Roopa's Choice

(In the hospital media room with Roopa, Simran and Shubi watching Covey's "8th Habit" while Roopa receives treatment.)

Back in Ft. Cochin for one night before my return to Bombay, I awoke at 5:26 a.m. wondering what room I was in. I thought I knew, but the walls were in the wrong place and in the dark, I could not orient myself. My hands stretched out feeling the cool walls on two sides of me. They were not where I expected to find them. Mildly disturbed by my disorientation, I lifted my head from the pillow to get a better perspective on the room.

Allowing my eyes to focus and feeling around with my hands, I realized that I was completely sideways on the bed, not the position in which I had fallen asleep. Surprised at my twisted positioning, I realized that I was restless thinking about Roopa. Earlier in the evening, I received a call from Roopa’s phone, but it was Shubi on the line confirming my arrival information and arranging for my transportation from the airport. For a moment, she handed the phone to Roopa, who sounded cheerful, but with less energy than her usual self. It was a brief conversation, lasting only long enough to share that we were looking forward to seeing each other again.

Before going to sleep that night, Roopa was on my mind as I mentally and physically began preparing myself for seeing her again, this time under less festive circumstances. When we first met, Roopa was full of energy, bright eyed and excited from her three days at the Silver Jubilee (25th Anniversary) of the Art of Living Human Values Conference in Bangalore. Within less than five minutes of meeting, she had taken me under her spiritual wing and assumed responsibility for my safety, health and growth while in India. She made me feel at home in a place very far from it. Now I was returning to that home, but all was not how I had left it.

These thoughts and how to approach my return occupied my thoughts as I lay in bed waiting for sleep to return. No luck with my date in dreamland, I got up to apply my anxious energy to organizing and packing. Traveling solo, I did not have the benefit of valued conversation from my friends and family for a different perspective. I sat down at the guesthouse computer and checked e-mail finding comfort in something familiar. Dealing with illness, life and death was unfamiliar and uncomfortable territory for me.

Fortunately, there was a well spring of e-mails from friends and family that energized me. Many reiterated their prayers for Roopa’s healing which, when conveyed to her, brought extended smiles to her face with joyful bursts of energy. One e-mail in particular counseled me in a way that I needed, “Remember to treat her like she is living, not dying,” it read. That was the perspective I was racking my brain for throughout the night.

For the next five days, there wouldn’t be any sightseeing, no visits to ashrams, no yoga classes, no meals out, just being. Within days of my departure from Bombay in early March, Roopa’s life and all those around her, especially Shubi and Simran, took a dramatic turn. The delicate balance between life and death, usually occupying a backseat to daily routine, was now front and center on everyone’s mind.

Arrival in Bombay

Walking out of the airport, luggage in tow, I was reminded of my first night arriving more than five weeks ago when I was hoping that someone in the crowd outside of the terminal was there for me. This time I breezed through the airport as if I had been there a hundred times, exiting the terminal with the confidence that Manosh, one of the Gupta’s drivers whom I had met before, would be waiting for me. Scanning the crowd only once, I spotted Manosh’s smile in the back row of the crowd as we waved at each other.

Climbing into the car I knew, driving down the streets I recognized, we were off to run a few errands and then return to the Gupta condominium in the “Serenity Heights” building. An hour or so later, I was back at the condo where Bharti, a reiki massage therapist tending to Roopa, greeted me and explained that Roopa was resting. I took a seat at the dining table where a large lunch of five or six dishes was served by the Gupta cooks and household helpers. The food was always amazing at the Gupta’s with a selection that rivaled the menu of many restaurants.

Midway through my lunch, Shubi joined me having just woken from an afternoon nap. As expected, she was rocked by the news of her mother’s recent diagnosis and was still coping with the fall out. Having dealt with the news now for three weeks, she had found her stride and roll in assisting her Mom back to good health. The Gupta daughters, 23 and 24, were strong women, both well educated and having senior managerial positions within the family dealerships and workshops. Roopa had raised them with strong self esteems and independent can-do attitudes.

A half hour after lunch, Bharti came to tell me that Roopa was ready to see me. Excited and now firmly grounded, I walked into Roopa’s bedroom where she was resting under a patchwork designed quilt comforter. She looked peaceful and cracked a warm smile as I entered the room. I walked over to her as she sat up and gave her a hug. Without missing a beat, she immediately wanted to hear about my trip.

“How was the ashram?,” she wanted to know first.

I went into great detail about my experience as I knew she could relate, reliving her own experiences with several Art of Living courses she had taken. Roopa was an Art of Living veteran. She had met Guruji and was well connected to his network. It was this network and the powerful energy of spirit that now served as a valued source of strength.

When I finished my ashram story, Roopa was quick to inquire about the yoga festival in Rishikesh which lead to the first slideshow of pictures on my computer. She was delighted at the pictures of Guruji and the other yogis visiting the festival. The pictures energized her, speaking to her soul, reinvigorating her connection to spirit. Two hours or more into our catch-up session, I could tell Roopa was tired and Simran was heading to the gym, so I seized the opportunity to tag along.

At the age of 24, Simran runs the human resources operations at the family auto workshop. She works six and sometimes seven days a week. Attending evening kick-boxing and spin classes are essential to her stress management. Now faced with her Mom’s illness, she needed the classes more than ever. Unzipping my pant legs to convert my cargo pants to shorts, I took advantage of the weight room while Simran took her class.

On the way home from the gym, we had a chance to catch-up on her feelings about her Mom’s illness. Obviously upset, like Shubi, Simran had now settled into her role in nursing her Mom back to good health. She had been through it before with Roopa’s fight with breast cancer, but that was only a year and a half ago, and she was not expecting cancer to return so soon, if at all. Simran’s concern now was the people coming to visit Roopa. She explained that some family members did not share the same spiritual outlooks as Roopa, reminding me of what Bharti had explained to me four weeks earlier regarding the difference between Americans and Indians, i.e., “Americans live to live and Indians live to die.” It was a cultural mindset revolving around karma and fate.

Returning to the condominium, Simran’s concern was self evident. A few of Roopa’s relatives had gathered at the condo. A somber mood filled the air that was not present earlier when Roopa and I first re-connected. Mobiles were ringing and everyone was physically present, but mentally distracted. Roopa was surrounded by bodies, all of whom were there because of Roopa, but they seemed lost, unsure of what to do, or mourning with long faces as if resigned to a pre-destined fate for Roopa. I wasn’t sure how much of it was cultural versus general human nature. Sometimes it is the serious illness of a loved one that triggers an uncomfortable internal reminder of our own mortality.

Death is the great unknown, feared by many, who despite it’s inevitability wait until the inevitable knocks at their body’s door before arranging their spiritual affairs. All of the major world religions offer a belief system, a vision for the afterlife. Even in India, a country where religion and spirit seemingly appear on the dash of every car, a temple in every home and many television stations devoted to faith, word of cancer is a sharp reminder of life’s expiry. And everyone reacts differently. Fear rises in some, the will to fight in others, and the urge to flee for some running away from the thoughts of losing a loved one or perhaps the thought of their own mortality.

From the serious and strained looks on many of the visitor’s faces, they were understandably upset, but also seemed to be pre-maturely mourning a loss, all of which was contrary to Roopa’s plan. She knew it was going to be her choice, not theirs. Roopa was not dying, she was living joyfully with a smile on her face. Although more tired than usual as was to be expected, Roopa was gearing up to fight, to commit herself to beating cancer physically, mentally and spiritually. Having spent many years looking inward and practicing Kriya yoga daily, her spirit was strongly rooted and nourished by a connection with the Divine. Some of those around her, however, seemed less comfortable with Roopa’s condition, perhaps uncomfortable with the concept of death itself or subscribing to the cultural belief of karmic fate.

A recent outsider turned insider, I was not immune from uncomfortable feelings about illness and death, but with the e-mail support of family and friends, lots of time contemplating my return to Bombay and actually meeting with Roopa, my attitude toward life and death was morphing by the minute. Roopa has a grounding force bringing calm and serenity to any situation, good or bad. Meet her and you are instantly drawn to her spiritual bliss, her peaceful spirit. Friends, family and strangers rely on her for support, advice, wisdom and soulful nourishment, things she will now need to carry her through the uncomfortable side effects of chemo and blocking the energy of others resigned to karmic fate.

When the family members left the condo, Roopa and I had some time alone. A CD from the Art of Living played softly in the background while we talked about the attitude required to survive. We were speaking the same spiritual language as I was fresh from completing the Art of Living basic course. Our discussion centered around being 100% committed, a requirement from minute one in the Art of Living basic course and each course thereafter. Fathima had made clear, “You must give 100%. There is no such thing as try.” And that principle was more true than ever for Roopa.

A day earlier than prescribed, another round of chemo was scheduled for the following morning as the doctor would be leaving town and would not be available to monitor treatment. While I was feeling strong in my ability to support Roopa, knowing that she would receive another dose of the toxic drugs did not set well with me. Just after midnight, I returned to my bedroom at the Gupta bungalow while Roopa tried to get some rest.

My First Chemo

The following morning, Shubi phoned and gave me the plan for the day, “I’ll send a driver for you, we’ll have breakfast, stop by the showroom (meaning car dealership) and go to the hospital to see Mom.” That sounded fine, but I was again feeling a bit anxious about one, going to a hospital, and two, unsure of what I would feel watching chemo therapy administered. I didn’t know what it involved, but I knew it wasn’t pleasurable.

True to plan, Shubi and I went about town accomplishing errands and arrived at the women’s only hospital as Roopa was half an IV bottle into her chemo session. Entering the hospital I began to feel queasy, losing my ground as I took on energy, real or imagined, from the hospital. Each step further into the hospital, I asked for the strength to continue. I was way out of my comfort zone, something which I often craved, but this experience was rattling my cage.

The hospital setting was peaceful and unlike most hospitals I had visited. There were Buddha, Ganesh, Krishna and other religious and spiritual symbols, statues and pictures throughout. Entering the room, I was half in body and half out as I followed Shubi into the treatment room. As usual Roopa was cheerful, welcoming and smiling. She had just eaten and moved to one of two beds in the room. True to character, Roopa immediately inquired if we had eaten, again thinking of others.


(On the hospital rooftop, ringing a bell for Roopa in the temple garden.)

Five minutes into our visit, my shock began to wear off and I eased back onto the other bed in the room. A television was on and, unbeknownst to her, I looked to Shubi for cues on how to act. She was relaxed flipping through channels while Roopa laid back receiving treatment occasionally chatting with nurses as they entered to check her progress. I was the only anxious one in the room of old pros.

We spent the afternoon, into the early evening at the hospital as Roopa received two full IV bottles of the chemo drug. When the treatment was completed, the doctor removed the needle from her port, surgically inserted in her chest last week to deliver the drugs more effectively. Zapped of energy, but in good spirits, Roopa walked out of the hospital to make the hour plus drive home, but not without first stopping to find the doctor to thank him. She had received treatment at the same hospital the first time she battled cancer. She was well known by many of the nurses, and from the expressions and actions of all who came to see her, loved by them as well.

On the ride home, recognizing that I had been in the hospital most of the day, Simran asked, “Todd, were you bored today?” I thought about it for a moment, as I was still processing the day’s events. Astute and in tune as usual, as I began to speak, Roopa nodded in agreement echoing my sentiments precisely saying, “This is a part of the spiritual journey too.” And she was right, this was as much a part of my trip as visiting Rishikesh, Bangalore or any other physical place for that matter. While I suspect the lesson plan was designed long before I was aware, the classroom of life was in session and I was sitting in the front row.

Completely drained, I returned to the bungalow for the night to recharge. This was the most challenging curriculum I had had in a long time. To fully live life, you must first appreciate death, not dwell on it, just recognize and honor the value it adds to each day of life. Then just breathe and enjoy.

Tea Time in Camelot

(Munnar Tea Trees on Camelot Estate.)

If you’re fond of the scenic Napa Valley, then you’re bound to like Munnar, India, provided you’re looking for a 2006 chai, rather than a 2001 Pinot. A former hill station during the British occupation, you won’t find stretch limos carting thirsty tasters from winery to winery, but you will find more than eighty kilometers of rolling hills lined with rows of lush low growing tea trees. Climbing out of Cochin (Kochi) on the southern edge of India’s west coast, brown, loud and polluted transitioned to green, serene and fresh. One hundred thirty six kilometers of mostly winding one lane roads from Cochi, the destination is well worth the journey.

Panoramic views and pleasantly cool temperatures had my head spinning as nature spoke to my eyes, ears and nose. For the first time in almost five weeks, my senses were happy to be sensing all of the moment, not just the sights, or just the tastes, but the whole enchilada, or dosa in this case. Upon arrival, all reservations I had about choosing Munnar as a stop were erased.

Pulling into town I explained to my driver, Joseph, that I wanted to find Wi-Fi access (hard enough to explain the concept of Wi-Fi, much less actually find the service). While parked on the side of the road lost in translation about Wi-Fi, a man approached my open window and introduced himself. By now, I was used to this type of encounter from Indians, inquiring, “where are you from?”, “what is your “good” name?”, “what do you do?”. And depending on my energy level, I would entertain the conversation, but somedays were tougher to answer than others. And after four and a half hours on a winding road, today was one of those tougher days.

“What is your name, Mr. . . . ?,” the man said as he extended his hand inside the window. “I am Dileep. You are going to stay at Camelot?”

“No thanks, I already have a room,” I replied, figuring he was trying to book me into a hotel for a commission.

“No, you are staying at Camelot. I am the manager.” (Later I would learn he was owner too.)

I didn’t recall the name of the place I had booked, but Joseph confirmed that I was staying at Camelot which was 15 km out of town. Still, I was confused as to why the hotel manager would be meeting me in town. As with many Indian business owners I met, Mr. Dileep Pottamkulam was the proprietor of more than one business. We had stopped in front of his “Fashion Jewellery” shop as Joseph was inquiring where to find Wi-Fi.

A bit embarrassed by my initial standoffish nature, I smiled and introduced myself. No harm no foul apparently as Mr. Dileep did not lose the big smile on his face. And, after a few references to John F. Kennedy and King Arthur, he was laughing at the my connection with his resort to the historical figures, one he had no doubt made before, at least with King Arthur since it was Dileep’s wife, an avid reader, who named the resort. He encouraged me to visit his gold shop before heading to Camelot, but I politely declined still set on finding an internet café. A half-hour later, Dileep found me at the internet café and informed me that he would see me later at the “resort”. Surprised to see him and taking a moment to register who he was, I agreed, half appreciating his enthusiasm and half wondering why he was so enthusiastic.

Fifteen kilometers outside of town, Joseph parked the car at the base of a dirt road where we met a brand confused fire engine red four wheel drive Suzuki with the yellow and black Ferrari emblem on its doors and “Land Rover” written across the hood. In low gear, the Suzuki engine worked hard to carry four of us and my bags up the long, steep, rocky road to Camelot. The drive from town was beautiful, but arriving at Camelot was breath inspiring.

Nestled on a hillside in the middle of a seventeen acre tea estate, Dileep had inherited the property from his family first purchased in the 1970s. Officially it was referred to as “Camelot, The Camp Home.” From the name, I expected cold showers or no showers and less than clean bathrooms as I had previously found in my travels. But what I discovered was far from camping.

Perhaps it was reverse shell shock syndrome after being in the cities and now in the hills, or maybe it was the freshest air I had inhaled in a month, but more likely it was the 200 degree panoramic view straight off of my room encompassing rolling hills with eucalyptus, cardamom, orange, mulberry, coffee bean and of course, tea trees. Knowing better, I felt like I had discovered a hidden treasure.

Waiting for me at the top of the one plus kilometer driveway to Camelot was Dileep and three staff members. As if pulling into the Ritz, my car door was opened and all of my bags were immediately taken by the staff. Dileep officially welcomed me to “Camelot” with a single yellow flower. It was a warm welcome full of enthusiastic energy.(Dileep in the midst of his tea estate.) As with many small businesses, the welcome extended from the heart of the owner, Mr. Dileep, whose vision had materialized with hard work and attention to detail. “Camleot” was truly a Camelot-like place because of his personal investment of time and energy.

Dileep and crew showed me to the nicest room I had had thus far in India. A converted old farm house, my room was one of two with which Dileep started “Camelot”. The only indications it had been a farm house was the shiny dark pine planks on the ceiling. Uphill from the converted farmhouse, there were four “Standard” rooms as well, and four more rooms with amazing views under construction. I thanked Dileep and the crew for the warm welcome and set afoot into the estate, camera in hand, to explore the orchards.

(Converted farmhouse.)

Camelot is a true getaway with no mobile service, no television and no phones in the room. And if you plan to do some late night reading, you’ll be doing it by flashlight as it’s lights out at 10:30 when the kerosene generator, powering the outfit, is shut off for the night. I’m not sure how long this getaway will last though as Munnar is fast becoming a popular resort destination. Two new resorts (one with sixty rooms) are under construction within 10 minutes walk from Camelot. It’s only a matter of time before phone lines, satellite dishes and paved roads change the character of this natural haven.

On the terraced hillside in front of the old farmhouse, two thatch roofed umbrellas overhang four sets of chairs each. You can have breakfast, dinner, or even afternoon tea overlooking endless vineyard like orchards of tea trees. Don’t miss the sunset as nature’s elements compete for your attention, whether it is the dark and light shades of green tea trees, the rolling mist in the valley, the cheerful sounds of birds chirping or the yellow-orange fireball setting in the West, breathe as deeply and fully as you can, the air is purified by mother nature and unpolluted by man.

Sun down, plans for an early evening began with dinner delivered to my room with a view. A typically spicy Keralan biryani was about to rock my world. Aye Caramba! Hot! Hot! With the first bite, the spices ignited flames in my mouth delivering a three alarm fire to my stomach. Fire department, in the form of a cold glass of milk was no where to be found, so I battled the flames solo until about 3 a.m. when the burning reduced to a smoldering. It is a miscalculation I will only make once, not fully appreciating the level of spice preferred by the Keralans.

The following morning, almost as if possessed, I mocked the vacation gods again, rising to start the day before sunrise. I was beginning to wonder who I was, speculating that perhaps a parasite had taken over command. Not possible I assured myself as I was pretty sure the fire cleanse from the prior night left no signs of life, good or bad. Casually pulling back the curtains to let more light into the room, the view I had seen just twelve hours earlier was again breath inspiring as if seeing it for the first time. Without brushing my teeth or wetting the calics from my bed head, I reached for my camera and darted outside to capture the morning light on the groves of tea trees.

Impossible to fully capture, I’ve included a few snaps here for your perusal.
When viewing them, add about four different bird sounds, a low level cricket buzz and fresh air from the redwoods gently misting over your face. That is Camelot in the morning.

After a brisk walking tour of the estate with Babu, one of the staff members, a simple breakfast was served at one of the thatched roof huts overlooking the estate. By 9:30, Joseph and I were off to the “Top Station” at the border between Kerala and Tamil Nadu, the neighboring southern state. Driving past the tea estates, the warm sun, pleasant temperature, fresh air and miles of low growing tea trees reminded me of the California wine country. At times you could have told me I was in Marin, Sonoma or Napa Counties and my eyes would have been willing believers.


Nearing the state border, the mountains, known as the High Range of Travancore, rose like steep centurions standing watch over the green valleys on both sides. (Centurions rising from valley floor.) We were at 4,500 feet, but Anamundi Peak, the highest peak in south India was at 8,841 feet (Anamundi Peak viewed from Camelot). From the lookout, it was a 360 view of green peaks and valleys. Bus loads of locals were day trekking around the station as Sunday was a day of rest for those fortunate enough to have such days.

Returning to town, the afternoon was capped by another $12 ayurvedic massage before returning to Camelot for my last evening in Munnar. Basking in the serenity, peacefulness and temperate climate, I did not want to return to the hot polluted noisy cities in the flatlands, but I knew that this was just a rest stop before the classroom of life resumed.

In two days, I would fly to Bombay to see Roopa, now having undergone two surgeries and three rounds of chemo. Looming in the back of my mind was what I would encounter when I saw her again. Could I be strong for her? Should I pretend like nothing has changed? What can I bring or do to help? I don’t know the answers or if there even are answers, but if there are, I’ll be sleeping with one eye open ready to receive them.

Venice of the East

(Houseboats navigate through the canals of Alleppey.)

You won’t find Ferragamo or Versace lining these canals, but in Alleppey, India, also referred to as the “Venice of the East”, you’ll find a maze of canals lined with lush green foliage, palms and water fowl. A world away from the crowded and dusty streets of the hustle and bustle of urban India, Alleppey is tucked away in central Kerala, one of two states in the southernmost point of India. From Ft. Cochin, the drive was slightly more than an hour. Each day over 300 boats wait to be hired by tourists for a twenty-two hour excursion winding through the canals and across India’s largest lake, Lake Vembanad.

(Laundry day at the canal's edge.)

From noon to 10 a.m. the following day, you can hire a boat with sleeping quarters, AC, a bathroom and a crew of three. My captain was Suresh, his engine man was Joseph and the Chef was Shyju. This was not the booze cruise of Mexico, rather it was the snooze cruise of India. Only the sounds of birds, the wind and the occasional slapping of cloth against rock (for laundry) occupied the airwaves. Leaving Bangalore for Alleppey was like going 80 m.p.h. to a dead stop.

(On the highway of Alleppey.)

Life along the canals was much like river life I have seen in other parts of the world. Simple one or two room homes perched on the waters edge, children playing together and women doing laundry knee deep in the river. This is not a poor community, rather it is rich with beautiful scenery, fresh air and serenity. Pollution in the big cities dramatically shortens life expectancy and men living in the city often are away from their families months at a time returning only twice a year to visit.

There are no cars and just a few pieces of motorized farm equipment. The canals are the roads in Alleppey as boats row, push and motor their way through the waterways. Me and the crew cruised along the canal banks for five hours before stopping in Champakulum, a small town on the river with a 486 year old Syrian Christian Catholic church. The church was beautifully maintained with elaborate wall and ceiling paintings depicting all of the major saints.

From the church we set course for an undesigated spot on the map, a place where I do not find myself often. But as we pulled aside shore to anchor for the night, the sun began to set, or at least it appeared to set as I was reminded by Sri Sri that the sun actually never sets, it is just our perception of reality. Inching behind the palms, the sun began its descent morphing from yellow to orange to red before falling below the rice fields on the horizon. I stood in the bamboo and twine doorway of the boat, camera in hand wondering how I could ever capture the moment. Any picture would not include the damp thick warm breeze, the competing bird and insect calls and the sound of swooshing water as dugout canoes paddled past us at dusk.

Sun down and dinner preparations were quickly underway. Strategically placed mosquito coils lit, I sat in a wicker chair on deck until darkness swallowed the last flicker of daylight. The river was still alive as lights could be seen in homes dotting the canal banks and the last boats returned to their home berths, a scene very reminiscent of the the Pirates of the Carribean ride at Disneyland, minus the drunken sailors of course.

Shyju finished preparing dinner and I asked the two remaining men on the boat to join me at the table for dinner. Reluctant to eat with the passenger as if against company policy, I continued to motion and urge them to take a seat at the table. Fourth time a charm, they brought their plates and we had as much conversation as our language barrier would permit. Both men were in their mid-twenties, unmarried and waiting to get married until their late 20s, characteristic of Keralans, the most literate state in India. Both men were also expecting to enter into arranged marriages. The idea of going on a date was a completely foreign concept. These guys spent everyday of the season (about 9 months straight), 7 days a week on the boat, returning every third night to their village only to get back to the boat the following morning. Drop off passengers at 10 a.m., pick up new ones at noon and repeat. It was Groundhog’s Day in Venice. And this was a good job as it is just good to have a job in India.

(Sunset Alleppey Style.)

Post dinner festivities kicked off and finished with a bath for the crew somewhere on shore and a cooling shower for me onboard. Nights on the river pace the sun much more than most city dwellers where electricity and cable stand ready to climatize and entertain twenty-four seven. I stood on the bow for half an hour staring at the stars, listening to the river sounds and watching lights from within homes along the banks go dark as villagers retired for the evening. This was how I imagined it felt 100 or more years ago on the Ohio or Mississippi Rivers.

Perhaps it was the humid hot weather or the large cockroach with hairy biceps (or thighs) peering into my mosquito net from the top, but I set my alarm for a pre-sun rise awakening. If I was going to live on the river, if only for a night, then I was going to wake with the river.

And the sun would thank me for rising early to meet it as it returned in reverse colors, red to orange to yellow over the misty rice patty fields. With the first sign of light, the birds, the fish and the people on the canals began to stir. The fish jumped to catch insects skimming the water surface while the birds looked for jumping fish and villagers looked for both fish and fowl for the day’s nourishment.

It may not be filled with high fashion and fine wine, but the Venice of the East is full of rich culture and a sustainable way of life living in harmony with what nature has provided.


(Me and the Crew with an extra in the background. From left front row: Captain Suresh, me, engine mate, "Joseph" and behind me, Chef Shyju.)

You Never Know

Asleep in our beds, a bus load of tourists stormed every room around ours just after midnight. And apparently they had not learned about “inside voices” when they were younger as they proceeded to yell up and down the hall for well over an hour. I lay awake in bed wondering if it would be better if I actually understood what was being said, or if it was better I didn’t, or maybe it didn’t make a difference. A loud thud emanated from a side door in our room as someone was trying to open it from the other side. Marc and I both got up wondering what the heck was going on.

We opened the front door to our room and gave the stare. You know, the “stare”. It’s that look you give where your eyes meet the agitators holding a firm gaze with an ever so slight squint longer than the comfortable and typical glance of merely acknowledging another’s presence. Clint Eastwood may have the most famous stare, and when he added the words, “Go ahead, make my day,” it was curtain time for the bad guys. In my experience, the stare is internationally recognized as it goes well beyond most cultural comfort zones. I’ve even been the deserving recipient of the stare (please don’t tell my Mom).

Standing in the doorway in my shorts with hair swished in eighteen directions, I gave what I thought was a good solid stare with direct eye contact, even followed with some solid door slamming, but it was only temporarily effective. Minutes later, Marc would give his shot at the stare, repeating the open, stare and slam process, again with an impermanent effect. At the risk of creating an international incident, Marc and I decided to stand down and deploy ear plugs as a counter measure. I didn’t like it, but I knew the sweet taste of revenge awaited at 5:00 a.m. when Marc had to rise for his flight home.

As scheduled the alarm went off at 5, and Marc was on his feet, making the final travel preparations for his pack. This was my chance to strike back to the inconsiderate lot. Should I try the door handle furiously as they had? Should we start talking loudly or turn on the television so that everyone can hear what we’re watching? These were the thoughts going through my imperfect mind, but fortunately, remembering one of the five principles behind the Art of Living course, i.e. “don’t see intentions behind other’s mistakes,” I held back from tasting the nectar of revenge.

Marc was ready twenty minutes before his scheduled taxi pick-up. He kicked back for a moment and we thanked each other for sharing the past eleven days. While we had known each other for five years at work, we had not really gotten to truly know each other. And now, having traveled on the same path for only twelve days, sharing meals, life stories, jokes and amazing experiences, I realized I had found another true friend.

It struck me as Marc left that you never know when you meet someone for the first time what path lies ahead. Maybe you are acquaintances at a party and never see each other again, or perhaps you share a common interest and become lifelong friends, or maybe the woman (or man) you’re speaking with on the railway is your future spouse. One day you just look up and bam, you’ve got a circle of friends who enrich your life. Some come and go, others are lifers, but all of them add something to our lives: lessons, love, companionship and support to name a few.

The phone rang and Marc said he’d be right down; it was the front desk informing him that his taxi was waiting. I followed him into the hall and watched the elevator doors close wishing him a safe trip home and he wished me well on my continued journey. Willie Nelson began singing to me as I returned to the room, “On my own again,” the familiar tune started. Even some of the not so good songs are catchy and I might add, not conducive to getting back to sleep.

My Kingfisher Airline flight departed Bangalore at 2 p.m. and by 3 p.m. I was on the ground in Cochi, Kerala, in the center of a southern state in India. (By the way Kingfisher Airlines may be the best airline I’ve ever flown – great planes, great food, great service.) I hired a pre-paid taxi to Ft. Cochin, an island just off the coast connected by a bridge and ferry service from the mainland.

Ft. Cochin has a rich European history beginning with the Portuguese and then the Dutch took their bite before the British stepped in. Immediately, the quality of life stood out as one superior to any other place I had visited in India. The cars were nicer, the homes larger and better maintained and the people appeared healthier. Also striking was the number of Catholic churches spread over just a few square miles. For a month, I saw Hindu temples and Muslim mosques in the north, but in Ft. Cochin, churches with statues of Jesus and the Virgin Mary were prominently displayed around town. And no longer did I struggle with first names as Christian names like David, Joseph and James were common among local residents. National Geographic has apparently listed Ft. Cochin as one of the top fifty places to visit.

While the mood about town was clearly more relaxed than Bangalore, the heat had crept to a dehydrating 38 degrees Celsius with sweltering humidity. Locals with whom I spoke agreed it was hot, but none of them used air conditioning as it was too expensive and they were acclimatized. At the recommendation of an old friend, I made my base at the Napier House, a homestay arrangement, and sought out a rickshaw driver named Saleem. The guesthouse was familiar with Saleem and they phoned him on my behalf.

Twenty minutes later, Saleem appeared. He was a kind, gentle man with two kids and a wife. His mother died when he was one and a half years old so he was raised by his oldest sister in Ft. Cochin. He never knew what his mother looked like as apparently they did not have any pictures of her. But he had his own family now and his siblings still resided in town. This was the only place he had ever known except for a thirty kilometer radius on the mainland and a few visits to Chennai. He was hard working, honest and knew how to show a newcomer around town with a smile on his face.

We stopped first at the Chinese fishing nets pictured below, where everyday, except during monsoon, five or so fisherman hoist each net out of the water several times an hour in the hopes that some fish are swimming over the net at the same time. It was mildly successful while I observed as a few small fish were pulled from the net and thrown into a large bowl of water nearby.


(Chinese fishing nets above; hoisting the nets up pictured below.)

The state of Kerala is also the birthplace of the ancient healing science of Ayurveda. Throughout the state, ayurvedic massage is offered and ayurvedic herbs and spices are grown, prepared and packaged for distribution worldwide. Saleem brought me to a courtyard surrounded by old Dutch style buildings where ginger was being dried, separated, and bundled. Another warehouse we visited was packed with rucksacks full of raw spices and herbs being readied for commercial sale.

Knocking down the tourist attractions in less than four hours, I asked Saleem if he knew of a place for ayurvedic massage. He took me to a place near his home so he could have lunch with his family while I got a massage at the sports clinic (basically a single family home with a sign that read, “Sports Clinic”. Not surprisingly, the same masseurs giving massage at the local place also serve some of the top hotels where the price is tripled or even quadrupled.

500 rupees ($11) and an hour later, I was ready to return to the guesthouse as the humid heat and the massage beckoned me to cool down and rehydrate. But Saleem was not done with his tour and wanted me to see everything so we continued touring until just after sunset where be bid the sun goodbye as it disappeared behind the Arabian Sea. Tourist season was coming to a close so the town was winding down until the end of monsoon season in late July, early August.

Returning to my room, I basked in the air conditioning blowing from the wall unit. My body didn’t know whether to sleep or dance so I showered. Reenergized, I decided to have a nice dinner at the Malabar House, an upscale hotel less than a block from where I was staying. For the first time in a month, I devoured fresh vegetables and fruit. My body had given up on such luxuries, once a part of my daily diet, but tonight I would give it a generous reminder.

The following morning, I sat on the upstairs patio of the guesthouse to write and catch up on e-mails as the sun and humidity began their ascent to their daytime peak. At noon, my best friend in Ft. Cochin, Saleem, showed up to see if he could take me around town. While earlier I had decided the day would be one of rest and laundry, I changed my mind opting for running errands instead. First stop, an ATM, second stop, a shave for fifteen rupees (35 cents), third stop, the Kashi Art Café, rumored to serve euro/American cuisine. Rumors confirmed, being late for breakfast which had been French Toast (darn), I opted for the soup and salad lunch (once again spoiled with fresh veggies). After lunch, I could not remember if there was anything else to do when Saleem reminded me, “How about another massage?”


(Getting cleaned up in Ft. Cochin.)

“Isn’t that a bit over indulgent?” you might ask. My answer, “Would you buy a $40,000 car for $10,000 if you already had?” Of course you would. Massage numero dos coming right up. Saleem took me to an actual ayurvedic doctor with whom I decided to get only a foot massage as the thought of oil on my body in the stifling damp heat was not appealing.

After a bit of shopping at Saleem’s request (as he gets a few rupees just for bringing tourists by the shops and a small commission of anything they buy), I returned to the hotel to escape the heat for an hour. Insistent that we go to dinner at a local restaurant, the Krishna House, Saleem and his friend Johnson picked me up at 8 in Saleem’s rickshaw. We drove to a side of town where I had not previously been. This was the side where prices reflected what locals paid, not the inflated tourist prices found near the hotels.

Saleem ordered traditional local Keralan dishes, Masala Dosa and Chippati, for me to sample while Johnson and he ate slowly waiting for my reaction to the meal. They enjoyed watching me eat with my hand, a skill that was slowly improving with each meal. For five packed delicious plates of local cuisine and three drinks, our tab came to sixty-seven rupees. Reverse sticker-shock set in. As I suppose with most tourist spots, there were at least two levels of pricing, tourist and local. Dinner was just as good as any I had had for 100 rupees or more.

(From left to right: Restaurant owner, Johnson and Saleem at dinner.)

Thanking the guys for showing me the local dishes and prices, I returned to my room where a single line power outage left me in for a steamy hot night with minimal sleep as my Jedi mind tricks failed to start the AC. Such is life on the road. I reminded myself that if this was the worst thing that happened, I would be the luckiest man alive. While I couldn’t control the sweating, my mantra for the evening was ironically, “don’t sweat the small stuff,” and this was small stuff.

With the extra waking hours, I reflected on something Saleem explained to me earlier in the day. He said that there are Hindus, Muslims, Catholics, Protestants, Jews, Jains and Buddhists living peacefully in Ft. Cochin as they have for hundreds of years. According to him, there is never a religious dispute, and in fact, his best friend, Johnson, is a Catholic. Interesting to note, Kerala has the highest literacy rate in India, a factor which contributes to a higher education and standard of living. Does that translate into a higher level of tolerance? Or a decreased level of ignorance? Are there lessons we can learn from a place like Kerala? I suspect they are here if we scratch below the surface, you never know.

Meet The Mukundans

(Mukundan Women from left to right: Namitha, Mrs. M and Natasha.)


“Are you sure there is enough room for us?,” I asked Namitha, the Mukundan’s youngest daughter.

“Yes, we invited Fathima, Kirthi, Pradeep, Fazil (Fathima’s son), Sita and others too. They are coming and there is plenty of room,” she replied confidently.

I found this hard to believe as having room in a home for eight additional people no doubt meant that the house must be a mansion and the Mukundans were well off by Indian standards. Marc and I began walking up the path back to our room at the ashram. Along the way we ran into Mr. Mukundan where I again inquired as to whether he had enough room in his home.

“Plenty of room, we have a separate house for guests, many beds,” he assured me, “we will go to my club for dinner, they have a pool where you can swim tomorrow.

We did not want to miss the opportunity to stay in an Indian home with new friends we had made in the Art of Living course. It was a generous invitation, one we did not know if we would get again. So we packed our bags and met the Mukundans at their car, a four door compact, where five of us would have to squeeze in with luggage on our laps. And while driving in India is difficult, Mr. Mukundan was not one of the better drivers as his age, poor vision and timid nature, left him bouncing on the brake most of the journey as other cars passed him or honked in frustration. It was only made more entertaining by the eldest daughter, twenty-nine year old Natasha, who enroute explained rather simply that she sometimes slept in her parents room as she had visions of ghosts.

I thought to myself, “Can I get out now? Now you tell us? Why didn’t this come out in the 3 days of group discussions?” I already missed the ashram.

An hour and a half later, we arrived at the Mukundan home. Set in a suburban area of Bangalore, it was a nice home of three bedrooms, a kitchen and a bathroom on the second floor. The area surrounding it was quiet as vacant lots waited for development. We left our bags upstairs and headed for the club to which the Mukundans belonged. It was getting late, it had been a long day, and we were all hungry.

The club was similar to those in the US where a family buys a membership which includes access to the facilities, a pool, bar, restaurant and spa. We sat for dinner just after 9:00 p.m., not an uncommon dining time for most Indians I have met. Appetizers, main courses, naan and rice filled the table as we sat in the outdoor restaurant overlooking parts of Bangalore. The evenings were pleasant bringing relief from the hot humid days.

Dinner was over at 11:00 p.m. and the whole crew returned to the Mukundan home. Mr. Mukundan grabbed Marc, Fazil, Pradeep and I to head downstairs. What was he going to show us? Did he have a stash of liquor or a pool table downstairs? No such luck and I would have settled for a mosquito net at that point. He opened a door to a downstairs room with two bunk beds and offered it as a place for the four of us to sleep. He mentioned that it was warm down there and the mosquitos are many, but it was an option, or we could sleep on the living room floor upstairs.

“Huh? What happened to the “extra house” with many rooms for guests I heard mentioned earlier?,” I thought to myself. Sleeping in tight quarters with three other guys and 500 mosquitoes was not the vision I had when this trek started, I’d rather sleep with the ghosts, where do they sleep? We politely thanked him for his offer and said the accomodations would be just fine. I could tell by the look in Pradeep’s eyes that he was not going to spend the night, but he did not let on to Mukundan.

Returning upstairs where the women gathered in the living room, our alternative sleeping quarters served as the center stage, literally. There were ten of us total and Mr. Mukundan asked that the singing begin. I thought this might be a joke as it was after 11:30 and all of us had been up since 6:00 and attending class all day. But it was not a joke, this was an impromptu version of Indian Idol. For the next two hours, Sita, Pradeep and Kirthi, with background vocals from Mrs. Mukundan and Natasha, belted out Indian songs as I struggled to keep my eyes open. How Mr. and Mrs. Mukundan were hanging in there I have no idea, but it was not long before Mr. Mukundan himself performed a solo. Pradeep and Sita carried the night though as they actually had amazing voices singing popular songs from Hindi films. Not played on any station I know of in the U.S., I had not heard any of the songs before, but they were very pleasing to the ear.


(Living Room Floor/Stage for Indian Idol with performers.)

Thinking that either they would run out of songs to sing or retire for the evening, I closed my eyes as if to get lost in the music to avoid appearing rude, but my body was craving to get lost in dreamland. Sometime close to 2 a.m., I glanced over at Marc only to see his chin sunk heavy into a chair with blinks that consisted of more shut eye than open. I pulled the plug on our generous hosts as songs continued like someone had put fifty dollars in the twenty-five cent jukebox. The crew was surprised as Marc said he too was going to hit the sack, but that did not stop the competition. It was only the next day that we learned the song fest did not disburse until 4:30 a.m..

I’m not sure I got anymore sleep by leaving the gang and making my nest in a lower bunk downstairs. The room had not been opened in weeks, if not months and the heat required open windows for relief. But open windows meant unwelcome friends, the mosquito brigade from the local watering holes on the adjacent undeveloped lots. It was a no win situation, but it was our only choice for the night.

Marc and I laughed a solid twenty minutes before attempting to sleep as we finally had the opportunity to share thoughts on the evening festivities. The laughing made the upcoming sleepness night somehow more palatable. Acknowledging that it was probably not going to be my most restful night made the many waking hours swatting mosquitoes from my ears and face more tolerable. As thoughts of packing up and hitting the road in the middle of the night teased my mind, sunrise could not come soon enough.

Despite going to bed after 4:30 a.m. and it being Monday, a work day, the Mukundans were up and about before us and we learned that the other Idol participants had gone home as I had suspected they would. I don’t know where they found the energy, but Marc and I surmised they were excited to have guests, instead of the usual ghosts. They were certainly welcoming and generous. Before leaving our dungeon, Marc and I discussed our exit plan. The night before the Mukundans had insisted we stay until our flights departed which was in two days time. One sleepless night later and I was reaching for the ripcord, E-brake, emergency door, call it what you will.

Mulling over excuses so as not to insult the Mukundans was again good fodder for laughter. Finally, the old adage, “honesty is the best policy” reigned supreme, and we explained to the family that we wanted to do some shopping in town and find a room closer to the airport as Marc’s plane was leaving early the next morning. That did not go over well as Mr. Mukundan then offered to have his daughter, Natasha, take us shopping in town, then we could take an early taxi the following morning to the airport. In a tag team effort, Marc and I expounded upon our reasoning as Mr. Mukundan wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. It was only when Natasha explained to her Dad that we were following our plan that he slightly eased up on his insistence that we stay.

Mr. Mukundan, the owner of three businesses, one of which is a computer college for Microsoft certification, went off to work on less than three hours sleep. Dressed neatly in a yellow button down shirt and brown slacks, he was energetic as he headed for work around 10 a.m.. Relentless in character, as he left the house he renewed his bid for us to stay one more night.

Now it was just us and the girls, Mrs. Mukundan, Natasha and Namitha. I tried to catch Marc’s attention to make a new bid to leave. As the morning rolled on and photo albums were pulled from the shelves, it seemed as if we would never break free. Everytime we mentioned leaving, it was ignored as if it had not been said. Fifth wedding album pulled from the shelf and wedding dress pulled from the closet, I was going to walk out the door or a window whether a rikshaw was waiting for me or not. I only hoped Marc was ready to depart as I watched him snap his camera over the photo albums capturing Mrs. Mukundans 30 year old wedding photos on his digital screen. Either he was crazy (quite possible) or he was one heck of a good actor.


(Wedding dress photo taken by Marc caught up in the frenzy of nuptial talk.)

And none of this is a reflection of the Mukundans, a poster family for Indian hospitality, but more a reflection of wanting to move on as it was Marc’s last day before returning to the U.S. Having left the ashram in a hurry, time to process the lessons and experience was needed, but blaring rock ‘n roll on the jerking car ride from the ashram and the Indian Idol experience had not permitted any down time. Marc and I agreed that we needed to get lost before we could get found.

While at 11:00 a.m., I said we would leave at 1:00 p.m., a rikshaw was not scheduled for our pick-up until 2:00 p.m., but it would not arrive until 3:00p.m. Blurry eyed from Natasha’s honeymoon pictures, lack of sleep and the heat, I found irony in the patience now required to maintain composure in this waiting period that had far exceeded my limits. Finally 3:00 p.m. rolled around and the rikshaw carried us away for our thirty-minute drive back to central Bangalore where we would search for a room for one night.

Settled into our room, we headed to a nearby coffee shop for several hours to write, process and catch up with the whole experience. Few words were exchanged between us as silence was golden. Early the next morning, Marc would return to Delhi where he would catch his flight back to the US.

Acceptance

Getting up at 6:00 a.m. is earlier than I like to get up on most days, however on vacation, dreamland is the only place I like to visit at that hour. But this was a journey, not a vacation, so I suited up for yoga (which meant wearing the cargo pants and t-shirt I wear everyday) and proceeded down to the outdoor amphitheatre where Fathima was beckoning everyone to hurry as the clock neared 6:30.

Lined up in five rows, we began stretching exercises and moved into sun salutations when three women showed up twenty minutes late. Without delay, the girls were ordered to run twenty laps around the amphitheatre while yoga instruction continued on the circular marble stage. But Fathima had a soft side and after two lazy laps, the women were invited to join the class.

Watching the sunrise over the trees while moving through the sun salutations gave me a new perspective on the pose I had attempted many times in yoga studios back home. After all, thanking the sun for its energy (intention behind the pose) seems to miss the point when being performed indoors. A feeling of gratitude warmed over me as I found myself truly in the present listening to the birds chirping at the sunrise, doing yoga at an ashram in India as a new day dawned. There is something about sunrises, all of the possibilities of the new day, the cool fresh air, the life giving energy upon which all life depends shining upon your face, that is pleasing to the soul.

Yoga poses and lecture complete, class was dismissed at 7:30 and set to reconvene at 9:00 in the interior classroom. To my surprise, rice pancakes would be on tap for breakfast. No Aunt Jamaima, but the mind can be a powerful syrup maker when called upon and my mind was calling. A nice respite from the usual food served for breakfast, lunch and dinner, I had two short stacks with imaginary all natural Vermont maple syrup. Hey, if you have a choice, why not imagine the best?

Class promptly resumed at 9:00 where a discussion of “acceptance” was started. Using her customary Socratic method, Fathima began questioning the class on seemingly unrelated issues and then drove the point home. Already my memory escapes me as to the examples used by Fathima, but the point is one familiar to many, “Accept others and situations as they are.” In a nut shell, going with the flow is easier than resisting. Fathima had us repeat after her, “whatever you resist will persist.” Made sense, but it is also easier said than done.

The remainder of the morning consisted of getting into small groups and checking our form and breath for correct Kriya and ultimately performing our second full Kriya session just before lunch. We repeated the same breath work and postures as the previous day. Unfortunately, once in the kick back phase of the exercise, Mr. Adenoid began slamming his larynx walls together once again entering my untrained meditating mind as an unwelcome guest.

“Quiet!! Would someone wake him? Why are you letting this continue?,” my mind furiously complained as moments before I was once again enjoying the peace and serenity from the Kriya process. I knew this was a test. A true yogi would be undisturbed by such a petty noise, but I was more of a yogi bear, with an expertise in peanut butter.

After lunch, we watched a CD on the Art of Living Foundation, learning about Guruji and the Art of Living. Sri Sri began reciting the Bhagavad Gita at the age of four (something I would have trouble doing at thirty four) and basically devoted his whole life to spreading the wisdom from the ancient texts and making the world a better place. Before he was twenty, he was more accomplished with his studies and world knowledge than most eighty year olds I know. There is a lot more to him than my summary in this paragraph so if you are interested, just Google “Sri Sri Ravi Shankar” or the “Art of Living”. Of course, he may gain a lot more notoriety if he actually wins the 2006 Nobel Peace Prize for which he is nominated.

The Art of Living Foundation, started in 1982, performs good deeds all around the world with rural school projects, prison programs and providing food to those in need. Sri Sri has met with heads of state from around the world, including Bush, Putin, Chirac and Blair to name a few. His message is compelling and cross-denominational so it has a wide non-threatening appeal. In class for example, Fathima, a Muslim, was teaching Hindus, Muslims, Jains and Christians. That is one of the many beautiful aspects behind the Art of Living.

The afternoon session continued with some challenging exercises, which I will not go into out of respect for the course. Again, taking the course cannot be supplemented or adequately described in words, it must be felt as a shared experience which will no doubt differ for everyone. There are no short cuts.

With each hour, the class grew closer together, eating together, helping each other and sharing life stories. Being from a far away land to which few had traveled, there was particular interest in Marc and I. The international experience was definitely a plus in this respect as Indians from about five different states and ages from 22 to 62 attended the session so the breadth of life experience was fascinating.

(Saturday night at the ashram. Satsang gets under way with some serious dancing.)

Day 3

The final day began with another 6:30 a.m. yoga session, although this time the yoga took the form of the daily routines for a village Indian woman. We did the laundry, prepared the food and cleaned the imaginary house through pseudo yoga poses. It was fun and a lot of work, providing insight into a world without vacuums and washing machines.

The morning session involved a cool “immortality” meditation designed to let you reflect on what changes as you age. This was one of my favorite exercises as it gave a glimpse into life at 6 mos old through the years to eighty years old, the concept being that while the body aged, the soul was the same throughout. If you can get into this meditation it is quite rewarding.

More exercises followed delving into issues of identity, ego and other people’s opinions. It was appropriate for the third and final day of the course as the Kriya process was designed to cleanse the surface layers of self. As the course came to a close, people were open to sharing, exchanging gifts, e-mail addresses and in our case, invitations to stay at their homes.

Marc and I were unsure of our next stop, but we figured we would stay at the ashram for one more night since it was included. Adapted to the ashram pace and basic lifestyle, time was moving at a pleasurable speed with lots of peace and goodwill in the air. We were in no hurry to leave. Mulling around the classroom, we watched as Guruji walked from his quarters to the outdoor marble circle set before the amphitheatre where we had done yoga for the past two mornings. It was Sunday, and people from all over had come to the ashram to see, hear and partake in satsang which started two hours earlier than it’s usual 7:30 start time. An elephant carrying a palm branch with its trunk stood outside the building from which Guruji emerged. A sign of prosperity and auspiciousness, he walked to the elephants trunk, fed it some flowers and nuts, and proceeded to the stage.

(Above: Guruji feeds the elephant as a crowd gathers.)
We made our way from the stuppa to the amphitheatre and began listening to Guruji’s response to audience questions. Questions ranged from love to “truth” to politics. He had an answer for all often receiving applause for his wise speech. And it was wise, his clarity of mind was evidenced by the sharpness of his answers, on point, direct and resonating with the heart as well as the mind.

(Above: Outdoor satsang with Guruji - view from the classroom. Also where morning yoga took place.)

As we sat in the amphitheatre on a two foot brick wall watching the sun set behind the stuppa and listening to the satsang, two of the girls from our class approached and extended an invitation to their home for the evening. Earlier they and their parents had invited us to dinner the following day. Now the anty was upped as an overnight invitation was offered. Marc and I looked at each other checking to see if the other had a preference. We had traveled well together for ten days and were at the stage of almost completing each other’s sentences. No negative head twitches or eye squints showing between us and an RSVP demanded on the spot, we accepted. We had to pack to leave immediately.

To be continued . . .

Just Breathe

(Above: Ashram "stuppa" like structure where class was held on 4th Floor.)

Breakfast hailed as it was served during the limited window from 7:30 to 8:15. Again, it was the limitations on availability (time) that somehow increased my morning hunger. If we missed brecky, your fuel tank would run on “E” until 12:30 (lunch). It was not the French toast I was craving, but the salted oatmeal textured paste made from rice was the only item on the menu. Stomach paste downed, we headed across the ashram campus to find our classroom for a 9:00 a.m. start. It wasn’t long before we learned that class would not start until 9:50, not 9:45 or 10:00, but 9:50.

Like the pupil I was not in college, we made sure to appear for class several minutes early. By 9:50, 32 pupils were seated on floor pillows before Fathima, our main instructor for the next three days. A single mother of one son in her late thirties/early forties, she wore an attractive green saree and a wide atypically white smile for Indians. A school principal by profession, Fathima immediately took control of the class by setting the ground rules, “Think before you ask questions. Maybe it will be answered in the next few days. Ask yourself, will everyone benefit from this question? People sometimes ask questions to show how smart they are.”

The class of thirty Indian nationals and two westerners (Marc and I) listened in obeyance. Fathima continued, “Do I have your agreement to give 100% over the next three days?” When the class failed to answer audibly, she waited until the collective “Yes” was sufficiently convincing. On the fourth try, a resolute “Yes” belted from everyone’s mouth and Fathima proceeded.

“What is appropriate to do when you come together like this?” she asked with a rhetorical tone. Without losing the class’ firmly fixed attention, she answered, “Introduce yourselves. You will now introduce yourselves to everyone else in the class by standing in front of each other and saying, “My name is ______. I am from ____________. I belong to you.”

Whoa there Nelly, easy, I belong to whom? While I expected we would be introducing ourselves at some point, standing in front of strange men and women saying, “I belong to you” was a new twist. Without time for apprehension to set in, Fathima had everyone on their feet racing around the room standing in front of each other professing their new found beholdeness. It happened so quickly I wasn’t even sure if I missed classmates or even expressed my belongingness twice to the same person.

Add to this new found amazing introduction race, the familiar challenge of learning new names, but this time with an international flare with the names like Kirthi, Mukundan, Ganesakaran, Tushkar and Shivaswamy (and those are the easy ones). India is a country with at least 24 different languages and hundreds of dialects. Fortunately for me, English is the common lingual ground for many Indians, however, it is delivered with a heavy “Inglish” accent. But I surprisingly provided a hurdle of my own, the name Todd, as simple as it seems, is difficult for most Indians to grasp. Thirty-one people later, I was happy that the exercise was over as the idea of belonging to strangers (except Marc) was only palatable as long as my heart and mind remained open to the experience.


(Classroom where it all happened, except for morning yoga.)

Class again seated, Fathima asked us to write down our expectations from the course. Five minutes later, hands were raised in response to her request for sharing answers people had written. After a handful of answers were offered, Fathima concluded the expectations issue with, “You will get none of the things you expect. If you don’t like that, then you can get a refund now.” Ouch, was this the Art of Living or boot camp? The lines were getting blurrier by the minute, but her point was revealed as she steered into us into our first group discussion.

“What happens when we have expectations?” she asked. This was a point with which I was familiar. When you have expectations you stand the chance of getting disappointed if what you expect falls below your expectation. Lesson number one, understood.

As the morning ticked on, the class engaged in a number of smaller group activities about which I will not go into further detail as the shared feeling of the experience cannot be adequately conveyed. The main point of the morning exercises was to demonstrate the difference in feelings when one is apart of a group.

According to the Art of Living course there are four sources of energy for the body: rest (sleep), air (breathe), food and knowledge. The core of the course was to address each source either via exercise or discussion. For three days, discussion volleyed between each of the sources in no apparent order. Of the four sources, breathe would take front stage to the others.

Repeating each of the discussions here would not do any of them justice. Behind them was what I describe as a “soulful knowing” that was being evoked in each person. And this “knowing”/feeling was an important piece to understanding the puzzle so taking the class is the only true way to grasp the concept behind the Art of Living.

That being said, I will mention that the key to the course centers on breathing techniques handed down for centuries amongst the yogis. A combination of Pranayama, Vastrika and Kriya breathing and yoga practice is used to bring a union between the body, mind and universe. Practicing each of the breathing exercises in the morning lead to our first full session of the combined exercises in the late afternoon on Day 1.

Eyes closed and spread out across the room, the class followed Fathima’s basic and short instructions for forty-five minutes. This being my longest mediation ever, I wondered if I would make it to the end. The postures involved specific placement of hands, sitting posture and manipulation of the diaphragm through long, medium and short breaths. At times, some of the short breaths left me feeling light headed and I took slight breaks to maintain consciousness perhaps from hyperventilation or improper technique.

When the formal Kriya exercise was completed, we were told to relax onto our backs and keep our eyes closed. What followed was unique for each person, but with some common sensations. My own feeling was an immediate sense of being more connected to myself and my environment. There was a sense of serenity, peace and overall well being. Having never put so much effort to look inward, I yearned to stay in it as long as possible. To the trained yogi or experienced meditator, a fly on the nose, the sound of someone snoring nearby or the flood of thoughts from your “to-do” list is easily kept at bay. A novice to the art, after a few minutes, I found myself distracted by the snoring of a man who sounded like he had the aid of a blowhorn.

“Would someone wake him up?,” I screamed in my mind, “he’s ruining my meditation.”

To no avail, he kept snoring and was even joined a few minutes later by another man for whose wife I also feel sorry. That was another challenge of meditating, not going to sleep. While I was fortunate to avoid that pitfall, staying in my peace was experiencing massive turbulence. Fathima issued the “slowly rise” order, signaling the end of our first Kriya session. I rose slowly, still clinging to the sense of peace within. When I opened my eyes, several bodies lay still either deep in meditation or asleep. Sweetened biscuit cookies were distributed aiding my return to full consciousness.

Class concluded for the day and Marc and I returned to our room comparing experiences along the way. We had little time before dinner and were excited about the special guest. Again good fortune shone upon us as we had learned the day before that Sri Sri Ravi Shankar (referred to as “Guruji” by his devotees) had made a rare return to the ashram and would preside over the evening satsang for the next few days. The ashram was abuzz with this news. People that worked on the campus seven days a week had a noticeable skip in their step at the mention of Guruji’s presence at the ashram.

Marc and I made sure to get to the indoor marbled amphitheatre on time so as to secure a seat. While satsang the prior evening was well attended, tonight was no doubt going to be a full house with Guruji’s return. Electrified energy filled the air as hundreds seated Indian style on the floor sang from their hearts professing their respect for God and the existence of something greater than themselves. The songs were sung by people from all religions, Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jewish and Jain. “God” in this house was not thought of by all in precisely the same fashion, this was what might be referred to as “shakti” which is the energy source believed to represent “God”.


(In satsang waiting for Guruji.)

Guruji arrived forty-five minutes into the singing. The crowd stood up and remained standing until Guruji assumed a seat on the couch centered on the stage. The singing resumed with the band playing harmonious music from the front row. Guruji sat on the couch for an hour, eyes closed, head nodding from either sleep or a deep trance. When he opened his eyes, the music stopped and the crowd waited for the pearls of wisdom to flow. But on this night, his first night back in many weeks, words would be few and only those with birthdays and anniversaries would be invited to the stage to receive a blessing.

Returning to our room, I took a cold bucket shower, the only kind available and collected my thoughts on the day. Ashram bed time is early as many wake at 4 or 5 for sadhna and those of us taking the basic course were due on deck at 6:30 a.m. for yoga. Earlier Fathima had warned us not to be late or a punishment would be rendered bringing back fresh memories of every phys. ed. teacher I ever came across. I didn’t like to run extra laps then and that had not changed, we would be on time, alarm clock willing.

The Present

(Above: Main "stuppa" like building where classes were held on the fifth floor.)

“I love you Todd,” Roopa answered the phone with joy in her voice. Arriving at Sri Sri’s ashram in Bangalore, I called Roopa to let her know that I was enrolled in the three day Art of Living Basic Course.. She was thrilled and I thanked her for influencing my journey through India. But that was just a cover up, a way of avoiding the questions I wanted to ask, what was the prognosis for her diagnosis. But how to ask was troubling me, what would she say? What should I say? Divine answers avoiding me, I reluctantly asked as I ventured into an emotional minefield, “What’s the latest?”

“Oh, I have only one wish,” she responded with a calm joyous tone, “that my children do not suffer pain from seeing me go through whatever will be.” There it was again, the spiritual superhero like response. Was it rooted in the Indian karmic beliefs that fate was already determined? Was it denial (or acceptance) because she had battled cancer once before? Or was it the ultimate maternal instinct of unconditional love, more concerned over the effect on her children than her own well being? Or perhaps her non-denominational deep rooted faith in something greater than herself was a source of strength?

As if discussing a business trip, Roopa mentioned by the time I finished the course, she would be recovering from her surgery, which she said was minor, a pre-chemo procedure for a treatment delivery system. How did things change so quickly? Two weeks ago we were driving to see my first ashram and inching through Bombay traffic to listen to a talk from a disciple of Paramahansa Yogananda. Now, Roopa’s days were occupied with doctor visits, a radical diet change and flooding her body with chemicals battling microscopic cells threatening her life.

“I’ll see you at the end of the month,” I pre-empted the impending goodbye, mostly to spin a positive note on a matter seemingly more uncomfortable for me.

“Yes, of course, I look forward to it. Jai Gurudev, bye, bye,” she said before hanging up. I looked at the screen of my phone ensuring the call had ended as I tried to grasp the magnitude of the real life wager at stake for Roopa. Walking on auto pilot toward the dining hall, I reflected on my enrollment in a course stemming from Roopa’s appearance in my life less than a month ago.

Two hours earlier, Marc and I hired car from our hotel in Bangalore for the ashram, 22 kilometers from the city center. Traffic leaving the city was thick and rich with toxic fumes as auto rikshaw and taxi tetris continued in its rhythmic chaos. Fifteen kilometers from the city center, the color of nature began to reappear as green trees and grass took root in the countryscape. Squashed by gross polluting engines propagated by loose government restrictions on emissions, oxygen reclaimed the atmosphere to our lungs delight.

Throughout the drive, I pondered what lay ahead in the upcoming days. Would I like the ashram? Would it change my life? Did I want a life change? What did I drag Marc into? I was happy to have him along whether he liked it or not as it seemed to be one of those times when things could go really well and I could grow in some meaningful way, or I could end up running from a pack of silent monks with razors trying to give me a thin curly pony tail and wrap me in orange sheets for a makeshift robe.

Our car made a turn off the main road into a gated entry where an unarmed guard took down some information from our driver. Eyes wide open, silence fell in the car as if we had entered a library. Marc stared out the left side of the car, while I scoped out the right. This was new territory shrouded in mystery mostly due to our own lack of understanding, research and inquiry.

Rolling to a stop on a reddish brown dirt road in front of a white marble porched building, the sign read, “Welcome Home”. Um, excuse me, but home is Northern California, my pillow top mattress is nowhere to be found and the nearest Whole Foods is ten thousand miles away – 9,990 miles out of my salad bar raid range. Surely the sign was mistaken. Appreciative of the sentiment, we kicked off our shoes and approached the “Reception”. We were politely referred to the other “Reception” for international guests upstairs so we put on our shoes, walked around the building, removed our shoes and assumed seats before two men working behind a desk in a room with fan circulating the air overhead.

“We’d like to enroll in the Basic Course,” I said, halfway expecting to be told that the class was canceled or full. While I had phoned the ashram on two separate occasions, both times I had casually been told to show up for class before 9 a.m. on Friday. No one had asked for my name or credit card to secure our space in the class so the thought that this journey could come to an abrupt stop crossed my mind. And returning for the next class session was likely not to be an option for me, and certainly not for Marc.

Applications were pulled from a drawer, placed in front of us, and standard operating questioning in India ensued. “What is your name?”, “Where are you from?,” “How long are you traveling in India?,” “What do you think of India?”. By now, we had the trite, to the point answers prepared for quickly dispensing with the now familiar cultural formalities, “Todd and Marc, California, 5 weeks, beautiful country.” It was not intended to be short, but it was all that the inquiring minds really wanted to know. Having visited four states in India thus far, I realized it was less to strike up an extended conversation and more just the plain curiosity of the Indian mind.

Applications completed in block letters, combination to the padlock on our room door in hand and a 6,600 per person rupee “donation” later, we were on our way to Room No. 10 in the three story Riddhi dorm building. The ashram spread across some 60 acres, including a man made lake, several dormitory buildings, a dining hall suitable for seating thousands on the floor, an outdoor grass amphitheatre stepped with red brick, several administrative buildings, a canteen (place for light snacks and water for purchase) and the main center for spiritual gathering, a six story circular stuppa shaped building, wider at the base and successively narrower each of the six stories to the top. The lower floor was an indoor marble amphitheatre with a stage, while the other levels were simple rooms with no furniture, just throw pillows for meditation, classes and yoga.

Three times to the right, 12, twice to the left, 26, once to the right, 4, and we cracked the padlock to our room. Basic, but clean, we made our beds with the sheets provided on our single patio chair-like pad on a dark wooden platform. Fan swirling overhead, we quickly placed our valuables in our small daypacks and headed for dinner, as we were now on ashram time, which meant dinner was served from 6:30 to 7:15.

It was on the way to the dining hall that I phoned Roopa to share the news of my enrollment in the residential basic course at the ashram. I wanted to be sure she knew that she had a made an impact on my life. Knowing that she was in a fight for her life made communicating my sentiments more urgent as each moment becomes more precious when limits are proposed exposing one of the many ironies of the human mind. That which distinguishes us from our nearest primate relatives, our ability to plan for the future often leaves us in constant pursuit of the next “thing” whatever that may be, while each moment in the here and now is traded for some non-guaranteed time in the future.

Serenity filled the ashram air waves as crickets and birds provided a natural background for introspection. Maybe it was because of the noisy center of Bangalore or the more stop than go drive to the ashram, or a collective focus on meditation, but peacefulness forced its way into my mind. Arriving at the dining hall, two lines of fifty people stretched stainless steel tables supporting three large stainless pots with the ever present white rice and two mildly flavored dishes of the evening. A food critic's nightmare, the food was bland, salted more heavily than to my liking, served on a stainless plate with no utensils, but satisfying to the call of hunger.



Once to the front of the line, volunteers manipulated large stainless spoons scooping and shoveling food onto diner's plates. Seated "Indian" style rows of hundreds of ashramites, a few westerners, and anyone who was hungry from the local community, used their god given utensils (right hands) mashing rice with the other dishes. Washing your hands before dinner took on a whole new level of importance as I could once again hear my Grandmother's request to wash up before dining.


(Yum Yum!, Marc's hand prepares to dive in!)

Class would start the following day so Marc and I retired to our room as the highlight of ashram nightlife, evening satsang (visualize campfire sing along minus the campfire) conclude. The finale on the first eve was a cold bucket shower to cool the skin from the day's dry heat. As I tried to settle down for sleep, excitement, curiosity and wonderment kept my mind from the REM called for by the body. My final thoughts centered around a prayer for Roopa and acknowledgement of her hand in my current life curriculum. Over the next few days, lessons of wisdom from the ages would be offered through the course, but a real life "art of living" was being modeled by Roopa.

To be continued . . .

The "I"s and "T"s have it

(Above: Locals celebrating the Hindu New Year, Holi, with colors.)

I’m beginning to think I’ve had many yogis in my life. “Dot your ‘i’s and cross your ‘t’s”, Mrs Johnson used to tell me in my second grade elementary classroom. What’s with these “i”s and “t”s requiring this extra effort anyway?

Flying from Varanasi to Bangalore via Delhi, it is unmistakably clear, Mrs. Johnson was on to something, the “I”s and “T”s do have it. By now you are asking what is “it”? “IT” is exactly IT, information technology. Banagalore is one of, if not the, hub of the India’s red hot Information Technology sector. From the cars in the airport parking lot to the less littered streets to the better maintained newly constructed buildings, a causal connection between jobs in the tech sector and a higher standard of living is abound.

But there is another IT at play in Bangalore as well, that of Interpersonal Transformation, as the city serves as home for at least three major ashrams. Less than a month ago, it was also the host city for the Human Values Conference, attended by heads of state, dignitaries and religious and spiritual leaders from around the world. Bangalore is a city on the rise with a quality of life surpassing that of even the country’s capital, New Delhi and former capital, Bombay.

Located in the southern state of Karnataka, our arrival in Bangalore was a mild culture shock. The food is spicier, the weather warmer and there is less chaos than experienced in other cities. Local men are seen strutting the streets in coats and ties, and air conditioned stores with designer labels contribute to the cityscape. Affluence is seen in Wi-Fi enabled Starbuck like coffee shops found on most streets, sometimes two to a street.

But Marc and I were not here for international espresso. In fact, prior to my arrival in India, Bangalore was not on my homemade itinerary. This was an unscheduled destination, at least to my conscious knowledge. After spending time with Roopa in Bombay and learning about Sri Sri Ravi Shankar, attending his puja in Delhi, his satsanga in Rishikesh and bathing with him in the Ganges, the neon road signs were clear, I must go to Bangalore to take Sri Sri’s “Art of Living” course – part I.

While I had this desire, Marc, my friend from the states was meeting me after my Rishikesh education and my plans had changed since he and I had last spoke. Would he want to travel to Bangalore with me to pursue this 3 day course or did he have his own agenda? After all, the Art of Living course is offered around the world on every continent except Antarctica. I could take the course in San Francisco or even in Marin, but the ashram experience, always intriguing to me in the states, was here and so was I.

The night of Marc’s arrival in Delhi, I downloaded him on much of my experience for as long as he could keep his eyes open. He was immediately intrigued (or at least pretended to be) and on his first full day in India, we hired a car to take us to the Art of Living Information Center in southern Delhi. Marc had only two weeks in this, his second trip to India, so the concept of time took on that extra precious quality as it usually does when time constrains.

Finding the Information Center was like most things in India, a seemingly easy A to B route, but more like an A to Q to C to G to Z concept. Addresses are haphazard, often put in many different formats and having similarities in every manner except one slight subtle tweak, even challenging the lifelong residents. A thirty minute drive across Delhi and our driver, who spoke little English, pulled the white compact four door car in front of a home in a residential neighborhood. Was this the information center? Hard to believe, but again in India, thing are not always what they appear to be.

Confident and determined that we were supposed to find the information center, I approached the side of the home and walked through a door off of the driveway, a rare sight in and of itself in India. Marc was close behind muttering that this didn’t seem right. I agreed with him, but the address seemed to match. How could the website be wrong?

“Hello”, I called out into the home. A woman walking down a hallway brushing her teeth and obviously a bit startled, blurted out something beyond my comprehenson of Hindi, but my imagination tells me it had to do with the appearance of two strange men in her home. Immediately, I said “Art of Living Information”, removing unnecessary verbs. She called out to someone else in the house. I was unsure if she was telling her husband to “get the gun” or “call the police”, but I didn’t have to wonder long, as soon a boy of about 14 years of age came to the door. In clear English, he explained that the address I was looking for was in the “Green Park – Extension” and not “Green Park” where I was presently standing in his home.

Thankful not to be shot and happy to realize our error, we explained the confusion to our driver and set out for the “Extension” part of Green Park. A sense of accomplishment set in when we pulled up in front of a plain white unassuming building at the address provided by the Art of Living website. It was on the fringe of a residential neighborhood, but looked like it had more of a commercial purpose.

With an extra spring in my step, we walked into the “Information Center” which looked like it had been deserted for a decade. No one sat in the front office and it was about five minutes until we were recognized by some men sitting in other rooms off the main corridor. When we did finally meet with someone, I explained that we wanted to learn more about the ashram in Bangalore and the basic course. What I got was all I needed, a phone number to the ashram. With the mobile provided by Roopa, I phoned the number provided by the “Information Center”, a term I would now use more loosely.

Straining to hear through the thick Inglish (Indian English) accent over the phone, I understood enough to learn that there was a basic course offered at the ashram every Friday for $150 US, including room and board. The next course would be in one week. I conveyed this information to Marc who, after little consideration was clearly enthusiastic and game. The program for his stay in India was rapidly taking shape as old India (Varanasi), new India (Bangalore) and spiritual India (Art of Living) were put in the cue.

Tomorrow is Day 1 of the course I know little about. We plan on staying at the ashram Thursday through Sunday night. During the course, I will not make any web entries, but I will attempt to share as much as possible when I complete the course.

Roopa Update: First of all, thanks to all who have put Roopa in their prayers. I will convey the message that we are all pulling for her. She remains in amazing spirits despite her confirmed diagnosis with liver cancer. Her family has pulled even tighter together as she is the dynamic force within. When I last spoke with Shubi, she was optimistic following a doctor’s visit. A treatment regimen is being set by the oncologist today (Thursday). Roopa, who has been instrumental in my experience, education and well being here in India, exemplifies the true art of living. I look forward to visiting with her in person at the end of the month.

Witness and enjoy the art of your life this weekend and everyday thereafter. And remember Mrs. Johnson’s sage second grade advise, mind your “p”s and “q”s, I mean pay special attention to your “i”s and “t”s.


(Marc and I get "Holi"d from the crew at top.)