Periyar, a.k.a "Tiger Land." "Please pray for chocolate!" Ganesh finally finished. And more...

Kallam Puja:

Concept of artistic creation prevailing in the Western world: an artiste will often spend hours upon hours in the process of producing a masterpiece. But only if the product is something that will last for eternity.

Contrasting Eastern concept of creation: an artist can spend hours upon hours completing a work of art, only to destroy it, sweep it away, set it afire. After all, the nature of life itself is imbued with impermanence.

Beginning around 9 AM and finishing over 12 hours later on the eve of New Year’s Eve, I had the blessing of being able to see a group of Keralan kallam artists and students fashion from colored powder five enormous elaborate drawings of five Hindu deities on the floor of a local family’s private temple. Kallam (formally known as kallam-eruttu) is yet another traditional art form unique to Kerala: something of a Hindu version of Tibetan sand mandalas, these devotional drawings make use of multi-colored rice powder to depict Hindu deities. These kallam masterpieces took roughly 12 hours to complete, only to be destroyed thereafter, all as part of an offering or puja to praise and appease the family’s patron Hindu deities.

Early in the morning on the eve of the Eve, I joined a group of students from the center in boarding a twosome of taxis for a drive to Ambalapuzham to witness the kallam puja. The invitation to this unique event came to us courtesy of Miren (a painter from Spain)’s kallam teacher: a renowned regional master of the art form, Mr. Gopa Kumar and his father are commissioned each year to conduct an extravagant puja (ceremony) in this family’s private temple.

The journey brought us through the Keralan countryside. Around the backwaters. And over a wide river—taxi and all—on the Little Ferry That Could (a tiny rickety-looking boat that all daylong transports hundreds of people and hordes of vehicles across the river, while a bridge whose construction apparently began over a decade ago sits half-finished and crumbling closeby). We arrived in Ambalapuzham, stopped for a visit at the city’s temple, and proceeded to the family’s temple, where the extended family—and now we as well with a warm welcome—had gathered. A solo singer was serenading the crowd karnatic-style while the kallam artists prepared their materials (adding some concoction containing lemon juice to the tumeric-colored yellow powder to turn the powder red).

Shortly, the artists were ready to begin. But the powder painting didn’t begin without ceremony: in the temple’s inner sanctum, the artists sang and banged on various percussion instruments while the father and son masters donned special dhotis and prepared five offerings—tables covered in colored cloth and offerings of coconut, rice, bananas, and a collection of other items—and offered prayers to the five gods the ceremony was to be dedicated to. Then, the process began and the larger-than-life figures of the five gods slowly began to materialize on the floor. Slowly materialize.

Beginning with Kali (a wrathful female deity who was here portrayed with a green face and ferocious-looking fangs), each drawing began by the master skillfully pouring the powder from his hand to form the face and then the body and lastly the background, while his assistants filled in the details. Crouched on the cement floor, the karnatic singer’s voice acapella voice echoing around the temple all the while, the kallam artists worked like this for hours.

Apart from a mid-day break for a delicious and elaborate Kerala-style thali meal (served on banana leaf with rice and a dozen or so dollops of side dishes—chutneys and curries and pickles and paisa (sweet rice pudding)—each with a distinctive flavor, combining spicy and savory and sweet), the kallam creators nonstop. Every so often, a large crowd of family and neighbors would gather, soon after losing interest and trickling away. But at least for Miren, Manuel and I, the novelty didn’t wear off so quickly. Watching the speed and skill with which the figures and details were drawn, yet how painstakingly slow the process was. Nearly nonstop we watched.

Until, alas, as the sun was setting, it was time for our group to return to Aranmula. Bidding farewell to the artists, who now appeared to be scrambling to finish the last kallam before sunset, and to the family, who had treated us as honored guests all day—offering us endless cups of chai and ceremonial sweets and an amazing meal—, I climbed into the taxi (my knees slightly sore from hours of crouching beside the kallams in progress—I can only how the artists knees hold up during 12 hours plus of kneeling next to their work…) feeling extremely fortunate to have experienced this.

Long after we left, the team of kallam artists continued to work, carefully finishing their colored powder creations. Later we were told that past 9 PM that evening, a closing ceremony was conducted, following which all 5 kallams—and the hours of work they represented—were swept together into a nondescript mountain of brown powder.

At long last, finished with Ganesh!

“Not more dots!?!” I’ve heard many a mural painting student moan when Anil, the VKV painting teacher, tells them that their paintings need more shading. In this traditional form of Keralan mural art, the gradual light-to-dark gradation is achieved not by a method as quick and simple as a watercolor wash or an acrylic blend. No. Instead, thousands of minute, virtually microscopic dots. This time-taking technique is typically used just for shading the skin of the figures, but the entire process of completing a mural painting is no less laborious. Many students seemed to find this meticulous attention to detail exasperating. But for those of you who know me and my artwork (it once took me two years to finish a drawing of Gandhi-ji), that kind of perfectionism melds well with my artistic style.

That same sense of perfectionism also appealed to Annie. A woman from France who had never touched a paintbrush before coming to the center (for what was originally intended to be a couple-week stay) and has since been living here for the past 5 years, spending most of her waking hours doing mural painting, dozens upon dozens of diminutive dots and other painstaking details with the aid of a magnifying glass. Some may find this painstakingness a pain in the bum, but for Annie, Anil (our painting teacher), and myself, it is a form of meditation. A frustrating form of meditation at times. But, for a person with patience, quite Zen-like in nature.

For over a month, for two hours plus every day, I would join Anil and Annie and Miren (a painter from Spain) on a balcony-overlooking-the-rainforest classroom where the four of us would meditate over our paintings. After I don’t know how many hours of this meditation (about 6-weeks worth of classes and time outside the class on top), I finally finished my painting of Ganesh, or Ganapathi, the elephant-headed Hindu deity. And, I must say, I’m rather pleased with my work. Well, I should be after spending so much time on it.

I suppose I should explain the basic process of Keralan mural painting. First, a drawing is done in pencil on the surface you plan to paint on. Traditionally, this surface would consist of a wall treated with asbestos. But for our purposes—because 1) a wall doesn’t exactly make a good souvenir and 2) inhaling asbestos isn’t especially wholesome—watercolor paper is used. And instead of the traditional natural pigment paints ground from minerals and plant substances, we use tubes of watercolor paint. Once the drawing is complete, the student is told to trace the pencil lines with yellow paint. Then to go over the yellow lines with red lines. Why, I don’t know. As I’ve come to see with a month and a half’s experience with instruction in traditional Indian arts, in the course of the centuries over which these arts developed, much of the meaning behind why certain things are done—like why yellow line comes first and is followed with red line—is lost in time as the craft makes its way from one generation to the next. And the typical Indian student, from what I understand, never questions the guru’s (master’s) teachings.

Afterwards, certain surfaces—the depicted deity’s dozens of gold jewelry, for example—are filled in with several coats of an ochre color. The ochre ornaments are then shaded with red. Thankfully not by red dots for this step. From there, the progression of the painting depends on the subject, but usually any greenery is painted ochre also and then shaded green, or red. The figures are coated with a lighter color and are shaded—here’s where the beloved dot technique is put to use—with a darker color. My Ganesh was painted yellow and shaded with red. His mount, a humongous rat, was painted red and shaded with black. While I’m aware of the fact that this style of art isn’t exactly based in reality, I had a bit of an issue when Anil told me matter-of-factly, “This Ganesh rat, paint red.”

“Why red?” I attempted to ask. (This would surely have earned me a reprimand were I an Indian student asking this.) But he didn’t understand my question and took my hesitancy to mean I didn’t understand his instruction. So he pulled the painting and the half-a-coconut holding my red paint towards him and proceeded to slop my giant rat with red paint.

Once all the surfaces are filled in and shaded with the correct color (well, correct meaning the color tradition and teacher tells you is correct), the original outline of the artwork is gone over with thin black line. I must say once the unsettling redness of the rat was tempered with some shading in the form of thousands of black dots, it looked more palatable. After all, I had to keep in mind, when taken in the context of a god with the head of an elephant whose vehicle of choice happens to be this giant red rat, a red rat on its own isn’t all that unusual.

Art Exhibition:

It probably would have taken me at least a week longer to complete Ganesh—get all his giant rat’s dots done and the black outline in place—had I not had the incentive of completing my first mural masterpiece for a student art exhibition. Devised and organized mostly through the efforts of Miren (una artista espanola—a Spanish artist, who has been in India for almost 6 months absorbing ideas from the nation’s myriad art forms to incorporate into her own artwork), this student show was apparently a first for the school. And I was invited to contribute my painting and/or some photography. Provided my painting was finished by then.

As the day of the art show opening approached, I spent increasingly more of my free time painting dots, lines, and other details to complete Ganesh. I also had a series of large prints made of my best photographs. Miren’s contribution consisted of four paintings that she’d completed during her four-month stay at VKV and a collection of colorful geometric patterns rendered in marker inspired by the architecture around Mysore. Annie, the French woman who’s called Aranmula home for the past 5 years, installed 18 amazing artworks—a fraction of the body of work she’s built up during her time here. My comparatively pathetic collection was delegated to a revolving a column made of skeletal metal poles, which, trying to be creative, I covered in a spiral colorful shawls. Subsequently, I attempted (with moderate success) to pin my paintings and photos into the fabric. A crazy albeit creative revolving tower of fabric and art.

The last contributor was a different type of artist than us painters and photographers. Andy, a man from Seattle whose profession (making flavored butters for farmers’ markets) and passion is centered around cuisine, is an expert in the culinary arts. And an extremely talented artist at that. He spent over a week preparing an elaborate menu of hoer d’oeuvres for the exhibition opening.

Between the art—both fine and culinary—and the television crew from CNN India that so happened to be visiting that day, the opening turned into quite an event. The day of, all morning I spent scrambling to put the finishing lines and dots on Ganesh. Following my violin class, I ran to the school building (where the exhibition was already underway), pinned my moment-ago-finished painting to complete the display on the revolving tower, and enjoyed some excellent artwork, edibles, and company (while trying to avoid the television crew).

“Please pray for chocolate!”

The New Year’s festivities were already a week in the past at this point, the charred remnants of the firecrackers that heralded in the New Year with a bang growing soggy on the sides of the roads, when was told by Sumitra (a member of the VKV staff), “a parcel has just arrived for you, from the U.S.A. But before you come pick it up, I ask you to pray that there’s chocolate inside.” When I peeled off the layers of tape that sealed the box from the Trepper’s (Thank you two SOOO much!!!), I saw that Sumitra’s prayers had been answered. The care package was filled with a collection of treats, sweets (chocolate among them), fractured candy canes, little toys for local children, and more baby wipes than I know what to do with. And alas, Scotty, the shot glass arrived too late to be used for the New Year’s party, but it was certainly a good laugh nonetheless. The package was much appreciated by me and the staff and students and children around here as well. So a big THANK YOU to Scotty and Mrs. Trepper! Nandi! Dhanyavaad!

Two days after the pleasant surprise provided by the Trepper’s parcel, I received a call from Sumitra with some more exciting news. “Melissa, you are a very lucky girl, another parcel arrived for you today. Again I am praying that there is chocolate inside.” When I arrived at the office to pick up my second holiday care package, this one from my parents and Aaron, Sumitra was waiting for me. She pulled out a pair of scissors so I could open up the box right then and there. As I stood in the office snipping tape with the scissors, an audience of eager staff members gathered around, waiting to see what was inside (and what, if anything, I could share with them).

Again Sumitra’s prayers were answered. But I only unearthed the chocolates and other candies after pulling out the 2 bulky 4-packs of toilet paper. My audience and I were quite amused. That was bloody quite a lot of toilet paper, and, I’m afraid to say, there’s no way I’ll be able to use all of it while I’m here. Toilet paper is one commodity that is amply provided at VKV: someone of fastidious as Sarah (the Scrooge of VKV) might tell you otherwise but I’d say we live like royalty here at the school, all things relative. But I’m sure it can come in handy while I’m traveling in the North—if I want to lug 8 rolls of the stuff around the Himalayas. Well, it was certainly a good laugh if not extremely useful… I’m glad I had plenty of people willing to share the M & M’s and other goodies with me. The package from my parents and the parcel sent by the Trepper’s arrived within two days of each other, so even though by that time it was after New Years, it felt like Christmas all over again.

Periyar Wildlife Preserve, a.k.a. “Tiger Land”:

Observation from a day in the Periyar Preserve (one of the larger nature preserves in India and billed as the best place to see the elusive tiger): the Indian tourist’s concept of eco-tourism is far different from that of the typical Western tourist’s. In the States, when visiting one of the U.S.’s numerous vast National Parks, regardless of how crowded the park is, the individual tends at least attempt to seek out a secluded spot to enjoy the splendors of nature in solitude. In India, where the sometimes stiflingly dense population means seldom a moment to be truly alone, the idea of a pleasant visit to a nature park seems to be in the midst of multitudes.

My Seattle-ite friend Andy and I enjoyed a 4-hour trek through the exquisite forest- and fog-blanketed, lake-encircled mountains of Periyar in the company of 3 Israeli backpackers and an Indian guide. This trek option is open to all comers. However, in the meantime, all the Indian park visitors opted to cram onto a fleet of double-decker ferries for an undoubtedly loud and crowded 2-hour tour of Periyar’s waterways. Because, for whatever reason, the ferry ride appealed to them over the trek. After all, the burrs and brambles bordering the trail could spoil an unsuspecting sari or dhoti.

After spending the past 3 weekends in Aranmula—one for the Christmas holiday and related festivities, one to relax and recuperate after the crazy Christmas weekend and a hectic subsequent week, and one to be here for the New Year (I’ve heard that New Year’s weekend, as is the case in the States, is not a wise one to be traveling)—I decided to jump on an invitation to accompany Andy from Seattle on his trip to Periyar. Before the break of dawn, we were off on a rickshaw to Chengannur to catch a 6:45 AM bus to Kumily, the city sprawling along the edge of the Periyar Preserve. Apparently, this bus doesn’t actually exist, but luckily we had a backup option. A two-part bus marathon: Chengannur to Kottayam, Kottayam to Kumily. Arriving in Kottayam shortly after 7:30, we inquired when the next bus to Kumily would depart. 7:45. Time enough for a quick cup of chai, we figured. The chai-wallah brewed up boiling hot chai, poured it in a pair of flimsy plastic cups, and handed us our scalding-to-the-touch chai. Just as the bus began to pull out of the station. We ran after it—the burning beverages leaping out of their cups to trickle down our hands and clothes all the while—and boarded the departing bus just in time. While wiping the chai from my hands and arms and watch, I glanced at the time. 7:40. This must be a first: something in India actually happening ahead of schedule.

As we settled into our seats on the rickety state government bus—this bus looked and felt as though it could potentially fall apart at the next pothole—Andy and I realized that it was probably a good thing that all we had in our stomachs was half-a-cup of chai. Any bus ride in India is comparable to a horizontal roller coaster ride, and as our bus began to journey inland towards the Western Ghats (mountains running along the western coast of India and forming the eastern border of Kerala), this fast-paced case of crazy driving turned into a bona fide roller coaster ride, minus the upside-down bits. On a barely two-laned road hugging the contours of the increasingly high and steep mountains, buses and cars and trucks and rickshaws fly without speed limits. Screeching around hairpin turns so that a vehicle coming in the other direction would pass within a foot of the bus. This perpetual melee is further complicated by the swarms of pedestrians (mostly pilgrims), livestock, and cyclists also on the roads. Every so often, our rickety bus would pass (usually within an outstretched arms length) a fancy Christian owned bus (the private owned buses are typically quite classy—all things relative) with a slogan on the front like “Gift from God.” I pondered for a while over the potential meaning of this puzzling phrase, and decided that it must be lacking a prelude, “Every safe arrival is a… Gift from God.” And a conclusion, “Not a gift from the driver of this vehicle.”

Despite the potentially petrifying nature of our bus journey, I was entertained the entire time, by the crazy driving and by the unfolding of the exquisite landscape: coastal jungle criss-crossed by canals became foothills draped with rainforests and rubber plantations which soon turned into the tea plantations, mountainside meadows and woods of the Western Ghats.

Between the speed and the breeze it created compounded by the coolness of the mountain air, I realized something: I felt chilly for the first time since coming to Kerala. While my family and friends back in Indiana are slushing through snow and braving below 30 degree F weather, I’ve gotten used to these tropical paradise temperatures and a sultry 80 degrees daily. So even though the high elevation nippiness with the wind chill was probably only about 60 degrees, goose bumps grew on my dupatta- (shawl) wrapped arms.

Countless close calls and several hours later, Andy and I arrived—unscathed—In the city of Kumily. Our first mission: to find accommodations so we could unload the excess clothes and books in our backpacks and use a bathroom. Once this mission was accomplished—we found a lovely yet low-priced lodging in a 2-storied yellow-painted palm-thatched hut with a balcony overlooking a wildlife-filled field with a forest backdrop—we had some lunch at a halal restaurant (Muslim form of kosher—Kumily seemed to have a significant Muslim population) for some scrumptious sustenance in the form of chicken biriyani (chicken with spiced rice) and fish curry.

We then went to rent a pair of bikes for a several kilometer trek to check out one of the many mountainside spice plantations around Periyar. Unfortunately uphill most of the way on a snake-like road. But fortunately lovely landscape all around to take our minds off the strain. And, as a delightful diversion on the way, we tarried for a time—along with a sizeable crowd of gawkers, all Indian men (I’ve noticed that there seem to be a lot of men around here with a lot of free time on their hands)—to watch an elephant lifting some logs from the roadside.
There were plenty of plantations along our route but we settled for the first we came upon. As we dismounted our bikes, a man from the plantation approached and asked if we’d like a tour. That was what we’d pedaled half way up this mountain for. But, he assured us, he wasn’t offering us just a tour. A “very informative tour.” By which he meant we follow a girl my age around a garden as she pointed out various plants while reciting a script in English from which she would loose track and begin again from the beginning should anyone interject with a question. After delivering the section of her spiel that corresponded with the plant we were currently considering, she would individually ask each member of our group—Andy and I plus a woman from Taiwan and an Italian man—“You understand?” She was suitably impressed when I replied with one phrase from my pathetic 30-word Malayalam vocabulary: “Manisalaayi,” meaning “I understand.”

The “informative tour,” though not exactly what we’d paid for, was interesting—as I was familiar with many of the names of these plants and the spices derived from them but had never actually contemplated how they’re grown—and entertainingly charming. As we made our way from the plantation and back towards town, everything went downhill. Literally speaking. And there was much rejoicing. On our bikes we explored more of Kumily and the surrounding area—trying to avoid more steep hills but not succeeding—and then returned to our yellow hut to relax and read and watch the setting sun paint the backdrop of sky pastel shades of orange and pink behind the fields and forests and mountains visible from our balcony vista.

The next morning, we rose before the sun and trekked through the twilight—and a thick blanket of fog—towards Periyar. Supposedly, or so says the Lonely Planet, the early morning hours are the best for seeing wildlife. Although also according to the 2005 edition of the Lonely Planet, the park entrance fee would be 150 rupees for non-Indians (roughly $3.50 U.S dollars). The previous day, we’d found out that conveniently just after the newest edition of the “Traveler’s Bible” was published, the price was raised to 300 rupees. Not steep by U.S. standards, but being backpackers on budgets, Andy and I agreed that we should spend all Sunday in the park, see all we could, and maximize our one-day visit. So before sunrise, we trekked into the park to reserve a spot on the 7 AM morning trek.

A couple kilometers into our pre-trek hike, through a dense veil of fog that filtered the feeble daylight of early sunrise, an immense gray figure loomed out of the trees and mist in our midst. “Is that an elephant?!?” Andy asked. Sure enough, it looked like an elephant. We stood staring its massive silhouette. The massive silhouette stood staring back at us. Completely motionless. Motionless? A cautious closer look in the increasing daylight exposed that this unmoving elephant was actually a cardboard cutout. Painted and positioned to appear from afar to be a real elephant. “Probably the most exciting wildlife sighting we’re going to have all day…” Andy and I joked.

The trek we had to make to the departure point for the official guided treks was longer than we’d anticipated and we arrived a bit belatedly but a l’heure, Indian time. So while the Indian tourists were clambering for seats on several crowded ferry boats, Andy and I stood in a short line comprised primarily of Western tourists waiting for tickets to do the trek. A good half hour later, around 8:00, the two of us in the company of 3 Israeli backpackers hitched up our complimentary leech-proofing legwear (we were all given tall tan socks to keep leeches from crawling up our legs) and headed out on our hike. On a half-submerged bamboo raft, the trek leader ferried us across a channel of the Periyar Reservoir. Once on the other side, our group followed our guide through the still fog-filled forest of ancient-looking towering trees, along the lake, across streams and marshes. ‘Even if we don’t see any wildlife,’ I reflected, ‘the environment in itself is exquisite enough.’

Only in India would the park ranger leading a nature hike ask for a 5-minute break, not for the welfare of winded Westerners, but so he could take a piss and have a smoke. After the 5-minute break, we followed our nature-conscious guide further into the forests, up and down a web of barely-worn trails, stopping several times to observe birds (one of the Israeli women had a hefty pair of binoculars and seemed an avid birder) and—each time I couldn’t help wondering how much this guy drank the previous night—four additional times for a potty stop.

“Trek almost finish,” our trek leader told us as we were nearing the rickety raft again. By this point, after 3 and ½ hours of hiking, our morning’s most exciting wildlife sightings consisted of a bright turquoise kingfisher and a whole lot of leeches (which the Israeli women stopped periodically to pick off their shoes and stylish leech-proof stockings until our guide anoint each of our feet with tobacco powder, afterwards amiably asking if any of us wanted some of the stuff to snort). In the last half-hour of the hike, however, we encountered a giant black squirrel, a toucan-like hornbill, and a trio of black monkeys.

Shortly before noon, we returned to the nature center, peeled off our leech-proof socks, and went to the park café to check out their lunch menu. A very limited selection but, for a pair of hungry hikers, good enough. While discussing the morning hike over a dosa (a lentil and rice flour crepe) and a plate of egg curry (consisting of a hard-boiled egg resting on a stew of spicy vegetables) I mentioned that, wildlife-wise, I was most excited by the monkey sighting. A minute or so later, as Andy was at the café counter waiting for another cup of Nescafe coffee, a mother monkey pounced upon my table, snatched the rest of my dosa and a little bag of spiced peas and nuts I’d bought to snack on, and retreated to the treetops to gloat and gorge on her prized peas. I’m guessing that there are more moocher monkeys in the trees surrounding the café than in the entire rest of the park.

As Andy and I stood in line for our lunches and tried to avoid the harassment of the mischievous monkeys, we became acquainted with an interesting couple: a retired ex-Microsofty ex-pat named Michael from Andy’s hometown of Seattle and his arranged marriage Indian wife named Shiny. The two of them had just opened up a new restaurant on the outskirts of the city and were here in the park advertising their new endeavor. After spending the rest of the afternoon in Periyar (the boat ride aboard a small motorboat—not the packed double-decker ferry—whose passengers consisted of the Andy and me, the Israelis, and a relatively rowdy group of students from a Christian secondary school, was more rewarding wildlife wise. We saw a monitor—a giant iguana-like lizard—, a herd of wild boar, numerous deer, some water buffalo, and the highlight: a wild elephant), Andy, excited by the promise of potentially authentic pizza, persuaded me to join him for dinner at Michael and Shiny’s Shanti Garden restaurant.

Shortly after Andy and I stepped out for an almost 3 km walk to the restaurant, one of the worst downpours I’ve seen since coming here was unleashed upon us. We broke down and hailed a rickshaw. As the auto was trundling uphill towards Shanti Garden, we sat soaking in the backseat fantasizing over how heavenly it would feel if the place had a campfire we could dry off and warm up beside (24 hours earlier, sitting in a sultry puddle of sweat in Aranmula, I never dreamed I’d be wishing for a roaring fire again…). But to our surprise and satisfaction, an inviting fire awaited us. As the only customers of the evening, we were able to sit right beside it to dry our drenched clothes and warm up while Andy’s pizza was being warmed in the brand-new brick oven.

For Andy hailing from the metropolis of Seattle, with access to a different ethnic cuisine on every street corner, coming to India and craving dietary variety beyond daily curries and chutneys and rice (a pizza, for example) seemed nothing unnatural. But for someone from the less ethnically diverse, less metropolitan cornfields of Northwest Indiana whose constant craving for Indian cuisine is only appeased twice or thrice a year during a trip to Devon Ave. in Chicago, coming to India to order a pizza is absurd. I’ve been here about two months and there is absolutely nothing about my Western diet that I miss (well, except perhaps for fresh fruit smoothies…). Why pass up on authentic and appetizing Indian cuisine to have instead a mediocre Indian attempt at pizza? (Andy and I had an extensive yet good-natured argument on this topic). The Shanti Garden chefs were surprised when I said I’d prefer Indian food to a pizza or BLT. They didn’t even have their Indian portion of the menu printed yet.

So as Andy’s pizza and my chicken curry were being cooked, the real adventure of the evening—our conversation with the owners—began. Shiny—apparently part of a famous musical family—after discovering that I was just beginning my study of karnatic violin graciously helped me expand my knowledge of karnatic music after showing me an album of the talented family: her father the renowned flautist / tabla player and maker / harmonium artist; her several brothers (each of whom specialize in a different musical instrument); her adopted 10-year old son already a budding vocalist. In the midst of this, she generously offered her brothers’ services for the next day to give me a private music lesson.

In the meantime, Andy was having a chat with Michael. About how this formerly millionaire Microsoft employee ended up almost broke while attempting to start up a restaurant in Southern India. Apparently, this unexpected twist of fate had something to do with his two channeling gurus, a grand spiritual quest, the death of his first wife, and writing a book about it all. (I’ve found that these sorts of spiritual quests are what draw a lot of flaky foreigners to India). But on top of the (to Andy and me) wishy-washy mystic mission, though, this guy had some interesting stories: after being kicked out of Australia for giving illegal massages on an expired visa, he came to India, married Shiny after seeing an arranged marriage ad and checking out their compatibility not with his future wife but an astronomer, took an attempt to adopt his illegitimate son-in-law all the way to the Indian Supreme Court, and beat up the head bully of Kumily city with a fanny pack full of rocks. Wow. While dinner itself was decent (if a bit pricey by Indian standards), the dining experience was well worth the expense and the trip through the thunderstorm.

As I fell asleep to the sound of squirrels and other critters crawling over the palm-thatched roof, I was looking forward to the music lesson the next morning. What I didn’t realize at the time was that Shiny’s brothers, whose musical skills and teaching services she so generously offered me, had no idea he would be teaching a class in the morning and stayed up all night playing at a puja (Hindu ceremony) to bless a group of Sabarimala pilgrims (followers of the cult of Lord Ayappa one can see everywhere around South India this time of year, undertaking a pilgrimage to see the sacred site of Sabarimala during the temple’s 41-day festival).

So when Andy and I arrived at the humble home of the “Kumily Music Family” the following morning, all members of Shiny’s musical family—apart from her elderly mother and 10-year old adopted son—were sleeping. Once the brothers were aroused (which took a while—the mother offered us all chai in the interim) and told that some Westerners were here for a music lesson, they entered into an extensive what sounded like an argument (although many a conversation in Malayalam sounds like an argument) about what they could teach me in a just two hours.

Andy was finding all of this amusing (having had experience with Indian families and their sometimes somewhat incompetent communication/planning skills while staying with a friend of his in Delhi) but I, who the brothers would turn to every couple minutes with an incredulous comment in raised voices and broken English along the lines of “You come here and wake us up and what do you expect us to teach you about the complex art of karnatic music in a couple hours when you haven’t even brought your instrument?!?”

After enduring several such jibes from the sleep-deprived musical brothers—they seemed to perceive me to be some flaky foreigner who thought I could learn karnatic music in an day—, for the first time since I came to India, I began, inexplicably, to tear up. Then the brothers looked at each other in concern. “But no bringing instrument or instruction book… Why you coming here?” I explained again, this time through stifled sobs, that I was just beginning my study of karnatic music, I went traveling for the weekend not knowing I should bring my violin, and it was at their sister Shiny’s suggestion that I came here.

“Ohhh. Shiny.” They looked at each other significantly, like that explained all, realizing for the first time how I’d found my way to their home to pry them from much-needed sleep this Monday morning. After some further less argumentative-sounding exchanges in Malayalam, they decided to put on a mini-concert for us. Sprawled out one the dirt floor of the “Music Room,” one brother picked up a bamboo flute while another tuned up a set of tabla and a third grabbed a karnatic percussion instrument called a “khadam” that could double as a clay pot. (The other brother sat on the sidelines looking sleepy and sulky).

They—well, the three that were awake enough to perform for us—put on an outstanding private concert for us. Despite being deprived of sleep, the brothers’ music was brimming with liveliness and the music, in turn, seemed to bring the brothers to life. The tabla player’s hands were a blur, the flautist’s fingers were flying, and the clay pot player was pounding and slapping the stiff surface of his instrument like there was no tomorrow. The formerly sleepy house and its sleepy inhabitants came to life. And my senseless sobs disappeared to be replaced by a broad grin that went on to last the whole day. So, as Andy pointed out, my crying was clearly effective. He mused that perhaps he’d try that technique the next time he was bargaining with a particularly rigid rickshaw-wallah. “I don’t know if it will have the same effect coming from you,” I said.