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Out of the Arms of India.
Now I see why people have written so many songs expressing gratitude for India. Alanis Morissette’s “Thank U” comes to mind instantly.
Thank you India, thank you providence
Thank you disillusionment
Thank you nothingness, thank you clarity
Thank you, thank you silence
The moment I let go of it was the moment I got more than I could handle
The moment I jumped off of it was the moment I touched down
On arriving in India, when we were headed for our fateful stay at the ashram, Fiona questioned how anyone could find peace, solace and equilibrium in a place that appears so out of control, off its axis, chaotic.
I pondered this and responded that perhaps this was indeed the very best place to find the stillness we were both searching for.
I feel at home in Asia, strangely. More at home walking the messy sidewalks, dodging motorbikes, autos and poop than I do here in Singapore with the cleanest and neatest sidewalks I have ever seen – certainly rivalling those in Melbourne. Even the alleys and laneways are clean here.
Sure, it’s quiet here – there is a certain Prosaic peacefulness in the air (perhaps Valium in the water?) that allows one to actually notice one’s independent thoughts, but cities such as Singapore and Melbourne present no immediate external or sensual challenges.
To be aware of yourself crossing a road in Singapore is quite different to being aware of yourself crossing a road in India. No emotion is aroused crossing a road in Singapore – you will make it. If you cross the road in India, you are filled with an instant gratefulness to be still experiencing the joy of life.
India had me somewhat hypnotised, and I concerned myself with thoughts of my lack of creative production, not to mention my lack of blog writing. Now that I am out of her grip, I am better able to reflect on the myriad of lessons I learned.
The frenetic external bombardment I experienced in India was almost perfectly balanced by my brain’s ability to create such inner stillness and quiet that I really ceased to be productive. Not necessarily a state I would like to live in perpetually, but interesting to notice.
I would liken my internal state whilst in India to Philip Glass’ “Escape to India” from the Kundun album.
In a city of over five million people, I saw so many faces everyday. I am still naïve to the intricacies in the social tapestry of India. I am reminded of words by Sinead O’Connor:
Perfect Indian
He’s shy and he speaks quietly
He’s gentle and he seems to me
Like the El Farrow
His face worn and harrowed
Is he a daydreamer like me?
I don’t know if I can believe that if you hand one of these many faces the keys to their emancipation that they will simply throw them back in your face, as Aravind Adiga (author of White Tiger – a fabulous book, well worth the read) suggests. But perhaps centuries of expectation have ingrained an understanding into the psyches of “these people”.
I remember a scene while we purchased pasta and cake from a tea stall in 8th Main Road. A small child came up behind us asking for money, as many did. She was filthy and shoeless as they all are. We had made a decision not to give money to beggars, but given we were at the tea stall we were discussing buying her a samosa to eat. Two young Indian university students, also purchasing lunch from the tea stall, told the stall owner, a gruff older man with a decent paunch, to wrap up a veg puff and give it to the girl behind us. He flatly refused, once he knew the puff was for the child. “No. They will become expectant. You can’t do that with these people. You can’t buy her food”. “But she’s hungry!”. “No”. I looked at the child. Is she just one of them? I was struck by the scene of the stall holder who looked not at the child’s eyes, but at her matted hair and dirty hands, the young women who possibly saw a human element in her hunger and desperation, and us standing in our Havaiana thongs that could pay for a month’s worth of food for her and her family.
I will not be just another tourist who feels terrible about the child and signs up for a monthly donation to a largely administrative charity organization. I want to make real change. I’m not sure how just yet, but I’ll keep you posted.
But for now, it’s farewell and thank you to India for clarity and insight.
Indian Summer - Music by Victor Herbert, lyrics by Al Dubin.
The particular version I listened to was sung by Tony Bennet from his Unplugged album, which consequently has a brilliant duet with k.d. lang.
Summer
You old Indian summer
You’re the tear that comes after June-time’s laughter
You see so many dreams that don’t come true
Dreams we fashioned when summer time was new
You are here to watch over
Some heart that is broken
By a word that somebody left unspoken
You’re the ghost of a romance in June going astray
Fading too soon, that’s why I say
Farewell, to you Indian summer
Sivananda Yoga Ashram and Kovalam Beach.
Over looking the waves and rocks at Kovalam beach (Kerala, India), I have thought a lot about our short, four and a half day stay at Sivananda Yoga Ashram. Leaving much earlier than our month or two intentions.
We enjoyed the asana classes immensely. The food, though repetitive, was very tasty. The accommodation was spartan but adequate for our needs. We really struggled with the satsang. Chanting I don’t mind, but four hours every day was pushing my limits of respectful observation. By day two, we were being strongly encouraged to participate in worship which neither Fiona or I felt comfortable with.
One of the teachers showed an overt display of frustration and annoyance at several students leaving a satsang early, yelling out to the students that their actions were disrespectful, eventually running out of the hall to retrieve some of them. I’m not condoning anyone’s behaviour in this scenario, the movie we were shown was tremendously boring – a poorly crafted, too-long visual homage to Sivananda, who grew in size, wealth and popularity in each clip. Leaving satsang at any point is a sign of disrespect, though this information is inferred and not made explicit. This event caused no further open discussion the following day from our teachers. This was not the first example of lack of open communication.
Fiona and I talked intensely for two days about whether to stick it out or leave, whether we felt our ego’s were to blame for our inner rebellion towards satsang, whether we could endure satsang for the sake of the wonderful asana classes. In the end, we decided that Sivananda just wasn’t for us, so with some sadness we left on the Friday after having only arrived on the Sunday prior.
We have now been in Kovalam for just over one week and although, at first, we thought it too touristy and western catering, we are now learning from locals and long term residents about all of the little hidden gems of this little coastal town. It is likely we will plant ourselves here for quite a few weeks more.
With so few westerners, it is easy to strike conversation in the street or at a chai stall with the other foreigners. We me Mikey, from the US, while swimming in the beach two afternoons ago. He told me of a lady taking yoga classes in one of the closed restaurants which I attended that same afternoon. Evangeline, from the UK, is offering yoga classes as selfless service and just asked us to put in 20 rupees (less than $1AUD) each to give to the restaurant owner as a sign of our appreciation for use of the space.
Evangeline has been living in Kovalam for the past six months while studying yoga and yoga teaching and has been a wealth of information regarding local eating and shopping haunts. She is a really wonderful yoga instructor and my daily 4pm yoga class followed by a swim at 6pm has become somewhat of a ritual.
There are more and more connections and conversations every day, a type of lifestyle we just don’t cultivate on peak hour trains to and from work in Melbourne. I have always been struck by the silence. It seems a shame, for you never know who you could be sitting next to and how they might help colour the rich tapestry of your life, or how you could impact the direction of theirs.
