Despite my valiant attempts to roll out of bed and squeeze in a quick session at the pool before yoga, a swim was not meant to be, as the pool turned out to be closed for maintenance. I could get upset at a wasted trip and opportunity cost, but in my post-India, Zen-like approach to life, I've decided to brush it off as bad timing.
The unexpected turn of events has left me with a spare hour, and because I really don't want to nurse a drink before class, I've settled down by the river to take in life, and watch it pass me by. And yes, help tourists with snapping their holiday shots.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Leaving my heart behind: Looking back on India.
I've put off this post for awhile, not so much for lack of time but more for fear that verbalising and documenting my trip would sap the magic out of it. Well, it's been 23 days too long, and escapism never really gets you anywhere, does it?
The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, but it wasn't without trepidation that I boarded my flight to Kerala. It took a lot of willpower to not succumb to feeling out of place in the queue of native Indians at Changi Airport, as well as to keep my thoughts calm and unaffected when a passenger demanded to be offloaded right before the flight took off. But humans, we're fighters and adaptors way more than we give ourselves credit for, and by the time I'd touched down at Thiruvananthapuram International Airport, I'd jostled my way to the front of the baggage belt, sticking out my elbows at calculated angles to protect my personal space (a rare luxury in India!).
16 Dec 2011, 8.29am, Sarovaram Ayurvedic Backwater Resort, Dining Hall
Everything in its time
"It's surprising how quickly I've adapted back to the Indian way of being. The jostling, the lack of personal space, the absence of a familiar system (but oh, there is order in chaos), the constant waiting, and spending the night in a room that's a faint throwback to my first night in MICA, minus the gruesome yellow frog in the shower. There's a weird comfort I get from knowing how some things may never change, and that's okay.
I'm okay with a lot of things here. What would typically frustrate me back home is part and parcel of being in India. From shivering in the cold while figuring out how to work the water heater to spending a good part of the morning grappling with the hair dryer and waiting in silence in an empty dining hall, patient and confident that somebody would eventually serve me breakfast (they did), acceptance has seamlessly woven itself into me.
So, as a reward for my unquestioning trust in the fact that everything would happen in its own (Indian) time, I'm now writing this between forkfuls of freshly made coconut and jaggery filled dosa, a papaya from the organic garden and sweet chai. And then there's this dubious concoction they call Ayurvedic herbal water..."
16 Dec 2011, 2.32pm, Sarovaram Ayurvedic Backwater Resort, Dining Hall
Solitude
"I've just sat and savoured a 45-minute lunch on my own. No pressure, no hurry, no need to make small talk. For 45 minutes, it was just me and what I was putting into my mouth, and I've realised just how therapeutic the act of eating actually is, not in a stuffing the face kind of way. Taking the time to smell, chew and register the textures and flavours made the simple fare – white rice and veggie sides – a meal to remember.
Earlier this morning, I experienced what had to be one of the most bizarre massages in my life. I remember Romain recounting his Keralan massage. I quote: "Ok sir, use oil to massage your sex." While it'll take quite a lot to trump his experience, it was still unnerving laying on a wooden treatment table in nothing but paper thongs as my smiley, slightly gassy therapist slathered what smelled like shallot oil all over me. Slathering, and asking if I'm happy and if I liked it. Erm, when I feel and smell like paratha dough, and when her hands were harmlessly but still uncomfortably slipping into sacred territory... I'm not sure. But she was nice, so I stuck it out and even let her manipulate my face with the oil after she rubbed my feet. And then I returned to my cottage and promptly fell asleep on the porch.
Guess what? I've got another treatment prescribed at 3.30pm. No oil please, fingers crossed."
Then again, it is India, one of the places where you're least likely to get what you wish for, so of course I was prescribed another oil massage, this time with turmeric powder that stained me yellow.
And because my urban soul wasn't ready to surrender to the quiet, I found myself in the kitchen that very evening watching the chef prepare our meals.
I even got to try my hand at making chapatis, and I later found out that my very dismal attempts were served to my poor German neighours. God bless their lovely souls.
17 Dec 2011, 9.30am, Sarovaram Ayurvedic Backwater Resort, Dining Hall
The Indian time warp
"Starting the day with yoga in the gardens really put things into perspective for me. Yesterday, I was really struggling to keep myself occupied, and the fear of having nothing to fill my time here got to me a little. So I signed up for a cooking demonstration last night, and made arrangements to go to the city centre later this morning.
When I woke today however, my mind is well at ease, and I seem to have finally snapped out of corporate mode. In fact, the thought of having the next two days to myself is luxurious. Perhaps confinement is less in one's surroundings than it is in the mind."
17 Dec 2011, 2.10pm, Sarovaram Ayurvedic Backwater Resort, Dining Hall
I'm in India moments
"1. Seeing crowds gather and traffic pile up as they ponder upon a stack of fallen logs. There's an occasional half-hearted honk from a car behind, and curious drivers would wander out to join the ever-growing crowd of policemen and onlookers. We soon realised that there's enough space for most cars to pass through, but none does. Of course. Nobody's in a rush to be anywhere at one in the morning.
2. The sudden power cuts. Is it the wattage from my hairdryer?
3. Sitting in the resort executive director's office lamenting and laughing (a little despondently on my part) at my bad itinerary planning. We spend 30 minutes of my supposed Ayurvedic consultation thinking up alternatives, none of which I take up. And then we move on to looking at pictures of village backwaters on his computer.
4. Lying near naked on the treatment table and getting slathered, by my ever-smiling therapist Kanaka, in what I've since learnt is sesame oil. I return that same afternoon for round two, and to cancel the next day's treatment.
5. Rolling chapatis in the kitchen, and later realising my mishapened attempts were served to my poor German neighbours. We ended up dining together and discussing, among many other topics, gender inequality in India.
6. Practising yoga in the jungle gardens with Master Ullas, who likes repeating his instructions, thrice. Half of the rest of the time was spent lamenting how short my trip was (peppered with plenty of head wiggling) and if I would return soon, and if I was going to pick up Malayalam because it is the most wonderful language (and so he wouldn't have to rack his brains to explain himself in English). The session concludes with him showing me an article about him that was published in the local papers. He carries that with him in his briefcase. I like him.
7. The auto ride and the intoxicating mix of fumes, heat, dust and curious passers by the moment we left my Ayurvedic sanctuary and entered the city streets.
8. Getting stared at, with some less tactful ones doing a double take. I thought I saw a young boy run after the auto I was in, excitedly calling out to his friend to check out the yellow-skined firangi. Or I could be imagining things...
9. Hearing my therapist Suresh swat at mosquitoes while I had a face pack on. He accidentally flung the cloth in my face, and we promptly burst out into uncontrollable giggles. The swatting continued once we'd regained our composure."
18 Dec 2011, 9.54am, Sarovaram Ayurvedic Backwater Resort, Dining Hall
The art of doing nothing, revised
"It's a gorgeous morning (oh it's Sunday!). The sun is warm but gentle, the breeze strong and relentless. Early this morning, I picked my way across the gardens (gardens that two mornings ago I was afraid harboured snakes and creepy crawlies – they probably do, but it's stopped bothering me now) to watch the sun rise from the canopy of coconut trees on distant shores. The sight, while awe-inspiring, didn't steal my breath, but it was for me a brief period of complete and utter peace.
With a good half hour to go before my morning yoga class, I climbed into my hammock and flirted with the idea of making a few New Year resolutions, then chose to blank out to the rock and lull of the swaying hammock instead. The art of doing nothing – a little something I picked up from my time at MICA – is a treat when you're 21 and daddy paid for your student exchange. It is an even greater, well-deserved one at 25, when I paid through my nose for the holiday.
And then, in the gradually warming sunlight, in the gardens with the wind in my face and the familiar family of eagles swooping overhead, we did yoga, my slightly queer master and I. And all I could think of at that moment was how blessed I was to be here, in this quiet resort garden, practising yoga."
18 Dec 2011, 10.17am, Sarovaram Ayurvedic Backwater Resort, in my garden hammock
Rootless tree
"A gentle stirring
A pat on the cheek
Familiar faces
That solitude seeks
A rootless tree
Sowing its seeds
Into the wet earth
In hopes of spring
The world is quiet
Not even a peep
But the dreamer's stirring
Dreaming of sleep"
Just when I was getting used to doing nothing at Sarovaram, it was time to leave for the touristy pastures of Varkala. Not before tucking into one last veggie meal for the road...
And saying goodbye to the people who have been so very good to me. Even though I was perfectly okay eating alone, they made it a point to sit with me for the first couple of minutes every time I got to the dining hall, even if it was just to watch me eat. I like to think of them as my brothers from a different mother.
My transition into tourist-filled Varkala wasn't easy after my stay at my Ayurvedic oasis. After those beautiful, quiet nights with nothing but the stars and lapping lake for company, Varkala's thundering waves and distant beats of thumping music were an assault on my senses. I did the obligatory walk around the shops and restaurants lining the cliff to adjust my mental map, then sat down to a meal of veggie momos with the pitch black sea for company.
I roused early from fitful sleep, with a good hour to dedicate to Master Ullas' asanas and meditation practice. Hungry for the sunrise and a hearty breakfast, I emerged from my room, only to find a sleeping resort and a muted beach. When in India, you wait, so I perched myself on the breakfast table (the chairs were chained) with Shantaram, and willed my whining belly to silence.
19 Dec 2011, 7.36am, Woodhouse Beach Resort Varkala, at the breakfast table
"Extracted from Shantaram, page 85: This is not like any other place. This is India. Everyone who comes here falls in love – most of us fall in love many times over. And the Indians, they love most of all... It happens often, and easily, for the Indians. That is how they manage to live together, a billion of them, in reasonable peace. They are not perfect, of course. They know how to fight and lie and cheat each other, and all the things that all of us do. But more than any other people in the world, the Indians know how to love one another."
19 Dec 2011, 4pm, Black Sand Beach, Varkala
"Surrender. That was the key word I took away from my Shantaram reading this morning. It's not really a conscious effort on my part, but surrender is exactly what I've done the moment I stepped foot onto India. What I thought could be interpreted as the shirking of responsibility, choosing to go with the flow and letting someone else determine what happens, is actually, in nicer terms, surrender.
Today, I surrendered my life to the hands of a driver I'd just met, as I usually do here in India, and trusted him to navigate me safely through morning rush hour traffic, which in Indian terms often means six vehicles squeezed into a road meant for two. When on several occasions did we almost collide head on with an incoming truck, so surrendered I was my heart barely lurched.
And when he offered to buy me a beer on our way back from the astrologist, and got us a large bottle of Kingfisher each from a roadside bottle shop, I toasted him and took a large swig as did he, with one hand on the steering wheel.
'It's my first, toasting a girl. Keralan girls don't drink,' he remarked, grinning and swerving ever so slightly to avoid knocking down an old man on a bicycle. I smiled. It's my first sitting so calmly beside a beer-swigging driver, too, but I didn't tell him that. Instead I asked: 'It's okay in India, for you to drink and drive?'
'Ok, no problem. No problem. My brother is head of traffic police.' "
While waiting for Ceci to make her way to the resort from the airport, I spent the evening chatting with Sylvia, an 84-year-old English lady staying in the cottage near mine. She's seen most of the world (although she would really like to go to Kyoto), has no regrets, and doesn't care if she "dies yesterday, today or tomorrow". Her gungho attitude to life was inspiring to say the least, and our conversation had me rethinking my half-arsed New Year resolution to travel less. It's the best, and perhaps, only way to really understand the world.
20 Dec 2011, 2.54pm, on the deck of houseboat cruising along the Alleppey backwaters
Shanti
"Peace. The feeling of complete serenity. It is not an emotion that comes easily, or often, but when it does, it fills you up in ways nothing else ever does.
Contentment is what we so often seek, but how many actually find it? And when we do, like love, it slips through the fingers far too easily, far too quickly. Like a stolen moment in time, it is the fleetingness of it, the flightiness of peace, that makes it so precious.
It is here, once again in India, that I've found you. There's no staccato heartbeat of happiness, no nervous drumming in my veins. All is quiet. All is still. Shanti."
Time is inconsequential in India (or perhaps because I was on holiday!), and a watch redundant. After watching the sunset and sitting down to yet another full-course meal, and what was becoming an annoying habit of interrupted sleep, we woke to what I can only describe as a gentle Keralan sunrise.
No fiery orb rising from the horizon, just a gradual blushing of the brightening sky and the seamless resumption of life on the backwaters.
Lunch after a 4.5-hour stomach-churning ride from Alleppey up to Munnar, no thanks to a deceptively mild-mannered driver who has to overtake every single car in his line of sight. Even on one-way roads. I've never had motion sickness, but I actually had to lie down for a good 15 minutes before I felt steady enough to explore the cool surroundings of Munnar.
With its cool climate and lazy, small town charms, Munnar reminded me a lot of MICA in winter. After spice shopping in Old Munnar, we showered and strolled to the dining hall in knits and pajama bottoms, very much like how we ambled to MICA's mess every cold night, and I had a bit of fun reminiscing those days. It's interesting how things are always so much rosier in retrospect. In perfect honesty, MICA was both my sanctuary and my prison.
Since India had robbed me of the ability to sleep for more than five hours (and that's on a good night), I roused Ceci from sleep to watch the sunrise from the tea valleys. This time, the cold dawn air reminded me of our overnight batch trip to Dasada, where we were told to wake up at 5am for bird-watching. Physically, I was standing on the hill in Munnar waiting for the sunrise, but my mind was filled with memories of Dasada, including wishing upon a shooting star, and watching Erwin run after wild asses for a shot.
Waiting in the cold proved to be worth it. We caught the sunrise amidst a soundtrack of noisy farm animals in the distance. "Sounds like somebody's really working the fruit juicers," Ceci quipped. I think they're cows, or goats...
After fuelling up on cornflakes and paper thosai, we braced ourselves for a long drive down to Kochi. Our apprehension was unfounded, for our assigned driver was proof that skill and road courtesy made a world of a difference.
When in Kochi, buy spices! I happily added on to my Munnar stash with bags more, including Kashmiri dried chillies, saffron and peppercorns. And of course, a masala box to store them in.
A late lunch at Solar Cafe. This dish of boiled potatoes, served with nothing more than some shredded cheese, salt, pepper and a wedge of lime, was so simple but so good. Or it could be my Sarovaram-honed tastebuds talking.
The Kathakali performance we caught was enjoyable, but I've decided that I like it so much better when imagining it through Anita Nair's words in The Mistress.
Still, the artists deserve an A for effort, simply for their ability to convey a spectrum of emotions with only their eyes.
Since sleep was now officially beyond me, I woke Ceci (because misery loves company) for a morning stroll down to the Chinese fishing nets. We had a go at helping some local fishermen with hauling their bounty and trust me, it's tough enough balancing on shaky wooden planks, and tougher yet having to actually work the nets and avoid getting shat at by morning birds with overactive digestive systems. Every day is a game of Russian roulette...
I honestly can't think of a better way to start the day than with a mini cup of strong, sweet Indian chai, preferably dispensed by a mobile chai wallah.
A side of vada (savoury fritters), wrapped in the previous day's obituaries, is a slightly ominous but no less delicious accompaniment. Only in India... only in India.
Fort Kochi is a bit of a cross between Singapore's Arab Street and Malacca's Jonker Street, and easily one of the more touristy regions in Kerala. I like it for its ease and convenience, but a week of Kerala's relative easiness was enough to make me want to dive headlong into the chaotic throes of Mumbai. Shantaram had something to do with it, I'm sure.
I was a good one-third through the 933-page novel by the time we touched down in Mumbai, and I'd already been coaxed, with nothing but Gregory David Roberts' words, into seeing a different side of the city. Even before I stepped foot into the city for the second time, I'd already seen, through his eyes, into and beyond the slums and crawling traffic, and by the time I inhaled the first breath of smog-filled air and took in the sheer amounts of people, my heart had already begun seeking the beauty that it believed lay beyond the exterior of chaos.
Apart from my desire to see Mumbai in a different light, I was also looking forward to catching up with some familiar faces, and Raghu was one of them. He's someone I wish I'd gotten to know earlier, but even though we didn't get talking until my last month in Ahmedabad, we bonded over our love for food and writing, and have stayed in touch over the years. So with the fearless foodie steering the way, we ventured out to the streets that Friday evening for a spot of street food hopping and to catch Don 2 on opening night.
We started with pani puri at the legendary Elco (once you pop, you can't stop, literally, because the pani puri wallah is so darn quick at assembling the bite-sized snacks), moved on to smoky, yummy roasted sweet potatoes, and then had a vada pav (the savoury fritters we had in Kochi sandwiched between a soft bun) each, along with sips of yummy pistachio milk.
And because we had time to kill, we sat down for ice cream at Natural Ice Cream Parlour (best coconut and custard apple ice cream ever) before ambling down to the local cinema, where Ceci insisted on having masala popcorn. I can't say I enjoyed the movie, but it was certainly an experience. There were no subtitles, but what we lost in translation was more than made up for by observing the very vocal, reactive audience. It was almost like attending the Twilight premiere with groupies from the Team Jacob fan club.
Because I'd heard so much about pav bhaji from Harshal and Rajit, we couldn't call it a night without a taste of the king of Mumbai street snacks. It's a humble, nondescript dish of soft, fluffy buns and spicy vegetable stew, but it is often the simplest things, when executed perfectly, that blow you away. This cheese-topped version, devoured on a rooftop beach shack on Juhu Chowpatty, had me at first bite. (My picture doesn't do it any justice, so click here for Wiki's.) I can't believe Erwin and I missed this on our first trip to Mumbai. Why oh why did we put Theobroma on a pedestal when there was so much food waiting to be tasted on the streets, at a fraction of the price? The folly of youth and unhoned palates...
The next morning, after a pilgrimage to Theobroma (felt I owed it to Erwin to make a stop), we hopped into a taxi to visit the Shree Siddhivinayak Temple, which Rajit claimed fulfilled all his wishes. It was Saturday, worshippers were spilling out of the temple gates, and we were told we'd have to wait for four to five hours in the queue. I was ready to call it quits, but then Raghu had the bright idea of finding a VIP queue for foreigners. I don't know if there was one (maybe we created it), but 30 minutes and 300 rupees later and we were inside the fray, thrust towards the mini stampede circling the statue of Lord Ganesha. I was later told that we were supposed to think really hard about what we wanted while going around the deity, but honestly, all I could think of in the mayhem was to stay upright and not get trampled. It wasn't the pious experience I'd expected, and it wasn't the best circumstance to experience Lord Ganesha's power, but well, I made it out alive, didn't I?
Having checked the spiritual component off our itinerary, it was off to Chor Bazaar, Mumbai's famous thieve's market that puts our Sungei Road version to shame.
Along the meandering alleys were shops peddling anything and everything, from dog-eared Bollywood posters to collectible coins and exorbitant, majestic clocks.
And yes, antique, hand-wound film cameras that my friend was resistless against. I'm no expert, but I reckon 100-odd Singapore dollars is reasonable for something that looks 100 years old, but works like it's 10.
The last time Erwin and I were stuck in the crawling evening traffic from Colaba to Bandra, I was hot, sticky and irritable, and I couldn't wait to get out of the godforsaken madness. This time around, as we crawled through from Chor Bazaar to Colaba in equally slow-moving traffic, I slumped against the side of the cab, inexplicably contented to relive the experience and actually enjoying the entire journey south. I am certainly the queen of second chances on this trip.
We couldn't bring Ceci to Colaba, or Mumbai for that matter, and not show her Leopold Cafe. What was supposed to be a pit stop for an ice-cold afternoon beer turned into a long drawn evening of laughter and way too much beer.
What can I say? It was Christmas eve, the mood was festive, and Kingfisher is just too easy to drink. With topics ranging from campus gossip to the Indian perception of beauty (two words – Scarlett Johansson), it was well after dark by the time we finally stumbled out of Leopold, for supper at the renowned Bademiya.
In a foodie equivalent of the morning's scene at the temple, every makeshift table at the street stall was occupied, with throngs – and I do mean throngs – of hungry Indians spilling out onto the roads. I'm not sure queuing the legal way would have gotten us any food by Christmas morning, but trust Raghu to find a way to bribe his two foreign friends into the express queue. We were seated and fed – chicken kheema, kebabs and the softest rumali roti – within the hour, but not without getting our fair share of dirty stares. The firangi card is a double-edged sword, but nonetheless a very powerful one when waved in the right places. And with just minutes to go, we took a short walk down to the waterfront and counted down to Christmas, staring up at the Taj Mahal Palace hotel and sipping chai.
Despite my bumbling rashness, I managed to book a very last minute appointment with tattoo artist Kunal Pahuja at his studio get skINKed the next day, and after a morning of shopping for Ceci to stock up on enough jangly bangles to last till 2015, we stopped for ice cream at, you guessed it, Natural. It's the lunch for champions, especially those gearing up for their first tattoo.
The studio was located in quite a dodgy suburb, complete with a lone crow circling the building. The neighbourhood was far from friendly, but I was by then in a bit of a hypnotic trance, and very adamant about following my whim through. Thankfully, the studio itself was impeccably sterile, and Kunal extremely chilled yet professional.
I'd expected it to hurt and I'd braced myself to breathe through the pain, but it was surprisingly pain-free and dare I say, enjoyable. I won't go into detail about the tattoo as that's rather personal, but the entire session, from start to finish, remains a very surreal memory.
Our last night in Mumbai was spent with another MICAN friend, Rishabh, and his roommate Karan. (Can't believe we forgot to take a picture.) Rishabh and I became friends when he asked me to partner him in a badminton tournament, despite my honest claims of being a lousy player. Shameful defeat would be an understatement, if my cringe-worthy memories serve me right, but well, if you can't skid around like a clown on the badminton court in India, when can you? And I gained a friend to have curry and naans with on Christmas Day, although I suspect badminton would always be a prickly topic for us...
And over post-dinner churros, three hours after shaking his hand and admitting, "Sorry I don't think I remember seeing you around in MICA", I realised that Karan and I actually shared a class, and were even in the same project group! I blame his new hairstyle, and my failing memory.
"I think I skipped too many classes for the module... I'm actually surprised I passed!" I told him, after my delayed recognition set in.
"Yeah, I think I had something to do with that..." was his cryptic reply. Whatever it was he did, I have him to thank for one less module to make up for after my return to Singapore!
Barely two hours of sleep later and it was time to leave our hotel for the airport, at the very unearthly hour of 4.15 am. I was grouchy, very grouchy, not just because I was seriously sleep-deprived but more so because I really didn't want to leave Mumbai. By the time we were thousands of feet in the air, my sombre mood had settled into a dull ache in my heart. I wonder why.
The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, but it wasn't without trepidation that I boarded my flight to Kerala. It took a lot of willpower to not succumb to feeling out of place in the queue of native Indians at Changi Airport, as well as to keep my thoughts calm and unaffected when a passenger demanded to be offloaded right before the flight took off. But humans, we're fighters and adaptors way more than we give ourselves credit for, and by the time I'd touched down at Thiruvananthapuram International Airport, I'd jostled my way to the front of the baggage belt, sticking out my elbows at calculated angles to protect my personal space (a rare luxury in India!).
16 Dec 2011, 8.29am, Sarovaram Ayurvedic Backwater Resort, Dining Hall
Everything in its time
"It's surprising how quickly I've adapted back to the Indian way of being. The jostling, the lack of personal space, the absence of a familiar system (but oh, there is order in chaos), the constant waiting, and spending the night in a room that's a faint throwback to my first night in MICA, minus the gruesome yellow frog in the shower. There's a weird comfort I get from knowing how some things may never change, and that's okay.
I'm okay with a lot of things here. What would typically frustrate me back home is part and parcel of being in India. From shivering in the cold while figuring out how to work the water heater to spending a good part of the morning grappling with the hair dryer and waiting in silence in an empty dining hall, patient and confident that somebody would eventually serve me breakfast (they did), acceptance has seamlessly woven itself into me.
So, as a reward for my unquestioning trust in the fact that everything would happen in its own (Indian) time, I'm now writing this between forkfuls of freshly made coconut and jaggery filled dosa, a papaya from the organic garden and sweet chai. And then there's this dubious concoction they call Ayurvedic herbal water..."
16 Dec 2011, 2.32pm, Sarovaram Ayurvedic Backwater Resort, Dining Hall
Solitude
"I've just sat and savoured a 45-minute lunch on my own. No pressure, no hurry, no need to make small talk. For 45 minutes, it was just me and what I was putting into my mouth, and I've realised just how therapeutic the act of eating actually is, not in a stuffing the face kind of way. Taking the time to smell, chew and register the textures and flavours made the simple fare – white rice and veggie sides – a meal to remember.
Earlier this morning, I experienced what had to be one of the most bizarre massages in my life. I remember Romain recounting his Keralan massage. I quote: "Ok sir, use oil to massage your sex." While it'll take quite a lot to trump his experience, it was still unnerving laying on a wooden treatment table in nothing but paper thongs as my smiley, slightly gassy therapist slathered what smelled like shallot oil all over me. Slathering, and asking if I'm happy and if I liked it. Erm, when I feel and smell like paratha dough, and when her hands were harmlessly but still uncomfortably slipping into sacred territory... I'm not sure. But she was nice, so I stuck it out and even let her manipulate my face with the oil after she rubbed my feet. And then I returned to my cottage and promptly fell asleep on the porch.
Guess what? I've got another treatment prescribed at 3.30pm. No oil please, fingers crossed."
Then again, it is India, one of the places where you're least likely to get what you wish for, so of course I was prescribed another oil massage, this time with turmeric powder that stained me yellow.
And because my urban soul wasn't ready to surrender to the quiet, I found myself in the kitchen that very evening watching the chef prepare our meals.
I even got to try my hand at making chapatis, and I later found out that my very dismal attempts were served to my poor German neighours. God bless their lovely souls.
17 Dec 2011, 9.30am, Sarovaram Ayurvedic Backwater Resort, Dining Hall
The Indian time warp
"Starting the day with yoga in the gardens really put things into perspective for me. Yesterday, I was really struggling to keep myself occupied, and the fear of having nothing to fill my time here got to me a little. So I signed up for a cooking demonstration last night, and made arrangements to go to the city centre later this morning.
When I woke today however, my mind is well at ease, and I seem to have finally snapped out of corporate mode. In fact, the thought of having the next two days to myself is luxurious. Perhaps confinement is less in one's surroundings than it is in the mind."
17 Dec 2011, 2.10pm, Sarovaram Ayurvedic Backwater Resort, Dining Hall
I'm in India moments
"1. Seeing crowds gather and traffic pile up as they ponder upon a stack of fallen logs. There's an occasional half-hearted honk from a car behind, and curious drivers would wander out to join the ever-growing crowd of policemen and onlookers. We soon realised that there's enough space for most cars to pass through, but none does. Of course. Nobody's in a rush to be anywhere at one in the morning.
2. The sudden power cuts. Is it the wattage from my hairdryer?
3. Sitting in the resort executive director's office lamenting and laughing (a little despondently on my part) at my bad itinerary planning. We spend 30 minutes of my supposed Ayurvedic consultation thinking up alternatives, none of which I take up. And then we move on to looking at pictures of village backwaters on his computer.
4. Lying near naked on the treatment table and getting slathered, by my ever-smiling therapist Kanaka, in what I've since learnt is sesame oil. I return that same afternoon for round two, and to cancel the next day's treatment.
5. Rolling chapatis in the kitchen, and later realising my mishapened attempts were served to my poor German neighbours. We ended up dining together and discussing, among many other topics, gender inequality in India.
6. Practising yoga in the jungle gardens with Master Ullas, who likes repeating his instructions, thrice. Half of the rest of the time was spent lamenting how short my trip was (peppered with plenty of head wiggling) and if I would return soon, and if I was going to pick up Malayalam because it is the most wonderful language (and so he wouldn't have to rack his brains to explain himself in English). The session concludes with him showing me an article about him that was published in the local papers. He carries that with him in his briefcase. I like him.
7. The auto ride and the intoxicating mix of fumes, heat, dust and curious passers by the moment we left my Ayurvedic sanctuary and entered the city streets.
8. Getting stared at, with some less tactful ones doing a double take. I thought I saw a young boy run after the auto I was in, excitedly calling out to his friend to check out the yellow-skined firangi. Or I could be imagining things...
9. Hearing my therapist Suresh swat at mosquitoes while I had a face pack on. He accidentally flung the cloth in my face, and we promptly burst out into uncontrollable giggles. The swatting continued once we'd regained our composure."
18 Dec 2011, 9.54am, Sarovaram Ayurvedic Backwater Resort, Dining Hall
The art of doing nothing, revised
"It's a gorgeous morning (oh it's Sunday!). The sun is warm but gentle, the breeze strong and relentless. Early this morning, I picked my way across the gardens (gardens that two mornings ago I was afraid harboured snakes and creepy crawlies – they probably do, but it's stopped bothering me now) to watch the sun rise from the canopy of coconut trees on distant shores. The sight, while awe-inspiring, didn't steal my breath, but it was for me a brief period of complete and utter peace.
With a good half hour to go before my morning yoga class, I climbed into my hammock and flirted with the idea of making a few New Year resolutions, then chose to blank out to the rock and lull of the swaying hammock instead. The art of doing nothing – a little something I picked up from my time at MICA – is a treat when you're 21 and daddy paid for your student exchange. It is an even greater, well-deserved one at 25, when I paid through my nose for the holiday.
And then, in the gradually warming sunlight, in the gardens with the wind in my face and the familiar family of eagles swooping overhead, we did yoga, my slightly queer master and I. And all I could think of at that moment was how blessed I was to be here, in this quiet resort garden, practising yoga."
18 Dec 2011, 10.17am, Sarovaram Ayurvedic Backwater Resort, in my garden hammock
Rootless tree
"A gentle stirring
A pat on the cheek
Familiar faces
That solitude seeks
A rootless tree
Sowing its seeds
Into the wet earth
In hopes of spring
The world is quiet
Not even a peep
But the dreamer's stirring
Dreaming of sleep"
Just when I was getting used to doing nothing at Sarovaram, it was time to leave for the touristy pastures of Varkala. Not before tucking into one last veggie meal for the road...
And saying goodbye to the people who have been so very good to me. Even though I was perfectly okay eating alone, they made it a point to sit with me for the first couple of minutes every time I got to the dining hall, even if it was just to watch me eat. I like to think of them as my brothers from a different mother.
My transition into tourist-filled Varkala wasn't easy after my stay at my Ayurvedic oasis. After those beautiful, quiet nights with nothing but the stars and lapping lake for company, Varkala's thundering waves and distant beats of thumping music were an assault on my senses. I did the obligatory walk around the shops and restaurants lining the cliff to adjust my mental map, then sat down to a meal of veggie momos with the pitch black sea for company.
I roused early from fitful sleep, with a good hour to dedicate to Master Ullas' asanas and meditation practice. Hungry for the sunrise and a hearty breakfast, I emerged from my room, only to find a sleeping resort and a muted beach. When in India, you wait, so I perched myself on the breakfast table (the chairs were chained) with Shantaram, and willed my whining belly to silence.
19 Dec 2011, 7.36am, Woodhouse Beach Resort Varkala, at the breakfast table
"Extracted from Shantaram, page 85: This is not like any other place. This is India. Everyone who comes here falls in love – most of us fall in love many times over. And the Indians, they love most of all... It happens often, and easily, for the Indians. That is how they manage to live together, a billion of them, in reasonable peace. They are not perfect, of course. They know how to fight and lie and cheat each other, and all the things that all of us do. But more than any other people in the world, the Indians know how to love one another."
19 Dec 2011, 4pm, Black Sand Beach, Varkala
"Surrender. That was the key word I took away from my Shantaram reading this morning. It's not really a conscious effort on my part, but surrender is exactly what I've done the moment I stepped foot onto India. What I thought could be interpreted as the shirking of responsibility, choosing to go with the flow and letting someone else determine what happens, is actually, in nicer terms, surrender.
Today, I surrendered my life to the hands of a driver I'd just met, as I usually do here in India, and trusted him to navigate me safely through morning rush hour traffic, which in Indian terms often means six vehicles squeezed into a road meant for two. When on several occasions did we almost collide head on with an incoming truck, so surrendered I was my heart barely lurched.
And when he offered to buy me a beer on our way back from the astrologist, and got us a large bottle of Kingfisher each from a roadside bottle shop, I toasted him and took a large swig as did he, with one hand on the steering wheel.
'It's my first, toasting a girl. Keralan girls don't drink,' he remarked, grinning and swerving ever so slightly to avoid knocking down an old man on a bicycle. I smiled. It's my first sitting so calmly beside a beer-swigging driver, too, but I didn't tell him that. Instead I asked: 'It's okay in India, for you to drink and drive?'
'Ok, no problem. No problem. My brother is head of traffic police.' "
While waiting for Ceci to make her way to the resort from the airport, I spent the evening chatting with Sylvia, an 84-year-old English lady staying in the cottage near mine. She's seen most of the world (although she would really like to go to Kyoto), has no regrets, and doesn't care if she "dies yesterday, today or tomorrow". Her gungho attitude to life was inspiring to say the least, and our conversation had me rethinking my half-arsed New Year resolution to travel less. It's the best, and perhaps, only way to really understand the world.
20 Dec 2011, 2.54pm, on the deck of houseboat cruising along the Alleppey backwaters
Shanti
"Peace. The feeling of complete serenity. It is not an emotion that comes easily, or often, but when it does, it fills you up in ways nothing else ever does.
Contentment is what we so often seek, but how many actually find it? And when we do, like love, it slips through the fingers far too easily, far too quickly. Like a stolen moment in time, it is the fleetingness of it, the flightiness of peace, that makes it so precious.
It is here, once again in India, that I've found you. There's no staccato heartbeat of happiness, no nervous drumming in my veins. All is quiet. All is still. Shanti."
Time is inconsequential in India (or perhaps because I was on holiday!), and a watch redundant. After watching the sunset and sitting down to yet another full-course meal, and what was becoming an annoying habit of interrupted sleep, we woke to what I can only describe as a gentle Keralan sunrise.
No fiery orb rising from the horizon, just a gradual blushing of the brightening sky and the seamless resumption of life on the backwaters.
Lunch after a 4.5-hour stomach-churning ride from Alleppey up to Munnar, no thanks to a deceptively mild-mannered driver who has to overtake every single car in his line of sight. Even on one-way roads. I've never had motion sickness, but I actually had to lie down for a good 15 minutes before I felt steady enough to explore the cool surroundings of Munnar.
With its cool climate and lazy, small town charms, Munnar reminded me a lot of MICA in winter. After spice shopping in Old Munnar, we showered and strolled to the dining hall in knits and pajama bottoms, very much like how we ambled to MICA's mess every cold night, and I had a bit of fun reminiscing those days. It's interesting how things are always so much rosier in retrospect. In perfect honesty, MICA was both my sanctuary and my prison.
Since India had robbed me of the ability to sleep for more than five hours (and that's on a good night), I roused Ceci from sleep to watch the sunrise from the tea valleys. This time, the cold dawn air reminded me of our overnight batch trip to Dasada, where we were told to wake up at 5am for bird-watching. Physically, I was standing on the hill in Munnar waiting for the sunrise, but my mind was filled with memories of Dasada, including wishing upon a shooting star, and watching Erwin run after wild asses for a shot.
Waiting in the cold proved to be worth it. We caught the sunrise amidst a soundtrack of noisy farm animals in the distance. "Sounds like somebody's really working the fruit juicers," Ceci quipped. I think they're cows, or goats...
After fuelling up on cornflakes and paper thosai, we braced ourselves for a long drive down to Kochi. Our apprehension was unfounded, for our assigned driver was proof that skill and road courtesy made a world of a difference.
When in Kochi, buy spices! I happily added on to my Munnar stash with bags more, including Kashmiri dried chillies, saffron and peppercorns. And of course, a masala box to store them in.
A late lunch at Solar Cafe. This dish of boiled potatoes, served with nothing more than some shredded cheese, salt, pepper and a wedge of lime, was so simple but so good. Or it could be my Sarovaram-honed tastebuds talking.
The Kathakali performance we caught was enjoyable, but I've decided that I like it so much better when imagining it through Anita Nair's words in The Mistress.
Still, the artists deserve an A for effort, simply for their ability to convey a spectrum of emotions with only their eyes.
Since sleep was now officially beyond me, I woke Ceci (because misery loves company) for a morning stroll down to the Chinese fishing nets. We had a go at helping some local fishermen with hauling their bounty and trust me, it's tough enough balancing on shaky wooden planks, and tougher yet having to actually work the nets and avoid getting shat at by morning birds with overactive digestive systems. Every day is a game of Russian roulette...
I honestly can't think of a better way to start the day than with a mini cup of strong, sweet Indian chai, preferably dispensed by a mobile chai wallah.
A side of vada (savoury fritters), wrapped in the previous day's obituaries, is a slightly ominous but no less delicious accompaniment. Only in India... only in India.
Fort Kochi is a bit of a cross between Singapore's Arab Street and Malacca's Jonker Street, and easily one of the more touristy regions in Kerala. I like it for its ease and convenience, but a week of Kerala's relative easiness was enough to make me want to dive headlong into the chaotic throes of Mumbai. Shantaram had something to do with it, I'm sure.
I was a good one-third through the 933-page novel by the time we touched down in Mumbai, and I'd already been coaxed, with nothing but Gregory David Roberts' words, into seeing a different side of the city. Even before I stepped foot into the city for the second time, I'd already seen, through his eyes, into and beyond the slums and crawling traffic, and by the time I inhaled the first breath of smog-filled air and took in the sheer amounts of people, my heart had already begun seeking the beauty that it believed lay beyond the exterior of chaos.
Apart from my desire to see Mumbai in a different light, I was also looking forward to catching up with some familiar faces, and Raghu was one of them. He's someone I wish I'd gotten to know earlier, but even though we didn't get talking until my last month in Ahmedabad, we bonded over our love for food and writing, and have stayed in touch over the years. So with the fearless foodie steering the way, we ventured out to the streets that Friday evening for a spot of street food hopping and to catch Don 2 on opening night.
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| Picture by Ceci |
And because we had time to kill, we sat down for ice cream at Natural Ice Cream Parlour (best coconut and custard apple ice cream ever) before ambling down to the local cinema, where Ceci insisted on having masala popcorn. I can't say I enjoyed the movie, but it was certainly an experience. There were no subtitles, but what we lost in translation was more than made up for by observing the very vocal, reactive audience. It was almost like attending the Twilight premiere with groupies from the Team Jacob fan club.
Because I'd heard so much about pav bhaji from Harshal and Rajit, we couldn't call it a night without a taste of the king of Mumbai street snacks. It's a humble, nondescript dish of soft, fluffy buns and spicy vegetable stew, but it is often the simplest things, when executed perfectly, that blow you away. This cheese-topped version, devoured on a rooftop beach shack on Juhu Chowpatty, had me at first bite. (My picture doesn't do it any justice, so click here for Wiki's.) I can't believe Erwin and I missed this on our first trip to Mumbai. Why oh why did we put Theobroma on a pedestal when there was so much food waiting to be tasted on the streets, at a fraction of the price? The folly of youth and unhoned palates...
The next morning, after a pilgrimage to Theobroma (felt I owed it to Erwin to make a stop), we hopped into a taxi to visit the Shree Siddhivinayak Temple, which Rajit claimed fulfilled all his wishes. It was Saturday, worshippers were spilling out of the temple gates, and we were told we'd have to wait for four to five hours in the queue. I was ready to call it quits, but then Raghu had the bright idea of finding a VIP queue for foreigners. I don't know if there was one (maybe we created it), but 30 minutes and 300 rupees later and we were inside the fray, thrust towards the mini stampede circling the statue of Lord Ganesha. I was later told that we were supposed to think really hard about what we wanted while going around the deity, but honestly, all I could think of in the mayhem was to stay upright and not get trampled. It wasn't the pious experience I'd expected, and it wasn't the best circumstance to experience Lord Ganesha's power, but well, I made it out alive, didn't I?
Having checked the spiritual component off our itinerary, it was off to Chor Bazaar, Mumbai's famous thieve's market that puts our Sungei Road version to shame.
Along the meandering alleys were shops peddling anything and everything, from dog-eared Bollywood posters to collectible coins and exorbitant, majestic clocks.
And yes, antique, hand-wound film cameras that my friend was resistless against. I'm no expert, but I reckon 100-odd Singapore dollars is reasonable for something that looks 100 years old, but works like it's 10.
The last time Erwin and I were stuck in the crawling evening traffic from Colaba to Bandra, I was hot, sticky and irritable, and I couldn't wait to get out of the godforsaken madness. This time around, as we crawled through from Chor Bazaar to Colaba in equally slow-moving traffic, I slumped against the side of the cab, inexplicably contented to relive the experience and actually enjoying the entire journey south. I am certainly the queen of second chances on this trip.
We couldn't bring Ceci to Colaba, or Mumbai for that matter, and not show her Leopold Cafe. What was supposed to be a pit stop for an ice-cold afternoon beer turned into a long drawn evening of laughter and way too much beer.
What can I say? It was Christmas eve, the mood was festive, and Kingfisher is just too easy to drink. With topics ranging from campus gossip to the Indian perception of beauty (two words – Scarlett Johansson), it was well after dark by the time we finally stumbled out of Leopold, for supper at the renowned Bademiya.
In a foodie equivalent of the morning's scene at the temple, every makeshift table at the street stall was occupied, with throngs – and I do mean throngs – of hungry Indians spilling out onto the roads. I'm not sure queuing the legal way would have gotten us any food by Christmas morning, but trust Raghu to find a way to bribe his two foreign friends into the express queue. We were seated and fed – chicken kheema, kebabs and the softest rumali roti – within the hour, but not without getting our fair share of dirty stares. The firangi card is a double-edged sword, but nonetheless a very powerful one when waved in the right places. And with just minutes to go, we took a short walk down to the waterfront and counted down to Christmas, staring up at the Taj Mahal Palace hotel and sipping chai.
Despite my bumbling rashness, I managed to book a very last minute appointment with tattoo artist Kunal Pahuja at his studio get skINKed the next day, and after a morning of shopping for Ceci to stock up on enough jangly bangles to last till 2015, we stopped for ice cream at, you guessed it, Natural. It's the lunch for champions, especially those gearing up for their first tattoo.
The studio was located in quite a dodgy suburb, complete with a lone crow circling the building. The neighbourhood was far from friendly, but I was by then in a bit of a hypnotic trance, and very adamant about following my whim through. Thankfully, the studio itself was impeccably sterile, and Kunal extremely chilled yet professional.
I'd expected it to hurt and I'd braced myself to breathe through the pain, but it was surprisingly pain-free and dare I say, enjoyable. I won't go into detail about the tattoo as that's rather personal, but the entire session, from start to finish, remains a very surreal memory.
Our last night in Mumbai was spent with another MICAN friend, Rishabh, and his roommate Karan. (Can't believe we forgot to take a picture.) Rishabh and I became friends when he asked me to partner him in a badminton tournament, despite my honest claims of being a lousy player. Shameful defeat would be an understatement, if my cringe-worthy memories serve me right, but well, if you can't skid around like a clown on the badminton court in India, when can you? And I gained a friend to have curry and naans with on Christmas Day, although I suspect badminton would always be a prickly topic for us...
And over post-dinner churros, three hours after shaking his hand and admitting, "Sorry I don't think I remember seeing you around in MICA", I realised that Karan and I actually shared a class, and were even in the same project group! I blame his new hairstyle, and my failing memory.
"I think I skipped too many classes for the module... I'm actually surprised I passed!" I told him, after my delayed recognition set in.
"Yeah, I think I had something to do with that..." was his cryptic reply. Whatever it was he did, I have him to thank for one less module to make up for after my return to Singapore!
Barely two hours of sleep later and it was time to leave our hotel for the airport, at the very unearthly hour of 4.15 am. I was grouchy, very grouchy, not just because I was seriously sleep-deprived but more so because I really didn't want to leave Mumbai. By the time we were thousands of feet in the air, my sombre mood had settled into a dull ache in my heart. I wonder why.
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