Hello World! India Adventures...

Pictures from My "Journey to the West" - Adventures in Inner Mongolia

2008-11-27T20:40:00.000-05:00

Namaste and Welcome to Melissa's Adventures in INDIA!

2006-10-12T17:33:00.000-04:00

Indiana... India. The words are only 2 letters apart, but the areas of the world they define are half a world apart. My flight is booked for November 16, and I am counting down the days until I'll be embarking from the Land of Cornfields that is Indiana to the Land of Diversity that is INDIA!

Sunset over Lake Michigan

2006-07-05T08:25:00.000-04:00

Farewell (for now) to Aranmula

2006-02-11T08:32:00.000-05:00

Karnatic vocal classes and beginning karnatic violin!

In the office building of VKV sits an enormous and exquisite stringed instrument, a South Indian sort of sitar, known as a veena. Never touched apart from an occasional dusting. Every time I enter the office, this instrument—soundlessly—calls out to me. I came to India with the goal of learning how to play the sitar, but after arriving in Kerala and discovering that hardly anyone around here plays the sitar, I set my sights on the veena—I set my sights on the thing every day. But alas, apparently the only people who play and teach veena around here live 3 hours away in the Kochi or Trivandrum. O.K., I’d be happy settling for any Indian stringed instrument. But even though the VKV cultural school has an impressive list of over 15 traditional Indian art forms for students to explore, alas, there are no stringed instruments on the impressive list.

The longing to learn some sort of Indian stringed instrument, the once-in-a-lifetime occasion of being here, and the office veena always enticing me, compelled me to act against my nature and persistently pester the VKV staff about whether it would be possible to for me study sitar, veena, violin—any instrument with strings—while I’m here. (Several other current and past students have studied subjects absent from the impressive list. Otherwise I wouldn’t have asked). I even decided at one point—once I was finished with my painted of Ganesh and was ready to switch subjects—to show my determination and to develop an ear for the kind of music I’d be learning on a stringed instrument by taking a couple weeks of karnatic vocal music.

My study of Karnatic music (traditional Hindu devotional music, South India style) began with the basics: singing scales. Well, here scales are known ragam. And there are 72 of them, these ragam or keys, each with notes arranged in different ascending and descending orders, each having at least 15 offshoot ragam. And instead of Western music’s “A B C D E F G“ ascending scale, but more along the lines of “Do Re Mi Fa So La Ti Do!,” the notes of most karnatic ragam are “Sa Ri Ga Ma Pa Da Ni Sa.”

I spent about two weeks becoming acquainted with a dozen or so different ragam and little songs called “geetham” using each, while simultaneously becoming acquainted with Rabindranath, VKV’s vocal music teacher: a friendly if spacey elderly man who would occasionally stand up during class, walk over to the window to spit out a wad of red paan juice (paan is a popular stimulant around these parts comprised of a concoction of betel leaf, tobacco, and lime (powder) wrapped in a betel leaf. Red spots from spitting paan stains the roadsides of India).

And finally, my persistent pestering paid off: they had found a karnatic violin teacher for me, the same man I had seen play on my first day in Kerala. Initially, I was told that Sridat, who has over 50 additional karnatic violin students in the area (along with frequent performances that last late into the night), could only come in as often as twice a week to teach me.

After my first lesson, and after Sridat saw that I actually have some idea what I’m doing on the instrument, however, he changed his mind. I had progressed further during 2 hours worth of violin class than a typical vocal music student progresses in a week’s worth of 2-hour classes. After that first lesson, as I carefully tied the two strings preventing the case of my loaner violin from falling apart, Rajesh (VKV’s head administrator, whose office is just next to the music room) entered and launched into an excited exchange with Sridat in Malayalam. I couldn’t follow what was being said, but the two men looked pleased and I was told afterwards that Sridat would gladly clear his schedule to come in and teach me every day. And perhaps even by the end of my stay (at that point about 6 weeks away), I could put on a performance. I’m not so sure about a performance, but I’m immensely enjoying my karnatic violin lessons and apparently Sridat is enjoying teaching them.

Since that first lesson and impression, I’ve been daily carefully carrying the falling-apart case containing my slightly further-from-falling-apart violin to the office for karnatic violin classes. Sridat and I sit on the floor—the sole fan in the room always aimed directly at him—with our instruments rested along our right Achilles’ tendons. Thus situated, we play karnatic keerthanam (concert songs), ragam (scales), and varnam (pieces played to introduce a karnatic concert) to the background tone of a harmonium (a little electronic box that—as long as we’re not in the midst of a power cut—keeps a constant Sa and Pa chord for us to tune to). Now learning at least 2 keerthanam a week, Sridat and the staff seem impressed with my progress: vocal music students rarely make it past the ragam and maybe geetham (simple songs). Thus they keep asking me, “So, when’s the concert?”

Apart from the posture (which I think is somehow messing up my legs: after two hours of playing in the morning, my right leg and both feet feel numb for the rest of the day), there some other significant differences between violin as played in a Western classical style versus karnatic style. Though the actual instruments are exactly the same (except for minus a chin and shoulder rest on the karnatic model), the music that emanates from the same instrument played in the different styles can certainly sound like different instruments. Whereas in a Western classical repertoire, a violinist might run across a sliding note, or gliss, under a dozen times in over 100 pieces, karnatic violin playing employs some sliding movements with practically every other note. This (and the numbness in my legs) has been the toughest thing to get used in trying to develop a karnatic style of playing separate from my Western classical training and the folk fiddling that evolved from it.

As I am seeing, 2 months is too short a time to tune into the complexities of karnatic music. But what little I am able to learn, whether about the music style or the techniques used to play it, I will bring back to U.S. and bring to life in my music. So I will be a mediocre Western classically-trained / Celtic fiddling-style / karnatic violinist.

Visit to Aranmula’s Astrologer:

There was silence in the room for over 15 minutes as the jodi-shi (astrologer) poured over several volumes of Indian astrological knowledge. And Jodi (a woman from Australia) and I waited in apprehension to hear the insights these books and this ancient knowledge held for us and our lives.

Prior to this stretch of silence, the jodi-shi asked Jodi and me these questions three: “Date of birth? Place of birth? Time of birth?” (I had to call home beforehand and ask precisely what time is listed on my birth certificate). Based on our answers, this pleasant middle-aged man crouched behind his desk piled high with stacks of books compiled a chart of the planetary alignment surrounding our birth. And based on the arrangement of the different planets in the 12 astrological houses, this man told us what effects—auspicious or otherwise—the cosmos could play on our lives.

So what did the jodi-shi have to say about my future? One of his first comments came as quite a surprise: because the auspicious alignment of a certain planet in a certain ascending house, my future will supposedly be filled with financial success. For a person who doesn’t grasp the first thing about investments or savings or economics in general, this came as a pleasant surprise. He also said that the planetary influences on my character make me well suited for a career as an academician. This was not so pleasant a surprise (no offence to all of you outstanding educators and researchers out there, but this line of work doesn’t exactly appeal to me). And certainly these two life-lines—fiscal success and a career in the academia—do not tend to intersect.

Ayurvedic Massage:

On a wooden table whose surface had been polished smooth by hundreds of other oily bodies before mine, I lay completely clothes-less. While the rough hands of matronly Indian woman forcefully rubbed what probably amounted to a liter of near-boiling oil into my hair and bare skin. After two months of staying at the center, I finally found time to schedule my complimentary ayurvedic massage. This was my first massage, ayurvedic or otherwise, and the first time (to my knowledge, at least) that I’ve ever been completely exposed in front of another person. But the comfortable and caring ambiance emanating from Rema massaged away the initial discomfort along with the ever-present knots in my shoulders.

Kerala , from what I’ve heard, is the birthplace of ayurvedic medicine. The unique wisdom of the ayurveda tradition, which in the past half-decade since the fall of the British raj has been regaining a foothold among mainstream medical practice here in Kerala, is a big draw for many of the foreign tourists visiting the state. In touristy towns like Varkala and Kumily, there’s at least one ayurvedic massage center on every block. Frequently full of foreigners. And for many among this type of tourists, ayurveda becomes an obsession, constant topic of conversation. While I find it interesting and moderately intriguing, the continuous stream of ayurvedic chitchat around VKV (which oftentimes sounds like gibberish to me)-- “oh, because my dosha contains to much vatah, having this ice cream is going to be bad for my flow of bile…” etc., is beginning to get a little old. But that didn’t turn me against the appeal of a free ayurvedic massage.

So, after about two months of being too busy to think about my complimentary massage, I scheduled the massage for a relatively free Saturday just after my appointment with the astrologer. Rema, the VKV masseuse regarding whom I’ve heard only rave reviews, led me into through a low doorway into a low ceiling-ed room in the school building that, until now, I had no idea existed. The stone-floored room saturated with the aroma of herbed and perfumed oil. I climbed onto the smooth surface of the wooden slab table and Rema began to rub the exquisite-smelling oil, which was being heated near to a boil in a bowl beside the table, all over my skin and through hair. With the oil acting as a lubricant, the already-smooth table top turned slick and I felt like a fish on a greased up Slip n’ Slide.

This happened to be the day of a several-dozen-kilometer procession: as the pilgrim-full flurry during 41-day festival at Sabarimala Temple ended that day (Jan. 14), the sacred ornaments of Lord Ayappa were being transported from the legendary palace at Pandalam (where Ayappa was said to have grown up) to the temple at Sabaraimala. Sometime along its many-hour 100 km course stopping shortly in Aranmula. I, of course, wanted to watch this procession, and hoped I’d be done with the massage in time.

Suddenly, as I lay there on the wooden Slip n’ Slide, I heard a furious flurry of earsplitting explosions being set off right outside the school building, accompanied by an uproar of what sounded like an angry crowd. Smoke and the smell of gunpowder soon mingled with the scent of the oil. “This is probably just part of the passing procession,” I told myself. But it sounded rather destructive. And I was in a rather vulnerable position.

After what might have been a couple minutes (but seemed much longer) of explosions echoing and the sound of the enthusiastic mob reverberating all around—in the meantime, I took comfort in the fact that Rema looked unfazed—, the outburst of explosions stopped. “Sri Ayappa coming!” she then explained, now that it was possible to hear her voice. A few firecrackers still going off at random intervals, Rema washed off what she could of the oil with a bucket of heavenly hot water—the first hot water I’ve felt for the past 2 months—and a not-so-heavenly scratchy scrub brush. I quickly donned my clothes and headed out—hair still coated with aromatic oil—to watch the procession.

Kalaripayattu Presentation:

Every time I’ve seen a martial arts demonstration in the U.S., it always appears to me as if the sparring sections—particularly the ones involving weapons—are precisely scripted and practiced. The kalaripayattu (a type of martial art that originated in Kerala and is considered to be the oldest known martial art form and the basis for all other martial art offspring) presentation that I was able to see one weekend at VKV operated on a different approach. A different concept of personal safety. And perhaps a lack of fear of liability lawsuits.

For roughly an hour, a group of Indian guys from a kalari (an easier to pronounce appellation of kalaripayattu) studio in Kochi displayed their combat talents developed over years of rigorous training using their impressively flexible bodies (I’ve never seen guys—or anyone for that matter—do such high kicks and effortless splits) and roughly a dozen different weapons ranging from swords and spears to maces and heavy wooden clubs modeled after elephant tusks. With these weapons (and they were the real deal, mind you: the maces dislodged chunks from cement-like dirt floor), the guys were really going at it. The furious swings of their swords and maces taking chunks out of the floor—and several times coming close to taking chunks out of each other. In the course of the demo, 3 of the weapons broke—a thick metal sword shattered (it’s tip almost impaling someone), one wooden elephant tusk splintered, and a spear snapped in half.

It was impressive to see how far a student of kalari can come in a lifetime. Kalaripayattu is one of the optional complimentary subjects that students at VKV can try during their stay and, knowing nothing about it at the time, I was gung ho to give it a try. After 4 trial days, I was bored, (the first two hour-long classes, I was told to walk back and forth across the studio swinging my legs up as high as I could with each step: after I graduated from having to do a full-length session of high kicks, I was able to move on to half an hour high kicks, half an hour squat steps), in pain (my knee pain from years of gymnastics came back with a vengeance), and decided I’d had enough.

But, obviously, these guys had more perseverance when it came to kalari than I, and it for sure showed. The vigor and strength with which they swung their weapons was tempered by the precision acquired over 10 years + of daily training. “How cool would that be if we got to use some of those tight swords and spears and stuff?!?” a couple of newcomers to the school (from the U.S., in case you couldn’t tell by the “tight” vocab), eager to try kalari come Monday, were excitedly discussing. Thomas, a guy from the Virginia and a serious student of kalari, burst their bubble. “That would be tight, but things don’t exactly work that way with the Indian method of education. I’ve heard you have to take at least 4 years of kalari lessons before even being able to practice with a stick.”

Kathakali Makeup Classes:

Just below my room in Tharayil House, there is a mysterious room. From within there occasionally emanates a mysterious musty smell. From this room, I would see the VKV’s 2 kathakali teachers sometimes coming and going, and around these times the musty stench would invade the entire house. But for several weeks early on in my stay, I had no idea what went on in this room. Until I became acquainted VKV’s two kathakali teachers—after being invited to watch a rehearsal costume and makeup session for an upcoming performance and asked to take some press release photos for them—I never realized that there was a wealth of kathakali props and costumes stored just below my bed.

After the rush to finish my watercolor of Ganesh and his giant red rat in time for the exhibition, I then had to decide: do I spend another 6-7 weeks consumed with creating another painting (which would mean another stint of endless hours of monotonous dots)? Or do I try another subject? After becoming more familiar with the mustery room and 2 kathakali actors/teachers that occasionally spent time in it, I made up my mind to try—just for a week—some kathakali makeup classes.

I’ve had a bit of experience doing this kind of face painting thing before. After having spearheaded many a face painting fundraiser effort back home (which entailed hours of attempting to paint the faces of antsy preschoolers to look like Pikachu and Spongebob and Spiderman. Ad nauseum), I though painting my own face—which I could be sure would stay still—would be relatively simple. For my first kathakali makeup class, after presenting my new teacher Praveen with dakshina (a traditional symbolic—of what I’m not sure—gift which is presented by a student to a new guru, consisting of a betel leaf, an aracanut, and a rupee coin), half of my face was painted while I had to recreate the same symmetrical style on the other half. My sense of symmetry, I found after several wipings away of mistakes, was a little off. The fact that the makeup is applied with little pointy sticks didn’t make the process much easier. But I was able to—with many corrections by Praveen—end up with some semi-symmetrical Kathakali faces. And some fun photos to prove it.

Happy Aranmula Krishna Temple Holiday! A week’s worth of non-stop noise…

“Warning: we are extending this word of caution and our apologies in advance. For those of you staying at VKV during the week of January __ - __, be prepared for non-stop noise. This is the week of the Aranmula Krishna Temple’s 10-day festival. The music from the temple is played loudly late into the night and begins again early in the morning. While there will be an extensive schedule of events—including karnatic music concerts, Kathakali plays, and several other performing arts presentations—in conjunction with festival, these will be held every night past midnight. We recommend that you pack earplugs and/or sleep aid medication.”

This was the gist of an e-mail I received from VKV over a month before I left for India. I wasn’t sure if this was a joke or an exaggeration. I wasn’t flustered by this forewarning. I didn’t pack earplugs. Instead I was considering packing pep instead so I could stay awake to see as many performances as possible. And even without the help of pep pills, I made it a priority to watch at least one performance at the temple for every day of the festival.

It was virtually impossible to sleep as it was due to the virtually non-stop music blaring from loudspeakers tethered to coconut trees all throughout town (but strangely no music when it is a reasonable time of day to play loud music for everyone in a 10-kilometer radius to listen to—at noon there is typically no music but it kicks in at 5 PM, goes until 4 in the morning, and begins again around 4:30 AM). So why not spend these sleepless hours enjoying some fine Kerala Hindu style entertainment? Some of the performances I saw…

3 elephant processions, during which the 3 temple elephants—crazy one included—are paraded around the temple complex before being brought to a halt in front of the temple doors were they stand in all there splendour flapping their ears, eating palm fronds, and pooping (as I was passing by the temple doors one of these evenings, a present from above plopped down less than a meter a way, after which I felt some sort of foul-smelling liquid splatter on my face) for the next 2 hours or so being serenaded by a percussion troupe and a group of guys on instruments that sound and look like the horn of a snake charmer.

A classical dance performance given by a famous Malayalam movie actress, whose name, fame, and face (and not her dancing skills, according to my friend Danya, the dance instructor here at VKV: “If any ordinary woman did a performance like that,” Danya told me, “she would be laughed at.”) drew a crowd of at least 2000 that crammed into the walled enclosure of the Aranmula—not built to hold such a crowd, and indeed, the VKV staff said that this 11 PM to 1:30 AM performance was cause for the largest crowd in the Temple’ history.

An excellent karnatic music concert the following evening, the performers not as famous but among two of my favourite people at VKV: Jayanth the Sanskrit professor as vocalist and Sridat, my violin teacher (on his violin). I found slightly depressing to compare the reverse ratios between the talent of this troupe of performers and that of the actress doubling as a mediocre Bharatnatiyam (South Indian dance) artist, the 30 people in the audience for the karnatic vocal concert and the 2000 + that turned up to see the dancer. But, alas, here as in the U.S., a classical music concert doesn’t draw the same kind of turnout that Brittney Spears does.

An authentic all-night Kathakali performance telling one of the most significant stories from the Mahabharata (widely known as the greatest Hindu epic) and supposedly performed by some of the most significant Kathakali actors in Kerela (which, I guess, would make these guys some of the top Kathakali actors in India, the world, and the entire universe). It was an amazing and magical experience and in the wake of it I feel a sense of accomplishment for pulling off an all-nighter in the temple (considering the volume of the music all over town, I concluded that I’d rather spend a sleepless night watching fine art in the temple than attempting to sleep in my own bed with a pair of earplugs stuffed in my ears) and simultaneously more than a little sleepy (well, TGIF).

Thought a bit taxing, this has been an incredible once-in-a-lifetime kind of week (for me at least—the Aranmulites and from what I’ve heard the residents of every other city or village in Kerala experiences something along these lines at least once a year). And in the midst of all of this, I’m realizing that, sadly, my stay here is soon coming to an end. On the one hand it feels like I’ve been here virtually an eternity. On the other hand, I keep thinking, “Is it time to leave this earthly paradise already?” But I have a whole new slough of great adventures to look forward to.

I initially thought I would have the following week to recoop from the temple festival induced lack of sleep—I was a good Hindu girl and went to the temple at least once a day throughout the whole 10-day duration of the festival. With great concerts and performances and processions every evening, how could I stay away? But I then found out that the Chengannur Shiva Temple fest—with another outstanding-looking schedule of events, is going on the next two weeks.

I organized a trip last night to see a concert whose explanation on the English translation of the schedule of events intrigued me greatly: called a “Fusion Concert,” this concert looked like it would be my only chance—this trip at least—to see a veena (South Indian stringed instrument similar to sitar) in concert. The performance was a mixture of karnatic classics, new Hindu devotional hits, and film music played by a troupe of very talented musicians, most from Tamil Nadu, which included a violinist, an outstandingly-good tabla player, two other impressive percussionists (one on the khaddam—clay pot—and the other on maddalam—long sideways drum), a keyboard artist (who, unfortunately, gave the otherwise wonderful concert a slightly tacky sound), and a jaw harp player (when time came for each of the musicians to do their solos, this guy had his solo too. He sat up on stage twanging away while the other musicians and audience members clapped away), and the veena player. But this was no ordinary veena. It was an electric veena. I had no idea such a thing would exist. Veronica (a newer resident of VKV, a girl from Florida who’s staying here studying kathakali as part of Boston University’s theatre program) and I returned around 1 AM, but the lost chance to catch up on lost sleep was certainly well worth it.

Last week, and what an amazing albeit sleep-deprived week it was, (I did get used to the loudspeaker tethered near my room, but I was oftentimes busy watching whatever performance was being broadcast over those loudspeakers until the wee hours of the night / following morning) culminated in a grand elephant procession. The convoy of elephants and musicians (over a dozen percussionists and horn players) and spectators made its way around the temple, through the streets of Aranmula, and down to the Pampa River.

In front of each house the elephants passed, the convoy would stop and receive an offering of grain and rice and bananas and flowers from every family outside their home. Revathi House, one of the VKV houses, was along the route, and Annie the French painter (who has become the matron of Revathi) had her own offering prepared: a spread consisting of several small barrels of grain, puffed rice, and oats, along with a bunch of mini bananas was laid out over a mat of banana leaves and surrounded by a circle of tall brass oil lamps. The grainstuffs were packed up in sacks while the elephants snacked on the nanners and later the banana leaves—almost tipping over the oil lamps as they stretched out their trunks. I walked with the 3 + hour-long procession the entire way down to the river, most of the time right next to one of the elephants.

This was amazing. As I walked along next to these immense creatures, I realized how big they actually are and thus how much damage they could potentially do yet how amazingly docile they are. Several times, I swear one of the temple elephants was looking me straight in the eye from a mere few feet away.

More later about…

New Year’s Festivities

A Taste of Keralan Cooking

Kochi

Homestay in Palakkad!

Last week in Aranmula

Ani Chechi and Family

Visit to Anchu’s Home

After nearly 3 months of studying the traditional culture of Kerala, finally—during my last week in Aranmula—am I blessed with several opportunities to get a glimpse of real Kerala culture.

Alas, taking advantage of these opportunities leads to a couple of pre-departure crises.
Off to Delhi!

Glossary of Potentially Unfamiliar-to-the-Western-Ear Terms:

2006-01-24T06:47:00.000-05:00

Aranmula: the Keralan village that has become my new home. The Vijnana Kala Vedi Cultural Center, where I’m staying for the initial 3 months of my trip, is situated here.

Chai: Indian term for tea, also the Indian concept of tea—chai starts off in the same way as would your standard cup of tea. Then heaps of sugar and cups of creamy milk are added to the brew. Always tasty and typically served steaming hot in a petite glass cup/a giant shot glass.

Churidar: a knee-length tunic worn by women (mostly the younger population—more elderly women tend to wear saris) in India. Worn with pants and accented with a shawl called a dupatta

Dhoti: a long swath of fabric, most often white but frequently printed with stylishly colorful floral designs, worn by most of the men around Aranmula. Like the sari, this piece of fabric is precariously wrapped, but only around the waist so it resembles a skirt. Or the full-length skirt-like dhoti can be folded and tucked in half so as to resemble what I’m sure my brother would call, “an adult-sized diaper.”

Kallam: (formally known as kallam-eruttu) 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 elaborate powder paintings take many hours to create and only a few seconds to destroy. They are created and subsequently destroyed as part of pujas or Hindu ceremonies.

Ghat: riverbanks, usually with a set of stairs or an inclined platform leading down to the river. The riverside ghats are quite happening places: along with the temple, the banks of the Pampa are a hub of activity in Aranmula. So what exactly happens along the ghats? People gather, most often in the hours surrounding sunrise and sunset, to bathe, to do laundry, or just to hang out. At first this aspect of Aranmula life seemed to me quite inviting, and it still does as an observer. I was a bit turned off by ghat-side bathing and laundry when I discovered that the sewage of the upriver town of Kozhencherry flows straight into the Pampa.

Kathakali (pronounced Kah-tah-kah-lee): THE traditional art form of Kerala, a form of drama and dance done in Hindu temples, codified roughly 300 years ago. Performances are often commissioned as offerings to a specific Hindu deity and the actors go ahead with the performance regardless of whether there are human spectators or not—the gods are always watching. The average Kathakali presentation begins around 9 PM and will finish up by 5 AM the next morning. Needless to say, the dancers and the musicians accompanying them need to have a lot of stamina. The movements of the dance are relatively slow moving and stately, combining body position, facial expressions, and mudras (hand gestures that carry significant meanings). Actors are dressed in elaborate costumes and their faces are painted to correspond with their character (the hero’s face is always green, the villain is customarily red and black). The stories performed are typically taken from the Ramayana or the Mahabharata (although I was among the audience witnessing the first Kathakali performance ever based on a Bible story: a Christmas-week Kathakali-rendition debut of the birth of Jesus.)

Karnatic (Music): traditional Hindu devotional music, South India style. I started by studying karnatic vocal music and soon after was able to graduate to karnatic violin.

Kerala: a state situated on the southwestern tip of India, the paradise in which I’m spending the first three months of my trip.

Malayalam: the state language of Kerala. Supposedly Malayalam has one of the most complicated syllabic alphabets and grammatical structures of the world’s languages. The term “Malayali” refers to a Malayalam speaker, or in other words, a person from Kerala.

Mudras: hand gestures carrying significant meanings in Indian (mostly Hindu, also Buddhist) arts, both visual (like the mural painting I’m currently studying) performing (commonly used in Kathakali). Yoga makes use of mudras, too.

Sari: most common attire for women around Kerala, consisting of several yards of fabric wound around the waist, tucked into an underskirt, and typically draped over one shoulder (for someone unfamiliar to sari wearing, all these folds and drapes and tucks tend to feel rather precarious). Worn with a tight matching blouse that reaches around the bottom of the ribs. Sari fabric is often brightly colored, but the distinct traditional Kerala-style sari is off-white with gold edging.

Sabarimala Temple Festival and Pilgrimage: Sabarimala is a famous Hindu temple and pilgrimage site located less than 100 km from Aranmula. Dedicated to Lord Ayappa, the son of two male gods Vishnu and Shiva (yes, but the legend of Ayappa’s birth isn’t that messed up: Shiva was at the time assuming his inherent female form, Mohini) and one of the most fervently-followed members of the Hindu pantheon here in Kerala (Ayappa was born in the state of Kerala to take care of a evil sorceress type who was supporting the rule of a terrible tyrant), the temple holds a 41-day festival every year that pilgrims from around Southern India flock to by the millions. This is the most significant pilgrimage site in Kerala, drawing over 4 million annually. But by far mostly men: menstruating women are not allowed to enter the Sabarimala temple. Over the past month, I’ve seen 1000’s of pilgrims (and only 3 little girls and one old woman among them), distinguished by their distinctive attire: dhotis of black or orange (considered sacred for being the colors that show the dirt of Kerala’s roads the least), typically bare feet, and a package carried on the head containing a coconut filled with ghee and other items to symbolically sustain them on their spiritual journey.

Tharayil: the name of the house I’m living in during my stay in Aranmula. Virtually every house I’ve seen around Kerala has a name: strangely, unlike all the other signs and things to read around here, most of the house name’s are written in roman script instead of Malayalam.

Vijnana Kala Vedi (a.k.a. VKV): a cultural school in a Keralan village called Aranmula, the wonderful place where I’m spending the first 3 months of my adventures in India. If you can find the map of India somewhere on this horrendously long blog page, you can locate Aranmula and VKV on the subcontinent’s southwestern tip.

Wallah: a Hindi term for someone who sells a certain good or service. A guy selling chai (tea) is the chai-wallah, someone selling snacks is a snack-wallah, a man soliciting rickshaw rides is a rickshaw-wallah.

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

2006-01-24T06:30:00.000-05:00

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.

Christmastime in Kerala

2006-01-02T07:49:00.000-05:00

Christmastime in Kerala:

In the midst of a tropical rainforest—with over 70-degree (Fahrenheit) temperature daily—, in the midst of a predominantly Hindu population, with palm trees instead of evergreen trees, and most glaringly with none of my family around to spend this time with, I found it a challenge to get into the holiday spirit. Though this environment didn’t exactly evoke the same festive feelings as my environs in Indiana (every year without fail a white Christmas, all the hype surrounding the holiday seasons, decorating the family Christmas tree and Christmas carols playing constantly in the background), this was certainly the most memorable and out-of-the-ordinary holiday season ever.

I’ve mentioned that there is a surprisingly significant Christian population across the state of Kerala. As you might imagine, the Christians of Kerala celebrate Christmas quite differently than its observed in the U.S. For lack of evergreen trees, some families decorate different types of tropical trees: there is a Kerala-style Christmas tree set up outside the office building here at VKV—a bamboo-like bush decked out with lights, metallic garland, and colorful cardboard stars.

The cardboard “Christmas stars” are certainly the most common holiday décor around Aranmula. Some of them sport slogans like “Happy Christmas”, others are printed with patterns I associate with Christmas and some of them are filled with flashing colored lights, but the most of them don’t appear—to me at least—to have the least bit to do with Christmas. Regardless, they are rather festive. These stars are being sold in shops everywhere this week, and to help add some (more palatable) color to my pastel green and brown room, I bought a blue and yellow holiday star decorated with stylized butterflies. This is now hanging in the midst of my posters of Sarasvati (Hinduism’s patroness of the arts and learning, my favorite member of the Hindu pantheon), Vishnu (the preserver), and Gandhi-ji.

As for what traditions the Indian Christians of Kerala have around this time, I don't rightly know because the community I'm living in is mostly Hindu and I haven't yet met any Christians. But every bakery--even the Hindu-owned establishments--is filled with special Christmas cake, which is eaten by Hindu and Christians alike. Almost every home in the area has a little decor in the form of giant elaborately-decorated "Christmas star." Some houses have strings of flashing lights hung out front. For the past week, Aranmula has been serenaded every night by a traveling troupe of high school guys singing and drumming down every block in town until at least midnight. During the course of the week, they stop in front of every home with their drums and voices booming until the family inside gives them some rupees to go away or until the boys are fed up by a lack of response. And on Christmas eve, I'll be attending late-night mass at a local Catholic church, not out of any devoutness on my part but more so curiosity to see what an Indian Christmas eve mass is like. Then on the evening of the 25th, the school staff will be preparing a special Christmas feast for us. A lovely and certainly for me a unique holiday!

Around 11 PM on Christmas Eve’s eve, the traveling percussion troupe passed by Tharayil. I, who was watching a movie at the time and who was thoroughly amused by this curious collection of carolers, made the mistake of opening the door to get a better view. After they saw that brief sliver of light flash from our doorway, the drummer boys swarmed past our gates and stood outside the house making a delightful racket for the next 5 minutes. Delightful depending on your outlook: Sarah, an elderly woman from London and a relatively new resident of Tharayil house (she would undoubtedly take the roll of Scrooge in our Kerala Christmas Carol), attempted to drown out the drumbeats with her complaints. I was tempted to go give the group of guys some rupees—I’ve heard that they oftentimes don’t go away until someone inside the house they choose to serenade gives them a bit of cash—but Sarah and Rosella held me back, certain that the troupe would surely return to Tharayil every night that week if I did. So we all stayed inside, I enjoying the pulse of the rhythm and the cadence of the off-key chanting, Sarah obviously not, until the boys became bored by our secluded stinginess and moved on to the next house on the block.

Kathakali Christmas Story:

One afternoon, the rhythm of drums fused with the clang of bells and gongs drew me to the school building, where a Kathakali play was being rehearsed. I peeked inside the makeshift theater and was invited to sit and spectate, becoming the only female and only student among the crowd. Gathered on stage was a motley posse of sweaty, shirtless, dhoti-clad Hindu guys. Acting out the story of the birth of Christ. This was, supposedly, the first-ever Kathakali play based on a bible story. And a few days later, I was in the audience of its debut performance.

The evening of the debut turned out to be quite a big event. It was held, contrary to original plans (initially scheduled to take place in some far-away resort that was asking an exorbitant price 3710 rupees per person—close to $100—for tickets, the debut was, after some arm-twisting and use of influential contacts on Louba’s part) right in the school building at VKV, where I’d seen the same play rehearsed a few days before.
Before the performance began (it was scheduled to start at 6:00, but 6:00 Indian time really means at least a half hour later), made my way through a swarm of journalists and television crews to watch the makeup application and costuming progress. A husky Hindu guy with hairy hands and a unibrow was being transformed into the Virgin Mary. Joseph’s face was bright yellow. This Biblical couple was decked out like a pair of Hindu deities and laden with layers of elaborate Indian-style golden jewels. Two of the three kings and King Herod were done up like a typical Kathakali hero: with green faces and broad, umbrella-like skirts. As I watched these preparations with interest and amusement, I was laughing inside to think: what would be the reaction of a provincial-minded conservative Christian taken from their cocoon in Indiana (or elsewhere) to see this Kathakali performance in India and told that this posse of Hindu men were supposed to be portraying Biblical characters surrounding the birth of Christ?

So at 6:00 India time, I took a seat on a straw mat just in front of the stage. The program was preceded by, as are most Kathakali performances, by a synopsis of sorts chanted in Sanskrit (this New Testament story was actually translated into literal Malayalam, which is similar to Sanskrit) to the accompaniment of a quartet of percussionists. The official curtain, a colorful tapestry held overhead on either end by men whose arms would begin to droop after a few minutes, was tossed aside to reveal Mary and Joseph. The unlikely man cast as the Holy Virgin that I described earlier made a magnificent Madonna. Between his soft features and feminine expressions (and an impressive make up job) the guy was a natural.

This interpretation of the story of Mary and Joseph and the birth of Jesus—costumes and chanting aside—progressed pretty much along the lines of your standard Christmas pageant. Until King Herod came on the scene and started grunting as he danced around wielding a sword. The Kathakali Christmas story culminated in the nativity scene, with all the actors (apart from Herod) gathered around to admire the Christ child as a baby doll dressed in swaddling clothes.

Hands down the best rendition of the story of Christmas I’ve ever seen. Somehow, these Hindu men—with their wonderfully outlandish and thoroughly Indian costumes (that any conservative Christian would have been horrified to see used to portray any Bible character), Mary with his/her hairy hands and this classic New Testament tale translated into Sanskrit—imparted more meaning into this story than all the habitually disastrous Christmas pageants I’ve seen in the U.S.

Christmas Eve Dinner:

For the first weekend since my arrival in Aranmula, I decided to stay at the center. So did all the other students. That way, this global family of sorts could spend Christmas together. Throughout the week leading up to the Christmas weekend, conversations among the students—breakfast, lunch and dinner—would tend to center around what each member of our mini international community would typically do around this time of year in their home country. Whether from Germany or Sweden, Spain or Italy, the Czech Republic, England or the U.S.A., everyone was missing their holiday family dinner.

So as the weekend of the 25th approached, we (well, mostly through the efforts of Brit from Sweden, being a take-charge type of woman) began to put together some special plans: Christmas Eve dinner. Around Aranmula, away from home and family, at the nearby (dubiously) respectable establishment of the Park Hotel. We made reservations for a “family room” in advance and arranged for 3 rickshaws to take the 9 of us there in the evening of The Eve. Earlier on The Eve, Andy, a man from Seattle, arrived and despite being Jewish we insisted he join us for Christmas dinner. This extra person meant that I ended up in the lucky rickshaw in which the 4 most slender among the students had to cram in back. On the way to the Park Hotel, I was tempted to strike up a round of “Jingle Bells” with words changed to suit the India surroundings: something like “Rickshaw Horns…”

We climbed out of the fleet of rickshaws and were led through the other rooms of the hotel (which was, as we had speculated, a glorified bar) to the “family room” (which every night of the year is most likely filled with parties of drunk Indian men—I doubt any woman had entered the establishment after 5 PM in a good while). By 7:30, we handed our server our order in written form, to facilitate the process and avoid confusion. Between then and the time our food finally came at 9:30 (I expected this would be the case—I’ve adjusted my internal clock to Indian time—and was much more amused by this delay than a certain Scrooge who went at one point to yell at the servers and was subsequently told that the food would be ready at 11:00), we passed the time by chatting and singing Christmas carols and—at one point when we were becoming desperately hungry for our dinner—playing a couple rounds of charades.

So, at last, once the food was carried in and the plates of curry and tandoori and masala and rice and naan (North Indian flat bread) were passed around, the savory smell of Indian spices filling the “family room,” this Christmas dinner with an Indian twist tasted exquisite. At my end of the table, we were sharing curry prawns, tandoori chicken, garlic gobi (gobi is comparable to cauliflower) and paneer (Indian cheese) and, no offence to the excellent chef who does most of the cooking around the holidays back home (I do miss your cooking, Dad), I think this was the most delicious Christmas dinner I’ve ever had. Between the banquet of incredible Indian food, the company of international travelers, the sultry Keralan weather and the groups of Indian guys getting drunk outside our “family room”, this was certainly for me the most extraordinary Christmas Eve ever.

Christmas Eve Mass:

Not out of any devoutness on my part but more so out of curiosity, I accompanied Rosella from Rome to the Aranmula Catholic church’s 11PM Christmas Eve mass. The two of us left the Park Hotel shortly before the others to make it to mass in time. There was no rickshaw driver waiting for us outside, as Rosella had arranged. But there were plenty of rickshaws in the parking lot. All the drivers inside drinking. So the hotel guard found the least drunk among them and dragged the guy outside for him to drive us back to the school. We made it safely from the hotel to the school, then from the school to the church. As Rosella and I followed a rugged road and blaring music up to the hilltop church, our rickshaw driver found a place to park, curled up in the back of his vehicle and fell asleep.

Outside the cozy hilltop church, Christmas carols—thoroughly Indian-style tunes that bore no resemblance to any Western Christmas songs—were blaring. Inside, there was no sign of a priest but the place was packed with people listening to the music. The congregation spilled over around the chapel’s walls while Rosella and I stood for a while along the fringes of the crowd. Listening. Observing.

I was surprised by the disparity in the proportion of men vs. women within: a postage-stamp-sized square in the far back corner of the church seemed to be reserved for men, while the rest of the interior—over 7/8ths of the space—was filled with women, who were constantly fixing their saris and shawls so their heads were covered (this seemed to be proper decorum while within the church). So where were all the husbands of these women? Out drinking, I presumed. We’d probably been amongst a few of them at the Park Hotel. I later found out from Rajesh that my presumption was probably correct: he informed me that Kerala has the highest alcohol consumption of any state in India.

Seconds after Rosella and I had gathered the courage to enter the church, as several old women sitting near the rear were beckoning us to do, everyone inside rose from the scratchy straw mats stretching across the floor that served as a substitute for pews and began to file outside. ‘Did we do something offensive?’ I wondered. No, it turned out, or at least that wasn’t why the congregation walked out as soon as we walked in. They went outside to watch the procession of the priest and altar servers carry a statue of Baby Jesus from the nativity down the hill into the church.

We stood inside, found a spot on the floor to sit for the subsequent mass, and—heralded by a fanfare of fireworks—watched as the procession and spectators flowed into the church. The Christ child in his crèche, carried by a priest in vestments of hot pink and gold, was placed in a nativity near the altar. Just below a life-size statue of Christ on the crucifix affixed to a backdrop of the apocalypse: a blood-red sunset, lightning scorching the skies, a graveyard in the distance. This image of Jesus and the statue of Virgin Mary before the altar were both encircled by strings of flashing lights.

I was taking all of this in—and fixing my dupatta (scarf worn with a churidar) so it covered my head—when the congregation rose from the floor and began singing an exquisite joy-exuding Malayalam Christmas song, to the accompaniment of an extremely tacky synthesized recording (which made the organ at my family’s church in Indiana, by comparison, sound angelic). From there, the progression of the mass followed for the most part the same general structure as a Western Catholic mass. Apart from the fact that it was all in Malayalam.

Despite the fact that I couldn’t understand anything being said apart from a word here and there, I found the mass meaningful and meditative. Surrounded by a crowd of Malayali women in this cramped, close-quartered church. Sweating while the fans overhead spun speedily so no one in the congregation passed out from the harsh heat of this Christmas Eve. Sitting, kneeling and standing on the scratchy straw mats. Facing the priest in his oh-so-spiffy vestments, Mary and Jesus in their circles of flashing colored lights in front of the mural of the apocalypse. While the synthesized song accompaniment resounded from the loud speakers. If I couldn’t be with my family for this evening, this was the next best place for me to be.

Despite the overall tackiness of these surroundings, a sense of community prevailed.About an hour into the mass (it was a bit past midnight at that point), firecrackers exploded just outside the church. This went on like machine gun fire for over a minute. My theory: to keep the congregation from falling asleep. This happened two other times before Rosella and I left, shortly before communion at 1 AM. As I was falling asleep around an hour later, I could still hear the Keralan Christmas carols being blasted from the church’s several speakers, occasionally accompanied by sporadic spurts of firecrackers. Happy holidays to everyone in India, Indiana, and everywhere in between!

Trivandum Trip and Other Exploits...

2006-01-02T07:37:00.000-05:00

Trivandrum Trip:

Trivandrum (increasingly known by its tongue-twisting un-Anglicized name, Thiruvanantapuram—say that five times fast), as the capital of the state of Kerala, is quite the metropolitan city. All things relative, that is. I saw only a few cows roaming the chaotic roads. The ratio of dhoti-clad to trouser-clad men was nearing 1:1 (in Aranmula, its relatively rare to see a guy wearing pants). I actually spotted one stoplight. And our troupe of foreign travelers attracted far fewer stares than we’ve become accustomed to.

For the first full weekend of December, I traveled to Trivandrum with a group of 3 other VKV students: the Spanish painter Miren, Manuel also from Spain, and Rosella from Rome. Before the 4 of us converged in Kerala, none of us had met. But despite hailing from all across the Western world, it felt almost like traveling with family. And apparently it appeared that way, also, as a few Trivandrum inhabitants we encountered asked how we were related. My 3 companions were traveling to Trivandrum on a mission: Miren to catch her flight to Sri Lanka, Manuel and Rosella to hit the bookstores (Trivandrum is supposedly the best place in Kerala to buy books). I went along to explore the city, see some sights, and check out the bookstores while I was at it.
Initially I thought I’d attempt to nap during 2-and-a-half-hour train ride (keep in mind this was the week of the karnatic music temple concert that lasted until 1 AM, while the previous night I had been watching Kathakali until midnight), but the captivating sights on the train and out the window prevented any sleep for me. The train pulled into the Trivandrum station, we found a hotel nearby, and afterwards headed directly to the bookshops. It was well past lunchtime when we emerged from the last bookstore on the list (all 3 we went inside were considerably cramped, piled to the ceiling with books supposedly organized into some system indecipherable to us) bearing plastic bags laden with our new treasures.

After a bit of lunch (masala dosas—crepe-like pancakes with potato-tomato curry filling—one of my many favorite foods in Keralan cuisine), our next stop was a government run warehouse selling Indian crafts. I made no purchases there—the government-set prices were a little high even by Western standards—but it was fun to look. Dinner that evening was a feast of fish (we like to get our weekend protein fix) and rice. Afterwards a stop for chai at the India Coffee House, a bizarre circular building with tables set into an ascending spiral staircase.

We awoke to rain the following morning, but headed out early (Miren was on her way to Sri Lanka at that point) for a visit to the famous Vishnu temple of Trivandrum. Non-Hindus are not allowed inside (as inclusive as Hinduism is regarding the acceptance of holy figures from other religions as gods and goddesses in the Hindu pantheon, the religion is, from what I’ve seen, quite exclusive and almost inaccessible to non-Hindus) but just to see the ornately carved towering spires of stone from the outside was impressive. The Trivandrum Park, which contains a lovely garden with several museums and a zoo interspersed among the stretches of greenery, was our next destination. We arrived at the park shortly after 8 AM only to find that, contrary to the information in the Lonely Planet (seen by many of my fellow students as the traveler’s bible), everything was closed until 10:00. So we wandered the gardens during alternating drizzle and downpour until the museum and art gallery opened. Both had impressive—albeit poorly preserved, organized and lit—collections of Indian art and artifacts. I was excited to discover in the gallery a room filled with traditional Keralan-style temple mural paintings. I had to squint through the darkness to see them, but I was thrilled to get a chance to see such an extensive collection of the art I’m studying nonetheless. After a leisurely lunch of fish curry and some more exploring the sites of the city (including the capitol building which is built in a stark and unmistakably Communist kind of style--since the creation of the state of Kerala in 1956, Communists have occupied high places in the Keralan state government...), we caught an afternoon train from Trivandrum to Chengannur.

Kathakali makeup session:

Between 2 morning tabla lessons, I returned home to practice and found at the bottom of the stairs leading to my room a Kathakali makeup session was under way. The center’s 2 Kathakali teachers sat there, chewing paan (something of an Indian version of tobacco) and spitting sporadically out the window while one was painting the other’s face. Similar to the typical Kathakali hero look, green was the base color and other details were added on top. I was invited to watch and asked if I could help them by taking some photos when they finished. I was honored. I sat with them at the foot of the stairs and watched the whole process of makeup and costuming. As part of a typical Kathakali ensemble’s finishing touches, the actor added a certain type of seed under his lower eyelid: this, within minutes, turns the eyes red, which supposedly enhances the appearance of the actor. When they were done and the actor was completely transformed into one of Shiva’s sons, I led them outside for the photo shoot.

2005-12-18T02:24:00.000-05:00

Looking back over my last update, I feel I didn’t convey how astonishingly and wonderfully unique and different this place is (well, apart from the laughing lizards and insane elephant). So I decided to begin my new travel log blog update with a list of some of the many unique and different things that have, by this point, become more or less commonplace sightings in my new home, half a world away from the home I grew up in.

Interesting sights I’ve seen around Kerala:

~Innumerable women rushing down the roads on motorcycles, riding side-saddle-style with saris flapping in the wind.

~A temple elephant getting a slow-motion sponge bath in the river, being scrubbed by several men (who, mind you, the elephant could easily trample) one of whom would occasionally shout commands for the elephant to “lift right leg” or “lie on left side” with which the elephant would sluggishly but docilely comply.

~Every single one of the thousands of trucks on the roads is topped with an ornately carved wood panel, usually sporting colorfully painted floral patterns and the driver’s name in big bold block letters.

~In the Varkala train station, an unfortunate man irreverently referred to by Maya and Ben (a couple from Canada) as the “bubble man,” who looked like a picture out from a textbook of bizarre diseases: every visible inch of skin was covered with marble-sized growths. Ben, who had been traveling across India for over 4 months and who had seen his share of diseased beggars, said he would award this guy the prize for the most shocking freak of India.

~Somewhere within every restaurant, rickshaw, and bus I’ve seen is an altar to a Hindu deity or Christian saint. Many a Vishnu, Shiva, Ganesh, and the gaudiest most astonishing representations of Jesus and Mary I’ve ever seen—it seems like every Christian-owned vehicle or establishment tries to outdo the rest with their altars to Mary and Christ: I’ve seen Jesus plated in silver and gold, Mary in a box surrounded by flashing colored lights…

~Auto rickshaws everywhere. Initially unusual but now absolutely commonplace for me, the roads are swarming at all hours with auto rickshaws, or rickety little shells of vehicles typically painted black and yellow. Three adults can, with some effort, squeeze into the back seat while the driver sits up front. The rickshaw drivers are a wonder in themselves: they seem to love using their horns and passing larger, more securely-shielded vehicles.

~Women wearing saris while working in the fields. After wearing a sari to dinner one evening (Sarah, the Portuguese aspiring Bollywood actress, wrapped me in one of her many beautiful saris), I can’t fathom how women can comfortably work in any field, do any laundry, or just walk around town without the fear of their sari coming unraveled.

~Coconut wallahs. Many men here have the ability to shimmy up a coconut tree (oftentimes wearing a dhoti) and hack down a bunch of coconuts to eat or to sell. Then they hack of the top with a few blows of a machete so someone can sip the milk inside.

~Dancing birds. Many an evening as the sun sets over Kerala, an enormous flock of birds flies in unison over the River Pampa. Thousands of birds become one entity as they dip and dive over the horizon.

~Giant bats can often be seen feasting on fruit or flying overhead. Usually active in the evenings, these giant fruit bats fly in the most fantastic way by flapping their immense leathery wings. Less common than a live giant bat but not nonexistent: dried fried giant bats hanging off of electric wires.

Elephant Dung/Poop/Shit/Toilet Paper:

On an evening walk down to the riverside rest house to watch the elephant bathing along the ghats, we came across—and nearly missed stepping in—a fresh elephant present. I had just been discussing painting with Meeran, a woman from Spain who is a professional painter, and this fresh elephant pie reminded me of an interesting tidbit told to me by a woman I met in Mexico. Also a painter, this woman said that the absolute best quality paper she’s ever come across for doing her watercolor sketches is… drum roll, please… elephant dung paper. She gave me a small sheet of the stuff and said to keep an eye out for the paper while in India.
I was intrigued. Meeran was too. So one day in painting class, Meeran decided to ask our painting instructor, Anil, if he’d ever heard of this legendary paper. Meeran attempted to explain it in English: Elephant dung. Elephant poo(p). Elephant shit? Elephant toilet. But as Anil has a very limited grasp of the language, she soon resorted to drawing. So she drew an elephant. Shitting. And the poop being pressed into paper. All of us laughing all the while. He finally understood what we were trying to explain but said, “No, I do not know this paper.”
A couple days later, I remembered to bring my piece of the infamous paper. The first thing everybody did with it: smelled it. No foul smell. But it did have a very unique texture. Apparently Anil had looked into it and found that I wasn’t just pulling his leg, the paper did exist. “We should learn to make this paper in class—there is much, what you call… elephant shit? All over roads in Kerala.”

Weekend in Varkala:

For my first weekend away, I tagged along with a group of four others on an excursion to Varkala, a town popular for the tourists because of its cliff-side beaches (this wouldn’t have been my number one choice of destinations but I take what I can get). The group caught a morning train from nearby Chengannur to Varkala. I was glad to be traveling with such savvy travelers on my very first India train experience. During the 2-and-a-half hour journey, everyone else read (they weren’t greenhorns like me) while I watched the Keralan countryside rush past the window. Homes large and small, people going about their business (or non-business), livestock wandering beside the train tracks (I even saw a goat that appeared to be tethered to the tracks…), rice paddies and lush forests surrounding it all.
Along all the cars of the train, from the bars on the windows, hung garlands of fresh flowers placed there by pilgrims. Each station we came to was brimming with men and boys dressed in black, which I later found out were pilgrims going to Sabaramila, a notable sacred site of Kerala that was currently having a Hindu holy festival. Another curiosity of train travel: at least every five minutes, a snack-wallah (vendor) would walk by shouting out to all the passengers whatever food or drink he was selling. Every time was a different man selling a different item. But every one of them had the same simultaneously disturbing and hilarious shrill and monotone voice. The chai-wallah (tea seller) would yell, “Chai, chai, chai, chai…” over and over, sounding strangely like a robot. “Vellum, vellum, vellum,” said the guy toting bottles of water, “Buri, bura, bura buri…” was what we could distinguish of the pastry vendors’ chant. We joked that the only qualification for being hired as a snack-wallah on the trains: that voice. Merely typing about that voice can never do it justice.
As we approached Varkala, backwater canals became coastline. We arrived, took a taxi to the beachfront, found a hotel with a balcony overlooking the ocean to house us for the night (a 3-person room for under $8), and everyone donned their bikinis to head to the beach. Apart from me, that is. I had realized as I was packing the previous night that I hadn’t brought a swimsuit. But from what little I’ve seen so far of Indian culture, I don’t think I’d feel comfortable wearing a bathing suit here anyhow. So I went swimming in the sea wearing a t-shirt and pants while all the women around me sported bikinis. Even while walking around the city proper, I saw several Western women wearing bikinis. In the course of the two days I spent in Varkala, countless Indian people commented to me how impressed and pleased they were to see me wearing a churidar and thus at least attempting to respect the local culture. They were even more impressed when I used my pathetically limited 20-word Malayalam vocabulary to speak with them.
It was in this manner that I met Ibrahim, owner of one of the cliff-side shops catering to tourists. Originally from Srinagar in Kashmir (near to the northernmost point of India), Ibrahim moved to Kerala (on the southern tip of India) 10 years ago to sell products imported from Kashmir. Over the course of the weekend and over a couple cups of chai, I ended up spending over 5 hours talking with him. He offered me incredible kindness and hospitality, and the fascinating perspective of a person who has lived in the midst of India’s extreme north and south and between the gap in the culture of those two worlds.
On Saturday evening, Sahaj (an Australian woman who has had experience as a yoga instructor and is in India following a system of spirituality centered around yoga) led anyone interested in a yoga class on the beach. And she really meant “anyone interested”: our group grew when several Indian men asked if they join us. At one point, a stray dog wandered towards us and sat on Sahaj’s foot. Once she removed the dog, we were able to see an authentic “downward facing dog” position—apparently the pup wanted to join us for yoga also. So as the sun was being swallowed up by the clouds hanging over the ocean, Sahaj guided us through suliya namaskaar (sun salutation) and dozens of other positions. Our faces to the sea and the setting sun, our backs to the cliffs, our eclectic group did our yoga in a line along the shore. I had to struggle to keep my concentration and to keep from laughing at the hilarity of the giggling Indian guys attempting to do yoga with us.
Much of the weekend—when not doing yoga or checking out the line of shops along the cliff side or getting our protein fix (all our meals at the center are vegetarian)—was spent swimming in the ocean. I was surprised how warm and refreshing the water felt: the temperature to me felt on par with that of Lake Michigan at the peak of summer. The waves in Lake Michigan, though, can’t even be compared to these waves: towering two-meter high waves were constantly rolling in, slapping our faces with saturated sea saltwater. It made for spectacular swimming and body surfing. I was surprised at how many people at any given time were lounging on the beach and how few people were swimming. Perhaps the rough waves deterred the bikini and speedo-clad sunbathers for fear of losing what little they were wearing…
Sunday morning started off perfectly with another yoga class on the now-deserted beach—just Sahaj and I this time. After another swim, a bit more shopping, another visit with Ibrahim, and one more dose of protein, we caught the train back to Chengannur. We arrived in Chengannur with the intention of taking a bus back to Aranmula and so picked a bus that was heading in that direction. But the bus just sat there in the bus station. And sat there. For over 20 minutes. Maya and Ben became fed up and decided we should just splurge on a taxi. We worked out with the driver: a fare of 150 rps to drive the five of us to Aranmula. He drove us to some mysterious deserted town whose name was not Aranmula but also began with an “A”. We are sure that he understood us to begin with and was trying to pull some scam. “Oh, Aranmula?” he said, feigning confusion, “260 rupees.” We tried to argue with the guy as he was driving us to the correct place. Maya and Ben had taken supposedly a dozen taxis from the Chengannur station to the center and the fare was always 150 rps or less. So when we got out in front of the VKV office building and he was still asking for 260, Maya disgustedly slapped the 150 on the rain-splattered back of the taxi and we all walked away. As the driver passed us, I thanked Brahma/Visnnu/Shiva that he didn’t run us down. Always an adventure in India…

Allepuzha Excursion:

Another weekend, another adventure. Three other women staying at the center—Tam from England, Rumi from Israel, and Sahaj from Australia—planned a backwater boating trip for this weekend and I was invited to join them. So on Saturday morning, after an early breakfast, the four of us piled into a taxi and headed for Allepuzha (pronounced Ah-leh-poo-ra: for some strange reason, this cross between a “ra” and a “la” sound in the Malayalam language is romanized as “zha”). This taxi ride was just as wild as the one on the morning of my arrival, or perhaps even more so since the roads were more crowded in mid-morning and I could actually see the closeness of the passing cars and motorcycles and buses and trucks and livestock in daylight. But as I felt and said before, these guys who drive the roads of Kerala know what they’re doing and we made it to Allepuzha—safe and sound—by around 10:00. Our driver dropped us of along the riverside and we immediately set to work trying to find a private boat for a reasonable rate.

After an hour and a half of haggling and scouting visits into at least 10 establishments called “Official Tourist Information Center” ’s, we settled for a 4-hour outing on the backwaters with the boatman who had been most persistent and perhaps most desperate—the guy followed us around for the whole hour and a half. A 4-hour private tour of the labyrinth of canals winding around the city, for four people, with a stop at a rest house surrounded by jungle for lunch… all for under $12. We did well, I’d say. After boarding the slightly rickety motorboat, we headed out on the legendary backwaters of Kerala.

Once we emerged from the city surroundings and into the more rural area replete with rainforests and riverside homes, I saw the reason for this region’s fame and its tourist-attracting name, “God’s Own Country.” One of the most magical, exquisite environments I’ve ever been in the midst of. One could breath in the beauty, feel in on the breeze, hear it in the ripple of the river. I spent the whole duration of the “cruise” sitting atop the roof of the boat and observing the life flowing past me along the banks of the river. Seeing women in vividly-colored saris doing laundry and dishes along the ghats, children playing in front of their riverfront homes—and in the river itself--, men in dhotis bathing and fishing and rowing canoes (the car of the Kerala canal)… this union of the mundane and the divine was, to me, the most captivating part of our backwater boating excursion.

Once back on terra firma, the enchantment of the backwaters remained in my minds eye but didn’t exactly carry over into the city of Allephuzha itself. The lush landscape along the web of canalways became a virtually treeless web of city streets. Along these busy streets we wandered for a while, did some shopping, stopped for chai, said goodbye to Rumi (she was meeting up with a friend) and found a place to stay. Our guesthouse was a five-minute walk to the seaside and that’s where the other ladies wanted to spend the evening. Quite a contrast to the teeming-with-tourists beaches of Varkala, where the only locals were women selling pineapple and papaya and men vending umbrellas, here we were the only Westerners on the beach. There were over a hundred people—all Indian, mostly families—sitting or strolling along the shore (no one swimming to our surprise), watching the sun setting over the sea. We joined them and watched an exquisite sunset, attracting our fair share of stares from passerbies all the while.

After the sun was lost beneath the horizon and daylight turned to twilight, we were all ready for some supper and walked around in search of a suitable restaurant. Within a one-mile radius of our hotel, the only place open was a rundown little vegetarian joint. We sat down in the midst of a pack of gruff-looking Indian guys and were served a delightful meal of masala dosa (lentil and rice pancake/crepe/tortilla-type things with a filling of potato tomato curry) and mango juice for roughly 10 cents.

The next morning, we returned to the beach and were surprised to find it virtually deserted on this superb Sunday. After a yoga session followed by a refreshing swim, we found a good place to sit (in other words, not a place that someone else had found a good place to shit—the beaches here seem to double as bathrooms) and do some reading. That didn’t last long as we soon became the center of a congregation of Indian guys who wanted to practice their English or teach us Malayalam. They were all quite friendly and one man who lived nearby and had the best command of English even invited us to his home to meet his family. After conferring, Sahaj and I decided to take Rajesh up on his offer.

“Only five minutes walking” turned out to be a fifteen minute plus stroll along palm-canopied pathways through a lovely and lively beachfront community. Our journey was briefly delayed due to a run for refreshments: Rajesh swiftly shimmied up a coconut tree and hacked down a pair of young coconuts to serve his unexpected guests. He also took a detour to show us some of the canoes, fishing boats and snake boats (Kerala-style canoes used in festival boat races) he had built in his carpentry work. As we turned a corner into a cloud of smoke (I later found out that the smoke was coming from a outdoor crematorium), Rajesh announced, “This is my street!”

We were welcomed into his home, introduced to his parents, and within a minute of our arrival, practically the whole neighborhood gathered to catch a glimpse of Rajesh’s out-of-the-ordinary guests. As we attempted to talk with crowd around us (few of whom spoke much if any English), Rajesh hacked off the tops of our coconuts and handed them to us. “You want straw?” he asked after we didn’t immediately start sipping the coconut milk. “Yes, please!” answered Sahaj. So a friend of Rajesh was sent on a mission to locate some straws. In the interim, we chatted in simple English and sign language, enjoying being surrounded by this circle of smiling faces while they seemed to be equally enjoying our presence.

The straw searcher returned roughly 10 minutes later with a massive package of straws, by which time a pair of cups had been unearthed to contain the contents of our coconuts. Once we had finished with the coconut water, Rajesh pulled out a machete, cut the coconuts in half, handed Sahaj and I spoons, and showed us how to scoop out the meat. That was tasty stuff, a meal in itself. Once we were finished, we glanced at the time and realized that it was past the appointed time for meeting Tam for lunch. Neither of us was really hungry for lunch at that point, but still thought we should return before Tam began to worry about our whereabouts. After extending words of thanks (“Na-ni” in Malayalam) and farewell (“Namaskaaram”) all around, Rajesh hailed a rickshaw for us and we returned from this charming, fleeting glimpse into Indian life to the realm of the tourist once more.

Following lunch for Tam and a snack for Sahaj and me, we boarded the public ferry (which was packed with people, mostly locals) for a ride to the nearest train station and for a different view of the backwaters. Our threesome had to split up to find seats, so for the duration of the 28-kilometer journey to Kottayam—that took a little over 2 and a half hours—I sat on a makeshift seat of a 2-and-a-half-inch-wide wooden ledge. From this vantage point, I had an excellent view of more riverside scenery… and occasionally, when the ferry became especially crowded (the boat would pull to the side of the canal ever ½ km or so to pick up more passengers) the rear ends of Indian men. Despite that (and my own sore bum), it was a pleasant journey.

When we reached Kottayam and our travel troupe assembled on shore, a man that Tam had met on the ferry offered to go well out of his way to take us to the train station. I was pleasantly surprised by his helpfulness: he led us to the nearest bus stop, rode with us to the stop nearest the train station, showed us the way to the station, bought our train tickets, found us a nice set of seats, and sat chatting with us until the train started moving and he had to jump from the moving train.

Sari wrapping:

“I want to show you how to wrap a sari,” Sarah randomly announced one evening. She pulled out a gorgeous chiffon sari (which, ironically, she’d bought in the U.S. for over $100—here it would cost at least six times less) and said that I was to be her mannequin. Over a pink shirt that showed several inches of stomach, over an underskirt (this is used to tuck the fabric), she wrapped several yards of sari around like a skirt, then a couple yards of pleating that was tucked in the front. As a finishing touch, the remaining tail was tossed over the left shoulder and pinned in place. It was gorgeous. I was afraid to move, lest the several yards of seemingly insecure sari fabric become unraveled.
Then we looked at the time. Oh no, we were late for dinner. “Well, you’ll just have to go wearing that,” Sarah said. So—cautiously—made my way to the guesthouse, hopped the four-foot wide perpetual puddle at the end of my block, and sat down amidst the stares of the staff and other students. This audience voiced their approval. But after I was finished eating, Sumitra (a member of the administrative staff and quite a stunning young woman) came up behind me and whispered, “Come here, I will fix.” She led me into her bedroom in the guesthouse and—giggling with the dance instructor, Danya, about Sarah’s questionable sari wrapping skills—re-wrapped the yards of embroidered burgundy fabric around me in one of the styles worn by Keralan women. (Supposedly there are over 100 ways of wrapping a sari.) I tried to keep track of how and where the fabric was being folded and tucked but I soon became lost. Standing in front of an altar to Ganesh being dressed by two Indian women—that was quite a special moment. Sumitra pinned a swath of cloth over my shoulder and their work was finished. To top it all off, they painted a bindi on my forehead.

Temple Concert:

In the compound of a Hindu temple, I sat on a yoga mat surrounded by other spectators of a karnatic music concert. Vocal ragas melded with vivid violin melodies around the heartbeat of percussion… Simultaneously, a flock of mosquitoes feasted on my flesh. It was past midnight and I had every reason to be exhausted. But I didn’t care. The honor of being in the midst of these amazing musicians, the gift of being invited to witness a performance like this in a temple in India, the undeniable energy surging from the speakers around the stage… this is what kept me awake and alert and attuned to the intricacies of the music until almost one in the morning.
On our way to this late night concert, which began at 9:00 PM, the other spectators from VKV received the following assurance:
“The concert will be over by 11:30 at the latest, my vocal music teacher assured me,” so said Brit from Sweden, whose vocal music teacher was to be performing. “And only that late if both the performers and audience really get into the music.”
Evidently the performers really got into the music. And I don’t know about the rest of the audience, but I sure got into the music as well. On the stage in front of us sat four musicians: Brit’s vocal music teacher front and center with a voice so strong and unfaltering that it became the center of the music as well (also the only woman on stage), two outstanding percussionists (alas no tabla because that is a North Indian instrument not used in South Indian karnatic music), and a brilliant violin player (who played in the same style as I saw on the day of my arrival—the violin resting between his heel and his calf).
Not only did these musicians have tremendous talent but also incredible stamina. The concert got started at 9 PM, shortly after we arrived and unfurled our yoga mat seats. Almost constantly they played—the music never stopped for more than a few seconds but occasionally one of the instrumentalist would sit out for a couple minutes. The singer sang continuously for 2 and a half hours, the violinist and percussionists played for most of that time. Then, around 11:30, (at which time “the concert should have been over, at the latest…”) began the most mind-blowing drum duo I’ve ever seen or heard. This went on for over a half hour. The beats climbed to a climax of spectacular speed and volume… and then stopped.
“Is this the end?” those of our original 6-some turned 3-some (the other 3 had either had enough of this music or were sleeping in the taxi) were wondering. I silently hoped not. My hope was granted: the violinist pulled out his instrument again, the singer switched on her mic, and they were at it again, refreshed and re-inspired. One of the 3 who hadn’t been enjoying the concert as much as the rest of us had came and sat down again. ‘That’s the spirit,’ I thought. “Can we please get going now?” she whined. So at 12:45, after almost 4 hours of amazing music, Brit and I finally capitulated to the complaints of the tired and the humbugs and decided it was time to go. We had to drive over a kilometer before the music, which was being blasted from speakers surrounding the temple to the surrounding town, was drowned out in the darkness and the jungle.
The next morning, Brit found out during her vocal music lesson that the concert finished around 15 minutes after we took off. After 4 hours of performing the previous night, the vocalist’s powerful voice could be heard resounding from her classroom from 10 AM on.

My first Kathakali lesson… in front of a television crew:

“Oh, by the way,” Louba, the woman from France who founded the center announced one day over lunch, “there will be a television crew visiting this afternoon.” That afternoon, just as I was heading out the door for painting class, I received a phone call from an anxious-sounding Atman (Atman is a member of the VKV staff) asking, “Can you please be at the school building in two minutes?” I knew this was regarding the film crew but was left wondering why they wanted me. In two minutes, I found out: since there are no Kathakali (a traditional Keralan form of drama and dance done in Hindu temples) students here at the moment and that is THE traditional art of Kerala, I—a student of tabla and painting, who has never done any Kathakali before in my life—was to be the lucky Kathakali student to be filmed for TV. Well, I figured, now is the time to learn.
The arranged the camera so the Kathakali teacher was sitting behind it showing me what to do… and I was sitting in front of it mirroring his every move. Attempting to, at least. He took me through all 24 basic mudras (hand positions and gestures—many of these consisted of positions my hands have never assumed in my life) and all the while I was incredibly and senselessly nervous, my hands trembling as they did the close up shot of the most complicated mudras.
“You have just done all 24 basic mudras of Kathakali,” my ten-minute-teacher announced for me and for the camera crew. ‘I’m done,’ I think, and breath a sigh of relief.
“Now, I am going to teach you the nine major facial expressions used in Kathakali,” the teacher announced. So I sit facing the camera contorting my face into exaggerated expressions of “anger” and “ecstasy” and “heroism” and I forget what else, although I’m sure a look of fear pervaded it all. And I couldn’t understand all the banter in Malayalam going on around me but not once did I hear it explained that “This girl has never done any Kathakali before so don’t judge her pathetic performance to harshly…” I’m hoping that footage is never broadcast and that it is perhaps destroyed instead. At least that was a memorable introduction to Kerala’s famous art of Kathakali.

Real Kathakali:

A couple days after the late night/early morning due to the temple concert, I had the opportunity to attend a real, all-night Kathakali performance. Despite the potential exhaustion that would ensue, I didn’t want to pass up the opportunity. (Unfortunately) neither did the humbug that initiated our early return from the temple concert, a woman named Vicky and currently the only other VKV student from the U.S.A. So on a Friday evening after dinner, Vicky and I climbed into a rickshaw for a ride not to a temple, where Kathakali is typically performed, but to Louba’s mysterious ashram. Louba, the woman who founded VKV, also founded this ashram and dedicated it to her guru.
There was quite an enigma surrounding this ashram among the VKV students. When we alighted from the rickshaw and entered the ashram’s imposing gates, it felt almost as if I were entering the inner circle of some secret society. The place was swarming with Westerners, mostly French and English speakers, and we followed their flow until we reached the “green room”, where the Kathakali performers’ makeup was being applied. Three young performers were having their faces painted green with ornate designs in white, yellow, black and red, in the guise of a hero of Hindu mythology. This ceremonial process of costuming and makeup application I watched for a while, until an echoing explosion of drumming signaled the start of the performance.
I followed the sound of the drums to the theater and found a seat among the throng of spectators. At the beginning of the performance, the audience consisted of over 80 people, an overwhelming majority of them Westerners. This ashram is less than 10 minutes away from VKV and we never see any of these people. Vraiment mysterieux! Chanting (in literary Malayalam, which is similar to Sanskrit—all incomprehensible to me) was eventually added to the drumming. As the music was escalating in drama and volume, a pair of guys carried out a colorful curtain and held it in front of the stage. The dancers meanwhile assembled behind it.
The curtain was thrown aside and three performers—the same three that I’d watched being done up beforehand, all representing heroes with green facepaint—emerged from behind it. In unison with the music and each other, the three began to dance. Slow, stately, in sync movements combining mudras, facial expressions (including eye position), and the whole rest of the body. From my brief intro to Kathakali, I had trouble with just one of these areas in isolation. Here all three performers united all three areas and each other and the music—that was incredible to watch.
This threesome was just a precursor to the performance proper, which began around 11 PM after a long musical interlude with another amazing drum duo. Again the curtain was suspended across the stage; again it was dramatically thrown aside, this time to reveal a green-faced hero king and a man portraying a woman. These two interacted with even greater synchronization than the students had. They interacted for over an hour.
“How long is this nonsense going to go on?!?” whispered an exasperated Vicky. “I have no idea what’s going on!”
Admittedly, neither did I. But I was enjoying it for the exquisite refinement of their movements and the underlying power of the music. Only several days later did I learn the story from Louba. Here’s a synopsis:

A Hindu diety assumes the form of an alluring temptress in an attempt to seduce a wise ruler, to test his will and moral fortitude. The ruler is forced to grant a boon to this woman: he cannot refuse to do anything she asks or he will have to kill his beloved son. I could smell disaster there. And sure enough, the woman asks this ruler to give her the favors of his love. After a long internal struggle—“do I give in to this woman and betray my marriage, or must I murder my own son?”—this troubled king takes up a sword and calls his son to him. “Daddy, what are you doing?” this lad must have been wondering as his father raised the sharpened sword to strike off his head. But just in the nick of time, Vishnu hurries down from the heavens and stops the swing of the sword. The son is saved and the king is praised for his strength of character.

The dramatic Kathakali rendition of this saga was just getting started when Vicky announced, “I really have to get home and go to bed. This is putting me to sleep.” So thus I was pulled away from the performance just as things were starting to get interesting. We left a little before midnight. The performance lasted until almost 2 AM. Another three-hour Kathakali drama followed, finishing up around 5:00 in the morning. This place never ceases to astonish me with its wonderful, captivating and fascinating uniqueness. I'm cherishing and enjoyng every waking millisecond of my experience here. And, hopefully, my excess of waking milliseconds vs. my lack of sleeping milliseconds won't be too detrimental...

2005-12-02T08:35:00.000-05:00

“Why on earth did Melissa decide to go to India of all places, and for 6 months no less?!?” many of the folks back home are no doubt wondering. Several reasons exist, but above all: I wanted to experience a culture as different as possible from the familiar flaw-filled northwest Indiana culture that I grew up with. Don’t get me wrong: every society has its draws and flaws, India not excepted. But I believe that being immersed in another way of life is the excellent opportunity for learning. Being immersed in a way of life so completely different—on the surface, at least—from the one I grew up with: that, to me, is the ultimate learning experience.

That was what drew me to India (and NO, I was NOT drawn here by any desire to contract malaria, to get myself killed in some other horrible way, or to channel the devil through yoga, as some of the homebodies back home might have thought…) And so far, I have NOT been channeling any devils (though I have been doing yoga every morning) I have NOT felt the least bit ill (knock on wood), and I am still alive. Moreover, I have been experiencing a completely different culture, I have been learning loads from the experience, and I’ve been enjoying myself immensely all the while. The world is bigger than a cornfield, after all.

Adventures from my first full day (November 19):

Despite the previous days potentially exhausting record of 52 hours without a wink of sleep, I was awake—and feeling full of energy—before 5 a.m. the morning after I arrived. For a while, I simply sat on the firm mosquito-netting-surrounded bunk listening to the chanting flowing from the loudspeakers of the local Hindu temple.

Home half a world away from home:

Among the things stood out to me about what my fellow students said about the Vijnana Kala Vedi Cultural School, whether they were staying a week or several months, was that the school was always referred to as “home.” My first day in my new home was the last day for 6 students. With many apologies, the VKV staff moved me out of the office building from my initial accommodation in what is fondly known of as “the hospital room”—a room usually reserved for families as it contains 4 beds—to one of the actual houses. Hooray! My new room—with only one bed—had a much more home-like feel. Three other students currently call the Tharayil House home.

Tharayil House Cast of Characters…

Sarah~ My floor mate, Sarah, is a girl from Portugal who has been here since August studying Hindi and dance in hopes of becoming a Bollywood movie star. I can tell when she’s in her room by the constant stream of Bollywood music blaring from down the hall. Instead of being bothered by it (like some of her former floor mates apparently have) I appreciate living next door to someone with good taste in music. And Sarah appreciates living down the hall from someone who appreciates her music.

Shadi~ In the room just below mine lives an polyglot anarchist named Shadi (pronounced Shah-dee) who was born in Switzerland, raised mostly in Turkey, and has been living in India for the past 15 years. While very nice and incredibly interesting, the one downside of living above Shadi is that he likes to sleep until noon, which has prevented me from practicing tabla.

Elsa~ Down the hall from Shadi lives a Swiss girl with four dreadlock rattails snaking down her back. She’s here doing an intensive woodcarving course. I’m enjoying practicing my francais avec Elsa.

Larry the Laughing Lizard~ A permanent fixture in my room, Larry is a roughly 6-inch long yellow gecko who likes to serenade my every night with a surprisingly loud call that sounds eerily like laughter. Though he woke me up my first night in Tharayil, I’ve gotten used to Larry. In fact, we’ve become friends: he helps keep my room mosquito-free.

Neighbors~ Tharayil House is for the most part surrounded by the homes of Indian families, with whom, I was disappointed to hear, there is virtually no contact. Behind the house, however, are some residents with whom I’m glad there is little close contact: just behind Tharayil house is a large, lush pen live at least 3 elephants reside. Two are taken out frequently to pay visits to the local temple, while the other (who I’ve heard is violent and slightly insane…) is kept tethered in the backyard.

Becoming acquainted with Aranmula:

At breakfast, I tried to get a feel for what everyone was doing with the weekend free day, wondering if perhaps I could tag along (and not be left to fend for myself my first full day in India). No such invites came my way. The morning was spent settling into Tharayil (I decorated my bed and added color to the room by draping colorful scarves that previous students had left behind) and wandering around Aranmula.

At lunch, Atman, one of the administrators at VKV, offered to give Tam (an English woman who’s also relatively new to the center) and me a biking tour of Aranmula. We all mounted our bikes, I in my new churidar (a knee-length tunic type shirt/dress worn with pants and a shawl), and took off for a visit to the mural painting gallery. This small-scale museum was filled with impressively detailed traditional style mural paintings, mostly of traditional subjects. My favorite piece of art in the place was a portrait of Gandhi-ji. Seeing works of this art form done by professionals was a good prelude to my mural painting classes, which begin Monday.

The next stop on our tour was the studio of a family who does the traditional mirror-making craft of the village, Aranmula Kannady. A group of guys sat in their dhotis sanding and scraping and polishing the metal mirrors. After the biking tour and before dinner, I went on a walk around Aranmula with 3 women—Tam (a Brit), Brit (from Sweden), and Meeran (from Spain) down along the Pampa River that runs around the outskirts of Aranmula. A long canoe ferried us across the river. On both banks, people (mostly men, who surprisingly didn’t seem disturbed by our presence) were bathing. Later on, a bunch of men were giving a bath to an elephant (and the elephant certainly didn’t mind our stares). After exploring the paths through the jungle-like forest on the far side of the river, we sat on a ghat and watched the sunset. As darkness fell over Aranmula, the cacophony of birdcalls grew louder and several giant fruit bats swept overhead. What an introduction to Aranmula!

Laughing Lizards, Dying Dogs: the Struggle with Sleep in Aranmula

I’ve introduced you to my noisy new friend, Larry the Laughing Lizard. Like I said, he enjoys serenading me at night. Once I got used to Larry’s loudness, I began to hear a host of unfamiliar night noises: the elephants talking to each other, the dog across the street whining all night in such horrific tones that it sounds like he’s, if not dying, at least in pain or under torture. And of course there are cars and trucks on the road at all hours of the night. Using their horns at all hours of the night.

And then by 5 a.m. every morning, the temple chants begin. Though the temple is at least a half-kilometer away, the chants (which some of the students living nearer to the temple say sounds like an unpleasant Indian rendition of polka) are blasted over loud speakers for the entire village to hear. This nightly racket prevented me from a decent nights sleep for a few days. After being here a week, however, I hardly notice them any more. Perhaps because I’m so exhausted every night from my accumulated lack of sleep. But every morning, I wake up full of energy (probably still running off of adrenaline) to experience this amazing place.

The People around Aranmula:

One feature of VKV that I appreciate is being in the midst of adventurous like-minded travelers from around the world. I’ve gotten to know several students from Swizerland and Spain; one from Sweden; a few from France; women from Israel, England, and Australia; a man from Turkey/India; and a couple from France. I enjoy my frequent conversations with Louba, a former French citizen who founded the cultural school and has lived in Kerala for over 30 years. The center’s staff members—teachers and administrators—are also friendly and interesting.

The one downside of the center is that even though we are located in the midst of the Keralan village of Aranmula, there is little contact with people of the village. All around us, they go about their lives wearing their colorful saris and skirt-like dhotis, staring and occasionally smiling at us students. But on the whole, the center acts as an enclave for foreigners. Though the accommodations of the center are integrated into the community, I’ve gotten the feeling that it is difficult for us Westerners to become part of it. Even for Louba, who has lived here 30+ years. One of the biggest barriers between us is language. Few Aranmulites speak English. None of the center students, not even Louba, are fluent in Malayalam. One of my goals for my stay is to attempt to break out of these established barriers.

Classes:

Aracanut, betel leaf, and 1-rupee coin in hand, I was initiated as a student of tabla and painting. This interesting gift, called a dikshana, is traditionally presented to by a new student to a new teacher. I presented the same to Ashok-ji (my tabla teacher) and Anil (my painting teacher) before beginning classes last Monday. In one week of studies, I’ve learned much about these traditional Indian arts while learning about the culture they come from. Though initially a little intimidating, I’ve been overall impressed with the progress I’ve made with tablas. The first few days, I must admit, I found it—while enjoyable—a little frustrating. I needed frequent reminding that I’d never touched a percussion instrument before in my life. But on Wednesday of last week, I received my very own tabla set. Being able to practice what I learn has allowed me to feel much more comfortable with the instrument. (Although I do feel sorry for my fellow Tharayil residents having to listen to me practice…)

Painting came a lot more naturally for me, considering that I’m no stranger to the paintbrush. The traditional mural painting that Anil is teaching us is a highly stylized form of art using established ideas of form and a limited palate of yellow, brownish red, green, and black. These few colors are used to create impressively detailed works of art. I saw early on that creating a painting like this is a very tedious, time-taking process. My first week of studying painting, I didn’t even touch a paintbrush. I copied what felt like hundreds of hands and feet and faces and jewelry in different styles and positions. This Monday, I was thrilled to be finally ready to use a paintbrush. From the other students, I understood that typically we are able to choose, from a portfolio of options, which Hindu deity or scene of Indian landscape we would like to paint. For me, for whatever reason, Anil handed me an outlandishly minutely detailed drawing of Ganesh and said, “You, paint this.” I’m pleased with Anil’s choice—after all, what could be more Indian than Ganesh—but it’ll take a while.

In addition to these two subjects of my choice, there is also the option of studying Kalaripayattu, a Keralan form of martial art. This I did for four days. I’m glad I had the experience. But my knees could deal with it no longer. I’ve decided to save them for yoga and biking around Aranmula. The Kalari (martial art) teacher, Ravi, tells me every time he sees me, “You should go to see Hari, the ayurvedic doctor. Your knees he can fix in one day.” Perhaps I’ll give it a go once my crazy class schedule becomes more manageable. Also, every Monday-Wednesday-Friday, students have the option of attending a group yoga class. I of course attend every session. Learning yoga from an Indian guy named Swami-ji on a palm-thatched platform in the middle of a rainforest… What a way to start a morning!

All in all, I find this to be THE MOST beautiful, incredible, interesting, enjoyable, and overall outstanding place I've ever been. I send my love to all you eager followers of my adventures back home. In Western culture, you would say, "I send my heart." Supposedly, however, according to Anil (my painting teacher), affection in Malayali culture is not said to come from the heart. But from the liver. So I send you my liver! Namaste for now!

I'm still alive! and well! Namaste / Namaskaaram from Aranmula, Kerala, India!

2005-11-20T06:21:00.000-05:00

In the past 40 hours, I’ve said “So long” to “my sweet home, Chicago,” (and my oh-so sweet family in Chicago), “Guten morgen” to Frankfurt, “Salaam” to Bombay, and “Namaskaaram” to Kerala. My many-hour journey, which included…

~ two 7-hour flights to bring me from evening in Chicago to 1 a.m. two days later in Bombay,
~ a brief 2-hour connection to Cochin, Kerala, which felt like it flew by in a matter of minutes, all things relative, ~ and the most spectacular taxi ride through the Keralan countryside as the sun rose through thick mists and forests…

culminated in my early-morning arrival at the Vijnana Kala Vedi Cultural Center in the village of Aranmula, which will be my home (halfway around the world from the home I’ve known) for the next 3 months. Despite not having slept for the past 40+ hours (and I’ve still got at least 10 more to go—this is all part of my tried and true approach to avoiding jetlag), I feel alive, awake, alert, enthusiastic, and excited to be in such a beautiful and fascinating and unfamiliar place where every second my senses are saturated with new sights and sounds and smells and the thoughts they give rise to. From my few hours in India, I can say this is the most beautiful and fascinating and unfamiliar place I've ever been.

I won't bore you with the dull details of my multiple flights with Air India: just that I was one of 4 gringos on the crowded flight from Chicago, and that the ethnic twist made the usually dreaded airplane food palatable and even exciting. On my last flight in this travel marathon, from Bombay to Cochin, I had the luck and pleasure of sitting next to a pro cricket umpire who was just returning from umping a match in Bengal. A very gracious man and a native of Cochin, I was invited to stay with his family if I ever pay a visit to Cochin. I just might take him up on that offer!

Without a wink of sleep throughout the duration of the journey, I arrived in Cochin (one of the main cities in the state of Kerala, on the southwestern tip of India) at 3:30 a.m. India time (4:00 in the afternoon Chicago time). Just my luck, I picked the slowest line to go through customs—the immigration official scrutinized my passport and double-checked everything I wrote on the customs form, but I eventually made it through. And it wasn’t just me—he was similarly a stickler for all of the Indian citizens that proceeded me in the line. Thus I was one of the last to collect my baggage.

As promised, I was picked up by the trusted taxi-wallah, a guy wearing a dhoti (I could just hear my brother’s voice exclaiming upon seeing this guy, and practically all the other guys around this part of Kerala, "It looks like he's wearing a adult-sized diaper!") who was an amazing navigator of these crazy Indian streets. Those oh-so comforting stories I heard about the roads in India made the actuality (at least in the countryside at 4 AM) seem relatively tame. Relatively. Lanes are not at all well defined, profuse horn honking abounds, and the numerous bikes and motorcycles and rickshaw-wallahs further complicate the navigation situation. But I could tell the moment we set out from the Cochin airport that Hari the taxi-wallah knows what he's doing. And he didn't steer me wrong (thank Vishnu/Allah/Jesus--all of them are worshiped widely here in Kerala, one of the most ethnically and religiously diverse state in India). I saw numerous shrines to each illuminated on the roadsides.

The roads and roadsides were surprisingly active so early in the morning. When it was still pitch black and car lights would glow in the misty air, there were hundreds of people along our route, mostly men, mostly wearing dhotis, going about some early-morning business unknown to me. A note about the dhotis: in case you’re not familiar with them, this is the traditional dress that Gandhi often wore fashioned from homespun fabric. Frequently full leg-length, they are often folded and tucked in half for greater ventilation and ease of movement—this is what Hari was wearing when he greeted me at the airport, what the echo of Aaron’s voice in my head said “That looks like a diaper!”—but also are worn at ankle length (to this Aaron would say, “Those look like skirts!”).

As the sun rose through, peeking through the forests and mists, the rest of the scene came into view. The rainforest-like environment lining the roadsides and backwaters is the most exquisite I've ever seen. Hari seemed surprised that I didn’t want to sleep during the 3+ hour journey. How could I? I stayed awake and tried to take it all in. The taxi adventure was an exciting introduction to India for me: to drive through the countryside as the sun rose over Kerala.

About an hour from our destination in Aranmula, Hari pulled the black jeep that apparently doubled as a taxi to the side of the road by a string of streetside shops. “Some chai, you would like?” Hari asked. “Yes, please” I answered, all the while the warnings to “avoid any contact with un-bottled water and don’t drink dairy, or mortal peril may await you…” echoed in my mind. As I recall and write about this 3 days later, this potential “mortal peril” has still not befallen me. In fact, I haven’t felt more energetic and alive for a long time—or at least not since my days in Mexico 2 weeks ago.

After that remaining hour of driving—at this point, daylight had come and the glowing red disk of sun showed through the tropical trees—Hari pulled off the road and into the courtyard in front of Vijnana Kala Vedi’s office building. “All the students are now at morning yoga class,” I was told, then promptly show to my room so I could “get some rest.” My first impression of the premises of the cultural school was favorable, although I was initially perplexed at being led into a room with four beds. Then they explained, “We are sorry, you will only be in this room one night, and then move to a room one of our houses.”

Again attracting some surprise that I didn’t want to “get some rest,” I asked if there was somewhere nearby where I could phone the U.S., just to tell my parents that I was still alive and had made it safely to Aranmula. I was led across the street to a falling-apart phone station, where after multiple attempts at dialing, I finally made the connection. My brother’s voice greeted me on the other line. After a couple minutes of chatting, the woman running the phone station rapped at the window of the booth I was calling from within and waved for me to come out. She pointed across the road: a pair of monkeys was casually strolling down the street. “Hold on, Mom, I’ve got to go check out the monkeys!”

Following a breakfast of fresh pineapple, steaming chappati, and potato curry, I spent the morning becoming acquainted with my fellow students and acclimated to VKV—this place a campus that easily surpasses Smith and Bloomington combined in its beauty—so thus I'll be officially starting classes (tabla and painting) on Monday. The village of Aranmula, the people in it, and the environment surrounding it: all is so colorful, exciting, and full of life.

My fellow students are from all across the Western half of the globe (I'm currently the only one from the U.S., there is one couple from Canada, several students from Spain, France, Portugal, and one from Sweden), and all are very nice and interesting. And all of them said, even those who have been here for months, that I picked the day to arrive (even though I'll have a weekends worth of downtime before starting classes... well, perhaps for some, that added to the auspiciousness). Though today's visit by the head bishop of the Christian Church of Kerala was cancelled because he fell ill, the special events planned because of his visit were still a go.

A group of karnatic musicians gathered to accompany a long-time VKV student's dance performance (she studied here for two years straight and off and on for six years since). Before the recital, as the musicians were warming up, VKV founder Madame Schild, after I mentioned my interest in studying a stringed instrument of India, introduced me to the group's violinist for a short private preview of his playing style. A bit of a contrast from my classical training: he held the violin between his forearm and the curve of his achille's heel, for one! This guy was pretty amazing, as was the vocalist, as was the percussionist. So I sat in this stuffy room with five Indian guys in their dhotis, one of which sort of spoke English, as they gave me an amazing private concert and tried to explain the complexities of the ragas they were improvising upon. The dance performance that was added to a more formal music performance later on was equally amazing.

Following the dance recital, we slipped our shoes back on (shoes aren't worn inside any buildings on campus or any of the sari shops I went in today) and headed to a sunny yet oil lamp-lit courtyard in another school building for a yoga demonstration. After 3 months of intensive yoga (5 hours a day), this group of 4 students led their own yoga demo and were presented with certificates of proficiency from the yoga teacher. All in all, this has been a fantastic first day in Incredible India!

As I begin my journey in India and my stay at VKV, six students will be ending their VKV stay tomorrow. To send them off, the other students organized a party after dinner. For a while, I sat and sipped a mango juice and talked with my fellow travelers and listened to the musicians among our group jamming on tabla, Turkish banjo, and Indian flute. Claire—one of the students scheduled to leave in the morning, the girl who showed me around Aranmula and accompanied me on a rickshaw ride to Kozhencherry (a town 2 km from Aranmula) to show me the ATM machine there and help me shop for some less conspicuous clothes—presented me with a parting gift of some shawls and a churidar (the traditional tunic worn by women, also called a shalwar kameez) to help me blend in better. At around 10 p.m., I apologized for being a party pooper and said that I was at last time for me to head to bed after my record-breaking staying awake for 52 hours.

Potentially exhausting for me to experience, probably exhausting for you to read… There is more to tell (all good things, apart from going for 52 hours sans sleep) but I leave that for another day. So at this, I say “Namaste,” which could mean either hello or goodbye: in this case, just so long for now.

The Basic Itinerary:

2005-10-11T17:00:00.000-05:00

Everything regarding my upcoming trip to India is beginning to fall nicely into place and it's finally starting to feel official: I’m leaving next month!!! As of this week, my flights are being booked for November 16~ I can’t wait!!! My basic itinerary is this: I’ll fly into Cochin in the state of Kerala (the southwest tip of India) for 3 months at the Vijnana Kala Vedi Cultural Center in Aranmula where I'll study traditional Indian crafts—theater, Indian cooking, and music (I’m hoping I’ll be able to study sitar!)—and yoga.

After my stay on India’s southern tip, I’ll fly to New Delhi to link up with the study tour led by Pacific Village Institute that I’ll be traveling with from mid-February to mid-May. With that group, I’ll be visiting Varanasi—the holiest city in Hinduism, as it’s located on the source of the Ganges; Agra to see the Taj Mahal; Spiti for its ancient Buddhist monasteries; Ladakh to do a one-month homestay with a Tibetan family in the Himalayan city of Leh; Daramsala to spend 2 weeks in the Dalai Lama’s monastery (supposedly within those 2 weeks, our group will have a private audience with His Holiness!!!); and a few other cities, mostly in the north and northeastern regions or India. I’ll also be doing a few days of trekking and camping in the Himalayas! And then return from India to Indiana... Hmm. That'll be a bit of a letdown- just joking, Mom!

The World is like a book; those who don't travel read only a page.

~Saint Augustine

More About Melissa: A Life-Long Love of WORLD CULTURES!

2005-10-11T10:16:00.000-05:00

Hello! Hola! Konnichiwa! Bonjour! Tashi delek! Ni hao! Namaste! Salaam!

If you couldn’t tell from my multilingual greetings, I am fascinated with world cultures and foreign languages. My 6 year-old self’s proclamation that “I want to be an anthropologist when I grow up” was met with no shortage of raised eyebrows from skeptical adults. Since then, I have continued with a life of passionate fascination with world cultures. It all started with Ancient Egypt and expanded from there (I tried to teach myself Egyptian heiroglyphics as a first grader...). I just graduated from a rural public high school in Chesterton, Indiana and am taking a gap year (A WHAT? This phenomenon, while I've discovered is virtually unheard of in the Midwest, is popular in other parts of the country and world: basically, taking a year off between high school and college, most often for travel) to travel beyond the Land of Cornfields before attending Indiana University next fall to study International Studies or Cultural Anthropology.

I saw this year as an ideal opportunity to travel and explore different cultures, and what better place to do that than in the Land of Diversity that is India? Many of my greatest memories and learning experiences have been the product of travel, and I’ve been fortunate to have done a homestay in Japan and a study tour in China. I have loved growing up in a community located in the midst of the Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore and 3 blocks away from Lake Michigan—I adore the great outdoors—but now I am eager to see more of the world.

Check out my web postings periodically to see what I’m up to in India. Just to let you know in advance, I have no idea how regularly I’ll have access to the internet while traveling, but I’ll try to update you on my travels as often as I can. I hope you enjoy, and maybe learn something about a different part of the world while your at it!

After all, the world is bigger than a cornfield!!!