Whither February?

I last blogged Jan 31st? Ooops.
Been a little busy with the whole teaching thing. With the teaching-plus-maintaining-yogic-lifestyle bit.
Funny thing about the ashram. Much as I hated to leave, wanted to stay forever, and am considering a lengthier stint as staff...the experience there made me appreciate India, and Kodaikanal, more.
A lot more. So much more, I just might put in another year here. It's been Princeton>Paris>Halifax>Kodai these last four years....and I'm tired. Time to try a "2nd year" someplace; this place ain't so bad.

So what's been going on in not-so-bad Kodai since January?
I'm now living in a gorgeous apartment, much closer to main campus, town center, and friends. It's got dark hardwood floors, 15 foot ceilings and a tin roof that bakes the place during the day (at night we've got to huddle under many many covers). I have a lovely roommate from Germany. A gigantic bedroom, one-third partitioned off by rich jeweltone sari curtains. Voila, a separate space for yoga asanas and meditation (daily, so far!) Windows everywhere, and sunlight streaming in from dawn onwards. A kitchen! A gas stove, big fridge, plenty of cupboard space for groceries and nifty new cookware. A real shower, with adequate hot water supply, and pressure! And pretty gardens out the windows and all over this compound.

All these things were missing from the old digs at Bruton dorm. Living space makes such a difference to quality of life.


So I've been cooking a lot. Meals are provided in the school cafeteria for volunteers...but the often overspiced and greasy school food has a mildly negative effect on my digestive system. Tolerable, certainly (I ate it all 1st semester). But so much better to cook! A pleasure, and better for the body. Veg chili, stir fries, gingery mung dal and rice, toasted cheese and tomato sandwiches, moroccan-style chickpea tomato stew, plain old wholesome vegetable soup with a loaf of freshest wholegrain bread from Pastry Corner, slathered in butter, or with a slice of local cheese. Vanilla custard with fruit salad...oatmeal and spiced chai for breakfast...rice pudding...
Tonight I used the pressure cooker for the first time. After reading every word of the instruction manual, and sending a brief prayer out to the universe that I not blow myself--and dinner--up. Pshaw, it was so easy! Just a little hissing noise...no worries at all. White bean, cabbage, and potato stew for tomorrow; we're having people over to eat and then project Slumdog Millionaire onto the living room wall.

Pictured: Last week was spirit week at the elementary. For superhero day, a student (Y) dressed up as ME! (Best day ever ;) I didnt have a camera...but I did get a picture of my costume the foolowing day, hat day. Y always wears a toque (ahem, "Beanie" for non-Canucks) so it was the perfect chance to get her back! This is me giving some Y attitude before heading out on hat day. Also...produce on the kitchen counter;

So that's life right now in Kodai. Pleasure in mundane little things.
I'll be posting next about school: adventures-in-papier mache.

One Long Day

This is the third of several posts about my experience of the yoga teacher training course at a Sivananda ashram near Madurai. If you haven't yet, please scroll down and read the previous two posts...or for the whole story as it unfolded, you might go back to late November.

What's it like to spend a day at the ashram? It's a long day. What's it like to spend 28 days there? Perhaps just the same; already in memory the entire time hovers as one very long, blissful day.

Metaphysical anomaly?
Potential explanations?

(1) The whole thing was a dream, and as a dream melts in the moments after waking, the 28 days are now fading fast. Just one long, odd day left.

(2) Swamiji once pointed out in vedanta lecture how expressions like "passing time," "spending time," and "wasting time" are comforting but misleading. In fact, time wastes us. Spends us. Passes us. At the ashram we practiced mindfulness: total awareness of the present moment, present action, present breath. There's no time in the present. Total presence, total mindfulness, was a bit of a lofty goal of course (i.e., having achieved complete presence, absolute purity of mind, I am now writing to you from samadhi...I am writing to you? We are writing to us...I am writing to I...I am writing...I am....I...I...I...). Right. So there's no time in the present. Therefore, if we were more mindful, occasionally fully present, during those 28 days....then there was NO TIME for part of those 28 days....which means that the 28 days could seem at once shorter (subtract the no-time presents) and longer (endless. Timeless. No time in the present, the present without time).

(3) The whole thing seems like one long day because every day was nearly the same. With a few exceptions, we did the exact same thing, day after day after very long day. When there is neat structure to time and space so that everything has purpose and little is "idle" or wasted; when everything is rhythmical....it all becomes the same. In the most delicious, un-monotonous way.

And the long day went like this:

5:30 Wake-up

Softest ascent from sleep with gentle, steady tolling bells. Fumbling in the dark for the mosquito net corner.Gather towel, toothbrush etc. from cupboard and walk the entire length of the women's dorm to the showers. Past quiet focussed action in each cell as 40 other women rise, change, gather things, make beds. Toilet. Cold shower to wash off sleep, wash off tamas. Back to the cell. Hang towels neatly. Dress in uniform: white cotton drawstring trousers, yellow TTC t-shirt. Make bed, fold pyjamas. Take bag of books, meditation shawl, mala beads. Out the door...

6:00-7:30 Morning Satsang
Half hour (plus or minus) japa meditation. Seated (or trying to sit) in rows on cushions on bamboo mats. 45 minutes chanting as the sky lightens: Jaya Ganesha, various bhajans. Om Traymabakan, Arati. Then, prasad: a handful of nuts or grains, a piece of fruit, or (joy!) rice pudding.

7:30-8:00
CHAI! One or maybe two steaming little metal cups of hot soul-charging spiced milky tea, with a spoonful of jaggery.
Sipped in the quiet early morning light. Another handful of leftover prasad. And quick change into clothes for asana class.

8:00-10:00 Morning Asana Class


We learned how to teach. Some practice, some listening to lecture and watching demos...and then 2 weeks of small-group teaching; 2 chances each to teach the Sivananda basic open class to your group.






10:00-10:30 Food
Ah, the food. I miss the food. Lacto-veg, low-fat, no onions, chilis, garlic, spice, low sugar, very low salt. Super-fresh, prepared and served with care and love, beautiful colour and texture and taste. Rice--or rice pancakes (dosa), or steamed fermented rice cakes (idly), or rice noodles. Between one and three vegetable stews or dals or curries (hearty mung bean dal. Ginger-potato-coconut stew. Pineapple curry.) Some raita, or raw beet salad, or cucumber tomato salad, or a handful of fresh green mung beans, just beginning to sprout. Mix it all up on the platter, drizzle with buttermilk. Crush over the top one hot, salty fried pappad (so unyogic. But provided nonetheless because we ate them with 100% appreciation). Pack a morsel together with the right hand, and....eat.

10:45-11:45 (or throughout the day) Karma Yoga
Weekly rotations through a variety of work duties around the ashram. Mine were: (1) sweeping, scrubbing, mopping, drying the dining hall floor after the 10:00 meal. (2) carrying, unrolling, re-rolling, and returning to storage the bamboo mats we sat on for satsang and lectures. Before and after every satsang and lecture.
(3) Bellringer! Every other day, ringing the bell 10 minutes before the next thing on the schedule. This one rocked, because I had karma yoga time free. But it kind of sucked because I had to watch the clock all day, and one of the best things about ashram life was timelessness. (4) Garbage. Emptying bins around the ashram and taking them to the compost or central bins.

Karma yoga is the best mirror. For ego, I-ness, my-ness. For the way in which everything we do--the smallest acts--have far-reaching, unknowable effects (and I'm talking in this lifetime). Things I learned from karma yoga:
-It is very very difficult to do something selflessly. Not to "do" something selfless, but to do something selflessly.
-When I judge others, I judge from ego. Who am I to know, to say, to judge?
-When someone gives direction or a suggestion about how to do something a better way...listen, try it, thank them. With humility. It probably is a better way.
-Monkeys like compost.

12:00-1:15 Lecture I
For ten days we had chanting
lecture. We chanted.And learned...some stuff about the chants? Not sure. Not very good lectures. Very hard to stay awake. For the next 2.5 weeks, we had Bhaghavad Gita lecture. Lovely! With a little old yogi from Delhi who praised us when we chanted well, gently called us back when we drifted off, sometimes held lecture under a great old mango tree in a corner of the ashram, and clearly knew his subject.

1:15-1:45
Chai part II. Usually much needed at this point, after dozing off in lecture.
Also, headstand workshop (pre-chai), for those of us who couldn't headstand at the start of the course.

2:00-3:45 Lecture II
Swamiji's enthralling, humourous, intoxicating lectures on Vedantic philosophy. Mind-blowing (literally?) Vedanta. I won't butcher it by attempting a summary. By far the most unexpected, pleasant part of the whole TTC. Trust what is elegant.

4:00-6:15 Afternoon Asana Class
Aka, BBC (Bone-Breaking Class). Whereas the morning class was about teaching, the afternoon was for our own practice. We'd settle onto the mats just before 4 with the deepest sense of relief. Minds still reeling from lecture, from the intense day, and now--4:00 class--we'd made it. Release. The homestretch, the good stretch. Just this 2 hours of body work, all downhill to bedtime. Deep deep stretching, and incredible energy throughout the hall, and focus (or laughter, if our giant-hearted teacher was in comedic mode). Always surprised at how deep I was in a posture. Easy depth. Depth in asanas, also savasana, deepest relaxation. Space and light and nothing else.

6:15-6:45 Food
Like the morning meal, but lighter. Fewer dishes, smaller portions,
usually no pulses (only rice and vegetables). With fruit. Ripe juicy pineapple spears. Fuzzy brown-sugar-bomb chicoos, a wedge of tart creamy guava, a handful of glistening ruby pomegranate seeds. This picture is of our Christmas Feast: banana leaves instead of metal trays; twice as many dishes, and pickle, and payasam.

6:45-8:00 Free Time
"Free" meant homework: daily lecture summaries, chant-copying, outlines of beginners' yoga classes. Also chatting, washing clothes, calling home. Excellent instructional videos were aired at this time--on anatomy, nutrition, the lives of Swami Sivananda and Swami Vishnu-Devananda, on the "healing properties of water." I only went to a few (that hour of free time was precious, and lecture summaries had to be finished).

8:00-9:45 Evening Satsang
About half an hour of japa meditation. An hour of chanting and readings. Closing prayers. Prasad.

10:00 Lights out.

Prompt Purification

This is the second of several posts about my experience of the yoga teacher training course at a Sivananda ashram near Madurai. If you haven't yet, please scroll down and read the previous post...or for the whole story as it unfolded, you might go back to late November.

Enjoy the first week, they said, the first week when everything is new and interesting and wonderful. Enjoy because, they warned us, things would start to "come up." Physical symptoms: pain, skin break-outs, illness. Emotional ups and downs. The mind would start to question, to protest, everything about ashram life. They warned us, they said: let it happen. It is good. It is part of the purification process. Week 2; crisis week. Week 3; crisis peaks. Purification.

No need to wait for week 2. Physical purification started the moment I arrived, and--once they said I could stay--I ate it up, swam in it, asked for more.

The caffeine-withdrawal headache hit first. My love affair with coffee began in college with really good cappuccinos, funky cafe tables, intriguing neighbors, and book/notepad at hand. But this near-daily indulgence evolved over the last 3 years into a nasty, mindless habit of 3-4 daily cups of even (blech) questionable dishwater coffee.

No coffee at the ashram.
(We were incredibly lucky to have chai, starting towards the end of week 1. More about chai later.)

Caffeine-purification involved a nauseating, brain-splitting headache pulsating about an inch or two behind my left eye. I spent the first three days slumped over in lectures and even satsang, thumb pressed firmly in the crook between nose and browbone, trying (failing) to breathe it away. Visualizing the chemicals balancing out. And also dreaming of a stream of hot, black, almost syrupy espresso; tan foamy crema swirling on top, hissing steam frothing hot milk....why not place a little square of darkest chocolate, just-so, on the edge of the saucer? Throbbing, then knifing, then throbbing again; burning and pounding and always the left eye.
And on the 4th morning, I woke, and it was gone.
The amazing thing is I was never need-a-coffee-sleepy through this process. Pranayama kicks caffeine's ass. (More about pranayama later).

2nd morning--in the throes of caffeine hell--I had to run out of satsang during closing prayers and kirtan. My empty stomach emptied itself even more, neatly, into the wastebins outside the hall. I wasn't India-stomach ill. Just, maybe, needing to purge a whole bunch of stress and fatigue and negative emotion from the previous few days. Up and out, quick and easy.

By day 3, my knees, back, and hips were starting to go. We sat (i.e., on the floor, cross-legged) 5-7 ours each day; I wasn't even used to sitting at home for daily meditation. They told us to sit comfortably. To move when we needed to; pain will only distract the mind. But there are only so many different positions to sit in, to switch to. Eventually they all became painful. Sharp knives in the knees, and cramping hip flexors, and hot dull knots between the shoulder blades. How many different ways can you fold up a 12" square pillow? I looked with deep envy at some of the other students and staff, more experienced yogis and meditators; their spines long and straight and still; hips relaxed and falling fully open, knees resting on the floor. Squirm, readjust, refold the pillow. Cross legs. "Clear the cheeks" (pull excess flesh from the sitbones). Stretch out the left leg, then the right. Careful! Stretch it sideways, don't point the toes at the altar. Hug knees to chest. Kneel on heels. Kneel on pillow. Back to crossed legs. Give up; slouch the spine and rest elbows on knees. Keep one leg crossed; hug the other knee to the chest. Ooh, chin rest! Switch. Cross and re-cross the legs. Lean back on the elbows. Kneel again. 1 pillow, 2 pillows, 3 pillows...rolled up yoga mat...and the pain only grew.

I'm not sure when it subsided. Just gradually got better. Maybe aided by some serious hip stretching that began in week 2. By better pillow-folding techniques. By growing core strength, and a calmer mind. I can sit for an hour now, more or less in comfort. Lotus, however, is not looking likely. In this life, at least.

Auspiciousness

So where were we...

Friday, Nov. 28 2008. Approximately 32 hours until scheduled departure for long-planned, much-anticipated 4-week trip across North India with co-teachers and friends. Status: exhausted and confused. The Mumbai attacks were still unfolding, I had hardly slept all week, and there was still a classroom to clean, flat to pack up, report cards to finish. And now, the stress of a potentially unsafe journey. To go or not to go? To alter our itinerary? Delay for a few days to see how things progressed? Go on as planned, you only live once?

The phone rang at 7:00 a.m; PiA made the decision for me. No-go. It was a tremendous relief--no choice but to follow orders--and absolutely heartbreaking. Surreal. By 10:00 my friends had discussed, and decided to go. To follow an itinerary I knew by heart; to photograph lands, streets, people I had so looked forward to seeing, and would not. Enough of India. By 11:00 I was stalking unaffordable flights home to Toronto on Kayak . A giant, grey and gloomy NOW WHAT?

12:00, seated at my crew's usual lunch table when a funny thing happened. JL, my yoga teacher here at KIS, joined us. She never eats with us. Hearing the news, she said, "Why don't you just come down with me to Madurai for the yoga TTC (Teacher Training Course)? I'm leaving in the morning."

Instant clarity, instant relief. Yes. YTTC. I want to do that. Want it even more than to go with my friends to Rajasthan, even more than to go home. That is what I've wanted to do for a long time, badly, and not known it.
-Is there room? Will they let me register at such a late date? (Probably. Phew.)
-Is the course too intense? Am I advanced enough? Is this something to enter into without much thought? (Stuff it, don't want to know, I'll do it anyway.)
-Aha, not so fast! How much does it cost? (What?!? Too much. Far, far too much.)
- What's that? An Indian rate? Perhaps also applicable for foreigners living and working (volunteering!) in India?) A glimmer of hope....

JL called the ashram. She was going to work as staff during the TTC, as she's done every December since her own course in 2004. Swamiji said there was room for me. But it was too late to apply for the Indian rate. My only chance was to come to the ashram for the opening ceremony: another Swami, a Sivananda higher-up, would be there for the initiations. He had the authority to grant a scholarship on the spot. But no guarantees.

On Saturday, JL drove her shaky old jeep down the ghat--pause, flat tire--and through steaming, filthy Madurai. I was almost numb with exhaustion when we pulled through the ashram gates in the early afternoon. Lugging bags, sweaty and overdressed for the plains, we walked past a cluster of people chatting on a verandah. "Are you here for the TTC?" one young woman asked brightly. "Uh...not sure yet," I mumbled, hurrying after JL towards reception.

A team of young volunteer staff--brighteyed yogis from all over the world, dressed in yellow kurtas and tees, white trousers--buzzed in and out of recpection. JL explained my situation in more detail. Swamiji asked how long I'd been in India. Only 6 months? Uh-oh. Scholarships were usually only granted to foreigners who'd been in India (i.e., earning Rupees) for years. He said the prospect was dim, but we'd see in the morning.

The next 24 hours are a haze. I remember an intense headache, the heat, sleeping every possible moment, The vague awareness of TTC students arriving, registering, settling into the dorms, meeting each other. Feeling betrayed. Betrayed by a universe I thought had sent along an exceptional, unexpected gift. By the hope that I'd get to do this incredible course. And now prospects were dim, it wouldn't happen.

Sunday morning, wake-up bells rang at 5:30. Morning satsang was a special puja to Ganesha, remover of initial obstacles, to kick off the TTC. After much chanting, we prostrated one by one and made an offering to the Ganesha altar. (I only recall, from this first puja, an intense headache. And resolving to throw myself at Ganesha's feet, if only he might remove this teeny, tiny intital snag of not yet being enrolled in the course). Towards the end, Swamiji announced that everyone was to go to the temple, and wait outside in silence for individual initiations.

Initiations? But I hadn't had the chance yet! To ask. Everyone else was about to be initiated--to get on the bus--and it would pull away, and I wasn't on it. My heart sank; my mind panicked. Give up. It's not going to happen. Call Kody and have someone send a taxi, ASAP. This is too hard already, it hurts too much, before it's even begun, and it won't ever begin. But my physical body, at least, stood up and followed the 67 initiates to the temple.

As an anthropology undergraduate, I studied ritual, initiation rites, communitas. We read, discussed, wrote about how groups bond by going through formalized practices together; how little things like ornamentation, uniforms, order of participation, and of course waiting, uncertainty, liminality, all work to create a sense of transformation and joining together.
I understood these things analytically; had a mild appreciation of what it was like to experience them from various sports-team activities. But that morning--as a phantom observer, not part of the group but wanting to be part, and watching the group while I stood invisible on the periphery--I get the power of ritual, now. Waiting outside the temple, they called people in one by one. Miserably, I sat there, knowing I would not be called, wondering how long I'd have to sit there, to the end, and what then. The newly initiated TTC students emerged at intervals from the temple with bag, books, uniform in one hand; prasad in the other, full tilak on their foreheads. They walked away with purpose, as though they'd been given the next set of instructions. We waited. I plotted my escape, counted the hours until I could turn my back on this thing I couldn't be a part of (an hour more of this. An hour to arrange a ride. 4 hours until a car can get here from Kody...) Finally JL appeared, knelt, whispered: They won't be calling you, so no point sitting here. Go and rest.

I called a friend. She got to work on a taxi. A plan formed. Back to Kody for two days, just to sleep. Then home. Kody-Madurai-Chennai-Toronto. No matter the airfare, no more of this. I packed, got into bed. Might as well sleep for a few hours. Sleep off the piercing headache; stay out of the students' way.

JL shook me awake at 11:00. Let's go, now, she said. We've got to ask him now, he's waiting.
-No, I said. I'm going home. It's not going to happen. I'm so tired, I feel so sick, this isn't right. No.
I'll forever be in JL's debt, for dragging me out of bed, and to the Swami's room, to ask.

He was an imposing man. Tall and broad and stern-faced; of unclear background. European, but with only the hint of an accent to my Canadian ear, and all the ambiguity that comes from spending a long time away. Away in India, in ashrams, in orange robes.
JL and I sat in front of his door; when he emerged, she explained: from Princeton, a volunteer teacher, can't afford full rate, vacation plans ruined by the attacks, really keen yoga student.
Then he turned to me.
-Are you American? (No. Canadian).
-Where in Canada? (Montreal, and Nova Scotia).
-You went to Princeton? (Yes.) On Financial Aid? (Yes. Whoa, who is this guy? He even called it F-Aid. Does he know Princeton?)
-What are your qualifications? (I have a BA. In Anthropology.)
-You're a teacher? (Yes. a volunteer).
He turned away, moved back inside. Paused and looked at me, considering.
-Ok. Just come work for the ashram when you can, someday.
Before I could pick my jaw back up, he was gone, door closed.
JL and I stared at each other in disbelief. Rather, my disbelief. But she was shining. "You see??!" she said, clapping me on the back. "HAVE FAITH."

Swamiji passed us walking back to the dorms. He looked at me, shook his head. His disbelief. "You are a lucky girl." Or maybe his faith. "Lucky, lucky girl. Yooooou'd better make the best of it."

Adjusting

Happy New Year~

I write from Kovalam Beach; 48 hours back in the (apparently) real world and still reeling. After 4 weeks in peaceful, disciplined, sattvic ashram setting, every little thing about life outside is abrasive. My sister and cousin have been waiting here patiently for my course to finish, and it is a joy to see them in India. We are trying to smile over all the little bumps of adjustment--but it's hard to convey exactly how much, of the littlest things, shocks me. (Just as, I imagine, so much of India shocks them but is now normal for me). Speaking before 9 a.m.? Having to choose food from a menu? Clothes strewn on the floor and un-made beds? Exposed bodies and the general, unending noise?

The background tune playing in my head: snatches of all the chants and devotional songs (kirtan), a comforting reminder of the sanctuary I've left, a literal bit of energy carried from there to here.

It's going to take awhile to make sense of the past month; of the events leading up to it and of where to carry it from here. I know at least that my experience of ashram life, and the Yoga teacher training course, were completely transformational--transformed to what, time will tell.

I am going to post themed installments over the next 2 weeks, beginning with "Auspiciousness," a reflection on the Mumbai attacks and my arrival at the ashram. Please check back in, and have a peaceful New Year.

Om Namah Sivaya.

LUNGS

Today was our day off. Saturday. "Off" meaning we rose for satsang at 5:30, did two yoga classes at 8:00 and 4:00, and will have satsang again at 8:00. (Off: no lectures....the knees and hips rejoice; that's only 3 hours of sitting today instead of 6!) 4 hours of free time in the middle of the day was absolutely overwhelming--too much choice, what to do--and I am looking forward to week two beginning tomorrow.

I chose not to go into Madurai. I don't think I'll leave the ashram until I have to. So...this post is probably it until January; the ashram internet connection is too slow. Sorry, folks, I'm very happily on retreat. The experience will be described in detail, here, next month.

In the meantime...Merry christmas, Happy New Year, Om Namah Sivaya.

Om Namah Sivaya

I'm in.
It's been one hell of a few days and I have rarely felt this emotionally, physically, mentally tired.
Not exactly the state in which one wants to begin such an intensive program...but it truly seems like the universe was sending messages along the lines of: the time is NOW.
Swami Govinanda calls me "lucky girl" and shakes his head in disbelief every time he sees me. I'll tell you why on Friday, our day off, when I'm heading into Madurai for a decent internet connection.

In the meantime...please drink a glass of red wine, several espressos, and eat a steak for me.

A la prochaine...

From camel safari to ustrasana in 24 hours

Not going north with friends on the trip we've been planning since August (itinerary, below right). PiA has, reasonably, asked me to wait a week or perhaps two before they can give the go-ahead for North India.

It's sad and frustrating and feels a little like caving to a culture of fear; and a whole lot like a missed opportunity.

Or a gained one. I've got no desire to hang out waiting in Kody, or even on a Goan beach, for two weeks. So off to the ashram we go, for perhaps one of the scariest things I've ever undertaken: four week yoga teacher training.

It's on my list of things to do in life.

It's a hell of a lot cheaper than flying home for a month.

It means I don't have to worry about packing for cold North and hot Kerala...

And it's not for sure, so please cross-fingers that, when a colleague and I show up later today there will be space, they'll let me join at the 11th hour, and will give the Indian rate...

If yes, I likely won't be posting here until January. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! Be safe, Northbound friends!

Namaste.

Mumbai Attacks

Kody's been drenched, wind-whipped and shrouded in fog since Sunday; my apartment hasn't had power for 3 days. I've enjoyed the rain/fog/cold: from the classroom, kids high on sugar cookies singing Rudolph over and over, glitter strewn everywhere and nothing but Christmas parties and slush "lessons" unfolding, the white swirling fog looks almost like snow...

I slept at a friend's place last night. She's got power (most of the time), and hot water, and a tv. We went to sleep around ten--when the power went out--and woke up to it still out. As is often the case when one lives far from home and close to violence, I got first wind of what happened from concerned family half a world away. I guess the attacks were better timed for your news cycle than ours. Plus the whole power-out thing. What is there to say?

Appalling. Pathetic. Yeah, again, Pathetic.

It's been a long day here at KIS. Exams finished yesterday, and students are heading down the flooded mountain, one busload at a time, home. Home to Chennai, Bangalore, Delhi. Mumbai. Lots going home to Mumbai. The vice principal's office says: All flights to Mumbai, going ahead as scheduled. Home to Seoul, Singapore, Dubai, Frankfurt, London, New York, Vancouver. 16 students can't get home to Thailand (and quite a number of staff can't start their vacations) because the escalating political situation there means all airports are closed. All this was announced at closing assembly, 11:00, on the covered courts. 600 students and 300 staff and faculty, huddled under high tin roofs, rain whipping in from all sides. Thank you to the departing teachers and volunteers, best wishes to those students moving on, a moment of silence for the KIS alum, chief of Mumbai Police, killed last night. Students and staff families are all safe. A final prayer and then they let us, freezing and wet, go back inside.

Two American colleagues have cancelled their holiday trip. They were going to Rajasthan, and then Delhi, and then coming back South. Now we're wondering. It would be overreacting, I think, to modify our plans. But then it's just so tempting--on this tired, sad, uncertain day at the end of a long teaching semester--so tempting to think of home; of a return flight that would only cost a little more than a month travelling in India; of shopping malls, mom-food, reliable electricity, real coffee; of watching Raptors basketball on a blue couch by a warm fire (dry wood!) while white snow whips the window pane.

Gazing, Grazing

I recently came across an interesting article on white expats in Jakarta and their experience of being, usually for the first time, in the racial minority. It was about the "Othering gaze," about being stared at, about no longer being white-invisible. The typical reaction is to do anything to escape the gaze: sunglasses, ipod, look down/up/blankly ahead/away, avoid gazing crowds. Avoid, distance, create a hermetic seal between self and gazing other.

Here, tourists gaze. Kodaikanal locals are used to the foreigners who have been here with the school since before there was a Kodaikanal town. It's gendered, though--or at least, my reaction is.
The gaze of Indian male tourists is unpleasant and I usually react as described above, occasionally giving a dirty look, occasionally responding with a real hello, depending on my mood. It is easy to imagine they are not only staring at whiteness, but are also objectifying a body; who knows what is truly behind the stare.
I've become a little mischievous with female tourists who stare. Usually, they come in school groups--or at least walk the lake in large, somewhat ordered packs. They REALLY stare, and it has a different quality, it is a gaze at the strange. I am strange. They stare hard, and nudge each other, and whisper, and point. So...I've started matching their stare. For amusement. I will meet their eyes with even deeper intensity; it usually takes a few seconds for the poor girl to realize I am looking right back. Caught. She then looks away, hides her face, smiles sheepishly, even shrieks and ducks, while her friends buzz. I try to smile while staring--as if to say: It's ok, have a look, I know I'm whiter than white, have short hair, am wearing jeans...but why not say hello, or vannakam, while staring?

Yesterday I was having a coffee and doing some marking (Hilltop bakery has finally accepted the fact that I will show up daily and sit for close to an hour); a group of seniors was talking loudly at the next table. Privileged Indian youth, heatedly debating whether to apply to colleges in the UK or the States. One young man was arguing in favour of the States--preferably the midwest--because whenever he walks the streets of Paris or London, he creates a spectacle. In the States, he disappears. Magnified/melted away. A young woman countered that America has no culture, so she will be applying to UK schools instead.

In exactly two weeks, I will be boarding a train in Chennai, bound for Agra...Delhi....Rajasthan...Rishikesh....Varanasi...then back south for two weeks of yoga at the Neyyar Dam ashram and Kerala beaches with Ficklius and our cousin. It goes ever faster.

Pics: someone got into our trash, check out his toupee; mum's package with bestest new thermal top and earrings finally arrived:

Diagnosis: Diwali

I have a case of mountain fever, with a touch of frazzled nerves. The tourists came up in droves, starting last Friday, for Diwali, and were an especially rowdy group. With fireworks. Lots of fireworks. One even threw a firework AT me and a friend while we were strolling around the lake.
So I've been feeling a little antagonistic towards this town, school, this country, bovine creatures and their offerings to every street and footpath, incessant honking, the monsoon....

A little homesick, a lot cranky, certainly not in the mood for Diwali.

But then monkeys were playing outside my living room this morning!
Le singe ne fume pas une pipe, Eddie. Mais les singes sont sur le tuyaux!
And no school after lunch!
Afternoon visit to temple for Diwali puja!
The chance to wear a sari can work miracles.
So can impromptu photoshoots of gorgeous silk kurtas and new saris!
(No cameras allowed inside the temple...)
Evening sweets! and (sigh) more fireworks.
Dark mood banished....

Happy Diwali ~ Namaste.

sigh....

A Tuesday morning pause: no classes until 1:00 and my mind wanders from a daunting pile of planning and marking. Staff computer lounge on main campus. A full-of-light room; skylights and tin roof overhead (a full-of-noise room, too, when the rain pelts the tin roof) and a whole-southeast-wall window. The giant eucy tree outside of ever-changing bark colour and pattern, and tiny pert green and blue birds that gently tap at the window panes.

I am contemplating a nose stud. They are just so beautiful; a little point of light near the eyes, near the smile. Spencer's sells little bindi packs for 5 rupees and I got a set of 10 stick-on diamondesque jewels yesterday. Left side? Right side? This is one to contemplate for at least a month.

chats et chiens

The monsoon has arrived.
Apparently, what we had before (warm sunny mornings, mist rolled in and temperature dropped at noon, heavy rain between 3 and 5, clear evenings) was just "weather."
Last Saturday night, I walked out of a social gathering to heavy heavy fog. Woke up Sunday morning to the sound of rain falling--first time waking up to rain in Kody.
It has been alternately foggy, drizzling, or full-on downpouring since.
They say it'll be like this til the end of November.

My ayah hung the washing out to dry on Monday afternoon. Rain? No matter; the clothesline is strung under a 6-foot-deep roof, well protected from all but the most driving side-pour.
Tuesday: clothes don't seem to have dried at all. Hmmmm.
Wednesday: clothes are wetter than when they emerged from the washing tub. Curious, I observe the line from my doorway in the middle of a particularly drenching bout of rain. No raindrops reach my laundry. It is definitely not getting rained on.
Thursday: yes, still getting wetter; and drawers are getting very empty. Is my wet laundry absorbing moisture from the air? Yes. My wet laundry must be absorbing moisture from the even wetter atmosphere.
Logical solution: string a clotheline in the sitting room and keep the fire going til the clothes dry.
25 matches, several bins' worth of crumpled newspaper and good kindling later...no go. No fire. Even paper won't burn. It just sort of steams. The kindling will catch....then sizzle, then go out. Logs? Hah.
This could present a problem. I'm already working with a meagre wardrobe. 6 more weeks of damp or dirty clothes?

Noah and the Archaeoceratops

KIS is a Christian organization. At the elementary school, the students learn a verse of scripture every week and have regular classes in Religious (Christian) Education. Last week, the coordinator mixed things up a bit; instead of a Bible passage the kids learned about Noah's Ark, and the Arky Arky song.
(Remember? The animals, they came in, they came in by twosies, twosies,
The animals, they came in, they came in by twosies, twosies,
Elephants and kangaroosies, roosies,
Children of the Lord....)

Every grade level at KIS elementary studies a different theme each month; Language Arts, Science, Social Studies, and specialist classes are all supposed to integrate this theme. I loosely tie Art units to the theme: for instance, 4th grade is starting a geology unit, and we are going to do clay, and learn about the physical properties of clay that make it mouldable, how it forms naturally, etc.

I brought Two by Two, my favourite Barbara Reid book from Canada, with the intention of using it to set up a unit on plasticene. Two by Two tells the story of Noah's Ark. So when the Arky Arky song sprung up all over campus, I thought, Aha! Opportunity to integrate Art plan with Bible Studies instead of the usual themes, and score major brownie points with my boss. And, I am just about to start a new unit with my pre-K, KG, gr1, gr2 nightmare class....we could start plasticine instead...yes...perfect. Hmmmm, how could it work? 1 class singing the song and talking about the story, then read-aloud Two by Two...talk about how the pictures were made...look closely at the pictures. Next class, get familiar with plasticine and just play. 3rd class; make animals from the Noah's Ark story, or just make your favourite animahhhh----

Uh oh.

Grade 1/2 just started a new theme: dinosaurs. They have been drawing dinosaurs, talking dinosaurs, and playing dinosaurs out the wazoo for the last few days and I see no reason for this to let up until the end of October.

In fact, I've already told the class that for their next unit, we are going to be writing stories and making books about dinosaurs. (so cool: texture-rubbings in various colours, then free-form cutting of dinosaur shapes and dinosaur-era fauna to produce collage illustrations, a la another really cool kiddie-lit author, Eric Carle. Except he uses paint instead of rubbings...doesn't matter).

Someone is going to want to make a plasticine dinosaur.

Someone is going to ask whether there were any dinosaurs on Noah's Ark.

Someone is going to ask WHY there weren't any dinosaurs on the boat...which leads to....Miss Mac? Miss Mac? Are there dinosaurs in the Bible, Miss Mac?

Hmmmm. Can I run with this? Could we turn it into an integration of flood-story and fossil-record evidence that the earth is way way way way older than the Bible says?

Is it possible I won't get severely reprimanded for planning (delighting in) this project?

Maybe we can write a story as a class. And then illustrate it. With texture-rubbing collage scenes and photographs of plasticine sculptures. About why Noah wouldn't let the dinosaurs on the Ark. "How the Dinosaurs Went Extinct; the Biblical Version," just so.

My inner scientist/archaeologist/secular humanist cringes.
The part of my brain that isn't sure whether this will offend certain member of this community quavers.
But the writer, illustrator, rebel-teacher, in me wants so badly to nudge the kids in this very creative direction...

Potential plot-lines:

1. Noah lets the dinosaurs on the boat, but when they walk up the plank it cracks in two (cracks in twosies?) under their weight. They fall into the rapidly rising flood waters and drown.

2. While Noah builds the boat and his sons and their wives gather food and other supplies, the dinosaurs decide to record this epic event by painting and drawing the humans and all the animals on some cave walls in southwest europe. The dinoartists get so into it, they miss Noah's All-Aboard call. In the meantime, glaciers descend from the north, covering all of Europe under a sheet of ice three miles high. When the dinoartists emerge from the cave, finally happy with their art, they starve and freeze to death in the glacial climate.

3. Noah was going to let the dinosaurs on the boat. When all the various dinosaur species showed up at the loading dock, Noah said that due to space restrictions, only one dinosaur species would be allowed to board, to continue on the name of all dinosaurs forever and ever. Understandably, the various species thought this was a little unjust. Their chicken-sized brains were incapable of coming up with any solution other than to charge the loading dock, a dino free-for-all competition to save themselves from extinction. T-Rex decided (1) he was king of dinosaurs and so should be the one allowed on the boat, (2) this was an excellent opportunity to feed. He ravaged the melee, killing every dinosaur and enjoying a most excellent meal. Unfortunately, the meal turned out to be his last: just as T-Rex stepped onto the plank to board the boat, his mate at his side, a very small meteor (about the size of a pea) plummeted from the sky and struck T-Rex directly in the temple. Instant death. T-Rex toppled sideways off the plank, knocking his mate off balance and carrying her with him. They fell into the rising flood waters and drowned.

4. Noah decided that that the dinosaurs were too big to come aboard. However, he recognized that some of the dinosaurs were aquatic, and encouraged them to swim behind the Ark along with all the other swimming creatures. They did. Unfortunately, the Ark (with the swimming creatures in tow) was drifting somewhere over the north of Scotland when the flood waters started to recede. Just as the Scottish Highlands were about to emerge from the water, the Ark turned south, and the swimming creatures followed, including Mr. Swimming Dinosaur. Mrs Swimming Dinosaur was last in line, and got trapped in a valley-cum-lake, where she remains to this day (Mr. Swimming Dinosaur died of grief).

5. Noah, wisely, decided that adult dinosaurs were simply too large and ate too much to be permitted on the boat. However, in the interests of future biologists, he brought two dinosaur eggs aboard. They would be carefully nurtured aboard the ark, and allowed to hatch, grow up, and reproduce in the new, post-flood world. Unfortunately, on day 39, someone forgot his scientific ideals, got hungry, fried the dinosaur eggs and enjoyed them with three rashers of bacon, black coffee, and toast.

Baby Face

Just a quick one to say THANK YOU to my family and friends, all over the world, who sent birthday wishes today. And THANK YOU THANK YOU to my big Kody family for your birthday wishes, cards, gifts, hugs, and one helluva good birthday dinner (pad thai loaded with fresh, colourful, crisp veggies; coconut chicken curry, brown rice, heineken acquired godknowswhere, and my favourite warm blueberry cake....HEAVEN). I feel truly blessed to know and be stuck on this mountain top with you all. Even in the ridiculous rain (Bonfire? Meh. No point having one til the marshmallow shipment arrives, anyway).

Down the Mountain

At the end of first quarter, KIS packs up and disperses over Southern India for field trip week. I begged off of the elementary chaperone list, and onto the 8th grade bus heading north to Bylakuppe. In 1961, the state of Karnataka granted 1200 hectares of land to TIbetan refugees. Since that time, the Bylakuppe settlement has grown to support approximately 5000 Tibetan monks and 10 000 refugee laypeople.

It was my first trip down the mountain since arriving in India some 2.5 months ago. Therefore, in addition to experiencing vastly different, very Tibetan Bylakuppe, I had the shock of train and bus travel on the Tamil Nadu plains and a visit to Mysore city; my first taste of unquestionably Real India(s). (Please read this for context in which I use the term Real India).

This post threatened to be about 5000 words and 3 weeks overdue so I'm taking the visual route instead...enjoy the pics and remember you can click on them to enlarge!





Bylakuppe's Golden Temple: to enter, you first walk the monastery perimeter (several hundred meters), a covered walkway lined by fluttering prayer flags on one side, and prayer wheels on the other. I spun every single wheel, accumulating the equivalent merit of having recited the mantras contained within about a hundred thousand times. Maybe. Also pictured: the Golden Temple's 60-foot gold plated Buddha.



When I entered the temple it was empty and silent, long rows of mats, low tables and prayer books lying still before the awesome golden Buddha. A long low horn broke the silence, followed by countless hurried footsteps; hundreds of monks poured into the temple, prostrated to the statue, and took their places. I stayed as long as I could, for about 20 minutes of chanting, drumming, recitations, tea-drinking.










Monks debating: most evenings, monks at a certain stage in their training gather for paired debates on the texts studies and discussed that day. One monk (standing) poses questions, delivered with a dramatic step, wind up and loud clap. The seated monk responds. We were granted special permission for female students and chaperones to enter the monastery after dark, in order to watch roughly 2000 monks debate in a monastery courtyard buzzing with question, response, sharp clap after clap.













Thangka studio: specifications for even the tiniest details of content, dimensions, and colour are laid out in Buddhist scriptures.









Tourist monks from Bhutan







Tourist monks who wanted to pose with a fig tree


We played football (boys) and volleyball (girls) against students from S.O.S. Children's Village, a school and home for orphans and child-refugees whose parents are in Tibet. Many of these kids crossed the Himalayas on foot to get out.














Morning assembly and the rush to class.

Reincarnation?

Sorry for the long absence. Excuses:

Death by viral fever Tuesday night.

Death by bacterial infection, a.k.a "Kody stomach", Thursday morning.

Death by Quarter Reports all weekend.

But I'm feeling all better, first quarter is done (!!!), and I'm on the road to enlightenment....or at least to Bylakuppe, Karnataka for field trip week with the 8th grade. Bylakuppe is a Tibetan settlement and I'll be chilling with Buddhist monks and nuns for the next 6 days.

Tons of pictures and a good post on my return, bien sur.

Grounding

This afternoon my head touched the floor in prasarita padottanasa. For two years the floor was miles away; the last few months the crown of my head has been a loooong three inches from the floor. Like a good little yogini, I have hung out there, breathing, not forcing, strong in the legs and core, waiting. Waiting for today? Inhale, lengthen, fold forward. Inhale, lengthen to straight back, fold...and....an ever so gentle boom.
Crown.
Ground.
Incredible.

Finally grounded today, perhaps, thanks to Ganesha, Remover of Obstacles. Thank you for removing those last three inches of air, and a belated happy birthday to you. All of Kodaikanal seems to have delayed your birthday: the town was quiet on Thursday, the actual day. Today I woke to wild drumming from all directions, and what sounded like gunshots at 2 or 3 minute intervals. The booms and bangs increased in frequency all morning, until one "atom bomb" was going off every few seconds. Several processions of drumming, dancing men led multiple Ganeshas (mounted on tractors and cartops) through the streets--back and forth all morning, with no apparent destination. I was just informed at dinner that sometime this afternoon (perhaps right about when my head was grounding??) the processions ended at lake Kody, where Ganesha had a bath.

Sad I missed it, but...MY HEAD TOUCHED THE GROUND IN PADOTTANASANA!

Happy Happy Birthday also to my dearest Ficklius. Your gift from afar: I spent most of the day planning our Kerala/Karnataka itinerary for January. Big cyberspace hugs til then (can't wait).

Imagined Realities

On the Real India:
Recently, conversation with some friends here has meandered onto the subject of “the Real India.” The somewhat muddled and troubled concept came to my attention well before leaving home. During PiA orientation, a fellow intern made a rather offhand (and unfair!) comment that implied my position was not “real service” and would be an inferior PiA experience because Kodaikanal, and KIS, was not “Real India.”
I will neither waste this space responding to the argument that teaching isn't service, nor will I validate the idea that PiA posts can be compared in any meaningful way, let alone ranked.
However, the question of whether Kody is Real India might be worth pursuing, and you can count on my returning to the topic in the future. Thoughts thus far:
*There is no The Real India (singular). That’s a well-accepted idea. As a political entity, India exists [of course, only to the extent that any state “exists.” Nation-states are imagined, aren’t they?] But everyone knows that politics aside, India is better defined as a hundred nations in one, as the most diverse nation in the world, best characterized as uncharacterizable in its confounding diversity.
*The idea of Real India (or Real Indias) is not just a Westerner’s concept. It has also been implied by comments made by several my new Indian friends. I can’t imagine of what their notion consists. But I can imagine, that as a figment of Western imagination, Real India must be made of: temples, dusty rural poverty, filthy urban slums, a small but incredibly wealthy urban elite, blaring Bollywood music and a rainbow of saris, dusty crusty poverty, squat toilets and cows and eating with one’s fingers, begging poverty, colourful zany Hindu temples, maybe with the odd mosque or church or turban thrown in, Raj remnants, more poverty, elephants, incense and yoga and spice.
*As a figment of Western imagination, Real India is diverse. But this diversity has impermeable outer borders. In other words, people and influences from outside aren’t part of Imagined Real India. (Exception: the Raj is Real India, because it is Real history that has shaped the Real present.) Outside influences are threats to Real India (so what happens when this present becomes history?) A person who imagines such a Real India might think that KIS, founded by American Missionaries and consisting of about 50% non-Indian students and teachers, is not Real India. All the food and water consumed at KIS is imported from Europe at 6-week intervals. And every time the hot water geyser stops working, a plumber flies over from Cleveland to fix it. Best of all, we get paid American salaries in USD. Hah, hah.
*Last weekend I chaperoned the 11th grade trip to Poondi camp. I ran the Zip Line. High Ropes courses on the outdoor education properties of private IB-curriculum schools are not part of Imagined Real India. But the path through the woods leading to the Zip Line was also used by wild bison, water buffalo and wandering cows. Walking back to camp at the end of the day, I slipped and fell on a particularly fresh, slimy green cowpie. It was definitely Real.

On the Real Kody:
Wednesday night, I had dinner at my friend’s cozy little flat on main campus. Over ratatouille and a precious bottle of red wine, then plum cheesecake and black coffee, we wondered at the fortune a similar flat would cost in Boston, Paris, Sydney. But for the occasional blackouts, we could have been in any of those places. Surely not the Imagined Real India. Is our community a bubble, picked up from Somewhere Else and plunked down on this mountain top? It's more complicated than that--too complicated to be able to draw a line between some Real India, and whatever this place is. The world today is more complicated than that. A snapshot of the following day (maybe this is Real Kody?):
After school Thursday, I went to the bank. The bank tends to be a trying errand--crowded, hot, and incredibly confusing. I am used to plastic cards and pins; here, I actually have to fill out a paper slip to deposit or withdraw, then stand in a "line" for the wicket. Eventually to hand over the slip to a man sitting in front a of a giant safe whose door is periodically opened, in full view of the entire bank. While "waiting in line" (i.e., using elbows and a nasty glare to hold my ground), there was a sudden commotion near the bank door. I turned to see a man, holding the door ajar, kicking at something near the ground. A flash of brown; a monkey's retreating tail, the door slammed and bolted shut. About a dozen monkeys were camped on the bank steps, some of the larger ones especially interested in the door handle, others peering through the glass. Any time someone tried to leave, the monkeys would crowd the door, and it was slammed shut again. We were held up (ahem) for 10 minutes, and I was nearly late for staff yoga.
It's not the Ashtanga I know and love and learned in France and Canada (not in India, not Real Yoga?). A different yoga, a breath-ier, slower yoga. It’s not insta-butt-sculpting yoga. Easier on the body, but so much more difficult (more Real?) Taught by an English colleague (less?) When I put the crown of my head on the ground and rise up in headstand, Indian ground supports my weight.
Walking home after yoga, I navigated around zooming motos and cows, past stalls manned by thin, poor, brown Real Indians. Was stared at, whistled at, leered at. By Real Indians. Even in this town. A foreign white giant woman outside invader of Real India. Almost home: just past the Temple (Hindu), then round the corner and up the hill. Thunder overhead and the monsoon nightsky opened—through the pounding rain I could faintly hear the Muslim call to prayer drifting up the hill.
Through the gate. My umbrella is leaking, my sneakers soaked through (Real rain, Real puddles). Laughter, singing, guitar strumming coming from the dorm common room. It is dorm devotions night: as a study break, the boys gather for a led prayer or song or Bible discussion. I pause in the doorway to look in: two dozen teenagers, about half the faces a palette of Indian Browns, the other faces mostly Korean, framed by incredible moussed and blowdried 'dos, every one of them singing about Jesus. Real voices, Real smiles.
Later there’s a knock at the door. “Ma! Ma! Dhobi, ma.” I open and the dhobi hands over a stack of pressed, folded linens, tshirts, and jeans; I hand him 20 rupees (about 50 cents). My clean (slapped and pounded against a rock in a river, a river fed by overflow from mercury-tinged Kody lake, a river fed by monsoon rain that washes the shit and dirt from Kody roads before rushing downhill towards Dhobi Town) clothes smell faintly of smoke; in this wet season clothes are dried on scaffolding set up over eucalyptus fires.
The Dhobi walks off into the dark, wet Indian night. I return to my French marking, but within minutes, the room disappears into blackness. Power’s out again. Outside, the generator thuds into action; through the windows I see some dorm lights flicker on. Mine do not. Sigh. Rotten luck—or maybe not. Papers can be marked in the morning; teeth can be brushed by candlelight; delicious sleep delivered early by deepest darkness and drumming rain.