Bollywood Possibilities

Oh, but for time shortage, I could have been something in Bollywood, I have been told. In 24 hours in the Colaba district of Mumbai, where most of the tourists have dreads or enormous fanny packs, I have been stopped seven times by very stylish Indian guys. "I am from Bollywood," they all say. And I say, "I am from California." They don't even blink. A rather persistent guy with platinum hair insisted that I would be able to make my flight this afternoon if I left right now to the studio, where I could stand around as an extra, learn to dance a little, make 1000 rupees, and then he would take me to the airport. Well, the dancing part is, of course, what ultimately turned me away from the gig.

Spending the last night in my swanky and clean hotel room, I had the opportunity to review the substance of a Bollywood film, even if I didn't understand the dialogue. It seems that they all start with a song and dance number, and the choreography of choice for the introductory madness seems to be something akin to Michael Jackson's Beat It moves. Unlike in the Beat It video, however, there is little concern for finding truly talented dancers as the pure multitude of people kicking up their legs more than makes up for whatever skills they may lack. After the frenzy of the first combative, mano-a-mano, dance-off of the movie, the pretty lead girl walks alone somewhere and inevitably bumps into the pretty lead boy with huge hair who doesn't help her when she drops her books or umbrella or purse or whatever. She glares at him; he smiles coyly. Ah, the stage is set for some hot, no kissing, romance!

The next dance number will usually come just after the boy and girl find that they truly want to kiss, but the closest they can get is touching noses or cheeks. As a former student of the social sciences (anthropology, to be precise), I think this dance routine symbolizes the first, highly anticipated, graceful love scene we anxiously anticipate in western movies. Whether that first passion is expressed through steamy groping or frisky frolicking, there is a great satisfaction to be had just watching the love interested gain ground on their conquest of the other. This love dance sequence is always reminiscent of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, but with quite a bit of elbow shaking, like in the Funky Chicken. The girl and the boy do the Chicken really close to each other and then she finds someway to jump up onto his hip or shoulder. This part is usually in silohuette, because, as I said earlier, the talent may be lacking where the will to shake the tail feathers is not. Then, they almost kiss as the music fades.

I can't tell you about the finale, because I don't usually last through the following conflict, where both the boy and the girl and their families and friends cry and scream and hoot at each other. I would imagine that the last big hoorah would have more Beat It dancing, but with less dance-fighting and more dance-resolving. I bet it's like the last number in Grease, because that is the best dance movie ever.

Maybe someday, I will come back to find my way onto the Indian silver screen. I wonder if it's silver, actually, or maybe a little bit faded on the corners because of the heavy hand of the launderers here. You should see the women beat the crap out of their families' dirty clothes here. They do it against the rocks, you know. No silver screen in Hollywood could withstand that kind of abuse. The unions would certainly strike.

Mumbai Mambo on the Bus

Wow. I took a bus from Hampi to Mumbai last night. We left from a town called Hospet, a surging, minor metropolis that reminded me of the frontier town in Star Wars but without any blue guys or a jazz band playing their snouts. The bus pulled out on the dusty, bumpy, single-lane dirt road at 5 pm. Just seventeen hours later, I climbed down from the bus, shaken, stinky, exhausted and a little bit grumpy. I think I was justified.

Deciding to avoid further train travel that would have left me in a town called Guntakal for 7 hours waiting for a 3:30 am transfer to the Mumbai "express," I opted for the bus because it was my only, remaining, reasonable option. The bus also beats the train to Mumbai by 10 hours. Luckily, I had a window seat. Unluckily, a Hare Krisna sat behind me in Hospet and, upon learning that I had completed a month of yoga in Mysore, began to discuss the religious merits of India, himself, and more importantly to him, the International Society for Krisna Consciousness. I didn't do anything to start him up. Honest honest. He spotted me; I was an easy target as the only westerner on the bus, and one of only three women aboard.

"Did you know that India is the religious center of the world and that finding your spirituality involves integrating your personal satisfaction with the satisfaction of the universe?" he asked. I responded, "I think that India also has a pretty good leg up on small-scale entrepreneurship and doesn't seem to mind mixing this interest with its ancient religions." As befits any staunchly religious propagandist, he didn't hear me. "I feel your energy strongly calling for me to discuss my faith with you. I only do this when I am called because I do not share diamonds of wisdom with those who cannot appreciate their lustre," he continued, or something to this effect. As he started to talk, the bus driver, who I credit with a wonderful omniscience, turned on a series of Bollywood films that lasted long into the night. Thanks be to the bus driver, although it was a bit loud. "Ah, I have listen to my iPod now," I smartly answered. In honor of his zeal, I listened to the Reverend Al Green. Hare Krisna tried to catch me anytime I moved my head, and finally he actually sat next to me eliciting a scream that embarrassed him and frightened the other passengers. Upon catching my breath, I quickly told him I preferred to sleep.

Sleep was, unfortunately, just as evasive as I was to the Krisna dude. The man in front of me enjoyed spitting from his window, and every time he leaned his head to the right, I had to duck the remnant spittle in the wind. I asked if he would like to switch places with me, so he could enjoy the wind and I could stay dry. He bobbled his head and acquiesced. I was now next to a big man who smelled like curry and licorice. He put his bare, fat feet on the headrest of the seat in front of him and wrapped his hands behind his head and promptly snored for, oh, 8 hours or so. His elbows bumped and banged me with every death-defying swerve of the bus on those long and windy 300 kilometers of heavily pitted, narrow roads.

As we cruised into Mumbai, I found a seat to myself and before I finally fell asleep, I had the good fortune to catch more than 40 people enjoying a morning squat along the road. Children squat together and chat as they poop. Men squat with their backs to each other, but they were chatting too. When the city became more apparent, and buildings started to crowd out the soft, well-fertilized grass, I noticed that when people got to go, they go. And so I saw people squatting on the dirt now and then, still chatting. While I was a bit disgusted, as you may be too right now, I found the social aspect of the morning evacuation somewhat charming. I didn't find the snort-and-spit routine of every man on board so cute, however.

Needless to say, I felt hideously dirty and foul and crusty and rank by the time the bus driver pinched my ankle to wake me up. I stole the first cab that came by from some slow-moving travelers and asked for a lift to a swank hotel where I immediately scrubbed myself raw and fell asleep watching Indian MTV. I am almost home.

Hello Hampi

I left Mysore with a friend named Trisha. She is also from the U.S. and though she has lived in Japan for the last 5 years, and originates from a little town somewhere in Pennsylvania, we talk just the same. Ah, shared culture. She may have been tossing beer cans into a empty barn every weekend through high school, while I was dancing in black lace at clubs in LA, but we have managed to both come through pretty satisfactorily with a definitive, educated American accent. I have come to learn that this means we are articulate, but we throw in "y'know" at the end of our brilliant statements.

We took an overnight train to Hampi from Bangalore. The first day here, we decided to see as many ruins as our bodies would allow. The heat is dry and dusty here; it clogs my eyes, nose and throat a bit, but luckily, my sweat seems to cut through it well enough to allow me to maintain respiration. Hampi is known for its amazing ruins nestled among building-size boulders that bulge though the red dirt and support stacks of additional, precariously balanced boulders on their round surfaces. Hampi was a bustling marketplace from around 1300 to 1550, when Muslim raiders trashed the place. The entire city is a World Heritage Site.

We took a guide along with us as we trudged over hills and piles of rocks to find the next amazing temple or kitchen hall or palace. He was only 18, and clearly had not experienced the full impact of guiding two American women before. When we declined to pay for a rickshaw driver who wanted more than the price of our night's accommodation to take us 2 kilometers, he simply bowed his head. I thought he might cry when we asked why we had to pay MORE money to some guy who just kept bossing us around as we tried to wander through a beautiful building where every stone pillar has a certain amount of iron within allowing the pillars to be played like musical instruments. Okay, the man had some interesting information and he knew how to beat every pillar, beautifully. He said that 167 musicians would play the pillars at the same time, immitating the sound of an orchestra. But after all this information, he just got pushy. And aside from the facts, the only English phrase he seemed to know was "please come inside." That was the only thing he could say if we wandered off, or stopped paying attention, or wanted to take a picture. "Please come inside." I told him I didn't want to.

Yesterday, we rode bikes on the other side of a marvelous river to find the Hanuman Temple. Hanuman is the Monkey God, son of Arjuna, who is the Goddess of Air and Wind. The temple is 612 steps up a boulder hill. On the way up, pilgrims call out and laugh and use their hands on the stairs to make it a little easier and quicker to ascend. Those higher up will respond to them. At the top of the hill, we met a little boy who gave us flowers and showed us the view. We had to avoid monkeys at every turn. When the boy asked for a present, and then declined my offering of a book, I had no choice but to part with my chocolate bar. He was very, very happy about that gift.

Today, I take the train to Mumbai. I am hoping to avoid a 7 hour wait in a station called Guntakal. If I wait, I wait until 3 in the morning. If I don't wait, I will be on the train by 7 this evening, and into Mumbai by tomorrow afternoon.

Lions and Tigers and Bears

A couple days back, I went on a jungle safari. I didn't see lions, tigers or bears, but I did see wild boar, bison, elephants, monkeys, deer and peacocks.

After a rather rigorous Thai massage with an unique man named Enzo, during which I struggled to accept that this thin man could really lift and support me while arching my head toward my thighs, I became inspired to leave town. Enzo was kind enough to provide a handy travel guide which I sported along to Green Leaf where Miss Karen was waiting for me. The massage had lasted about 90 minutes. The post-event conversation, which featured long comment and discussion on the variety, taste, sexual activity and branded devotion of yoga students visiting the area, the state of depravity of certain political leaders, and the methods by which these myriad issues should be handled, endured well beyond the two hour mark. Needless to say, when I turned on my phone, I found several messages from Miss Karen, inquiring as to my massage, then my status, then my security, and finally my continued existence.

I found Miss Karen, sipping her grape juice, no ice, no sugar, looking glum because another early morning awaited her. I put the guide book on the table and asked, "pretty please, let's go somewhere?" To my absolute surprise, she agreed.

We decided to visit the Jumbos, in keeping with the theme of this Jumbo-rrific trip. Just 60 kilometers from Mysore sits a really large jungle, roped in by a series of national parks dedicated to both elephant and tiger habitat. The parks cross the border between Karnataka, where we do all the yoga, and Tamil Nadu, where things are very different. We would go to Tamil Nadu, to see something very different. We read that 6000 elephants live in the area, running around wild and joyfully from waterhole to waterhole, flapping their little Asian elephant ears. I officially declared that I was through with practicing yoga at the shala with Pattabhi Jois, and then I did a little jig to show Miss Karen just how enthusiastic I can be when it comes to escaping.

Before arriving in the state of Tamil Nadu, we learned that our driver was not the team player and protector that we have come to expect from those who cart our asses around. He was certainly no Raj-the-Rickshaw-Driver. When faced with a fence blocking our passage deep in the trees, and two weathered men, young and old, with spindly legs staring into our car in the rain, he told us they wanted 30 rupees. Then he said they wanted 50 rupees. Then he took our 30 rupees and said they wanted 100 more rupees. As the men stared at our busy hands fumbling with our wallets, Miss Karen and I suddenly realized that we could be in a very bad position, and began to strategize our strengths.

We figured we could take the old guy, if necessary, and then drive the car through the gate should any of the men, or all of the men, decide to test their ridiculous theories on the ease of western women. We both got out of the car with our bags, threatening to walk around the gate and into the park, where we understood many Jumbos would be roaming. Our driver demanded more money; the gatekeepers weren't budging. It was raining. From nowhere, a car arrived, and we saw a woman in the passenger seat. Her husband did what Raj would have done, demanding that they open the gate, and then leading us to our accommodation.

The following day, we rose late, drank too much coffee and hopped into a bouncy jeep to head to the top of the towering, verdant Nilgiri mountains that glimmered after the night's rains. Along the way, we found tea-pickers holding their harvest in burlap sacks tied round their heads, an old man covered in soot who cooks eucalyptus oil in a thatch hut heavy with ash, brightly colored houses sitting precariously on the edge of terraced agriculture. Seven barefoot women rapidly passed us as we stood watching the mist dissipate around the peaks. Each of them wore shades of orange and pink and gracefully carried a large bundle of sticks on their heads.

At the peak, we found a small group of women laying fabric to dry on the grass in the center of their tiny village. These were the Toda people, described as descendents of the Alexander the Great's Macedonian soldiers, and convincing in this claim. The women were a bit more fair than we have seen elsewhere, with rosy cheeks and ringlets in their hair. They are nature worshipers and traditionally practiced polyandry, thus exacerbating their slow population growth. More recently, the women take only one husband. The men tend buffalo and the women embroider beautiful, woolen fabrics while sitting in tight circles along the single-lane summit road. They trade their goods, either buffalo or handicraft, for their sustenance.

The oldest lady of the Toda village invited me into her house. It was thatched and semi-circular, on a packed dirt floor and immaculately clean. There was one bed and an impressive collection of silverware lining the round, back wall. To enter, I had ducked into a small door better suited to a child's playhouse. Above the small entryway, a tiny stuffed bunny sat with sequin eyes. I laughed because she had so little, but she had a stuffed bunny with sequin eyes adorning her foyer. She gave me the bunny, telling our guide that someone gave it to her, but a rat had his way with it already. I quickly returned to the car and foraged through my bag for something just as good. Having nothing chewed on or mauled by rodents, I gave her my New Yorker, a piece of ribbon and a Spiderman pen. She smiled and opened the magazine.

I wondered if she would one day appear on the doorstep of the address listed on the cover, looking for me. Unfortunately, it is not my subscription.

A bit before sunset, we went on our first guided safari in Bandipur National Park. Standing up in the jeep to scan the horizon and the bush and the trees and the water for any sign of movement turned out to be exhilarating. We learned that the langur monkeys and the spotted deer are good buddies, each providing assistance to the other in areas in which they may be deficient. The monkeys pull leaves from high up in the trees and deliver them to the feet of the deer. In exchange, the deer let the monkeys know when danger might be approaching. As we bounced up, the deer and the monkeys fled, in what I thought was a very like manner. As all friends do, the deer and the monkeys seemed to have taken on each others' mannerisms. We spotted giant bison wading in ponds, and then scurrying into the trees upon hearing our guides whistle. Their heads were larger than tree trunks and their intimidating horns curled perfectly inward, but still they scurried.

The following morning, we rolled out of bed at 5 for a sunrise safari through the bush in Tamil Nadu. This time, there was no track for the jeep to follow, but unfortunately no animals either. Our guide felt strongly that a tiger must have been near because there were no animals lurking anywhere. I considered that I may have been a big game hunter in a past life, or maybe it was our smell. The morning sounds were magical, in any case. We heard the loud yawns of the monkeys, stretching after a night under a waning full moon. As the heat and light became more intense, I became absolutely certain that somewhere in some bush very close by or maybe just beyond a nearby tree, there was a tiger coolly watching me as I fruitlessly squinted into the distance. Under my breath, I invited him to come out for a bit, but he had other intentions.

A little honest negativity in yogaland

Tomorrow brings the last twenty-four hours that I will spend in Mysore, probably for a long time, if not forever. In the last four weeks, I gradually have discovered that I feel no magical, mystical or physical allegiance to this place above other places in the world. I found no great abundance of some specially blended, finer than divine spirit here; in fact, I have encountered greater soul in a karaoke joint in Japan. Of course, I am not saying that this location, above other locations, was supposed to provide something esoteric to justify my silly yoga vacation. I am saying, however, that the most questionable locations on this fine, blue planet, which may include (gasp) Los Angeles or even (jeez) a Los Angeles County courthouse hold as much potential for lighting my path on life and must not be forsaken for their bad reputations.

In a nutshell, Mysore for yoga is not for everyone. Or, at least, it is not for me. Or, at least, Mysore for yoga with Pattabhi Jois and his family at their ashtanga shala is not for me. I have no impersonal reasons to support my feeling, so this selfish rambling will mean very little to no one. Despite the intended insignificance of this, I also anticipate that it may anger at least one or two of my new acquaintances. Oh well.

I found the shala with Pattabhi Jois to be charmingly chaotic-- a circus at best, and insubstantial, vacuous and avaricious at worst. I know there are plenty of practicioners who cling to the importance of the ashtanga tradition, and I also cling, though lightly, in my way. I believe that many good things will come through patience and persistence and joy in my good deeds. I believe that I can become more grateful for, and understanding of, this universe we share by finding focus and cultivating love and generating energy. All of that good stuff unites me to you, and hopefully, you to me. Finally, for this purpose only, I believe that the practice of asana is one useful tool in the box that helps me out in this crazy adventure. I am obliged to my sweet existence to be able to boast just a bit here that my box contains other tools too, and some colorful pictures, and paints, and letters and little doodads and bits of ribbon that all inspire me to live this adventure freely, kindly, gently, lovingly and helpfully.

Here's a joke: a yoga student, upon finishing her poses for the day, requested to be in the presence of her guru. The guru, sitting in his office reading the paper, invited her in. She said, "oh thank you, thank you." He said, "yes, very nice." She kissed his feet, kissed his lips, and left. Later, she complained that she could not do a pose, and it was such a struggle, but she would keep trying though it made her knees hurt real bad, and oh, she would really like to fast for a week.

Okay, maybe I told it wrong. Or, you had to be there.

I suppose I am not destined to understand the idol worship, or even the need to have this leader, or at the most basic level, the argument that he is imparting something to us as a teacher. I will easily acknowledge that I have learned a great deal here from Indian people I have had the wonderful fortune to meet, from lovely, transitory friends who rightfully may be skeptical of my cynicism, from the endless prattle in my conspicuously hyperactive head. Each of these powerful forces have guided my thought as I try to solve both the question and answer that have been nagging at me for the last, slow four weeks. I think I have finally figured out what they are.

The question is, "why am I here?" The answer is, "to check it out." I give thanks to the ashtanga shala because it was the medium here for all the interesting doodads I can add to my box. I give thanks to ashtanga yoga and all that it represents because it grounds me and gives me time to be free from my mind. I give thanks to everyone else who made the trip here to participate in the medium and the yoga, and I hope that they figure out their question and answer someday too.

I, for one, am off to find some better ones now. I prefer the questions and answers that are a bit more interesting, thanks. The cool thing about this approach is that I can live my life and love my love, from any corner of the world, with no need to tumble from bed at hideously early hours nor worry about whether my feet are properly arranged behind my head, while I investigate the questions and answers.

Everyone loves a Procession?

The procession was a parade. Because "procession" sounds like a somber funeral activity to me, I will use parade, though none of the Indian people knew what I was talking about when I asked them what time the parade would start. Apparently, a procession is a really happy event. I don't know what the word "parade" might connote.

The word on the Dasara Parade was vague until the last minute. We heard rumors that 3-4 million people would be in town for the culmination of the 10-day festival. Some said that the parade would clog the entire city and no one would be able to leave the house. Others said the scene on the streets would be impassable, impossible, frantic. I heard little titterings among yoga students: "where will we be able to go to the bathroom?"; "how will we get back home through the crowds?"; "what if an elephant gets loose and attacks us?". Okay, I didn't hear anyone ask about a wild elephant terrorizing the crowds, but it was a funny thought, and I believe someone may have thought it.

The night before the Parade, we learned that you can buy tickets for grandstand seats near the Palace at the Loyal World supermarket. Miss Karen and I called Raj immediately because if there is one thing in this world that I love, it's a parade. I really don't like crowds; I really don't care for other people's children; I really don't appreciate cotton candy. But I love a parade. I love the drums and the colors and the floats and the dancing. I love to imagine how many times all the parade performers will have to repeat the same movement during the course of the parade; I love to imagine the little bits of conflict that must inevitably occur on the small space of the floats, and the ways the fights might be covered up. And this parade presented something I had never really had a chance to love, but knew I would. This parade would have elephants all dolled up in silk and paint.

Once again, Raj saved the day by delivering us directly to the right gate to enter the Palace grounds. Miss Karen took lots of pictures and I lagged about, waiting for her, making polite conversation with all the parade cops who wanted us to hurry along to our seats. Four officers, each wearing different hats, asked to take a picture with me. I graciously agreed because I also had a different hat, and thought our picture would show off some of the best and worst hat styles of the world. Miss Karen did so, and now she is charged by the Mysore Police Department with delivering four copies to each of the officers involved. I got out of that one because my camera is crap.

We found our seats in the same plastic chairs used for the concert. Everyone sat very politely and it started to rain. Everyone politely opened umbrellas, and we waited. Miss Karen realized that she had a squatter under her umbrella, but being a fine, compassionate, young lady, she allowed her uninvited umbrella guest to remain. Drums started, the rain stopped and the parade started. Still, everyone sat very erect and still, waving indignantly at everyone who stood and ordering them take their seats. Miss Karen said this was a relic of British tradition. After being reprimanded at the Palace before, I was not going to be the one to break this tradition. Fortunately, the crowd in front of the seats surged to a critical mass that no longer had to heed the needs and wishes of the properly seated. We were free to climb on our chairs. Indian families constructed towers of chairs by stacking them up and placing their youngest high atop. The kids cried, and the parents said, "watch the parade."


A cannon started to boom, over and over and over and over. It was less than 400 meters from our seats, and didn't sound in any pattern. We all screamed for every boom, and it finally stopped. When the smoke cleared, the Jumbos started. Then came the marching soldiers, high-stepping in more funny hats. At last, the floats, interspersed with more and more drummers. Each float told a story, as they do, but in a distinctly Indian way that I had not earlier understood. One float had a large picture of Gandhi surrounded by dancing skeletons and bottles of poison. We imagined it might be a warning that you shouldn't poison good people who practice civil disobedience. We learned later that it was a statement against non-violence. We were close.

Another float had two kids chained to a boulder and two kids in cute school backpacks. This was a lesson in making sure you get an education, because if you don't, you will be a slave attached to a boulder forever.

Then came a float with the swami from the cave at the Chammundi Hill. We don't know if it was the real swami, but I took a picture because we missed him at his swami-place, and I thought it was kind of him to appear so conveniently in this way.

The parade went long, and we got tired. I ate all of Miss Karen's cookies, which she calls biscuits. She got groped on the way out and we had the best, wild rickshaw ride ever on our way back home.

I got shushed in India; here's how!

On Tuesday night, I think it was Tuesday anyway, Miss Karen and I attended a concert at the Mysore Palace. We rode with Raj, Miss Karen's personal rickshaw driver. During the festival, many rickshaw drivers refused to get too near the Palace because of the traffic and commotion, I suppose. Fortunately, so long as Miss Karen overpays Raj, with my contribution as well, he seems willing to take us anywhere.

So, to the Palace we putted and swerved. The concert featured the greatest flute player in India. He's known to be the flute player whose music is heard along the Ganges. I don't know what that means nor can I remember his name, but I was told this, and I pass it along in the spirit of increasing our cultural conversation. When we arrived, we hurried through the elephant droppings, swishing saris and pushy vendors to find seats. Music was already playing, but it sounded scratchy and ancient on the amplication system. When we reached the stage, we understood that the music was live, that these musicians were producing it, and that it was pretty good. The tabla player had a head of hair on him that seemed to keep its own time. The featured musician was a singer, sitting cross-legged in white and gold, moving his head from side to side as his voice climbed and descended on one breath that lasted forever. As the vocalist gurgled and chortled up and down a much more intricate range of notes, the tabla player and his big hair smiled and responded to every trick.

We moved some plastic seats toward the front, because it seemed that we should follow the movements of the Indians around us. The rows of chairs were no longer; instead, people sat in clumps and semi-circles close on top of each other. I learned this might prevent the peanut kids from standing in my face with a dirty burlap sack of nuts in their dirty hands hollering, "hello, hello, hello, you want? peanut? you want? hello? peanut?" I sat close to Miss Karen, and we scooted close to some others, but then they scooted away to move closer to the stage. We were left vulnerable, but we had space. It was a decent trade-off.

When the music stopped, and the tabla player's hair finally calmed, the lights went down and everyone grew silent. What had been a drone of voices turned into anxious, excited whispers. In a quick second, the lights on the Palace all came on, and the crowd collectively gasped. The thousands and thousands of lights illuminated our faces and the marching camels we discovered just behind us! Two at a time, the camels bobbed through a tight passage beside the audience, dressed in red and gold scarves. Behind the camels, a line of elephants patiently awaited their cue. Ears, nose and head all painted in bright chalk, the elephants had two riders apiece, one driving, and one holding a perfectly circular umbrella with tassles. We gushed and gawked and congratulated ourselves for scooting our chairs so close to the action. The camels and elephants all disappeared into the Palace, where we presumed they might be served tea, and the flute player emerged with much less fanfare.

He had a head of luscious, white hair and a long bamboo flute. His tabla player was bald and round and jolly. Later, I would see that he too enjoyed the lilting musical conversation with his featured musician, but I witnessed this on the tv in the dry living room of my family's house, where I hoped they had not seen me being shushed.

Here's where I justify myself. The flute player started and the crowd continued to talk. Miss Karen and I did as well, but maybe my voice is a little high, or a little different, or maybe just loud. He had been playing, unaccompanied, just three or four minutes. The rotund, drum-like drum player sat beside him, holding his hands. As we waited for the tabla to pick it up, we were in deep conversation about ridiculous men. Miss Karen and I both laughed hard and the next thing I knew, the face of a man was not six inches from my face. "You are disturbing everyone." Whoopshere.

I'm sure I blushed. And I apologized. And then I apologized again. And then again. And it started to rain. So we left, to the relief of everyone I disturbed, I'm sure. I could feel the curious stares of the crowd on my obnoxious American back as I stumbled through the morass of plastic chairs. Ah well, it is an achievement to disturb anyone in a country where no vendor will accept no for an answer, where peanut boys almost sit on your lap to reduce the weight of their peanut sacks, where rickshaws, motorbikes and cars honk at every object, from rock to sign to person sharing their road. I regretted the rain, because I worried that anyone I disturbed would really, really have it in for me if the whole concert was cancelled. Luckily, it stopped within 30 minutes, and the concert proceeded.

I was very careful to be refined and reserved at the Parade, which I will tell you about tomorrow. I did not cause any problems at this event, you will be relieved to know.

It's no fun at The Kev Inn in Mysore, India

I originally drafted a reluctant complaint about this guesthouse on Saturday. And then I decided to stew for a while, to ruminate, to chew some cud and ponder whether I actually needed to complain online about a place in Mysore or not. Decisive is something I am decidedly not. It's been three days, all long not because of the situation I'm about to describe, but because days are interminable here without my missing partner. In three days, this is the complaint that I have drafted in my head. You may notice that sometimes I am a better communicator when I don't give more than a minute's thought to my thoughts.

So, it is with great perseveration and some hesitation that I write this complaint. Here goes. I'm going to start. Now. Okay, okay, I had a horrible experience at the Kev Inn.

I am one of the few, the unfortunate, the foolish, to have spent one-half of my month lodged in his house. I did it because I didn't want to be bothered searching for something better, and because, frankly, I wanted the filtered water and organic veggies from his garden. I also understood that I got to eat the food provided. I had seen other unnamed guests eat it. I thought I could eat it too. I can be a follower like that. I follow rules and do what other people do sometimes.

On Saturday, I found that I was locked out of the refrigerator. After eating from the refrigerator in front of the owner and operator, for two weeks, believing that this was a right and proper thing to do, and never being told otherwise, I learned the hard way that I was cut off. And I want to make clear, being cut-off was no big deal because in two weeks I had some bread and fruit, and in India, that means about, oh, US$5.00 worth of food. I can afford to get that food on my own. I just thought I was allowed to share in the food available.

I left a note for the owner and operator, who is often elusive, hiding away upstairs and watering his plants incessantly, often to the great annoyance of his cafe guests who are sprayed by his ineptitude with a hose. He didn't respond. I asked to talk to him and learned that I was in breach of the house rules-- rules I learned only upon finding I was in violation. Whoopshere! I hate that.

The most obvious question that I asked is the only one I will bore you with: "Why didn't you tell me when you were in the kitchen watching me make toast?" He told me that his yoga practice leaves him "shattered" and incapable of interacting with people and that just made me sadder than a clown. Really, who wants to do yoga to lose all contact with humanity? I hope he finds a new path. And I write that sadly as well.

I will add that he returned almost all of the money I had prepaid covering my last two weeks. He subtracted almost 1500 rupees for some reason or other. Whatever, right? At least he gave it back. I have another friend suckered by the prepay requirement who realized she could stay somewhere more pleasant, moved out, and was told by the owner and operator of the Kev Inn that he didn't have any money to refund her. So she is forced to eat off a 6000 rupee credit. That's like eating 60 really good meals in India.

Yesterday, a friend actually commented that my energy is better since I am no longer staying in that house. While yoga students may say things like this lots because, you know, we like to chat about energy and bliss and stuff, this particular friend is someone who really pays attention to happiness in the faces of those around her. And my face is now much happier. I would post a picture of myself being happier but that would give me away, wouldn't it? In the great scheme of things, the owner and operator will have my 1500 extra rups and I will be happy. Ha.

So the lesson that I learned and that I hope others may also share through my experience, is that paying more than 5 times the going rate locally per day for accommodation apparently means that I was entitled to much less than any other yoga student staying anywhere else in this small, lovely suburb. So, you can see that it's not just for my benefit that I write this; it's important that folks know that housing around Pattabhi Jois' shala is plentiful, cheap and clean. Stay at the Green Hotel for a night, visit Shiva or Anu's Internet cafe, and whammo-bammo, you'll have a nice room for about 4000-6000 rupees a month. If anyone wants to know other reasons not to stay there, I will tell them when asked.

For the weaker stomachs...

The lights on the Mysore Palace come on at 7 pm everyday during the festival. It's an amazing sacrifice the city is making given the erratic power flow on normal days. Usually, around 1 or 2 or maybe 3 in the afternoon, the power shuts off as the stations shed. What are they shedding? Maybe their clothes because it's hot in mid-day, or maybe their hair because there are 1 billion people living here who demand electricity if they can afford it, or maybe a herpes virus. I'm sure I don't need to remind you that the phone booths are called STDs.

Truthfully, I haven't seen a single coldsore in India. Though, I will admit here that I don't kiss Pattabhi Jois because I see all the western yoga students delivering their smackeroos, and I know that somewhere in this bunch, there is a virus. I mean, it's just percentages, right? Okay, again, busting out with the truth, I will say that I don't kiss Pattabhi Jois because I don't really want to kiss Pattabhi Jois. He's a lovely old man and he has taught some great teachers to spread the joy of Astanga, but that doesn't get me all jazzed to smooch him. To each her own, right?

At the Palace, we were approached by hawkers peddling flutes. Everywhere I go, the flute guys seem to pick me out. I am so not a flute player; my mom got me a clarinet when I was a kid. I am so not a clarinet player either, but maybe I am more clarinet than flute. Anyway, the flute players find me and immediately commence the theme to the Titanic. La la laaahhaa la la laaaaaaa. The starting price is always the same. "300 rupees, madam," they say. The put the flute in my face. It is some sort of wood thing with a nozzle that comes out the side. You blow into that, so it's more like blowing bubbles through a straw than pursing your lips like you would on an orchestra flute. "250 rupees, madam. Excuse me, madam. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me, madam. 250 rupees. A flute, madam." And then the Titanic song starts up again. He will pause to take a breath, and then, "3 for 100 rupees, madam. Three flutes, madam. 100 rupees. Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me, excuse me, excuse me, madam." I'm sure you can imagine by now that I am fleeing through cow patties and honking rickshaws and families of beautiful women in silk sari as I say no no no, no flutes, over and over and over.

I have seen that some people can say, "PSSSST," and the hawkers will scatter. I have also seen that some people can say no and walk on; the hawkers don't pursue them. But the flute salesmen latch on to me. They have followed me for three city blocks. I will duck into stores, only to come out to the Titanic. That's cinematic, right? Yeah, it's annoying too.


So, my new course of action. I make fists with my hands, scrunch up my face, shake my head fast and say, "Eeyeeaahahaaanaaoooo." The gaggle of children who are also, inevitably, following along laugh, but usually the flute playing ceases. My friend, Miss Karen, says it looks crazy. But she's British. I told her that she should appreciate my unrefined ways because if she didn't, she would have to hang out with me and a whole troop of flute players.


I really want to see a Bollywood film, and I am going to do my best to find one tomorrow. You see that picture? He's a famous star. Here is another display of shots of him on a diagram put together by either a) an adoring fan; b) the theater management; or c) his 8-year old neice:
He certainly takes my breath away. You may not be able to tell from this horrible photo, but our hot Indian star is sporting a silver tooth and a wild Antonio Banderas coif. The largest sign at the cinema displays him proudly draped with flowers and streamers and a quaint display on posterboard of some other fashion shots he has taken in the past, colored in with marking pens in some cases. He stands more than 40 feet tall. There is another hot Indian star whose photo I am seeking. I promise to display it as soon as I snap it. This guy wears a bandana, a pencil thin moustache extending a bit past his lips, a black shirt, gold chains and a luscious ducktail 'do to make a game show host mad with envy.

Ah, but India. This morning, I awoke with an incredibly knotted stomach. In my Ayurveda classes, we learn that cleansing is a good thing, and both vomiting and diarrhea are often induced during a process known as Panchakarma. The yoga students, predictably, are mad for the treatment, spending days at the doctor sitting on the pot instead of enjoying flute salesmen, cow poop, silk and rickshaws. Well, we all look for enlightenment in different places. For me, it ain't in my shit. Oh, sorry.

And last but not least for the evening, how cute is this sign? It's a truck that looks like a cow! Hooray India!

I don't have any pictures of Jumbos because my camera sucks. Miss Karen might let me borrow some of hers. One of the Jumbos has really beautiful freckles all along his nose. I'll see if I can scam that picture from her for your enjoyment.

Hot Time in the City

As I sit to type this, I am very hot. Just so you know, it's hot today.

I watched the sun rise over the street signs and the coconut stand on the corner as I walked to yoga. It was lollipop pink poking over the flat roof tops, backed by a ferociously blue sky. I realized that the sky is rarely blue here; the clouds mitigate the blazing heat quite well, and without them, the early light was already aggressively slicing through the dust. By the time I finished yoga, I craved the cool of my empty room's marble floor, shaded under a coconut tree and something more abundant, leafier as well. Sitting refreshed on the floor in my underpants, I drank water and it dribbled down my chin.

The Ayurvedic Massage class is passing along. Our teacher is Kumar; he has finished sharing his knowledge of Ayurveda with us, and has moved along to story-telling. This morning, we learned an Osho fable of a town plagued by drought who solicited the help of a neighboring community's rainmaker. The rainmaker made heavy demands in exchange for his assistance, and the desperate town complied. They built him a house and stocked it with food and water sufficient to accommodate him for three days, as he required. The rainmaker holed himself away. As the days passed, the town people became concerned that the rainmaker had duped them, and they had wasted their little remaining goodwill in other villages on securing food for the man. Just as they became rabid with anger at his insolence in the face of their suffering, rain started to fall. It was a greater rain than they had known in generations. They asked the rainmaker how he did it, and he told them that he spent the three days in the house making himself balanced and ordered. When he found himself in a good state, he could perceive whatever he would wish to see in the world, and he saw rain.

It was a nice story, huh? Kumar finished it up by saying, "And now, if I don't stop going on and on, you will all fall asleep." I suppose it's true that no parable, no matter how enlightening, will keep a hot student alert for more than a few minutes. I wondered whether he could just perceive us as alert, and find us so. Apparently not.

At the Mysore Palace on Tuesday night, we followed a parade of pachyderms cruising along the Palace gates toward the road! Each absolutely, incredibly, super enormous animal was ridden by a single man whose legs invariably reached no further than midway down the Asian elephants' little ears. I thought the spectacle was something more until my friend informed me that it was not monkeys riding the elephants, but actually people. That's just how small they looked. They call them "Jumbos" here, and I have heard women affectionately calling each other "Dumbo," meaning "silly thing." Leaving the Palace, we had to spend some time waiting for a curly-horned cow to get up some gumption in order to move it's largesse away from the parked scooters on the side of the road. And it wasn't just us so inconvenienced; about nine scooters were blocked, which means, at about 4 per motorbike, potentially, 36 people could have been affected by this delay in traffic. All of that just makes me happier than I can possibly express while sitting here in this heat swatting away the mosquitos drawn to the light of my monitor. So I will leave it at that.

I will post some pictures tomorrow. You will not want to miss the series of photos I have captured of some HOT Indian star with big hair and a silver tooth. Okay, it's just pictures of pictures of him, but he's so hot, you will think you are sitting here with me, dripping sweat onto your keyboard.

Two minutes for a SIM card

Well, is this really post-worthy? You tell me. Even if the story is irrelevant, I need some excuse to post my pictures.

I am reluctant to get an Indian SIM card for my cel phone. I'm not hesitating because I think I'll get ripped off, because I know I will. That's cool; I do yoga and I'm super mellow about all that. I occasionally feel like I am a fountain of rupees to which the children with their leashed monkeys and baskets of flowers flock for refreshment. I haven't procured the SIM card because it's just a pain in the ass. I have to get a passport photo and provide a copy of my passport and then I have to wait.

I found a stand closeby where I can obtain the card without meeting the prerequisites at least. So I went there today. The stand owner's brother was happy to see me. He provided a plastic chair where I could sit as he called his SIM card friend who promised to arrive in 10 minutes. I didn't want to sit. So I stood. And paced. And squinted into the sun as it climbed higher over my head. Then I started to drip, not rupees now, but sweat. About 30 minutes later, I was almost thoroughly wet in the sun and becoming anxious. Two minutes, he said. I said I would time him. He laughed and moved the plastic chair closer to me. I still stood. 15 minutes later, he made some pleasant conversation. He told me I was funny. I asked him about the elephants who are rehearsing for the festivities this week. He said the Jumbos will dance and walk and get dressed up. Jumbos! I asked where the Jumbos live and he just nodded his head. Yes. I asked who takes care of the Jumbos. He said "everyone." And then he nodded his head. Yes. I nodded back. He bobbled his head from side to side. I said, "ha ha."

We miscommunicated for another 10 minutes until a friend rolled up on her super swank motorbike. She was like a prince on a steed. I hopped on the back and the stand owner's brother said, "No, no, 2 more minutes. He is just here." Yeah, sure. I said, "let's go!" and off we went, down the bumpy road. I enjoyed the wind on my face.

I will remain out of touch for three more weeks. I don't think it will be too much trouble to actually use landlines. Sweet goodness Jumbo, a landline. Who would believe it!? But it's efficient and clear and cheap. The phone booth I frequent is very comfortable. For about 5 rupees a minute, I can call home sitting on a luxuriously bouyant red velour stool. The landline booths are called "STDs." Needless to say, I don't put my mouth too close to the handset.

Today, I ride in style with Miss Karen in her personal rickshaw to Lakshmipuram to meet one Dr. Kumar for a class on Ayurvedic medicine. He is not to be confused with my Ayurvedic Massage teacher, Kumar. Or Kumar the Quack, as he calls himself. Miss Karen has a driver named Raj. The rickshaw has a large, green clown horn and sweet tuck and pin upholstery. Plus, Raj would never abandon Miss Karen. She looks very nice with the spots from Chammundi temple on her head, as you can see.


Remember the trip to Chammundi Temple, or at least the place that may or may not have been the Chammundi Temple? Here are some lovely pictures for your consideration. In retrospect, it was very interesting. If I had been able to pay attention to the temple and the myriad symbols and practices of the visitors, rather than wasting most of my energy shooing away hawkers trying to get another 100 rupees from me a marigold, I would be able to tell you what these pictures might represent. Instead, I enjoy, with you, a rather peaceful manner of viewing Chammundi-- from the safe, hygenic and peaceful seat in front of the computer screen.



This is not the swami that we didn't find at the temple:



They are restoring the Shiva temple. It is over 2000 years old. At least that's what my 15 year old geography wiz told me. Should we believe him?


Here's the kid. I mean, our friendly guide. Seeing him here, I don't think he really was enjoying himself. Maybe about as much as we were?


And of course, as one does, you have to keep the statues and other random little bits and pieces somewhere. So why not out in the dust, next to the workers chipping rocks and painting walls?

Abandoned by the Rickshaw Driver

Sweet, sweet Sunday. It felt like Monday. Not that this should matter much since I haven't been working for a while and my only reference to Monday's potential for creating despondency has been driving my partner to work along the beautiful New Zealand coast after he's already worked through the weekend. But it felt like Monday, like the start of a busy week for me, even. And this is why.

I got up at 4:30 to make yoga by 5. Okay, that's fine now. I have learned to enjoy that space in time for its chill and its emptiness. Two street dogs, lovingly adopted by random and transient yoga students who then abandon them in their dependent domesticity upon departure, escorted me to yoga. Their names are Juanita and Ratso. Burrito joined us later. Ratso is no longer mangy, but he's still ugly. Juanita is svelte and proud, long and lean. She doesn't have any scars that I can see, unlike most of the street dogs. Burrito is still a puppy. His balls are shrinking since he got fixed. I guess they don't cut them off here; they just sew them up and let them collapse and dessicate. Burrito gives a whole new meaning to blue balls. He's spry at maybe 8 months, but already has the licks on his head to show how perfectly annoying he can be.

The dogs left me when we reached the shala. They wait outside until the yoga students come out and drink coconuts, waiting for some pats and love. I went in, wishing I had a sweatband for my head that said something cool, like Yoga Rocks (tm) or Pattabhi is my Guru (tm) or Kiss my Asana (tm). Without it, I sweat and sometimes it even gets in my eye. Gross.

It started to rain after yoga. It isn't monsoon anymore, they say. But like most information I get in India, I never know what to believe. In Bangalore, a man told me that monsoon was over, but it hadn't rained for months. Yeah, and someone else told me that the weather is now cool. 85 and muggy. Brrrrrr.

My tabla lesson is becoming increasingly difficult. Apparently, Mysore-style music lessons don't require competence to proceed. My teacher moves me along, regardless of whether my fingers agree. Today he told me diplomatically, "your fingers are having a birthday party and you are not there." Well, yes, I guess so. But they were having a good ol' time on their own, even if it sounded like crap.

The real party, that both me and my fingers got to attend, was this evening at the Park Palace Hotel rooftop garden. Just next door was a mosque, where we could watch men washing their faces and hands in a fountain before retreating inside for prayer. Maybe we weren't supposed to watch. We didn't stare or anything. I just looked a little, really quick. All through dinner, we watched lightening cross the sky behind the clouds; it flashed pink and green above us and then the heavens opened. The rain was big and fat; one drop was enough to drench me.

The company was friendly and funny. It was a fine group of yoga students; everyone had sufficient irreverence to question some part of the experience here but wonderful attitudes to know the opportunity is worthwhile. Everyone ate well and we laughed so hard that the entire hotel staff lined up to glare at us. It seems they wanted us to get. So we did.

Several rickshaws lined up to get us home. The rain fell enormously, bouncing up onto my legs, then dripping quickly down my ankle. Our rickshaw was too tiny for three western women after a large meal, had a hole in the windshield and no lights. He took off and we covered our eyes to avoid judging the gap between our small, steel cage and the bus intersecting our path. Through one intersection, we all let out some squeals and the driver took his hands from the handles to calm us. "Don't worry," he says, looking over his shoulder and not at the roaring barrage of oncoming traffic. We laughed at him, and worried, and squealed some more. About three minutes later, he pulled over, got out, and walked away into the rain. We waited for some minutes before we did the same. I wonder how long he would have left us there. I suppose it would have been until we got out and left him alone. He might have been thankful we were as quick to escape.

The palace was lit up, but the rain was too much for pictures and really anything. Tomorrow is the start of a big festival for that Chammundi goddess, the one who likes the rupees up on that hill. For 13 nights, the town will party. Yeah! Party hard, India. Party hard.

A goddess is a goddess, and likes rupees

Okay, so Saturdays are the days of rest. It comes after six straight days of waking in the dark and marching along to the yoga shala through a herd of goats and a pack of roaming pigs. Even the cows are absent that early. I still haven't figured out who milks them all. I will keep you posted on that.

This being a day of rest, I had grand plans for a giant rest through the morning, but I woke up at 6:45, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, as if something in me needed to join my roving animal friends. Unfortunately, I missed them today. They were probably still snoozing when I left the house for breakfast. I visited Anu's, a lovely place that provides this internet connection from a brightly lit garage, and meals on a terrace just above. I ordered idlis and peanut chutney and some orange stuff and chai. The chai is spiced and highly caffeinated. The idlis are puffy.

Along with some yoga students from Canada, England, Finland, Mexico and South Africa, I rented a car to take us to Chammundi Hill. There are 1000 stairs to climb there, heading up toward a troglodyte swami who doesn't smoke a big chillum at the top, but I imagined he would. On the way up the stairs, we anticipated seeing a large bull, a symbol, I was told, of the forces slayed by Chammundi, the fighting goddess who saved this region from evil. One Indian man told me that the bull grows larger and larger every year. Another Indian man told me that Chammundi is Kali by another name. I can't substantiate any of the above because our driver seemed to take us somewhere else. Or maybe it was Chammundi Hill. I don't know that I will ever know.

This is all I do know for sure. There were no stairs where we went. And there was no bull. We couldn't find a swami, nor a cave, nor a chillum. What we did find was an interesting temple where we were immediately swarmed upon driving into the parking lot by more than 20 men who wanted us to buy postcards, flowers, flutes, wooden figurines. Our group was separated as we tried to cut through the pack of salesmen. We found each other, each accompanied by some kid who had latched on to give us a tour. My kid was named Anklesh. He was 15 and knew the names of all the European capitals. I asked him the capital of Nepal and he admonished me that it was not in Europe. He did know that Ottawa was the capital of Canada. I didn't bother explaining that Canada is not in Europe.

He ended up lasting with us. We all ended up with hands full of sweet-smelling jasmine and marigolds, wooden figurines, but no postcards. A minor success. We wandered through the temples and a police officer took 10 rupees out of my hand. Anklesh said it was payment for the temple, and Shiva would be happy. Thank goodness, because I would hate to piss off Shiva, especially if she has the Indian police force behind her. We came out of the temple with no more flowers, slimy but blessed wooden figurines, and lots of dots on our foreheads. We were lighter by about 150 rupees a piece, and absolutely ignorant about who blessed us and who didn't. It could have been the cop... a goddess in disguise? I suppose the lesson was to free ourselves from attachment to personal wealth. Or maybe just to avoid temples from here on out.

Almost running, we all crammed back into our car and told the driver to take us to the Southern Star Hotel. It is a sanctuary with a pool and chocolate cake. He drove slow, seeking to extend our time together at 125 rupees an hour. I told him I would pee my pants if he didn't step on it. We were at the pool in five minutes.

So, that was tourist-hungry Mysore. I may keep my distance for a while after the experience. Yoga is at 5 tomorrow. Massage at 10. Tabla at 3. And it's my birthday. We are going to see the Palace light up, as it does every Sunday. That will be my birthday cake.