See You Soon Samsara

It's weird how leaving in and of itself can bring back so many memories. Is it dejavu, samsara? The last time I left India, a man tried to cut me in the emigration line. The same thing happened again this time around. Things like this, although small in the grand scheme of things, do ultimately claim a part of your memory.

So, how do I leave a place where I have sewn so many roots for an entire year, made memories for an entire year? How do I say goodbye to place that has brought me so much life and joy but also so much confusion, doubt, pain?

The last time I left India, I left with tremendous love in my heart, for the country, the people, the spirituality. That love weighed on me so much that I simply wanted to go back.

This time, it felt a little different... Before, Indianisms and quirks used to make my stomach hurt with roars of laughter. This time around, I often felt defensive, vulnerable, and manipulated. I've learned that matter how long I reside in India, learn the local language, the customs, the status quo, I will always remain a foreigner. I am leaving India at the perfect time in my life, where my love for it still remains intact.

And for this, I owe India a big 'thank you'. Twice now, it has taught me how to question, observe, interpret, reflect, and live. Whether North or South, Hinduism, Christianity or Islam, paneer paratha or masala dosa, old or young, good smells or bad ones, dettoll clean or dirty, extreme heat or monsoons, goats or dogs or cows, cities or mountain villages, young or middle aged or sick or old, rich or very very very poor, India will always remain a land of contrasts. Despite how confusing these contrasts may be, even now, I leave India again feeling nothing but peace and love.

Dear India,
Thank you, danyevad, shukriya, and rumba nandri. For now, namaste, vannakam, goodbye.

Picnics Rock

During one of my last chances to travel in South India, I made sure to stop in Mahabhellipuram, one of the major art history mysteries. Extremely excited, I got of the bus only to be greeted by extreme and unbearable heat. It was too hot to tour the monuments, so we spent the day swimming in a resort pool, something I hadn't done in awhile.

After the sun died down a little bit, we decided to go check out the ancient temples and rock carvings of elephants, monkeys, and Hindu gods I've been craving to see for three years. Needless to say, when we arrived, the ancient monuments were being appreciated, just not exactly as we'd imagined. Everywhere around us, hundreds of Indian tourists had come to this famous place to have a picnic, take some photos, and trash it. Next to one of the famous unsolved mysteries of a spherical boulder balancing on a facade of rock named "Krishna's Butterball", children have worn away the rock with the seat of their pants, turning this miraculous wonder into amazing slides. While the kids played, couples snuck off to canoodle and eat right on top of famous elephants carved thousands of years ago. The only monument that was protected was the famous "Elephants descent to the Ganges" which was protected by an enormous black iron fence.

At first I was disappointed that this famous piece of history has been turned into a playground for Indian tourists. However, after thinking about it, I started wondering why we focus so much on preserving pieces of history anyway. Here in Mahabellipuram, at least people are appreciating history in a modern way. Although ultimately destructive to the monuments, perhaps in a way these tourists are doing just what these people in ancient times used to do: living their lives.

Perhaps my favorite part of Mahabellipuram wasn't the ancient monuments but the beach. This beautiful white sandy beach, rather than serving as the playground for tourists, was used by fishermen to dock their livelihoods. Sitting and watching daily life through late in the evening, life on this beach seemed almost magical. For the locals however, it's just life.

Musings on Utopia

For a while now, people have been telling me of the whereabouts of a utopia on the East coast of South India. Curious about this place Auroville I decided to check it out. Upon arrival, I wasn’t quite sure where to begin exploring such an ideal place. Driving along the eco-friendly red dirt roads, I decided to follow the sign posts telling me I was headed to Serenity, Peace, Love, Happiness, Hope, and all the other doldrums of my heart’s desires. You can imagine how disappointed I was when I arrived in Miracle and saw only a hot desert. Then later, while in Discipline, I saw more dry arid nothingness. Either this place was trying to tell me that miracles and discipline didn’t actually exist. Or, like all other ‘utopias’, they are simply products of perception.

Disillusioned by this arid dreamland I headed to the beach to gain a little perspective. Here, however, I was greeted with, well, India. Or, rather, an Indian man with his hand outstretched where nothing but bright blue underpants. Faced with the reality of India again, I again started to see the things outside my psyche: a lungi-clad man selling watermelon, piles of trash art, and the horizon of the Bay of Bengal staring me directly in the face. Despite all the hype of a perfectly mismatched multicultural and eco-friendly hosh posh this community was said to hold, at the end of the day, I saw all the same things I see everyday.

Whether ideal or blemished, perhaps we could all use a place where we can at least get the illusion of a little peace of mind. 

Carnival Day in Kombai

On the outskirts of Kodaikanal town sits a little school by the name of Kombai. This school provides education for kids from around the community who are locally known as ‘tribal peoples’. These children do not qualify for education from the Tamil Nadu government because they come from families who are outrunning the law as vagrants, thieves, murderers, and gypsies.

About a week ago, I had the opportunity to take a group of our sixth graders to this little school in the middle of nowhere to set up a carnival for the 160 students at the school. At one point I snuck into the 1st-3rd grade classroom of 60 kids. As a teacher myself, they immediately sat me at the front of the room so that each student could proudly show me his or her chalkboard with the English alphabet neatly printed on it. After I saw all their lettering they sang me a number of English songs. None of them spoke English, yet the lyrics of "black sheep black sheep..." seemed to roll off their tongues fluently. Then, later while the little kids happily won prizes of notebooks, pencils, and little toys from the various stations, I sat and clipped and painted each and every child’s fingernails. Seeing the smiles on their faces after receiving a pain-free rainbow-colored manicure, I couldn’t help smiling while telling them, “nee rumba na la irikya” (you are beautiful).

Boys Will Be Boys

Walking down a busy city street in India, it is not uncommon to run across the occasional group of police officers. Representing a long history of corruption and violence, these men are the epitome of power, class, and, well, power. It was surprising, however, to see two such men walking down the street, twirling their batons, and linking pinkies. Once I noticed the first couple of very close men, I quickly saw them everywhere. All around me were 'men who like to hang out with other men'.

Since Kodaikanal is a tourist destination, every weekend the town is crammed with Indian tourists paddle boating, horsebackriding, and enjoying the crisp mountain air. Most of these vacationers, however, are men. These gentlemen come up the mountain sporting cowboy hats and handlebar moustaches to vacation with their friends, ride bicycles around the lake, and catcall at a few unsuspecting women. At first it's a bit odd seeing a group of rowdy young men taking photographs of each other while paddle boating in Mickey Mouse boats. But, just like everything else, you eventually get used to it.

The other day, however, I got a little insight into just how early this phenomenon starts. One of my little preschool boys came up to me and said, "Teachah, Teachah! Abhi kissed me!" I look at Abhi, another three-year-old gentleman, and he gives me a look of satisfaction. To complete the action he follows up with, "well, I like him....so..." To this, just like all other instances of 'men who like to hang out with other men' I have come across, I simply let it slide. What this means exactly I don't know. I guess I'll never understand this boy-girl-boy stuff. All I know is, Indian boys don't seem to think Indian boys have cooties.

A Mail Tale

India is known for its superbly reliant courier service. Letters, postcards, and packages (parcels) all share the same risks of either arriving on time or never at all. Yet, as I recently learned, sending a package has a story all its own.

Having collected all my necessary items, I carried my wrapped items to the post office located in the part of town known as "The Budge". This is the part I like to refer to as, well, creepy. I proudly ignored all the stares and laughter along the way because I fully understand that seeing a white girl carrying a massive parcel must be a bit baffling and wildly hilarious. After climbing the steps up to the post office, I presented my bulk to the teller. He looked at me, then at the package and said, "Box Madam. First box finding. Outside man box." Grabbing my parcel, I headed back down the steps to find a grocer who might have an extra box. I found one and took it back with me to the post office. I quickly learned that the prior contents in the box was chili powder. After getting covered in a cloud of red dust, I sealed my contents safely into the box and brought the box back to the teller. The man looked at me, then at the box and said, "Madam. Parcel material packing. You tailor bringing, parcel wrapping." I headed back downstairs and up the hill to find a tailor who would wrap my box in cloth. I found one, bargained down to a reasonable price, waited while he stitched, and proceeded back to the post office. I proudly presented my wrapped box parcel to the teller. He looked at me, then at the box and said, "Madam you no sending today. Closing only. Closing 2pm. It now 2:30pm being. You no sending today." I grabbed my box and lugged it all the way home.

I still have not sent my package.

Stalin Steals the Show

A few weeks ago, the entire town of Kodaikanal was in a sort of disarray. Why exactly? Well, Stalin was coming to town! Stalin, the current PM of Tamil Nadu, was coming to our little haven to conduct the grand opening ceremony of the new bus station. Quickly, in order to receive his presence, hundreds of posters, billboards, and road barriers filled with photos of the great man himself were couriered up the mountain. They were hung, strung, and drilled into, around, and all over the main road in town. A new line was even painted down the middle of the road leading right up to the bus station. Right after the bus station however, the rest of the main road looked very sad as there were no shiny posters of Stalin on a horse, nor was there a white line down the middle of the road. He came and went in one hour time while everyone was cheering in their Sunday’s best. Today, all that is left is holes in the road were the banners once flew, an opened bus station, and a bright white line painted halfway down the road.

Oh yes, his 70' legacy also remains...