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.

Cold, wet, minging...but purified

My crusty brown bedfellows were still snoring soundly when I leapt up and onto the mat at 4.30am to welcome the day and prepare myself for my trip to Ramesvaram. All I can say is, on some days I just know I will need my yoga practise. I might not know what the day has planned for me, but somewhere in there I can just sense I'm gonna need every ounce of patience, energy, groundedness and balls. This was one of those days. From the minute I got myself onto the but at 7.30am it was a day quite unlike any other.

From the word go I hit it off with the uber friendly and helpful driver who was damned if he was going to make any effort to help me understand a word that he said or anything that was on the agenda for the day. Not that I expected any special treatment, being the only non-Indian on the bus, but a friendly smile at the very least never goes amiss. Not to bother, though, I found a companion in the extremely reserved, recently retired businessman sitting next to me with the most mesmerising chin and nose profile that, try as I might, I couldn't take my eyes off as he munched his way through one baby Indian banana after another (the small things, eh?). No, we didn't have a lot in common, but i appreciated his help in pushing me off the bus and around the rather nondescript temples that we stopped off at en route. When, 5 hours later, we finally came onto Ramesvaram 'Island' over the amazingly long Pamban Bridge (2.5 Kilometres), we were once more turfed off the bus, only this time told not to bother taking out shoes with us. Apparently we really weren't going to need them where we were going.

So we trudged through the gorgeous piles of general rubbish and mud and unthinkables that is the 'holy' beach of Ramesvaram to dip our toes in its sacred waters. And from there onto the temple, the centre of this apparently poverty-stricken and waste-strewn town. As I tiptoed in zigzags down the street, trying not to unwittingly pierce my feet on whatever might be lurking in the depths of an enormous cowpat, and trying to fathom the logic in allowing these grimey slimey feet to walk the holy temple floors (how can this be respectful when shoes are not?), one young lad who was excorting his mother in this pilgramage finally plucked up the courage to ask me something that appeared to have been playing on his mind. With a face expressing utter bemusement plus a touch of amusement, he said: 'Why on earth have you come to Ramesvaram?' Somewhat stunned, I think I gave some nondescript reply about being interested in Hinduism. But it was becoming painfully clear that Western tourists don't come here. I most certainly was the odd one out. Laugh and point. And hold your head up high Arianna, because you are here for the day, and the bus has just driven off with your shoes in it.

Going into the temple, I made two friends a pair of young Indians on my bus who spoke great English and could clearly recognise a young white girl way-out-of-her-depth. Before I knew it, under their instruction, I handed over 100 rupees to the Brahmin priest who greeted us and, without knowing what I was in for, was ushered along the stone floor, noticing that it was particularly damp in here. Soon standing in a queue I noticed the people coming back towards me were rather....in fact, very....wet (and still staring at me). Slowly approaching the front it dawned on me that I was indeed about to have a large bucket of well water dumped on my head. Screaming from the inside - 'no! I didn't bring a change of clothes!' all I wanted was to run pretty darn fast in the other direction. But, slowly coming around (as people do), I realised that I couldn't possibly be such a spoil sport. I couldn't come all this way and turn down my holy dip. This could be life-changing. How regrettable would it be to pass this up? With which I fully embraced an entire bucket over the head, all the while thanking myself for choosing to wear heavy cotton yoga clothes that take hours and hours to dry. Bring it on. Om. I must have looked like I really enjoyed it as our lovely Brahmin priest felt the need to bless me twice. And I took it in good spirit, knowing I wouldn't be doing this again.

And so we walked on, me thinking maybe we'd be heading into the main shrine or something. Not so, another queue. For another well. Oh yes. In fact, as my jaw fell open, my two young Indian friends spilled the beans that that had been well number one of a total of twenty two. People come to Ramesvaram for the 22 Holy Dips. Didn't I know? (...erm.....)

Some (intelligent) people bring a change of clothes.

Half an hour later, completely soaked through to my very bone marrow, as we approached well number 22, I confess I was beginning to dig deep in my own well of carefree joy to find the fun and sponteneity in the occasion. I knew it was in there somewhere, but I confess it was pretty hard to ward off the general feeling of being completely cold, wet and, rather than cleansed and purified, utterly manky. I was just soooo looking forward to the next 7 hours of lunch and bus travel in heavy, wet, smelly clothes, the situation not even slightly eased by the option of stripping off any layers, this being Hindu India. Mmmmmm. In the company of noone that I felt I could particularly relate to. Boy, did I thank myself for reading the smallprint. Nonetheless, even though I tried to get past the final well with just a sprinkling, I failed. They seemed to have it in for me, let's give the little white girl a day to remember. And, after all, well number 22 is the holiest of them all, equal to Ganga water. Well (ha ha ha), there you have it.

Before I knew it I was in ANOTHER queue, this time for the main Siva shrine. At first the Brahmin priest said I, being a non-Hindu, couldn't go in. But with the help of my two friends, 100 rupees, very little say in the matter and a bold mass of yellow and red paste slathered across my forehead, I swiftly became a Hindu ("you are Hindu now") and was pushed forward into the sea of over-excited people (who said money can't buy faith?). Yet another Indian party queue, the fact that we were penned in like cattle (and no doubt smelling just as bad) buoyed up by people continuously breaking into chant, keeping the energy at fever pitch as we all inched our way towards the Siva lingam (the erect penis that is the most commonly worshipped symbol of Siva). Just as we were getting close and the atmosphere seemed almost at breaking point, lunchtime temple closing bells began to toll. As the general panic set in I became one with the mass of bodies surging forward, desparate for a moment's gazing on beloved Siva before being pushed out the other side of the shrine. All the while my Indian friends were frantically telling me to quickly 'pray, pray, for someone you love'...I did my very best to be sincere despite the alien environment of organised religion and pressure, but as always in such situations I couldn't help feeling that my efforts were somewhat tainted by the shadows of falseness.

Ejected out of the other side, we finally had a few minutes to catch our breath and some photographic evidence of the wet t-shirt competition (coming soon!). When we finally managed to find our bus, I hopped aboard, ready to leave, only to wait and watch as every sensible and well-prepared other bdy in our group fetched their fresh, dry clothes and, one by one, freshened up and changed, ready for lunch and the afternoon ahead. Lucky them. I sat and prepared myself for 7 more hours of sogginess. Om. Having already popped into the lunch place to check out their glorious Indian toilet, and in the process having brought the entire place to a hushed standstill as everybody gawped in my direction, I took a rain check on lunch that day. Perhaps stupidly (in retrospect) but humanly, after the morning's antics I felt somewhat lacking in any more caution to throw to the wind to get me through a lunch of being stared at by an entire room like a circus freak on show, and I confess I went and hid on the bus with a bag of nuts. Had I known the afternoon I was in for I might have made another choice, but I didn't. An hour later, with everyone aboard once more, we set off....but, to my surprise, not in the homeward bound direction of Madurai. No, this bus was going to Kannyakumari..for the night. A rather unfortunate situation seeing as, not only had I had already been there, but I was sat here, soaked to the skin, with all of my belongings in Madurai, a five hour drive in the other direction. Perfect. The one real blessing here was that my two Indian friends were also going in my direction, and so although I never quite figured out how and why this confusion happened, I did manage to get back to Madurai (some 6 hours later). Our lovely bus driver, the epitome of friendliness and service, evidently felt himself free of any responsibility to help us get the ride back to Madurai that we had paid for, but with a good amount of prodding from my Indian friends he finally struck up some kind of deal with the owner of a smaller bus. In true Indian style this came with its own complications, largely involving us having to wait for a further two hours as some others went and did their temple dunking rounds. Oh well (ha ha ha), more time for me to dry out. Om. I simply didn't believe it when we finally set off from Ramesvaram at about 4pm, lesser still when, after what seemed like the longest journey on earth, I finally walked through the door of my cell, welcomed by my crusty brown roommates, at 9pm. Has a cold bucket shower and a belly full of lentils ever felt so good? Maybe after that day I was truly purified... but far more importantly it taught me the value of the simple things in life.....and of reading the small print.

Six days, seven temples, and a hole in the head.....First stop Madurai

And so began another journey. On arrival into Kodaikkanal I managed to get a ride down from the mountains in the back of a jeep full of young Indian men, rather than taking the public bus. Despite having my legs bent over the piles of luggage at a few too many unnatural angles, this was actually a much nicer option, not least because the seat was actually properly upholstered and not covered in something dubiously sticky. Even better, we got to stop several times on route to make friends with the monkeys and share their fabulous vantage points of the mountains and waterfalls.



I passed a little bit of time in the usual chit-chat, following the same predictable blueprint that you can expect when talking to any Indian stranger in public:
Where are you from?
Are you married?
How old are you?
Why are you not married?
When are you going to get married?
What do you do?
Do you work for a private company or for the government?
How much do you earn?
You are travelling alone....oooh, brave lady!

However this particular conversation had the added extra of deeking off into the world of sport, as my companion was, like many Indian men, passionate about football and cricket. When, on hearing I was from London, he asked me if I knew of Lord's Cricket Ground, I proudly told him I lived but 15 minutes walk away. But my glory was short-lived - when it became clear I had absolutely zero knowledge, interest or conversation in the realms of football or cricket, the conversation came to an abrupt halt. Clearly I was a big disappointment. Oops.

Some hours later the jeep dumped me rather ungraciously in the middle of Madurai. For some reason I had naively thought that, being somewhere in between a bus and a taxi, it might take me to the hotel I had pinpointed in my book. Not so. And so I found myself standing on the edge of one of Madurai's busiest roads amidst all of its chaos of cars, trucks, tuk-tuks, cows, dogs, and people, balancing my various loads off my various limbs whilst repeatedly turning my guidebook in circles to try to figure out North from South from East from West, from where on earth am I?, let alone where I am going to? It's amazing the amount of peace, space and calm you can find within you at these times when one might think there would be none (largely because there's only so long I can stay upright holding all my luggage in the blazing sun). And then another angel appeared from the midst of the chaos. That little voice in the back of my head saying 'no I don't want a ride in your taxi I just want to know where I am!' was quickly and firmly put in its place when I soon discovered that this lovely toothless man wanted nothing other than to JUST HELP ME. And so, heading straight on and taking the second left, within 5 minutes I was installed in my new quarters. Yet another perfect journey.

After getting installed and handing over my laundry to the very eager bell boy, still feeling full of beans I decided to tackle the sights of Madurai that same day. After stocking up on first class grub from the fabulous restaurant opposite and getting laughed at for asking for a coffee at lunch time (again), I headed first to the palace and then to the temple. As warned by my guidebook the palace is rather run down but I enjoyed having (more than) four walls between me and the chaos of Madurai.



The Meenakshi Temple is pretty immense and I have to say, it being my first 'major' Indian temple, I think I found it rather baffling. I couldn't even figure out where the main entrance was at first, and once I did manage to get inside, through the scanners and past the endless people trying to sell me stuff, I had enormous trouble trying to figure the geography of the place. So, of course, in these circumstances, you have to just follow your nose and, if that's no good, then just follow everybody else...the only problem here being that there were people EVERYWHERE going in all directions, forming queues for things written unintelligibly (to me) in Tamil. And what's more, 'everybody else,' being Hindu, is allowed throughout the temple, but I am not - no hindus allowed into any of the main shrines (which seemed to be everywhere). Suffice to say that I made my way around the temple in a manner remiscent of a ping pong ball, covering all possible surfaces and directions by rebounding off a mixture of people and walls. Chaotic, but fun, and actually quite insightful in the end. And, I think, rather in keeping with the general character of the place which, like so many Indian temples, and reflecting the culture in general, is yet another example of this beautiful tendency to have a party, even a visual one, at every opportunity. I mean, check this out for garish architecture....is there anything more kitsch and totally extremist and fun?



Of course this picture doesn't capture the detail, but this is basically an intricate mass of carvings of deities and hindu symbols, painted all manner of crazy colours (with a particular penchant for blue and pink). I did manage to find the 1000 pillared hall (which is actually a few pillars short, apparently) and the group of musical pillars which didn't appear to make any noise (I think this requires training). But most striking to me (sad but true) was the amazing pertness and roundness of the breasts of Lakshmi and Durga throughout the temple - worthy of a doily and a paper cup, methinks... these sculptors seriously had some fun.



When it came to leaving time I made my way out of an exit only to discover that it most certainly was not the one I came in by, unfortunate as that was where I had left my shoes. Rather than hopping and whooping along the steaming pavement, I fought my way back in through the scanners and after a challenging reorientatin session managed to find the right exist and was finally reunited with my footwear. Wandering around the temple and getting hassled to go into one of the many surrounding shops to have a look at the rooftop temple view, I finally decided to take up a kind offer rather than keep rejecting what was in front of my nose. Another pleasant surprise and lesson in trusting people. The beautiful Kashmiri man wanted nothing other than to let me see the lovely sunset view, which we stared at as he told me about how he misses his homeland but why he has had to leave for work because of all the political troubles there. Far from trying to sell me stuff, this was simply a lovely opportunity for some peace above the chaos of Madurai, some lovely conversation and another chance to learn and expand my boundaries of trust and openness. Bouncing back to my hotel I was literally grinning from the inside out fom another lovely encounter with another beautiful person, another shattering of my preconceptions and expectations. Also, I have to say I did also feel pretty relieved to be away from the ashram, back in the thick of India and following my own path into somewhere. I hadn't been expecting to love Madurai so much - all I was expecting was chaos and an impressive temple. But actually what I found was a deeply friendly city throbbing with life. I didn't walk 10 paces that night without another 'Namaste' or 'Hello how are you?' or, actually and uniquely in Madurai, 'Bonjour, comment ca va?,' because apparently, to these people, I appeared to be French........? Freaky or uniquey.....?

Having until this point steered clear of organised tours or excursions, I was now (to my surprise) contemplating checking one out, though not sure if it was really my cup of tea. I love travelling alone but it can be kind of tiring, and I was wondering if, in some ways, you can get more insights into certain places if you go with a group or if, on the contrary, you just skim the surface. I had read about Ramesvaram in my guide book, a town on the South Coast again (like Kanniyakumari but much further East into tamil and a stepping stone's distance from Sri Lanka) with another big temple. It is one of India's most sacred shrines and a serious destination for pilgrims, and for some reason it ignited my interest (at this point I hadn't read the small print). However, it being in completely the wrong direction for my general route, I decided to take a day trip from Madurai, and finally decided to try out a 'tour group'. So, bundling into a little place, I managed to get myself booked onto a bus for the following morning at 7.30am. I nearly also got myself married off in the process as the husband and wife team running the show seemed to take rather a liking to me...expressed by the most classic welcome of leaping up, lip-smacking, embracing my folded hands and expressing an abundance of sounds of relish, approval and joy at my presence.

Back in my room I was surprised when the doorbell rang and the dearly enthusiastic laundry man was standing there glowing with all of my clean and pressed clothes. Despite having clearly told me it would be 24 hours, here they were again and clean after only 10, and he was evidently enormously proud. I have no idea why but for some reason my laundry had been singled out for 'special service.' This is not the only time I have come across such dedication and pride in laundry work, and it really makes my heart melt. A similar man, later on in Pondicherry, on returning my clothes to me, insisted I go through each item and inspect it, impeccably washed, pressed and folded, and then organised into a bundle and wrapped in paper and tied with string. Such dedication to and pride in this simple work, I find it so beautiful.

My time in the mountains of Tamil, although not quite what I had been expecting in terms of yoga study, was actually (as these things often are) a true learning experience, albeit in a slightly different way. Other than the call of Nature, I hadn't been consciously aware of what had driven me to go there in the first place - no recommendations or heresay, just a feeling that this might be the right path for my ongoing development in yoga and life. Upon leaving and realising this was not the place for me, I began to realise that I must, indeed, be looking for something, even if I had to realise this by negation. I wondered to myself whether I was, like the millions of others before me, walking the cliched path of someone who 'goes off to India to 'find themselves'' But, try as I might, I couldn't make this glove fit. Well, not in the sense that I was expecting some thunder-and-lightening moment of realisation where I uncover a new and totally different Arianna underneath. Actually I am happy with who I am and where I am going - and all I think I am looking for is an environment which can nurture my ongoing development in life and support my study and practise of yoga (which, to me, are one and the same). It really seems to be that simple. Which is when I realised that, whilst there might be certain places which appear to be more conducive to this nurturing, really this place is everywhere. I deeply know, but sometimes just need to remind myself, that the truest and most nourishing yoga practise takes place every minute of every day in any place. And so, whilst these days of my travelling time seemed to be more characterised by moving from place to place as a tourist - I had a heady week of temple trailing ahead of me - it was simply up to me to make sure I bring my yoga into all of this, not just leaving it on my sticky mat in the mornings.

But, of course, I am human, and I forget. It's just so much easier in an ashram when someone enforces yur schedule, tells you when to eat and does all the cooking, makes you go to bed early and get up before sunrise, gives you no other option than to be quiet and reflective. So I decided to make a few practical decisions to keep me embedded in my yoga whilst on the Tamil temple trail. What better way to start than with the YAMAS and NIYAMAS, the first two paths of Patanjali's Ashtanga Yoga (a set of 5 'restraints' and 5 'observences' which together make up something akin to a moral code for living)? I figured if I worked with one a week, that would see me through most of my time in India. Although I've spent time contemplating them before, I've never dedicated myself to each one in turn for any period of time. Seemed like a simple way to relly get to know them. Decision. Starting today, YAMA number one: AHIMSA, non-violence (to all sentient beings, including oneself, in thought and intention as well as in action).

All was going well. And then I found my bedmates. Cockroaches. Little brown ones. Yummy. To be fair, I was paying only 290 rupees for my cell, complete with Indian toilet and cold bucket shower (don't you just love them?), and it had seemed quite clean, but nonetheless, what human doesn't autmatically go onto autopilot 'exterminate' at at the sight of them? Naturally, I jumped and squirmed and off scurried the little crusty beasts into the cracks in the bedframe, out of sight and out of reach. From somewhere in the deep recesses of my spirit I was able to let them go, off into their own space and out of my head. God bless earplugs and silk sleeping bag liners, by the power of which, somehow, I managed to drift off into a world of amazingly sound sleep. And so the little buggers were saved, rather more by the faulty woodwork than by my overriding devotion to ahimsa (sadly I admit that, could I have reached them, they might not have made it through the night). But I can't help but think that something might have been working with me, giving me a little push in the right direction of absolute ahimsa, even in the most difficult situations. Apparently this is how you simply let everyone and everything simply be in their own space. You just do.

New Year Mountain Retreat

I had singled out this particular ashram because, from what I could gather from information I found on the internet, the emphasis here was very much on developing one's own personal sadhana (yoga practise/path) with a strong focus on connecting with, and drawing inspiration from, nature. The total opposite, in many ways, to Amma's mega-ashram, Tureya doesn't accommodate more than about 5 people at a time, and whilst I was there we were just three students and the two 'teachers'. The emphasis on deepening one's spiritual practise in direct connection with nature had strong appeal for me; I am not someone who takes naturally to worshipping gurus or deities (in fact it often makes me decidedly uncomfortable), but I can't help but be in love and awe with our beautiful natural world - with this, I am comfortable and instinctively at home. I was looking forward to a couple of weeks of yoga and contemplation in the peaceful mountains of Tamil Nadu, and to being supported in this by the resident swami who, as I understood it, was to personally guide me during my time here.

On arrival at the ashram, one can't help but be absorbed into the silent beauty of the place. Apparently its location here is because this particular site has had a longstanding spiritual resonance, and I absolutely agree that the whole place does have an energy all of its own. Situated in the hills 10 kilometres beyond the small hill station of Kodaikkanal, down a broken, windy road that is a terrifying drive even in a 4WD, it was the first place in India where I couldn't here horns, loudspeakers, the barking of innumerable dogs, bells, general shouting and chaos. Only the sounds of birds and the odd cow, goat or dog in amongst the wind and the trees rustling. Ahh, proper time out. The ashram used to be a collection of mud huts dotted around the enormous ashram territory; in fact I was under the impression that I would be, and was rather looking forward to, living a basic, old-fashioned lifestyle for a couple of weeks. Not so: apparently this would have to wait until later in my trip, as the ashram now has a brand spanking new building with marble floors and solar-powered showers (luke-warm water - such a luxury!). Even more luxurious still, with only three of us in residence, we each got a room of our own. Quite a change from Amritpuri, that's for sure.

From the start of my time there, I couldn't quite figure the place out. It's such a small, quiet affair, and the young American man who showed me to my room gave me the impression that the ashram was pretty laid-back and all activities mostly optional, although time would tell that actually there were a fair number of unwritten and unspoken rules (a more formal introduction to the 'dos' and 'don'ts' would have been truly helpful - I am more than happy to abide by rules when I am aware they exist). It turned out that he was one of the teachers, although he never introduced himself as such. The other was a young local lady, who seems to fit more into a day than one would think possible - teaching Tantric Philosophy (although the lectures were sadly, at best, rather adhoc), studying for her PhD in Tantric Philosophy at Madurai University, and doing all the cooking at the ashram - truly scrumptious. I thoroughly enjoyed the one lecture of hers that she gave in my five days there - for some unknown reason, they didn't take place on other days. From the beginning I didn't quite hit it off with the young American; possibly something to do with the fact that, although I tried to keep an open mind, I know I didn't come to India to learn introductory yoga from a defensive 24-year old from Denver who seemed more interested in proving himself right than sharing knowledge on yoga and life. Om. So I was relieved when we finally got to meet the man behind the ashram, Swami Tureyananda. I took an instant liking to him as he is friendly, approachable and seems to be caring. So that night he led our evening puja (not quite on the elaborate scale of those at Amma's but touching and engaging nonetheless) and then two of us had a private 'darshan' with him, where we sat there in the dark (there is no power in the ashram after sunset) while he proceded to 'look into our hearts' (apparently a gift given to him by his own guru). I was left feeling slightly baffled and not sure what to make of it. Some of what he said correlated closely with some of that said by the astrologer at Amritpuri (namely that stuff about me having fixed ideas about life), and he also had some very precise convictions about the physical and energetic state of my spine. On the more positive side, he said he deeply appreciated my honesty (I hadn't said anything). Tied in with these things which did seem to have some true resonance for me, was a fair amount of stuff that seemed like shot-in-the-dark guesswork, although I am happy to give him the benefit of the doubt and let time be a moreobjective judge than me. Afterwards, as we sat about waiting for dinner, I discovered that he is deeply interested in psychology, specifically yoga psychology, and is also passionate about music, to the extend that he is leading projects investigating the power and potential of music in treating psychological problems and diseases. He refers to this as 'music therapy' but it seems to be what I would more accurately term 'sound therapy', a literal investigation of certain pitches (played on an electronic piano....? - that most intrinsically beautiful of instruments.....?) and their effect on the various chakras and on emotional/psychological states. Needless to say, being so close to areas I have been fascinated by in the past, this certainly grabbed my attention, although I found it pretty hard to sustain a conversation due to his rather fixed ideas for his investigations which didn't leave much room for alternative takes on things or, come to think of it, 'conversation' in any conventional sense. From here he effortlessly diverted the chat onto one of his other great passions - cheesy Western love songs. Whereby I discovered that this Tamil Swami counts 'It Must Have Been Love,' 'The Wind Beneath My Wings' and countless other eighties favourites amongst the best songs of all time. It turns out that he spends his days of 'solitary silence' happily listening to playback of the cheesy classics of my youth on his mp3 player. A truly modern swami.

That night was a full moon. After dinner we sat by the campfire (a truly lovely part of the daily routine here) looking at its various faces. It definitely looks different here in india. Never before have I been so mesmerised by the old grandmother rocking away - but here she is truly dominant. That night the moon was so bright it literally had the most enormous glow around it - so much so that although I tried to take pictures they simply wouldn't focus. My friend and fellow-ashramite Shana had a bit more luck, and at some point (...I am trying, I can't figure the technology!...) I will post some of hers. Mesmerising.

The following night was the quietest New Year's Eve I have ever had. And I loved every minute of it. I spent the day involved in the usual pujas, hatha yoga practise and karma yoga, and also chanted the Gayatri Mantra 108 times, which was a first for me and truly quite an exercise in concentation. Though I know the words well, the familiar pianistic mind tricks rose again with avengence - not that anyone was watching (other than myself) or that it mattered particularly, but nonetheless the minute the thought 'you're going to forget the words' entered my head.....boom!....speechless...no words. Old habits die hard. Thank you, oh lovely Mind. But that night after another lovely campfire beneath a glittering Tamil Sky, I headed bedwards at about 10pm and when I woke it was 2010. On New Year's Day I took proper advantage of the beautiful hills for the first time, and went off to contemplate my Old and New Years amongst the sights and sounds of Nature. My fellow ashramites had managed to do this the previous day, in time for the start of 2010....so I, a true Palin and never one to be ahead of time, was doing it in sync with the start of 2010 (better late than never). I took some time to sit and meditate in the very mini mountain temple, and was thoroughly enjoying the silence and the energy of the place when it all came to a rather abrupt end as the young american came barking at me, ordering me to remove my shoes (I had overseen this seeing as I wasn't actually in the temple but perching on the outside of it and the only thing underfoot was mud. Nonetheless, I was happy to oblige, but suffice to say a rather more delicate awakening and request would have been appreciated). So I wandered further down the valley to where some immense slabs of rock broaden out and a stream pours over them. And here I sat until the sun began to set, thinking through the stuff of past,present and future and not coming to any particular conclusions, let alone resolutions. Sitting on this large rock in the mountains of Tamil I took the time to work through some of my more negative feelings (no matter how immense or how imperceptible) and to put into practise the wonderful things that are acceptance and forgiveness (yes, the young american was included on the list). But beyond this, getting my intellect involved in making resolutions and decisions seemed the most unnatural and unnecessary thing to do. Much more preferable and natural for me at the moment is the 'follow your nose approach,' supported by a good bit of belly fire (aka gut instinct) and absolutely minimal planning. And I do believe it seems to be working wonders, not least for helping me shed the layers of contraction, grasping and worry that have accumulated onto me through my more predictable and routined approach to life. Ahh, the freedom of life on the road.

Fridays being 'ashram days off,' we took a trip into town for a bit of a change of scene. Not that any of us particularly wanted to get away from the peace, stillness and beauty, but we went nonetheless, 'as people do' (liek sheep). Kodaikkanal is a particularly friendly place with, thanks to the British, a focus on chocolate-making, so of course I wasbound toi be a happy teddy. So, like true ashram rebels having a 'day-off' from our purity (!), we gorged ourselves on chocolate until we all felt truly sick, following which we had no choice but to go and camp out by the beautiful lake. The following day, though, I yet again underwent the joyous task of cramming my numerous belongings into my bag and launching myself off into that unknown that was the temple trail of Tamil. Yes, I had originally intended to spend a rather longer time here in this mountainous haven. But, in reality, this was not the place for me - I appreciated the beauty of the place and the lovely home-made Tamil cooking, but beyond that I was left with a bit of a question mark. And it was at this point that I realised I truly must be looking for something on this trip, though I was stumped to say what exactly. Whatever, I certainly wasn't finding it here, so oft I jolly well went to Madurai, home of the beautiful Meenakshi Temple.

A very long journey inland

I forgot to mention one other glorious aspect of my stay at Amritpuri. On that last evening, after we got rained off the beach, I took myself off to watch a puja being performed in a small shrine that I believe used to be Amma's meditation room, before things started to expand on such a colossal scale. A puja is basically a spiritual/religious ritual or ceremony of gratitude performed for a special occasion or a specific deity. I arrived after this one had begun and wasn't really sure as to its exact purpose, not that it mattered particularly to me what it was for or about - I was simple totally entranced as a result of complete sensory saturation. It was hard to know whether to keep one's eyes closed or open as there was so much to take in. As the swami performing the puja continuously chanted a hypnotic and monotonous stream of verses, coming close second in the soundscape was the heavy sound of the rain clattering onto the roof and bouncing off the drainpipes, made all the more dramatic by the occasional crash of thunder followed by lightening. Added to this was the distant sound of Amma's musicians playing their celestial music in the nearby darshan hall, and the constant low-frequency buzz of Amritpuri itself. All the while, swami was repeatedely tearing up countless petals from beautiful flowers and showering them onto the altar, covering them with water from a silver jug, then adding more flowers, then water...ad infinitum. Add to this the flickering light from numerous burning candles, and what you had was a truly gorgeous feast for the eyes. To top it all off, with the ever-present smell of intoxicating incense, I again found myself lulled into some other-worldy blissed out state. I had never realised a puja coul be so beautiful; those Gods are truly blessed.

Nonetheless, the following day I managed to tear myself away from Amritpuri, with more classic lack of preparation. Bizarre, really, that I chose to take absolutely zero advantage of the numerous and helpful amenities at Amritpuri, especially that one quite useful place, the travel desk. Preferable to my adhoc mind with its bizarre priorities (an hour is always better spent doing yoga or meditating than on boring things like organising one's way around India.....) was to wait until the bewitching hour and launch myself into another unknown journey. Besides, I had looked on the map, and the next destination was only about an inch away, slightly north but mostly west. No problem, I thought, looks like about a five hour journey (I have never been much good at map-reading or visual things in general, and apparently still am not improving). Sadly, my predictions failed to take into account some rather large mountains that were in the way, namely The Western Ghats. Oops.

The journey didn't get off to a good start. For some reason, despite having walked passed it numerous times, when it came to the crunch I couldn't find the exit to the ashram. I literally spent 20 minutes walking around the complex with my heavy load, trying to orientate myself and find that gate leading to the bridge over the backwaters. So that by the time I finally did find it I was completely exhausted and had to sit down for a rest. Eventualy I found my way to the bus station in a tuk-tuk, and innocently asked for a bus to Kodaikkanal. When I finally managed to get the attention of the men standing around in the information office, who were far too busy contemplating each other's navels than to talk to me, all I got in response was a series of blank stares. One KEY thing about trying to communicate a Hindi word to an Indian person is that you have to get the pronounciation JUST RIGHT. No variations allowed, not even the slightest misplaced stress or hint of an accent. They won't even attempt to try to match what they hear coming out of your mouth to any possibly even remotely relevent word in their mindbank. No, it is YOUR JOB to get it right. Which sadly means you will end up standing there trying endless unintelligeable pronounciation variations, looking like a total freak as the crowds begin to form around the wierd white tourist. This was a particularly good example of such a moment, and wasn't helped by the fact that, not only was my pronounciation slightly off, but I also had some key letters in the wrong places. Somehow I eventually made myself understood, but rather than quash their bemused reaction, it only served to make it worse. Their faces read something to the effect of: "why on earth would anyone choose to take the bus from here to there?, you clearly have no idea and you are in for one hell of a journey, love." It turned out I had to backtrack all the way I had come, taking a bus all the way up past Alleppey and through to Fort Kochin on the coast, and only then could head inland. My route in to Kodaikkanal, a hill station in the Western Ghats, was to be possibly the most convoluted route possible, via countless tiny villages and towns, basically in something close to an enormous circle. And better still, the bus didn't leave until 5pm, three hours later, a small but significant fact that I could have found out if I had only bothered to glance at the easily accessible timetables on the ashram walls.

Still, apparently this is the way it had to be. Om.

That was one hell of a journey. The bus was totally rammed, so I found myself standing. No bother, I thought, I am young and fit, I can stand for a while, even though I do happen to be standing right at the front with my face far too close to the front window and not a lot of hope if we come to any kind of a sudden halt. Several hours later, my ears ringing from the glorious accompaniment of the ever-reliable horn-honking, I was still standing. At about 10pm I managed to get a seat and got chatting with a lovely Indian lady who was desperately trying to feed me digestive biscuits, insistently telling me that they were her new great "no fat" discovery (Indian biscuit culture is a whole other commentary in itself). As the journey continued into the night, more and more people piled into the bus, including an entire family who proceded to try to fit themselves into a two-person space next to me. Om. That night I learnt about sharing and caring - it doesn't matter whether others are your family, your friends, or whatever. We are all in this together, and you simply do accommodate anyone and everyone as you would yourself or your best friend. Personal space and barriers dissolve and you merge with those around you. And so, with the limbs and luggage and god-knows-what-else of countless new friends boring into me from all directions, I journeyed into the night. One Indian man did his utmost to ignore this unwritten rule, and boy did he cause a stir. Standing next to me in the aisle, somehow or other he managed wriggle his way down through the mass of people vacuum packed into a rigid standing mass, to actually lie, foetal position, on the floor of the bus. Bear in mind that it was about 1in the morning and he was no spring chicken - at least 70, at a guess. People let him be for a little while, but when even more people tried to get on the bus, they simply weren't having any of it - space was needed and he had to stand. He was either totally out for the count or defiantly ignorant - for, though people started to poke and push him, tug his hair, and shout streams of insults, he just continued to lie there. After about an hour the driver finally got involved and stopped the bus, refusing to go any further until the man stood up. And so he did eventually, and that was that. A few others gave him one last piece of their mind, but that was basically the end of the saga - no bitching, no hard feelings, just work with the system and everyone is happy. Something tells me it wouldn't quite happen like this at home.

At about 3am I simply couldn't hold it any longer and had to have a pee stop. We seemed to be having a break at yet another tiny mountain town where boatloads of people were hanging out at the bus station in the middle of the night, so I made a run for it, having thought I had communicated to the family next to me not to let the bus leave without me. After putting all my speed-peeing skills into practise, I emerged from the toiled only to see the parking space where our bus had been now empty and my bus, with all of my belongings aboard, nowhere to be seen. This was where the aforementioned, rather undignified, screaming and yelping Arianna saga took place, as I hopped about trying to find my bus, only to see it pulling out of the station. When I finally managed to get back aboard, needless to say I did feel like a bit of a wally as the entire bus (and bus station for that matter) stared at me wondering quite why I needed to make such a fuss.

And so the endless journey continued, with its noise, dirt, wind, incomparable bumpiness, and basically 5-star discomfort in every way. Better still was that I was surviving on the glorious nutrition that is Indian bus station food - every possible fried and sugared delicacy known to mankind - which makes one feel all the better once one's belly has been bounced around for a solid 20 hours. At 4am I got turfed off the bus in Palani and instructed to find my connecting bus further up into the hills from here. My first official Tamil Nadu bus reflected the starkly different economies of the two states - if I thought Kerala government buses were grimey, this took it to a whole new level. Thankfully, though, there seemed to be no light power on board, so I was pleased to remain blissfully ignorant about the true identity of the very wet and sticky stuff was that smothered the seat I chose to sit in. Om. And just when I thought I couldn't feel any more windswept, grimey, sugar-teethed, greasy and generally completely rank. Still, deep inside, and underneath all that tiredness, everything was still absolutely fine. Perfect, in fact.

The 60 kilometre ascent from Palani to Kodaikkanal takes about four hours, and is a breathtakingly beatiful if slightly terrifying switchback ride. Thankfully, as we started our ascent, the sun started to come up over the Palani Hills, doing a good job of fooling me into thinking I was fresh-as-a-daisy and ready for the day ahead. In true Indian style, we made the fundamental chai breaks which I used as chances to make friends with the local monkeys, and we finally made it into town at about 8am. From there it was a short taxi hop out again and even further into the hills to a stunningly beatiful and secluded spot, the site of my home for the next week or so, the little ashram that was the light at the end of my tunnel. Thank the Lord, the unprecedented 20-hour journey did eventually come to an end, not without leaving its trace in the dirt and grime residue caked into my every pore.

India. Om.