Saluting the Mellow Goan Sun

Goa is beautiful. There is a reason it has become such a tourist mecca. Truth be told, I wasn't really looking forward to going. I had 'ummed' and 'aahhed' until the ninth hour before confirming my place in the yoga shala and booking my flight. Did I really want to spend a precious two weeks of my India time in Goa, which everybody says 'ísn't really India' but just a resort, a party place? I was really in two minds because, at the same time, there was also a big draw in the form of a well-reputed Ashtanga Yoga teacher duo. Although for many Ashtanga Yogis the most important (if not ONLY) destination in India is Mysore, home of the AYRI (Ashtanga Yoga Research Institute, the late 'Guruji' Pattabhi Jois' shala), I had decided I wouldn't be going to study there. A few years ago I definitely wouldn't have made that choice...but the collective combination of tales of the Mysore Ashtanga Yoga 'scene', added to the fact that my own yoga has morphed into something much slower, more precise and more creative than your typical Ashtanga practise, made me think it's probably not the place for me. But I had heard good things about this pair in Goa, and the vibe definitely sounded more chilled out. I would, of course, have to toe the line with a more straight-laced Ashtanga practise, but I reckoned I could handle this for a couple of weeks. Actually, this India trip was never really about Hatha Yoga. I am certainly no stranger to Hatha Yoga study - if there was a prize for attending the most workshops with notable teachers, last year I might have won it - and the more I learn, the more that reveals itself for discovery, practise, refinement (as someone said to me recently, you finally break through one door only to find another eight in front of you...)... But my Hatha Yoga practise has been an established and permanent fixture in my life for quite some time now, something I simply can't, or wouldn't want to, imagine living without. This time in India was always more about delving deep into the culture and spiritual traditions that are inextricably tied up with the vast and rich yoga tradition, related to but so much more than the practise on the mat. It was about discovering and experiencing the people, histories, beliefs, rituals and values of India. And getting deeper into the paths of Yoga that I haven't much explored or been exposed to - the philosophical stuff (Jnana Yoga), the devotional traditions (Bhakti Yoga), the traditions of service (Karma Yoga). Perhaps most importantly, it was about meditating. That said, the over-active Vata-Pitta Ashtangi in me demanded two weeks of thrashing it out on the mat, and especially in the company of two such highly regarded teachers. So, after incomparable amounts of deliberation, I had finally bitten the bullet and found myself in Goa.

Candolim was pretty much what I had anticipated, a cheesy tourist resort geared towards middle-aged Brits and Germans with a penchant for Kareoke Bars, organised tour buses, full english breakfasts on a Goan beach, swiftly followed by 2 pints of lager and a packet of crisps (half a shandy for the wife). I have yet to fathom why two YOGA TEACHERS, of all people, would base themselves in the middle of this( (suggestions welcome)....??? Thankfully, though, I had reserved a room in a Guest House on the edge of it all, in the gorgeous Da Mello's Guest House. Da Mello's is one of innumerable inviting accommodations leading back from the sand dunes, stuck out in the midst of a truly impenetrable maze of pathways. Arriving that first night, in the dark, the taxi driver dumped me on the main drag of a pathway and told me I'd have to go it alone from here as there was no access for cars into that whole area. So, bag on back, I wondered off in the vague and very dark direction of his waving, with no clue as to where I was going or how far it was. After staggering about (thanks to the weight of the bag and a total lack of light) for about 20 minutes, making friends with a few trees, a very LARGE local cow and one or two sleeping Goan dogs, I finally came across a local lady who, after trying to convince me I should really take a room in her house, did point me in the right direction. And eventually (though not too soon) I found it. My (relatively - this is Goa) cheapie, 'basic' room was completely gorgeous - vast, with a big double bed (complete with much-needed mozzie net) swimming around in the middle of it. But, best of all, it was the PENTHOUSE baby - which not only meant that I didn't really have proper walls - only slidey windows and open balustrades - but also that it had a corrugated tin roof. And, far from being a recipe for boil-in-the-room-Arianna, it actually stayed remarkably cool (thanks I think to being in the shade of a huge overhanging tree) . Although, I have to say, I hardly slept a wink the first night, I soon became accustomed to my little pad up amongst the wildlife of Goa, with its cacophony of busy sounds - incomparably enthusiastic cockerals and birds at sunrise, dog-barking competitions, the sea in the background, occasional drops of rain, geckos and the odd heavy-footed animal charging across the tin roof above me - all of it going for gold as I lay back amongst it all. Lonely? Most certainly not.


Oh, and did I mention the ants? Huge. GINORMOUS. In the evenings only one or two would linger on after their mates had left, roaming around my vast tiled floor, maybe checking for lost property or something. But, come morning time, with the onset of the heat of the day, they would invite their buddies over for a marching party and patrol in unpredictable lines around the tiles. They reminded me of the giant so-called 'Buddhist' ants that patrolled the woven floor of the yoga shala of El Moro in Andalucia (the site of a blissful retreat last summer), but with the important distinction that these buggers were NOT practising ahimsa. On that first night, I was trying to let them be in their own space, which is pretty difficult given their unpredictable trajectories. And, in a moment lacking in mindfulness, I trod on one. An unintentional ACCIDENT, but the ant didn't see it that way and firmly plunged it's enormous spike of a tail into my foot. OUCH, how can an ANT create so much PAIN? And, worse still, I couldn't get it out - it had rooted itself good and proper into the joint of my big toe. When I finally managed to prize the bugger out, my toe proceeded to swell up into an impressively dramatic mound, so much so that my walk took on an interesting limp for a day or two before morphing into a full-on hobble when the little sod's bigger and scarier older brother got me in the heel a few days later. Beware those fake Buddhist ants.

That first night, being completely disorientated, I took myself to a tiny little place next door for a (long-awaited) bowl of soup. Although I knew I had to be close to the beach, for I could hear and smell the sea, I wasn't going to brave the maze of paths and sand dunes and their Goan wildlife inhabitants again that night in the pitch black. So, as I sat waiting (and waiting and waiting...) for a hot and sour vegetable soup and chapati, I passed the time watching the northern British lass at the next door table as she flirted beyond outrageously with one of the lads waiting on, hitching up her already almost invisible skirt as she giggled her peroxide perm all over him and forced him to smile for her camera. He graciously obliged, although didn't hang around beyond the main course when I saw him slip out the back door and zoom off on his scooter. And so I realised that I had landed in a very different place. Goa, of the tourist towns at least, lives by a totally different set of norms than anything I had experienced in India so far. This place, apparently a much more UNDERSTATED version of the majorly developed tourist zones a little further north (?), is about kicking back, wearing very little, and indulging in sun, treatments, western food, booze and the entertainment of your choice. The mere idea of covering up,or not drinking, or whatever, to show respect for the local custom would be alien here - the local custom IS free and easy. Apparently Hinduism is still the dominant faith here (closely followed by Christianity) but it's a Hinduism of a different flavour, no staunch adherence to rigid social rules and restrictions, as far as I could see . The Goan people are light, warm-hearted, super-friendly and ultra laid back, seemingly governed more by having a free and easy life than intensity of faith (at least not in the tourist towns - rural inland Goa is a different story) - they remind me more of the kind of people I would expect to find in the Caribbean than anyone I had met in India so far.


And so I gradually tried to shift into a new mindset. Beyond the yoga, once that got going, there wasn't an awful lot for me to discover here other than to relax and contemplate and enjoy the sunshine. So I embarked upon a couple of laborious weeks of lounging in the sun, having to walk a whole thirty paces from my penthouse room amongst the animals to breakfast at Pete's Beach Shack, reclining in the bamboo loungers as I watched the waves roll in or, prime time viewing, the local 'bird-irritates-lazy-cow' beach duo act (the things that amuse me, eh......?).


Or, better still, that timeless, priceless piece of beach fashion - the male black leather thong (ideal for beach tennis). THE business (apparently he thinks so).



I got started with the yoga on my first morning, bright but not SO early at the surprisingly respectable 7am. Still, I only just managed to make it in time, having wandered aimlessly around Candolim's numerous unnamed sand dune pathways for a good 20 minutes before thankfully stumbling upon a fellow yogi with their tell-tale yoga mat, the only other westerner to be walking around bright-eyed at 6.45am (coastal Goa has a more relaxed timetable than the rest of India with it 5am temple wake-up calls). As a newbie, I had been assigned to the late shift - when I finally made it up to the rooftop shala, I found a sweating mass of 50 or so people, many of whom had been at it since 5am. So I took my place in the small stairway queue but before long was assigned a mat space as one of the early birds dripped their way out. I didn't really have any expectations, and on first impressions I liked the vibe - the vibe of the teachers, a nice yin-yang combo of mellow and rigorous which reminded me of the incomparable Chuck and Maty, but sadly somewhat lacking in their total commitment to their students' progress. And I liked the vibe of the students. I was in amongst all ages, abilities and levels, all practising side-by-side, getting on with their personal yoga, dealing with their own stuff, minding their own business, but sharing the same sweaty air. So I began to get on with my practise, before long becoming properly introduced to the two teachers as they came up and firmly instructed me that I was to stick with Primary Series ONLY on my first day. Yes Siree (no problem I was pretty knackered anyway). I enjoyed it, back practising in amongst a group after months of going it alone, away from any kind of 'Mysore-Style' class, once again supported by the energy of a room full of people doing their yoga as I did mine, and the incomparable, mesmerising sound of the collective breath. And, once I got my head around it, I enjoyed sticking to strict Ashtanga form once again, being picked up on even the tiniest additions and told to jolly well do them at home before I came (more staunch Ashtangis who mindlessly honour 'the system' over 'the body' - no place here for working with intelligent and informed self-awareness......?). Ok, fine, whatever, you're the boss.

Truth be told, beyond being given my initial orders, I didn't get an ounce of attention from the teachers on that first day. But, no bother, I kept an open mind - perhaps they were just watching me, getting the sketch of my practise rather than launching in heavy-handed (not my favoured approach). But, if I'm honest, things didn't really change much over the course of my time there. As, from day two, I was given the go ahead to move into my Second Series practise, I got a few helpful hints and things to try, but really nothing that I haven't played with before, and hardly any physical adjustments (which is where the teaching focus of a Mysore-Style class often is) - perhaps one a day, if I was lucky. In the words of a fellow student, before long it started to feel like I had really just paid for a concrete mat space, rather than any teaching to speak of. It began to be painfully clear that there were simply far too many yogis in the shala than could realistically be adequately be attended to. I am more than used to practising alone, and can perfectly enjoy my practise without being manhandled and yanked into poses, but nonetheless I had come here for something a little different than what I normally do - some kind of teaching, I had hoped. I had heard that in Mysore one does get very little attention, one is really just paying (a huge amount) for a space - and I had hoped it would be different here. Sadly not. And so I realised I would have to make do with enjoying the group dynamic and the classical Ashtanga discipline, as this was pretty much all I was going to get.

For the first few days I continued to enjoy rising at a leisurely 6am to do my illegal warm-ups before making my way to the shala for my 7am start but, just as I started to brag about having been spared the early shift, my luck changed (there's karma for you). And so I soon found myself rising at 4am, beating most of the birds to the wake-up call to be all set to go saluting the sun to rise at 5am, way ahead of its scheduled time. Actually I just love being up at this hour, being part of the amazing, secret energy that pervades the dark early morning. And doing yoga at this time is just perfect - deeply silent and vibrant all at once, not to mention an awful lot cooler in India (the same can't be said for North London). Having said that, being able to drag my practise out for longer than anyone else I know, despite starting at 5am, somehow I would outdo even the second shift, still finding myself there as the last people wound up at 9am. Talk about the emptiness of TIME....the VOID...I don't know how I do it, honestly... Nonetheless, there's no better feeling than bouncing out of an epic morning practise ravenously hungry and heading down to Pete's Shack for a well-deserved breakfast as the rest of the world gradually wakes up and makes it way down to the loungers for another challenging day of basking in the sun.

Recovery and contemplation

I had much that I wanted to discover in Pondicherry, but as it turned out I had to take things as they came. I needed some down time to rest, recover, and build up the strength I was going to need for two weeks of Ashtanga Yoga in Goa, my next post. That first night I eventually managed to haul myself off the bed for a wander around town, and was pleasantly surprised at the cleanliness and grandeur of the French side of Pondicherry, complete with seaside promenade, spotless tree-lined avenues and quaint cafes lit with fairy lights. Was I still in India? Yes, indeed, all I had to do was turn the corner and, like day turns to night, walk back into the dirt, grime, colour, chaos and dilapidation, the throngs of people hanging out, sleeping, living under makeshift tents on the streets. Pondicherry is perhaps the strangest place I have ever been to - a city of two extremes coexisting side-by-side, with no apparent middle-ground or sign of change. The Indian population seems to confine itself to the ‘Tamil’ parts of town, living in true Indian style on top of each other and largely in the rubbish-filled streets, while the tourists and the inhabitants of the Sri Aurobindo Ashram (which takes up a good chunk of the posh part of town) stick to the pristine ‘French’ side, hanging out in cafes, bistros, overpriced boutiques, art galleries or, of course, in Ashram grounds. Enjoying wandering through the peaceful streets that night, I nonetheless couldn’t help feeling that something was amiss in this ‘balance’. How can this city have enough money to keep all of these colonial buildings and their streets shiny and polished, yet there are clearly too many people here in dire need of a roof and a decent meal a day? Is it really too much for the French and Indian powers that be to wake up, communicate and work together on this? In my few days there, I noticed more hostility towards me (as a westerner) than I have experienced anywhere else in India. My guest house was actually just in the Tamil part of town, and as I strolled down the road I would try to smile and greet those who crossed my path, much as I had become accustomed to so far in India, being gracious to the lovely people who were my hosts in this amazing country. But here in Pondicherry the vibe was different. I felt that people didn’t want to smile at me. I didn’t feel welcome. I felt hostility. Negativity. Unexpected, unpleasant and odd.

On my second morning I managed to get myself up and out and over to the Sri Aurobindo Ashram, a big reason for coming here. Although I hadn’t managed to get myself a room in the much-reputed Ashram accommodation, I wasn't fussed as there is no ashram schedule to speak of. Rather the Sri Aurobindo Ashram is a place for you to follow your own personal sadhana (spiritual path/practises) in the way you see fit, studying the teachings of Sri Aurobindo and The Mother (his main disciple/successor), meditating, doing selfless service in one of the numerous ashram businesses. So, after a record-breaking, long-winded conversation with the amazingly (over-?) eager man in the Ashram visitors' centre, I made my way to the main courtyard to spend some time contemplating and meditating around the Samadhi Shrine, the collective tombs of Sri Aurobindo and The Mother. At this point I didn’t really know much about their teachings, but something had sparked my interest and I was eager to find out more for myself. The energy in there was lovely – peaceful, vibrant, nurturing, uplifting. I sat there for a good while as people came and went, a wonderfully and equally mixed crowd of international and Indian devotees all coming to pay their respects and JUST BE in this unique energy. Without even having to try, and despite the more-than-thick state of my head that day, I found myself transported to a calm, quiet, peaceful place, not wanting or waiting to be anywhere else. I still have a good way to go with the somewhat intellectual and circular nature of these teachings, but one thing I love about them at first sight is that they are non-dogmatic. You are not told how to progress, which practises you should follow, how to follow them. You are told to follow your own path, to look inside for the answers to your questions and to let your inner teacher be your guide. I love this...perhaps because I have always loved working alone, practising alone, working things out for myself, trying, testing and discovering. Yes of course it's vague and difficult and leaves a HUGE area for people to slide off the map; but if you are able to stick with the program, it strikes me that this is the way you will find what is true and right for you in your life, rather than mistakenly lusting after someone else's tempting strawberry-flavoured beacon.

Despite my best intentions to spend a good proportion of the following days sat in contemplation in the ashram, in reality I ended up in bed, sneezing my head off and, once that subsided, staring at the ceiling with the lights turned off as my head throbbed incessantly. The blessed Arianna travel headaches, I just love ‘em. Not. Alas, they do make me stop and rest, which is probably the point, even if that was totally inconvenient and scuppered my plans (again). Still, I was thankful for lovely caring Indian hosts and their generous offerings of tiger balm, and for just about finding the patience to tolerate the oversized French School party who took over the entire guest house and its noisy stairways. Omm.

I had planned to spend some decent time in Auroville, an idealistic 'township' still developing and establishing itself, founded by The Mother in the sixties in an area just outside of Pondicherry. But alas all I managed was a quick day trip and a squizz at the visitors' centre and the outside of the amazing golden MATRIMANDIR - the spiritual heart of the place 'symbolising the birth of a new consciousness seeking to manifest,' where the Aurovillians go to meditate in an inner chamber dominated by the rays of light diffusing off a crystal-glass globe.

But I didn't really get to taste Auroville, which was what I was looking for. The visitors centre is impersonal and is there to deal with the hoards of visitors who come every day to peer into Auroville like it's a tourist attraction. But Auroville itself is made up of lots of little communites each with their own focus - eco-gardening, body-mind-spirit healing, whatever. It's had some bad press about its relations with the local community and reports of violence, which obviously are completely at odds with the idealistic values behind this 'experiment in human unity'. But at the same time others who I know and respect report it to be an amazing place full of amazing people who are dedicating everything they have to make this experiment work. So I wanted to find out for myself. Alas, I didn't get very far (this time).....but that day I resolved that before long I would be back (in true Schwarzeneger style), to spend some good time living and breathing the Aurovillian way (watch this space).

As I packed up my belongings to head North to Goa, I decided it was time to offload some of my clothes - the bag was just too heavy (the first of many such decisions since, though the bag doesn't appear to be getting smaller or lighter....how uncanny). Following the example of yogi Amelia, one of the wonderful Christmas boat crew, I walked straight up to the first needy looking person I saw - a tiny, wasted, elderly man - and gave him my bag full of my female western clothes. Perhaps not the best choice of home for my wardrobe, and he did look a bit bemused as his expectant hand found these bizarre items in the place of a few rupees. I placed my hands in Namaskar at my heart and smiled as I looked him in the eye. But as I walked off, although I knew they'd fit, I did wander if they'd quite suit his fashion sense.

I'd managed to spend a month in India and not yet use the trains - truly prize-winning. And as a result, for some reason I seemed to have developed train-o-phobia. No doubt something to do with the accumulation of reports I'd heard from various travel buddies - the impossibility of booking a ticket, 36 hour delays, having to leap on and off moving trains as you only discover at the last minute that they are/aren't going to where you think they're going, and the trials and tribulations of being stuck on a platform with barely an excuse for a toilet as travellers' tummy comes on good and proper. Yummy. Just another unknown really, but for some reason it took me a while to bite the bullet with this Indian train lark. So, I am ashamed to admit, that I took the easy way out and, rather than enjoy my first 24-hour journey on India's historic railways, I hopped on a (very cheap but not a patch on the trains) flight to Goa. Yes, I do feel very bad about it. And, to make matters worse, I even indulged in a taxi to the airport, a whole 10 pounds for the 2.5 hour journey...it felt like SUCH an indulgence and a luxury, but one I allowed myself rather than entrust my timely arrival at Chennai airport into the hands of Tamil Nadu State Transport Corporation.

From chilled-out Thanjavur to asbestos central

Arriving in Thanjavur I started to realise I was feeling a bit run down. There's only so many towns and temples one can see in a week. After trekking up and down the main street trying to find a decent and clean room for a decent price, my energy levels eventually gave up when I found somewhere smarter than I would have liked but again with a nice bathroom and free toiletries in its favour (!). Better still, it had onsite internet and a decent-looking restaurant, and so I decided I would give myself a break for the rest of the night and stay cocooned inside. Dinner was indeed lovely, despite feeling like I was under house-arrest as the vast quantities of waiting-on staff ogled me eating my meal. On top of that, being faced with proper cutlery after a few weeks of getting into finger-licking was downright wierd. I actually like eating with my fingers – it truly is a bonding experience with the food, and slows down the eating, making it into a slower, more contemplative process; a meditation, no less. Particularly because Indian mealtimes (especially in ashrams) are a quiet affair, the polar opposite of our western version. But here in this restaurant I was given cutlery and I felt I should use it...almost like I was expected to, because I am a westener. So I sat there struggling with whether or not it would be rude for me, a westerner, to not use the cutlery and eat with my fingers in this ‘nice’ restaurant in India, a country where it is the norm to eat with one's fingers. How totally British and paranoid is that?! No doubt they couldn’t give a monkeys what I did with the cutlery, it was probably just put there for my ‘convenience’ anyway!

Back in my room I discovered that it doesn't really matter whether one pays £2 or £12 for a room in India, one must still be open to the possibility of some insect room-buddies. But for £12 a night you don't get short-changed with small brown cockroaches. Oh no. You get big fat juicy black ones with very very long whiskers. Two in the bathroom, one in the bedroom. Yummy. Dream on that. I confess, when they are that big and real and CRUNCHY, the non-violence principle becomes harder for me to embrace. Everybody knows cockroaches signify somewhere UNCLEAN, and anyway, the sight of them does just send shivers down my spine. I have to admit I swayed a little from the yogi path that evening (but don't call the dharma police just yet, that story isn't over yet). Which is probably why I got my karmic cummupence right back at me; that night, as I got busy with the mattress-testing, my face and ankles were savagely munched by what can only have been mozzies the size of moths, judging by my balloon-like appearance the following day.




Thanjavur Temple is completely unique, and thankfully very mellow. Still feeling knackered I dragged myself up there, with each step preparing myself to deal with people wanting to show me around and hassling me in one form or another. Despite wanting to have the best intentions, I just didn't feel I had the energy or patience left to deal with it that day. But Grace smiled on me again, as it turned out I didn’t need either that morning. Thanjavur Temple is a World Heritage Site and is preserved more like a monument than a working temple (even though of course it is one).




Once you enter through the main archway you are free to roam around the site at your own pace, free from hassle and free from crowds. Can this be true in India? I’m sure I didn’t dream it. So I passed a lovely couple of hours taking in the mass of sandstone carvings and edifices (the temple hasn't been painted all manner of crazy Indian party colours like so many of the others), meeting the giant Nandi (bull) sculpture who protects the entrance to the main shrine (so the story goes, it just kept getting bigger and bigger, creating fears that it would become too big for the temple itself, so someone spiked it in the bottom, successfully halting its growth at its current gigantic proportions) and being blessed by the unusually friendly, welcoming Brahmins at the various shrines. I really felt they made a special effort to make me feel welcome and bless me, even in the main shrine where non-Hindus are banned in most other temples.




They must be doing something right here in Thanjavur as even the temple elephants seemed much happier than elsewhere, but perhaps that’s down to the amazingly well-kept gardens that they look out over. I got thrown out at lunch closing time and so headed off for a wander around the very mellow centre of town before fuelling up and getting on yet another bus to yet another temple town.

The ride to Chidambaram was longer than expected, and another memorable Tamil bus journey, complete with lots of cosy seat-sharing with entire families and their many protruding limbs. But, amazingly, on this particular journey the bus driver and his conductor companion were outstandingly friendly, apparently deciding to take me under their wing, and checking in with me every now and then to make sure my journey was going ok. But I’m not sure they quite needed to go to the extreme of making a poor innocent man get up and move from his seat so that I could sit down and wouldn’t have to share with him (presumably because he was a man?). I tried to protest, saying I was happy to sit next to him, not that it did the slightest bit of good. Apparently I was either to sit alone or to sit with other women or children. But under no circumstances, even on this overcrowded bus, was I to share a double seat with a strange man. Although I wasn't really comfortable with this ‘special treatment,’ preferring to muck in in the same way as everybody else, I nonetheless appreciated my self-appointed guardians looking out for me on this occasion, because truthfully I wasn’t really feeling top dog and was desperate to get settled, get fed, and get sleeping. Despite having tried superficial self-care by pampering myself with free soaps and smellies in nice bathrooms, I was still exhausted and could feel my glands swelling in my throat. God knows why at this point I didn’t quite put together the oncoming signs of cold and flu with the fact that only a few days previously I had spent an entire day in cold, wet clothes. But I didn’t; instead I was focused on conquering yet another temple the following day.

I was excited to arrive into Chidambaram, reputed to be a very unique and traditional bustling temple town. Which indeed it is. But I have to say that the first thing that really struck me was about the place was the bloody awful stench that pervades every street. Yummy. I swiftly found the budget option recommended in my book, which was a far cry from what I used to associate with the name ‘The Ritz’ but, on first inspection, for 400 rupees a night, it just about seemed to fit the bill. After the joys of the cockroach-infested room of the night before, my main priority was that I find somewhere CLEAN and, when I went to have a look at the room, the first thing that struck me was the smell of cleaning products. Although I normally shy away from anywhere that smells of chemical cleaning products, India has taught me to be less idealistic and more thankful for any attempts to maintain some level of hygiene. However, it was only after I had checked in and got settled in that I began to realise how intensely the entire room honked of bleach. With which I opened the windows to let the place air, put the fan on full throttle and went out on an unsuccessful mission to find something decent to eat. Returning armed with bananas, dates and cashew nuts (what a nutritious dinner) an hour later, the situation hadn’t much improved. What I should have done was move rooms then and there, but something told me that no other room in this hotel was going to be any different. So, rather stupidly perhaps, I tried to bed down for the night with all the windows open, the fan spinning full speed and little me wrapped up as best I could manage in my sleeping bag liner, having sealed off any potential holes in a vain attempt to minimise mosquito damage. Regardless, by the morning I was even more red and lumpy, my chest wheezing like that of a chronic asthmatic, my eyes and nose streaming, I couldn’t stop sneezing and I was more than a little bit grumpy from having had barely a wink’s sleep all night. All of which felt really good on top of the oncoming cold that I was brewing. Nonetheless, I came to this bloody town to visit the temple, so that was what I was bloody well going to do. Suffice to say that that morning I got out of that room faster than a firework, not even stopping to check in with my yoga mat (like I would have been able to breathe anyway).




What an amazing temple. It has an energy all of its own. Being somewhat on another planet, I ambled in without much of a clue. I was immediately struck by these strange fellows wandering around with white stripes on their bodies and foreheads, a single piece of string slung across their bodies, white dhotis and bizarre hairdos with a semi-shaved head complemented by a long-haired bun. At first sight, in my semi-conscious state, they looked to me like members of some kind of strange cult. But then I realised these are the Brahmins who live here in Chidambaram temple, this is their home. Nonetheless, I remember feeling vaguely intimidated, especially as they so clearly rule the roost here. And as I entered the courtyard to the main Siva mandarim, there they all were sat, just getting going with the morning’s fire ritual. After surprising everybody present (including myself) with my rather ungainly entry, I tried to re-blend into the stonework, finding myself a discreet spot against a pillar, sitting down, closing my eyes, and beginning to absorb the amazing sounds of their chanting. I never found out exactly what text it was they were chanting, but I didn’t care particularly. I was just totally absorbed in the mesmerising rhythm of it, as they all chanted in absolute synchronicity, at the end of each half line going up a semitone, at the end of each full line going up a semitone then falling a tone, always holding these end notes for a little longer than all the others, but always managing to stay perfectly in rhythm which each other. Amazing. I can still hear it now. And even more amazing for the fact that many of them didn’t even appear to be that interested in what they were doing, but were half-staring into space, or half-talking to their mates, or getting up to go and do something. But always staying bang in rhythm, as if they could do this in their sleep. I did find the lack of interest, not just from the little ones at the back but even from the priest performing the actual fire ritual, rather odd and quite telling about the actual spiritual wisdom and commitment of these Brahmins…even if born into the theorectially ‘advanced’ Brahmin caste, it seemed to me that many of these guys were not what I would call dedicated Men of God, utterly committed to cultivating Divinity in their lives and the lives of those around them, at the expense of all else. Rather, many of them seemed like they were going through the motions of the ritual because that was what they had been brought up with and that was what they knew. But their minds were elsewhere. I couldn’t help but think that, if repetition of scriptures and mantras is supposed to lift one to a higher place through the cultivation of one-pointedness of mind, there was something slightly amiss here. But who am I to judge?

I was also particularly struck by the variations on their signature hairdo. These Brahmins traditionally shave one side of their head to symbolize Siva, and have a ponytail/bun on the other side as a symbol of his female consort, Parvati. However, much like creative variations on school uniforms become one’s way of asserting one’s individuality within the boundaries of a restrictive dress code, the Brahmin hairdos here displayed all manner of creatively diverse variations on the theme. Evidently the white dhoti and single string-over-the-shoulder don’t leave a lot of room for manoeuvre, so the hairdo appears to have become a vehicle for self-expression, particularly amongst the youngest and hippest of the Brahmin crowd. For some, the shaved section itself has become a work of art, with different grades coming into play, whilst for others it’s the ponytail that has taken a creative turn, not just appearing on the one side of the head to contrast the shaved other side (the traditional look), but rather more central, like an island (or fountain) in the middle of the scalp, or sometimes sprouting from on top. And those that were really making a statement had the ponytail interpreted like a neck fringe at the very bottom of the head. Charles Worthington watch out.

I sat listening to their spellbinding chanting for a good hour or so, but as the ritual showed no signs of coming to an end in the near future, I woke my sleeping legs and persuaded them to walk me around the temple. As well as the Brahmin community, this temple is famous as the home of the gold statue of Dancing Siva Nataraja (most temples have the Siva Lingham, the fallic symbol). I tried to get a good look at it, but the light in there was so limited, I confess I couldn’t really see it. But, nonetheless, I appreciated being there in the same space with this beautiful sculpture, probably my favourite of all the symbolic Yogic images. Wandering around rather aimlessly I was soon beckoned over by a Brahmin priest who wanted to chat with me. After having been warned that the Brahmins in Srirangam are like ‘the mafia’, not least because they are always looking to rip you off, I was rather cautious. But this lovely man with kind, honest eyes, swiftly put my mind at rest, explaining that he genuinely had no interest in my money, he really just wanted to be my friend and tell me about his temple. So I sat with him for a short while and learnt about the history of Chidambaram, and how the reason why this place has such palpable energy is because it is literally vibrating as a direct result of hundreds of years of relentless chanting, mantras, pujas, rituals. So much dedication and effort has been put into preserving the strong ritualistic history of Chidambaram, and you can truly feel it in the very walls of the place. As a goodbye present before I went on my way, he told me that, according to numerology on my date of birth, I can look forward to life aged 34 and 35, apparently these years are glowing for me. After wandering around the whole of the rest of the enormous temple complex, I tried again in vain to find somewhere to sit down and have some food in town. Failing miserably yet again, I settled for samosas before collecting my bag and once again heading for the bus station. Although I had been really looking forward to visiting Mahabalipuram before getting to Pondicherry, this had to go. I was on my last legs and just needed to get to somewhere relatively comfortable before I crashed good and proper. So I hot-footed it to Pondicherry and to the lovely Ram Guest House, a beautiful, family-run, friendly place set around a central courtyard full of plants, and no bleach or cockroaches in sight.

The temple trail continues...Madurai to Trichy

On my final morning in Madurai I had planned to check out the well-reputed Gandhi Museum before heading on with the Tamil Temple Trail, so after a breakfast of dosa and sambar (which tasted better than life itself after the events of the previous day), I accosted a rickshaw driver and went on my way. Not just any old rickshaw driver at that – but my very first cycle rickshaw. In the more wealthy state of Kerala I hadn't laid eyes on a single one, and they simply don't have rickshaws full-stop up in the hill-stations cos it's just too....well...hilly. Trust me to pick the oldest, most spindly guy I could find, with the most clapped out old rickshaw, to take me on what turned out to be a rather longer-than-expected cycle tour of Madurai. As we set off towards the Gandhi Museum on the other side of town, I slowly realised that this was going to be a rather leisurely journey, largely due to the rickshaw's urgent need for (if not a complete overhaul) oil and tyres that could actually boast some kind of cushioning for the metal wheel rims themselves. And as the journey bumped on and on and on, up another hill and over another bridge, I started to feel enormously guilty that here was this old guy, at least in his late sixties but maybe even early seventies, cycling me, a fit young person of 30, around in the heat of the morning. I sat behind watching as he worked with all the might of his super-strong, wirey legs, his microscopic bottom high in the air as he pressed his entire body weight down through his cracked bare feet and into each pedal at a time, simply to just keep the stubborn machine moving. It just felt so wrong to me that here was this beautiful old man who has clearly worked like a dog his whole life, and who has now reached the age where he should be able to contemplate and rest in the life-wisdom he has accumulated. But instead he is here pulling me around for a fee of about 80p an hour. This just doesn't seem right. But at the same time as feeling guilty for sitting there in the back-carriage while he sweated it out for my benefit up in front, I knew I had given him some custom – it may only be a 40 rupee fare but that's still some earnings for him to take home at the end of the day, which surely he must want and need else I wouldn't have happened upon him and his rickshaw in the first place. But, as he cycled on, every few hundred metres wiping his brow with the old rag he kept slung over his shoulder, and I sat behind working myself up into an emotional sweat, things suddenly took a lighter turn. As I watched him reach for his back pocket, pull out a bede, light up and puff away whilst negotiating Madurai's traffic mayhem, I realised I hadn't given this old guy the credit he was due. His work might be tough and hot, but he's strong and used to it and evidently takes it all in his stride (though I'm not sure if the same can be said for his lungs, which protested vehemently at their daily diet of deathly bede smoke and Madurai traffic fumes).

I was relieved to pull up outside the very smart, white gates of the beautiful Gandhi Musem and its grounds. Only to discover that it is closed on Mondays. Of course, this is India. God knows why I didn't listen to that voice in my head and bother to check with someone first. This didn't come as news to my rickshaw cycler, who evidently was well aware but wasn't going to question a 40 rupee fare, even if it was to a museum that was well and truly closed. So I had little choice but to climb aboard once more and head, so I thought, back to where I started. Which is where I ended up eventually, after another hour's tour through the Madurai traffic, via countless places that he thought might be of interest, which they may well have been had I understood a single word of what he said (which I didn't as my Tamil leaves quite a bit to be desired). Suffice to say he got a much larger fee than either of us were initially expecting when I first hopped aboard, and I sincerely hope he went for a deep and long Savasana afterwards.

Heading to the bus station I opted for the less eco-friendly style of rickshaw, which came accompanied by lots of hassle as the driver tried to pass me over to his bus station buddies who nearly succeeded in conning me into paying double for my fare to Tiruchirapalli (Trichy). Trusting, innocent little me, at first I let them lead me, naively thinking they were nice people who wanted to help me find my bus (a welcome gesture in this MANIC and very large bus station). But when I realised their game I objected so loudly and bluntly they didn't hesitate to hand me straight back my money and let me go on my way without even trying to fight their corner. I wasn't expecting to win my money back quite so easily – I think it was my raised voice (as I have said before, not such a common thing in India) that did the trick (oh dear, the Western woman is about to throw a scene, let's just be done with her). And on top of that, somehow I then managed to persuade one of their guys to help me find my bus after all.

As I sat waiting for the bus to leave, a young girl started begging up to me through the window. Having been in India a few weeks, I was surprised that, up until this point, I hadn't really been the object of any outright, focused begging. I guess this has something to do with the relative wealth of Kerala compared to most other states, although perhaps it was just circumstance. But as a result I hadn't yet found my feet with it, worked out how to handle it. People had said to me to be wary of obviously giving generously, as this just attracts more and more beggars and you get thronged in the street. But at the same time you want to give because so many people here have absolutely nothing. But a big part of me inside thinks that, as I can't give to everybody, perhaps the best way is to give to charities so that the money is used to launch and sustain projects to help improve lives as well as just giving aid. This is the way I tend to manage my giving back at home. And so, at this point in my travels, I stuck with this approach, deciding that I would make some substantial donations to charities and also do some voluntary work here in India. So I sat there, nonetheless feeling enormously guilty for not giving to this girl who had nothing. As she begged and begged and begged at me, pawing up at the windows, opening them as I closed them, never taking 'no' for an answer. She never bothered any of the other Indian passengers on board, I was the only target, the rich white girl on holiday in her country. Even then, as I tried to ignore her, I knew I wanted to give her something. But I couldn't sort out this complex mass of feelings – pity, sorrow, guilt, compassion, annoyance, frustration – so I just stuck with my default setting. But it just doesn't work in this context, where abject poverty is so completely everywhere and so in your face. You cannot simply ignore basic human needs and common understanding and deal with moral obligation as you would a boil in the bag chicken (never needing to get your hands dirty thanks to tidy monthly direct debit payments). The poverty in India is real and dire and I pretty soon realised that, personally, I can't walk away from giving to other human beings who will sincerely appreciate even just a token that I will hardly miss. I don't even care what they do with it, but I want them to have it because, materially, they have nothing and I have more than I need. Suffice to say that my reaction to the lady on the bus that day made me readdress my way of dealing with India's poverty and begging, sparking a string of changes that I only gained clarity on much later in my trip.

Arriving in Trichy I found myself a place to stay near the bus station, complete with a bathroom with the luxuries of a western toilet, hot water and free toiletries. How exciting! Feeling rather knackered, I took my time enjoying the mod cons, pampering and rejuvanating myself before heading out to the China Bazar on the other side of town. Rooting around in amongst the shops and stalls I was drawn into a bookshop and before I knew it was persuading myself that I really needed to carry two more books around in my steadily swelling backpack. Trying to find anything other than a street dinner proved quite a mission, but one that I stuck with as finding a sit-down place to eat serves the double purpose of providing some (relative) headspace from the chaos. Just as my blood-sugar approached zero I happened upon a busy little place and got installed. I never quite fathomed why the waiter took one look at me and automatically provided me with a coffee at 8pm at night, not bothering to ask first and assuming I wasn't interested in eating (?). Anyway, I managed to get the message across that yes I would please like some dinner, and was hoping that by ordering a vegetable kuruma (korma) and chapatti I might get more than a ramekin full of vegetable sauce, somewhat craving vitamins after the rather limited packaged food diet of the previous day in Ramesvaram. I hoped in vain (oh well, another perfect excuse to fill up on super rich and sugary Indian sweets. Oops. Well at least I bounced all the way back to my bed).

The following morning I was set to conquer the Srirangam Temple, the main reason for coming here to Trichy. Murti, my rickshaw driver from the previous night, was waiting for me as I bounced out of the hotel at 9am, and we sped over to Srirangam first thing. Much like the Meenakshi Temple in Madurai, Srirangam is another series of hugely ornate and colouful domes, but this one has two main gold ones which signify the main mandirims (no go zones for us non-Hindus). After leaving my shoes and learning that I really had to have a (very expensive) government guide if I was to survive not being conned at every shrine by one of the 750 Brahmins who live inside the temple, I met my guide Raj, a lovely and seriously well-informed young man who spent the next two hours showing me around. Although I do often like to do things at my own pace, soaking up the energy of a place rather than being bombarded with information, I did actually fully appreciate being shown around by such a friendly and knowledgeable person who I felt I could relate to, and I definitely learnt a lot (though how much of it stuck is another matter). Actually I felt so baffled by the intricacy and depth of all of the symbolism and meaning connected with all of the various gods that I actually asked him if most Hindus are aware of all of this meaning behind every image, carving, shrine, ritual etc.... and it made me feel a lot better when he said 'no'! Good, I am not the only complete ignoramus then. He showed me the 'Door of Paradise' which, when open, is supposed to literally bring the blessings of Paradise to those who gaze on the shrine behind it. But if you can't quite make it to one of those special festival days, the other option is the rather tongue-in-cheek game nestled around the corner....much like twister, you are supposed to put your hands and feet in various impossible yoga-like positions and hold them there whilst leaning and twisting sideways to gaze at the Door of Paradise. Well, if you have completely wierd proportions or are a contortionist (obviously my yoga isn't working). Another highlight, in addition to the 1000 pillared hall (even more lacking here as it only has 940 pillars) and the carvings of the incarnations of Vishnu (because Srirangam is a Vishnu Temple), were the Karma Sutra carvings, which Raj swiftly and subtley pointed out to me and then walked in the other direction whilst I figured out for myself the medley of animals and humans in all sorts of bizarre positions (apparently it's not the done thing to show such things to me because I am a 'lady'......!). Utterly creative indeed.

With a head much bigger and heavier than when I entered, I left the temple, and was ushered over the road to Raj's mate's drinks stall and told that I absolutely MUST try his mate's coffee as he is famed for it. So I sat around on boxes with the old guys at the back, drinking what was indeed very nice coffee (true Indian style, loaded with milk and sugar) and trying to politely say that I didn't really want to come and look in their shops as I wasn't really interested in shopping. Nonetheless they were lovely company and made me feel at home, even moreso for refusing to let me pay for my coffee when I finally made my move.

After Srinrangam I thought I was heading to the Red Fort, but before I knew it Murti dumped me outside yet another enormous temple which I never quite figured the name of. Similar to Srirangam in size and design, but a world's apart in terms of maintenance, this other temple was deserted in comparison and wonderfully shabby in every way. Taking a big deep breath, I entered through the first archway, vowing that I would just enjoy this one without a guide as I just about felt ready to pop after all the information of the morning. Of course, that particular vow didn't last long. I was soon approached by an old guy with half a set of teeth who came up to befriend me and clearly had no plan to let me walk around alone. When I politely said I didn't want a guide thank you very much, he indeed agreed and said he was not a guide but my 'friend'. Even though I felt the last thing I wanted was more chat, no matter how friendly, I soon realised that I had no choice in the matter unless I wanted to be outright rude to this lovely soul, and anyway, why close down to a potentially enlightening experience? So, sticking with my resolve to be open to whatever appears in my path, I dug deep, found my patience within and embraced my new friend (whose name I have forgotten), and off we ambled around the ancient ramshackle temple. I'm sure he had a lot off interesting stuff to tell me but, due to a combination of his lack of teeth and his more-than-interesting English, I understood very little of what he said. Not that he knew that, as he was so eager for me to understand him and to enjoy his temple that I did my utmost to nod and smile enthusiastically. I did manage to gather that he had worked here as a guide for his entire life, but now, as he was older, was no longer employed here. But this temple was – and is – his life. So he is still here, just enjoying showing people around anyway, as this is what he loves and what he knows about. And if I wanted to give him something in return, especially an English coin that he can turn into a ring to add to his collection, then of course that would be very much appreciated. It couldn't have been a nicer contrast to the Srirangam experience, as I wandered around this beautifully scruffilly grand temple trying to piece together what this lovely old man was telling me in long strings of present continous verbs that didn't quite fit together no matter how much he tried to make them do so. I listened as he told me the long, detailed and unintelligable stories behind every single carving and inscription, and obeyed politely as he insisted I take pictures of every single one. He seemed overjoyed and proud that I had chosen to come when I did, deeming me a particularly lucky person as, of all the times I could have walked through the door, I chose to come just in time for the pujas to Siva and Parvati (this is a temple to Siva – and his consort Parvati – rather than Vishnu and Lakshmi at Srirangam). The temple elephant was in full swing, dolled up to the nines and parading around the temple grounds accompanied by a small group of musicians and Brahmins before going into the Parvati and Siva shrines respectively (on opposite sides of the main courtyard) for the pujas themselves. I stood amidst the columns of this ancient temple as the sound of reedy oboes and drums wafted towards me, accompanied by the small of incense and the sight of this magnificent beast swinging its trunk and somehow appearing to walk elegantly despite its enormous, heavy, truncheon feet. Magical.

Of the endless anecdotes and information that passed me by, I did manage to catch a couple of gems. One was the story of this beautiful flower.....cradling it in between the palms of his hands, he slowly opened them up and, as if revealing the secret of the world to me, said in a hushed voice: “inside this flower, here deep inside...this is Siva”.

Such sincerity, such conviction...such a beautiful moment. Omm.

Then he took me around the corner to a tree at the edge of a courtyard. I didn't quite catch what kind of tree it was, but apparently it's an incarnation of the Hindu Trinity – Brahma (Creator), Vishnu (Preserver) and Siva (Destroyer). As instructed, I walk around the tree and make a wish; then he breaks off a leaf and tells me to take it back home, dip it in water, and pray again; and then my wish will come true. Suffice to say that it never quite made it home to England, but let's hope I get karmic points for sincerity of intention.

We sat for a while soaking up the lovely energy of this ancient and much-loved temple before I made my way back out to Murti who was patiently waiting for me. And, despite a much longer morning than I had anticipated, we weren't quite done yet. On the way back to my hotel we made a quick stop at the Red Fort so that I could climb the wonderfully wiggly steps literally carved into the rock to the wonderful views over Trichy and Srirangam from the mandirim at the top. And after another lunch of not enough vegetables (what is it with this place?) I found my way back onto a bus, this time heading for Thanjavur (though I quickly, after making a total arse of myself at the bus station yet again, discovered that it is actually said Tan-ja-or) just up the road.