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.
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.
posted by your friend at Sunday, October 02, 2005
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