arabian sea I discovered the ocean of knowledge that is Dr. Ganesh.  For seven happy days I ran across the beach to sit at his feet on yoga mats in a rooftop yoga studio where he taught two yoga philosophy classes daily.  He was a guest lecturer in a yoga training course, and I was a guest student.  Fortunately, I was also allowed into the other teacher training and regular classes as well, and so a pranayama (yogic breathing practice), an iyengar-based vinyasa and a hatha flow classes rounded out my days.

 

With my YTT certificate out of the way in US, I have the luxury of learning for the sake of understanding, not driven by a prescribed program with an end goal.  Experiencing it for the first time in life in Dr. Ganesh’s class, I felt free while taking notes!   It is quite powerful to learn driven by your own will, desire and interest, and not a diploma, job training, or certification requirement.

Dr. Ganesh went in more depth that any of my previous lectures or training.  A professor of Yoga in the University of Mumbai, a therapist, Naturopathic Doctor, a PhD in Philosophy, a Master of Finance with the background of a professional soccer player and athlete, and a few other degrees, his material made sense on all levels.  I learned about his acronym accolades only during the last day of our class, he paid it all little importance as his passion was humble knowledge. The physiological aspects of the subject were explained together with the historical, philosophical and spiritual.  His lectures and our brains were all systems go. 

After each class, the yogis in training and I marveled not only at the material but at the teacher and man.  His lectures were delivered with crystal precision, succinct, organized and without a single note or outline in hand.  It was as though he was reading from some internal computer screen, spelling out complicated Sanskrit and English words, providing exact definitions, going off track to answer our questions and then moving right back to the precise point where he stopped.  Yogic breathing and concepts of matter were explained in terms of physics, yogic precepts on life in terms of historical context and culture.  Common misconceptions of yoga and life were revealed in class, and there was at least one moment in class for each one of us where we discovered a higher truth for ourselves, an explanation for something we were struggling with in our own lifes, and an alternate way of considering a problem in our own practice.  Dr. Ganesh taught with a smile, and his love for the subject spread to his students from the very first lecture.  .  Marveling at the depth and breadth of knowledge, I asked how it was acquired.

“Reading is my passion, and I believe that everyone in life should do what they really like!” he said smiling.

As a young man, Dr. Ganesh had a brilliant career in both soccer on a professional level, finance on a corporate level and a passion for knowledge.  He continued to pursue all three, excelling with promotions.   After making himself financially comfortable in corporate, and despite a great future on the ladder, he put in his resignation one fine day.  When asked where he was going, he responded:

“Nowhere, I am just too happy and comfortable here.”  It was time to move on, and after sustaining an injury on the soccer field, he devoted his life to his passion for learning and understanding.  He said that he rarely accepts social engagements and only sleeps for four hours a day, dividing his waking time between classes, yogic practice and study.  After learning this I felt even luckier that he accepted the dinner invitation that Monday when we met, since it was a rare occasion. 

Dr. Ganesh was a true pleasure to be around, a happy calming presence that we all cherished perhaps not for just the knowledge that he possessed, but for the joy that he received from his life and work.  It wasn’t just the material he presented, but his love and appreciation of the subject and of life in general that made those around him feel comfortable and warm.  Most of the students in the course met with him individually to discuss their own problems and life aspirations, instinctively seeking his advice and company as something rare and precious to be cherished while present.   

They say that people often go through a personal transformation in a yoga training course.  Often it is out of sheer exhaustion and being pushed beyond the limits.  However, in the week of Dr. Ganesh’s lectures, the “Aha” moments that we all had were quite priceless and frequent. He made Patanjali’s sutras come alive and interpreted ancient Sanskrit with precision and satisfaction that made us smile at the simplicity, elegance, and wisdom of the teachings. Yoga was revealed to us far beyond ancient technique for well-being, or philosophy and history.  We discovered a way of life and relationship to ourselves and those around us. 

As the course came to a close, during my one on one with the teacher I felt overwhelmed and daunted by the immensity of what I did not know in yoga.  I knew that I’ve just dipped one toe into the ocean and I felt overwhelmed and unequal to the teaching task.  Dr. Ganesh left me with these parting words:

“You must teach, it is the best way to learn.” 

Goooooaaaaaaaaah

Everything feels strangely normal here… women dressed in tight clothes on the street, wearing bikinis on the beach, walking by themselves and not in large groups.  Couples walking together holding hands, scantly clad in tribal wear under the blazing sun.  Children number one per family.  Yoga here, yoga there, yoga bodies everywhere.

Drum circles at sunset, dreadlocks, hoola hoops, didgeridoos, and poi.  The record skips:

“Masha, mu zdes, vozle Indusov v lodke, posmotri na prava!” (Masha, we’re here, next to the Indians in the boat, look to your right!) a pretty long-legged blond screams into her mobile with a Moscow accent. 

Life’s truisms and most other advertisements are written in Russian, with small English translations, sometimes.

 Indian people, predominantly wearing a cross, will bust out phrases in Russian first and Hebrew second.  With my hair down in its full Jew-fro glory, I get the latter.  With my hair up, it’s “Privet and poka.”  Russians marvel at my English, while often being startled by my Russian.  Americans, Australians, and the English are amused by my Russian, while cleanly detecting my English as US-California.   

The more things change, the more they do stay the same.  German bakeries specializing in “sea foods, grilled tandoori, pies, loof (yes that is correct spelling) bread, and cheese cake” are on every corner to make sure that the Europeans don’t go hungry.  Naturally, only about half of them sell baked good.  For some reason, European and North American pastry in India’s tourist hot sports originate from Germany.  Incidentally, the only German-owned food establishments I’ve come across (in all of India) were in fact café Edelweiss and Savage garden, both fastidiously clean, popular, and serving Italian and French food. 

“So what’s German on your menu?   Is it French Onion?” I half-jokingly asked the waiters at the largest German Bakery in Arambol, situated in a prime beach spot.  The pastry display case was barren save for a cookie and a jar of power bars, and I wanted a slice of German chocolate cake. 

“Minestrone soup.”  The Indian waiter replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

Italians, present in a sizable quantity likely avoid minestrone from German Bakeries, but they do love their caffeine done right, along with lovely focaccia sandwiches at Dreamland Café, where they are made with the owner’s Italian flair and Indian women’s’ hands in the kitchen.  Olive Garden and Pizzerias are out in full force, and are not Italian-owned.

Indian food has gone into hiding at the site of all the Russians and Israelis, neither one of which tolerate spice (in general).  Tucked away behind palm trees, off the beaten beach and shopping path, I am told there is a good Indian place serving thali for 50 rupees.   

In the hippy town of Aranbol, Goa trance can still be heard, and some random huts do emanate remnants of Infected Mushroom and the like in the mornings, but that is more the exception than the rule.  

Woodstock café plays alternative Sundance movies in the evening. OSHOanic café has meditation and yoga daily, as does Magic Park, along with amazing vegan food rivaling that of Café gratitude.  There are 5 yoga schools churning out yoga teachers with chill intensity and good intentions.   Perhaps it’s because taking a dip between classes increases yogic vibrations. 

All of this is just along the beach…

At night, the town visually transforms into a mini burning man, even more so than the rest of India.  Though lacking art cars, the beach is a sea of lights and candles, with music (sometimes live), alcohol and food overflowing the banks of every wooden hut, tent, and covered restaurant platform.  Asian tapestries are appropriately placed and back-lit, the cushions are set, and the furs, thought too hot to wear, are on sale a few steps away from the beach.  Some adventurous cold bodies do sport them around the beach, but most adopt the hippy wear of tied sarongs and ali-baba pants or the mandatory tool/hip belt purses, vests and fedoras (yes, they are still alive here). Walking alone at night is safe and peaceful, except for the occasional drunken Russian male or dog group, equally boisterous, happy and loud. 

 Gorgeous Russian females descend upon this playland in packs to learn hooping, poi, and explore the chiseled dread-headed Europeans, Americans and Indians.  Russian families have rented almost every available house in the vicinity, and make good use of large tables on the beach in the evening with children and grandmothers.  The Israelis come here to visit Shimon falafel, a small German bakery with a Hebrew menu, and the coconut stand.  They prefer the cliffs or the small villages around where smoking is easier, and the Russians and cocktails less plentiful.  

My one non-yoga friend, surviving a break up (this seems to be the place for that) told me that this town is too boring her taste.  An American Ayurvedic teacher/former health and wellness center owner explained the lay of the land with more detail:

“This is the chill yoga capital of Goa for foreigners…  while the presence of alcohol is disconcerting, there is more of that, as well as drunken fights between Israelis and Russians, trance and partying along the coast heading south.  Between the resorts and towns are simple villages with serene beaches and basic huts.  I really cannot stand Arambol for long, I came here to pacify my college-age daughter.”  The daughter is back to school, he’s planning to stay here for a few more weeks…

I may hop on a scooter and explore down the one lane highway when my course ends.  However, until then, I have yet to find a free hour between classes to take dip in the warm, inviting water and walk on the soft sand to see if the beach has an end. 

Update: This place is more and more like Burning Man with every rare passing minute free from class.  Because it’s Shabat Shalom, I decided to celebrate by walking around with people I met at Beit Yehudi (Jewish House, present here in full Rabbi Nahman song and dance).  We ended up at Woodstock cafe, where I was offered a special space ball and a jewelry making workshop as soon as I walking in.  Walking home by the way of the beach I passed by poi spinners, mini tiny laser performances, and signs for at least 3 types of yoga tomorrow.  There is a special class for female yoga every Monday (taught by a woman, I hope) at the Himalaya school of Iyengar yoga, Tantric and Osho meditation, Contact Dance workshop, Acro and Tantric Yoga in addition to the usual Hathas, Ashtangas, and Iyengars of India.  The “eating for your ayurvedic dosha” course starts tomorrow as well.  A retired woman named “Neema” tells you the truth in a lecture/satsang format 3 times a week, while devoted followers gaze adoringly.   Tribal belly dancers hold workshops and Tibetan massage classes are advertised right next to back-bending classes with Alex.  This is just what I’ve been able to gather within a 10-munute walking radius. 

The morning shift at the beach belongs to all the taichi-ers, yogis and yoginis, while the afternoon flesh display rivals the revelations of undress at BM. There is a drum circle every day at sunset, with no shortage of drums in town, and a Polish guy who speaks Russian and English gives excellent drum lessons every afternoon at 4pm.

On the way to my rare morning Pilates session, I ran into a friend from San Francisco on the beach.  While doing my exercises on the playa, I was serenaded by a walking saxophonists doing his own morning practice.  At some point, he played a jazz rendition of the Hava Nagilla.   Later that day, an Italian guitarist played my favorite Amelie soundtrack song with amazing skill while I sipped on a cold latte at Dream Land. 

This is indeed a reality parallel to the rest of India, perhaps even the world. 

Freedom to be Independently Alone

Personal independence is viewed as a positive in the west.  In fact, freedom often goes hand in hand with ones ability to function on her own.  “Be strong enough to fend for yourself.”  “Earn your own living.”  “Learn to enjoy your own company.”  The ability to see a movie by yourself, enjoy dinner on your own, and the ultimate, travel to far away places, is a prized pinnacle of independence achieved by few as a mark of personal strength.  Check, check and check. 

The west’s ultimate freedom to be alone is redefined in India, like everything else, into:

“Are you lonely?” as aptly phrased by the only English speaker I met on the government bus headed to a small town at the foot of the Himalayas.  He was asking whether or not I was traveling alone, and only relaxed when he was showered with stories of my fictional husband and his wide support network of friends, travel agents, and business contacts that were making my solo travel possible.  The truth is that this support network was in fact in place, but it was mine, along with the finances for the trip, which would be impossible and even dangerous to explain (more on that in the “Freedom of the Sex” post).

Being alone is simply not normal, nor desired.  You will be stared at, talked to, sat next to, and asked numerous questions.  Sitting alone on a rock on the bank of the Ganges in the small holy town of Rishikesh, I was approached by a group of young boys laughing and playing.  “Hello Madam, what your name?”

“Sitting quietly,” I answered, in desperate need of solitude, despite traveling to the town by myself with no contacts. 

The boys giggled, and repeated slowly, “Sitting quietly” three times in unison, grinning ear to ear.   They proceeded to go around and recite their own names two times in a row.  Five minutes later, defeated by the language barrier and my silence, they ran off to play, and within a few minutes were replaced by two women and a small child wanting “One photo.”

Eating alone in busy diners in large cities I’ve had whole families sit down next to me to share the meal.  With limited language, we discussed everyone’s favorite topic of “Which country,” because that is the second most important topic to “Are you lonely.”  I was graciously endowed with tips on the right thing to order in that restaurant, often ordering it on top of my poor tourist selection and expanding my belly and taste buds to new dimensions.

Walking with my Indian friend down the ancient streets of her city, she remarked wistfully how she never gets to come here unless she is “playing tourist.”  Shocked, I shared that I scope out hikes and walks in San Francisco regularly on my own. 

“If I come to the old city, I will likely meet someone I know, and they will ask me why I am here on my own,” she explained, implying that being alone is not a favorable state. 

Still, my extreme need to write, especially while traveling, has me seeking solitude, and when I arrived to the Mountain Ridge Bed and Breakfast just outside of Udaipur, I was looking forward to a few days of shanti (peace) from the beautiful, yet overwhelming humanity and urbanity of India and it's travelers.  Situated 7kms from the city, this property claims a defensible position in the hills, with city thrills or traffic around.  The main noises were birds, playing children children, and the sneeze of a passing by villager.  It was unbelievable haven that I could no longer imagine in my second month in India.  The place also specializes in guided hikes through the surrounding countryside.  Reserved in advance, the beauty of my grand tribal room with a modern European bathroom and a balcony overlooking the countryside had amazing potential, yet brief shanti practice. 

One of the hikers from the day adventures of Mountain Ridge really wanted to stay the evening, and arrived complete with all her belonging, hoping that one of the rooms in the home stay would be free.  Fortune did not smile upon her, so I had no choice.  We ended up sharing my long-awaited luxuriant piece of quiet bliss, and even now, as I write this, she is sitting next to me on the balcony, “reading.”  Life in New York was discussed in detail, problems with a Nepalese boyfriend in Goa revealed, the Russians-Israeli fights described, and the crazy NYC pace and flood of information overflowed the tribal room, spilled out on the balcony, and eventually had me writing in the gorgeous bathroom. 

In India, everyone eats, sleeps, shops, and yes, travels, in groups.   Everything is done as a family, from running a business venture, to simply running in the park.  Grown kids like to sleep in their parents’ bedroom when they come home for a break from their jobs in other cities, in those few rare cases that they get jobs in other cities. Young men of means purchase new family homes as opposed to single residences to make sure their parents, brothers, and unmarried sisters can all live together in a nicer places if the collective family means allow.  Besides a personal computer, often shared by the household, nothing personal is thought of or desired as freedom.  Of course, like everything, this is changing… but slowly.   

Traveling alone, the fruit of my corporate labors and stroke of good fortune I am experiencing the power of good dependable friends, family and network more than ever.  My family is vigilantly watching my mail and taking care of my loose ends, leaving me free to enjoy my time abroad.  My friends are there on call in moments where I need a sympathetic ear.  I am now really missing my indispensable and dependable travel partner (Oh Toni Tru!) with whom I had the fortune of sharing the pages of the lonely planet, moments of amazing beauty, discomfort of cancelled flights, the last of the toilet paper, travel wisdom and sanity for nearly a month.  The Indian friends of my friends back home, as well as the few I’ve been fortunate to meet along the way have taken me in as family, sharing their homes, their food, and their time in ways I did not expect to experience. 

In the ultimate exercise of western freedom (in my eyes), traveling solo in lands far away for an extended period of time, I am experiencing that comfort and pleasure come from a shared meal or experience, relating and enjoying common languages, interests and learning together with likeminded open people.  My ability to speak English, Russian and some Hebrew has been priceless as a gateway for human connection.  If freedom is desirable as a means to pleasure, then I am discovering that pleasure is fostered within the constraints of human interaction with kind, open, dependable people.        

Freedom to Walk

You’re walking downs the street. It could be somewhere in Berkeley, you’re on your cell phone texting or talking, or casually conversing with a friend.   You stop to admire someone’s beautifully manicured lawn, smell the roses, and continue on your merry way.  Walk fast, walk slow, anyways you want to go.     

Now, after a couple of planes, a train, perhaps a bus, and a few days of jetlag you’re walking down the street again, in a nice part of town.  Expect that it happens to be half way around the world India, where everything is different and the only thing that’s the same is you.  You are in Udaipur, but you could be in Mumbai, or Delhi.  Upon taking a few steps, you realize that somewhere, perhaps in mid-air, you’ve morphed into a walking wallet.  Every 5 meters there is someone there who wants you to “open”, drink their chai, and do a cross-cultural exchange in the form of cash-flow.  Everyone is also convinced that when you are not shopping, you are in dire need of a rickshaw, a tour guide, a massage, money exchange or some food.  There are places that will offer you all those things at once, as well as a room to sleep.  You stop to smell the fragrant flowers by the road.  “Madam, ten rupees!”     

So, you get out of the old/pretty/touristy part of town and make it like the locals.  In the big cities, during the rare times that they are present, sidewalks are a desert oasis amidst the hustle of the street.  In Mumbai, it’s the Indian version of the San Francisco Bay to Breakers all day everyday. You are generally walking in a huge mass of people, colors, and parked in the middle of it all, the occasional cow.  Avoiding the random construction or dug up pavement all together, you crawl along, shoulder to shoulder (or shoulder to elbow, if you happen to be tall).  In the likelihood that there are no sidewalks, and you are sharing the road with bicycles, cars, taxis, mopeds, motorcycles, busses and, of course, the occasional cow.  In the small cities, you’ll get less traffic but more animals, such as donkeys, pigs, monkeys, the ever present cows, and the occasional camel.  Let’s also not forget the incessant beeping all around and “good luck” pies on the ground.  Walking down the street becomes an exercise in maintaining a superior state of alert attention as one must be aware of traffic, vehicles, animals, excrement, people and great photo opportunities. 

Like to walk fast?  Want to get somewhere quickly?  It’s much easier to re-examine your definition of walking, and align it to engaged crawling.  Otherwise, arm yourself with a smile, raise your defenses, alert your senses and full steam ahead until you step into a street surprise left by the occasional cow and have to stop to wipe it off.

Freedom of Clothing

A western woman is free to roam the west anywhere she wants, usually wearing whatever suits her fancy.  In major western metropolises, such as San Francisco, New York, Berlin, Rome, Tel Aviv etc, no one will bat an eyelash if you walk down the street with pink hair and black fingernails.  We're not evening talking about striped pink and black knee highs, a lovely short black leather skirt... you get the idea.  In fact, you’ll likely find kindred spirits faster, or at least strike up an interesting conversation, if you're so inclined. 

This is a freedom not granted all over the world.  Wearing simple Western clothes in India one should be prepared to pay Western skin tax: quadruple the price on everything (if not more), constant starring by both men and women, every small ragged woman and child asking for a rupee, chapatti or both, and many locals asking for a photo.  Western clothes is equivalent to the uniform of the British Army from the 1800s, you are a big bright red target for everyone, their mother, and cow.  If you are a woman, then the incidences of “Which country?” and “Come look at my shop” rise exponentially (they are present for men, but less, since women are known to the heavy hitters in the shopping category).  Sophisticated female sellers will make you promise to come back if you don’t have time to stop right then and there, looking you endearingly in the eyes with a toothless smile.  The men, whom you’ll likely ignore in an attempt to keep moving, will guilt you with touts: “You come to India and you don’t want to do culture exchange and talk to India man?  Why you come to this country?” You are here to shop and take pictures.

I've actually broken down and busted out a lecture on  the subject of "I am not my wallet and I have interests aside from shopping and drinking chai at the present moment, such as simply walking by to read a book."  This earned me the nick-name of Madame Grumpy, and the chai invitations increased, "For cultural exchange only, of course!"    

As I pack my bag for the umpteenth time to move to a new city, I observe the change in the contents.  My usual black and red is only present in a small pair of earrings, a gift from a dear friend from home.  Dictated by the color of my shoes, my wardrobe has become shades of brown, mingling with other colors only when its brown relatives are present.  I have incorporated color combinations and patterns that would make me run in the West, but in the East we are comfortably coexisting to present a new being at the fruit stand, the rickshaw, and in the mirror.  I am trying hard to be invisible, to blend in and thus blend out the color of my skin.  My goal, though likely unattainable and spoiled by those who have come before me, is to regain my freedom of passage and the ability to define my being as independent of Eastern cliches of the West.     

“Wow, you really look Indian in that!” my friend complimented me today.  I felt a sense of accomplishment.   

Written about a week ago.
The freedom has been written as a series and will be posted peace-meal. 

Freedom: Does it really exist

According to google, the first definition of freedom that comes up is the power or right to act, speak, or think as one wants without hindrance or restraint. I would add the unconditional ability and opportunity to do whatever you want.  Travel is thought to be such freedom because it allows one to go wherever they want and do whatever they want. Explore strange new lands, foods, attitudes and customs!  The theory is sound, but the reality is that wherever you find yourself free to explore you’ll also be bound by the customs, attitudes and infrastructure of the land. 

The only option is to truly understand and re-define your freedom.