Jaya Ganesha!

Jaya Ganesha, Jaya Ganesha, Jaya Ganeshapahenam.
Shree Ganesha, Shree Ganesha, Shree Ganesha Rakshamam (and on and on and on...)
We wake up early and chant this 20 minute mantra, a salute to the "remover of obstacles" and about 100 other gods, starts and ends the day of yoga "Vacation".....
Life at the Sivananda Ashram, is yet again, another unique slice of India.

I arrived after winding down the Bengali coast of Tamil Nadu- carried by a screaming bus that scattered children and cows off the small town roads. I took the "express" bus, as I was concerned that i might not make my train from Villapuram to Trivandrum. I arrived to the station a good 3 hours before departure. Well ahead of time, and no one in sight.....Little did I know, the holiday was Pongal----harvest festival, where rituals are performed in fertile fields, fire ceremonies swirl through small roadside temples, and bulls are painted and captured by brave and foolish competitors. The women cook sweet rice dishes to serve in their family homes. Chalk mandalas read "Happy Pongal!" and trains are quiet and uncrowded...Rituals are not public, but I was guided to a small Ganesh (elephant god/remover of obstacles) by a kind man who wanted me to see the offerings---crowds were singing, incense and fruit were offered, smiles on everyone's faces, and a fourth of july like firework display in the backdrop....a sweet last taste of India, before turning inward...

My travels led me to Neyyar Dam where the Sivananda Ashram sits above the lake surrounded by forest and jade rolling mountains. Elephants rustle in the wilderness, lions can be heard mating, and stories of "lake crocodiles" keep the timid from swimming.
This being the "halfway" point of my journey, I planned to give myself two weeks of yoga practice, time for reflection, and detoxification---an opportunity to recharge my batteries for the remainder of the journey.
It is quite nice to drop the dusty bags and follow a rigid routine after days of logistics, decision making, and unknown experiences around every corner.
Here, at the ashram, life is safe, predictable, and affords one the opportunity to synthesize the adventures preceding arrival---or so i thought...actually, the schedule allows for little down time or reflection. This "Groundhog Day" reality follows an exacting schedule:
5:20am Wake up bell
6am-7am Meditation, chanting
7:30 chai break
8:00-10:00 yoga
10am brunch
10-30-12pm karma yoga---selfless service (yes, I'm cleaning toilets)
1:30 pm tea time
2:00 lecture
3:30-5:30pm yoga
6pm dinner
8pm-10am lecture/satsang/aarati
10:30pm lights out

Three days in, I feel lighter, well rested, and ready for the next adventures.
No access to internet, except one "off day" a week, and the connections are so slow, there's no time for uploading photos....

Fog to Sea

It was clear to me that I was more than ready to leave the cold, rugged north when a beggar approached the car i was sitting in, just before my 3am departure from the Bodhgaya train station. The familiar, troubled soul had put his palm in my face at my 3am arrival just days before--I gave him ten Rupees. This time, generosity was nowhere to be found--- a harder heart, ragged nerves, my bones tired of the constant damp chill and the middle of the night journeys..... There's nothing like wearing a dirty orange down jacket around the clock for several weeks to make you crave the sun. As the boy knocked on my window, it took all I could muster to not open the car door to shove him away. The begging is non-stop, and while everyone finds their own way to contribute or put up a personal shield against the constant requests, there are moments when you lose your cool. This is when you know you need to take a break.
Skipping like a stone through Calcutta, Mamallapurum, and now Pondicherry, the softness of southern India has washed over me and I am again able to shed some rupees to the less frequent palms as I make my way toward Trivandrum. Here in the south, temples tops are dotted with crosses, mud chai cups are replaced by coffee joints, holy robes are switched to longis and sarongs, palms replace pines, Goan fish dishes replace vegetable curries, crowds are replaced by space, Hindi language by French and English, cafe au lait choked skies change to salty blue ocean views, slow service is replaced by slower, but more efficient, service----welcome mats are replaced by colorful chalk mandalas on store front stoops--metal roofs turn into thatched ones, Ambassador taxis changed from white to yellow, pujas on the Ganges are replaced by fishing nets in the Bay of Bengal----punjab pot bellies melt and stretch into long, lanky trunks----and rickshaw honking is replaced by clown horn squeaking------the shifts seem like I've crossed an environmental, cultural, and psychic border, but the head wiggles, soul searing eyes, and contagious smiles confirm my visa's still valid----"same-same" only different.

pilgrims and angels

I've left the intensity of Varanasi and found a different energy on the soil where the Buddha lives. Buddhists converge here in early January to recite a world prayer for peace led by the 17th Karmapa. The Karmapa is to the Kagyu lineage what the Dalai Lama is to the Geluka lineage in Tibet. The reincarnated Karmapa is young-- 20, or so, years old, with a sweet face, and a bit of western attitude----The town swarmed with maroon and mustard robes from all over Asia to hear his reincarnated insights and enjoy some global prayer----An incredible sight and a nice shift from the frenetic vibe of Hindu India....

After another foggy train ride and a 3am arrival, I found some peace under the same tree where the Buddha became enlightened. Many people walked (and rested) by the tree hoping for a connection to the Buddha's liberating message of non-attachment and impermanence. Many visitors seemed far from the message as they talked in the "respect for silence" zone, snapped photos, and grasped at leaves dropping from the branches. I sat next to 2 Vietnamese nuns quietly praying. They smiled at me, as I found my breath and settled into some internal silence. I was awakened by the subtle sound of a Bodhi leaf falling on the ground in front of me. A big grin came across my neighboring nun's face---as she said "Buddha wanted you to have it!" Feeling the good fortune, I took the leaf and meditated some more.

I woke from my concentration to find a pilgrim in traditional Tibetan dress and braids standing in front of me. He had been circumambulating the stupa in front of me, his well-worn socks barely covering his weary feet----Taking a break from his circles, he smiled and put his hands over his heart. I felt something holy in his kindness and smiled back----a wordless connection...He reached his brown-boned hands toward mine--warm palms pressed for a moment, then he padded away. He circled again, and this time, stopped and gave me an apple out of his black and maroon shoulder bag-then he moved on. He circled again and this time joined me on the bench where the nuns and I sat--- Another offering--- he pushed his orange plastic mug of warm yak milk at me and a white roll and cheese sandwich to share. With no food to exchange, I placed the auspicious and treasured bodhi leaf in his lap. He smiled, put his arm around my shoulder, and pulled me in close to recite the mantra in the nun's chant book. We chimed in with 1,000's of Buddhists unified in prayer and then he left. I saw him later performing non-stop prostrations on the other side of the tree.

No champagne, No ball drop-- India as usual

The Hindu Times posts festival listings daily on their back page. Every day, somewhere in India, there is a festival--- full of loud, ritualistic, garish ceremonies and celebration....but the week of western winter holiday's receives little hype. New year's eve arrived without a splash---and though I'm not one to don the high heels and indulge in the wild year end shannanigans, I did hope to mark the new year with more than an evening with my good friends, curry and korma. Good fortune found me enjoying an evening of classical music at the "International Music Center" (run by Freddie Prince's Indian double). The seven-act show delivered a night of melody and trance. After 5 hours of sitar, tabla, harmonium, and flute, I rang in the new year with a few local gurus, the best of the University of Benares' musicians, and a couple from Taiwan. We all sat on the futon covered floor of the florescent bulbed/ party-ballooned/nag champa-ed venue sipping ginger tea and soaking up the delicious performance.
This was one of several New Year's Concerts across the city, but the night itself was really no different than any other day here---Holy days/Holidays are pretty much an everyday experience---here, the "norm" mixes with the sublime, surreal, and mundane around the clock. Daily life in Varanasi does not change as the weeks and seasons shift. Seems the people find the time to be holy each day---So, on this day, for me and the "Varanasenos",----no football, no hangovers, no resolutions---just another day surrounded by marigold sales, chicken slaughters,tea brews, puja prep, rickshaw repair, blackouts, tabla tapping, ablutions, kite running, buffalo bathing,and tourist fleecing. Happy New Year.

burning and learning

After a clay cup of fresh yogurt and watching a local man practice his downward dogs, Rasha, my tout and guru on day one here, told me this---"Varanasi is the city of burning and learning"-the learning, because of the great university down river, and the burning, because people come from near and far to be put to rest with flames and prayers along the holy Ganga. My train rolled into the station seven hours late- (due to fog) putting me in close to midnight. Anxious about the intensity of this city and the fact that I hadn't booked a room in advance, added a phantom of the opera meets the sopranos feel to my arrival. After being turned away from the Hotel Surya, Mudhak and Swarika my leathered up taxi drivers, found me a shoebox room suitable for Stewart Little at the Hotel Buddha. After a short sleep and a tomato omelet, I made my way to the historic Ghats (ritual steps leading into the Ganges).These steps bring Varanasi its fame and promise of eternal moksha (liberation). There are no hidden ceremonies here at the ghats and in the river, our most private western rituals are exposed---bathing, urination, shaving, cremation...----the death ritual was explained in depth to me as I watched white cotton wrapped bodies covered in marigolds carried on wooden stretchers to the water...They were dipped for purification and then brought to the burning grounds--the flowers then removed, and ghee (clarified butter)drizzled on the body as it rested on split banyan logs and sandlewood (for the higher caste---a kilo of sandlewood costing 1500 rupees/30$, and 100 kilos needed for the cremation). A holy man then circles the body with a bundle of burning grass five times--the face is uncovered and blessed--more wood is stacked on top of the departed, and a lower caste attendant burns the body. During the 3 hour cremation, family members stand watching from a distance--the women not allowed, as their tears are troubling to the departed's soul. Faces are solemn, though children fly kites along the periphery of the ghat. Once the ashes of the fire smolder, the men bring water to dowse the ashes. Then their heads are shaved. When the family departs, and the ashes cool, lower caste members sift through the cinders for jewelry to sell.
I learned that two houses near by offer room and board to those waiting for their death------after making a donation to one of the death houses, I was blessed by an wrinkled and tired old woman waiting to die---Her sinewy hands on my head, "Long life, happy life, healthy life!" she wished, and then crawled back to her blanket in the corner waiting for another donor and her death. Most Hindus dream of such an auspicious departure---with the exception of brahmins, pregnant women, lepers, those bitten by cobras, and children under ten--their fate provides them a different ritual---for their bodies are too pure or too tainted for this rite---they have a stone tied to them and they are dropped to the bottom of the holy Ganges.
"Burning and learning.....Welcome to Varanasi, please, no photos of the dead."

Red and Green ChRISHIKESH

Very nice to wake to clear, warm skies on this Rishikesh Christmas morning. The day started with a sugar-bomb and a cup of coffee at the Swiss Cottage Bakery. Doris (a German tourist) handed out the coconut treats to diners, "Feliz Navidad"s were exchanged between spanairds in the adjacent booth, and the Hindu Times mentioned nothing of the western holiday. I strolled across the Ram Jula (Bridge) delighted by the abundant sunshine and the absence of monkeys screeching along the rails. I bought a flower boat and made my way to the water----I kicked off my adidas court shoes, rolled up my pants and entered the water between a bathing saddhu and a woman doing laundry---my flower boat filled with marigolds and incense sailed down the river with a prayer sent from the Ganges and around the world to my family. Last night, I was feeling a little empty and far from loved ones---Good fortune delivered me an ashram flier invited me to spend Christmas Eve with the Sivananda community where a "holiday program" promised to fill our stainless steel cups with cheer. It was somewhat surreal-----Silent night sung by Hindus, monks, westerners, Japanese, and the homeless----readings by swamis about the significance of Christ's birth, and the promise that comes with the magic of Christmas morning---Cultural dances were performed and an evergreen tree, dressed in a string of short circuiting colored lights-stood next to an altar with Krishna, Christ and Swami SHivananda-ji---conch shells and temple bells, Hare Oms, Namastes, and prasad (blessed sweets) were all shared amongst strangers feeling very close to one another so far from home. On the way back to my room, an anonymous passanger paid my rickshaw fare, and the change in my pocket rained on a sleeping man wrapped in a blanket on the road. Santa is everywhere.
Today, Diwari's family invited me over for Christmas Lunch----the traditional fare, of course,-----as the guest, I was served mounds and mounds of spinach, sabji, chapatti, biryani, dal, raddish, onion, and carrot pudding---We took chai in the parlor and talked about how good the man Obama is. When the conversation slowly slipped from English back to Hindi, I took this as my signal to exit-----holding back my tears of gratitude, I thanked them and said my final good-bye to my family away from family---their heads wiggled.

Sunday, day of rest

It's non-stop here at the orphanage--India is non-stop. As soon as you step out the door, where ever you are, you are assaulted by the concentration of people, animals, and vehicles moving at a quick clip with seemingly directionless purpose. Constant road work without machinery, men and women breaking rocks with hammers, crews mixing cement in wheelbarrows.....shopkeepers baghwans (stores/buildings)smacked side by side, all competing with each other to sell the same laundry soap, prayer beads, bottled water, and Cadbury chocolate.
But today is Sunday, and at least inside the ashram things are quiet at 7:45 am. Though the kids have been up since the bell rang at 6:30 am, and they've said their prayers and are doing their laundry. Today is the one day of the week they don't have school. Time to chill out----relax and read, play cricket, do homework, pass around the newborn, capture a chess queen.....
Yesterday, I walked around the village outside of the ashram to take some photos. The "tween-agers" showed me their Henna tatoos, high school girls in school uniforms read the Hindi Times--taking a break before arriving to their first class, and truant boys shot arrows from homemade bows at me. Shoeless and school-less were many of them.
Meanwhile, the orphan kids were all in school. Their curriculum is demanding, Environmental Science--the nitrogen cycle, in 6th grade, taught in English. It would be very impressive if the delivery were effective, but the teaching methods are rote, and for the learning challenged, no modification...As an educator, this is frustrating to see---despite the economic and IT boom, I'm learning that it will take lifetimes for much of India to modernize.
Each day, despite the distance in the orphans' attitude toward me, I feel I make a little headway. "Batman" (age 8--eating dal in my previous post)gave me a rose off of the December birthday party cake yesterday. Arpita, age 6, told me "Vee are gud frenz now.", and Soniya,(age 14) the toughest of them all, sat next to me at dinner and continuously elbowed me to show me how many hot chiles she was able to withstand-(following each elbow in the rib, her right hand quickly grabbed her steel cup of water). On my way to bed, Kavita,(age 15)invited me to watch a Bollywood video....
...and Shin-bone's leg is covering with protective muscle-y growth.
It will be harder to leave than I thought, but tomorrow, I return to Rishikesh-homebase-----one more time--to study more with the ayurvedic doctor, and Friday, I head to Varanasi---India's holiest city. From the land of Shiva, Vishnu, and Ram, I wish you all a very happy Christmas.

Gratitude, my friend

I'm having a hard time trying to come up with the words for the experience here at the Ashram....."Shin-bone" dog has taken a shining to me, no one will help him, and I'm advised not to touch him....My stomach is challenged by the water--boiled as it may be, and a baker's dozen of dark chocolate brown eyes continue to question my intentions (the cow-milker has one eye)...Though there's a deep sense of emptiness here, the understaffed community loves the children with big hearts and a life of service, and the damaged youngsters,(ages 6 weeks to 19 years), are full of appreciation for the little they've been dished-out this lifetime. My Rishikesh routine is now replaced with the "Haridwar" one----cow milking, baby rocking, shoe tying, study halling, face wiping, freesbie catching, hand holding, chapatti making, and trying to keep it together in the face of simultaneous suffering and joy.
Nothing like joining a kid on the floor at dinner, dipping our fingers in the rice and dal and discussing (in broken English) our favorite animals, sweets, and colors. The stockings will be stuffed with a Kit Kat, a comb, a trial size bottle of lotion, and a hat. Happy, Happy Holidays my fortunate friends.

Coming Down to "Hard"war

Well, it had to happen....I had to extract myself from the cozy nest of the High Bank Peasant's Cottage. Leaving Rishikesh was not easy--there was an autorickshaw strike AND the last days there I fell into a rhythm....--There were daily meetings with Dr. Suchit Katiyar to discuss the basic philosophy, diagnostic methods, and applications of Ayurveda for the 3 doshas. We'd meet at the Niketan temple and I would follow him away from the medicine shop down to the river's edge where the background sounds of ringing bells, sweeping sweepers, and the occasional "seagull" mixed into my hand held audio recording of his lecture. Following the lecture, against his recommendation, I'd stop off for a dose of butter cookies baked in a tin fired stove atop a travel cart. Along the way, each day, others' routines would etch their karma along the river. Holy and unholy bathing, the scrubbing and drying of clothes, gurus and fake gurus meditating while seated on smooth grey stones, the intentional sadhu picking up trash, children and strolling young couples keeping him eternally employed by mindlessly tossing wrappers on the sand.
I'd stop off at bookstores, browse for long periods of time at titles like "The Secrets of Pulse Reading" or "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus" or "Tantra in 30 Seconds"... then I'd scurry across the bridge to make it to the 4:30 yoga class at the Sivananda Ashram. This was my favorite of my yoga poo-poo platter--a ladies only class led by a Japanese nun ("Gents" at 6am)----The nun and I realized our paths had crossed at the Sivananda Ashram in the Bahamas. (small world here in "Inja") Her classes overlooking the Ganges, were accompanied by chanting sounds and burning smells wafting from the river. Monkeys swinging on the window chains made headstands hard to hold. My routine would end with a quick chat with Diwari, telling me the news from his daily paper, and a spicy dinner of mixed curried vegetables and chapati in a garden under Japanese lanterns---as i said, it was difficult to leave. Now, I'm at the Sri Ram Orphanage-in Har"I"dwar (the city invoking the images of the name "hard" and "war")--After paying a kings ransom for a taxi (due to the rickshaw strike), I was greeted by a dying dog with his entire shin bone exposed, a group of suspicious and shy children, and Swapna, the absent-minded nurse who's maybe been here a little too long. Jury's out regarding how this will go--moving out of the head and hopefully, coming down further into the heart.

"Would you like a look-see, Madam?"

Holy men, Holy mountains. The adventure to the edge of the Himalaya was pure fantasy. Steep green steps of rice lining the curves of the Ganges, pommegranite sunsets, small villages dotting the hillsides- we drove 7 hours to the holy ground between India and Tibet, hearts opening and family forming on the way. Negiji, our slender, uniformed and focused driver, carefully tooting his horn as a warning to oncoming trucks and buses--Brig-mohan (our lead guide),India's version of Fred Flintstone, pointing out temples and wildlife, looking over his shoulder from the front seat, frequently asking, "Madam, would you like to stop and have a look-see?"--- Karan, the self-confident, young guide from Nepal, adopting me as his "di di" (sister), attempting to teach me hindi on the drive----And Pandi, our shy quiet cook, silently giggling in the back with the luggage. Unimagined sites along the way, both to, and from, the majestic views--drums keeping rhythm to mantras and chants at the Kalimaht temple, the hooves of brick-laden donkeys, clicking along the road, women swirled in color swinging machetes at branches for firewood, monkeys chatting from treetops, steam rising from early morning chai cups, temple bells ringing at 12,000 feet, hindi songs around the evening campfire, a roadside holy man touching my heart with his hand,the silence of Nanda Devi--the 7,830 meter peak blessing us under clear skies, and the somber gathering on the river bank as the pyre is lit and a village woman's body is separated from its soul by fire. To have lived this dream is another jewel.
Ram, Ram, Hare Om. We are blessed.

Diversion from original "Yoga Plan"

Taking a trip up the hills to catch a glimpse of the Himalayan Peaks, my dear Dutch friends, Olav and Paula, and I became intoxicated with the distant mts. Within an hour from returning from the temple visits and views, the 3 of us have planned a 5 day trek to get a little closer. This will be a civilized excursion--walking 6-7 hours a day after the 8 hour road trip from Rishikesh to "base camp". None of us had come to India intending to venture into the Himalaya, but the raw, vast power of the young mountain chain is seductive. So today, we run around town gathering chocolate, snacks, gloves, and extra layers to support us while exploring the lake and temple area on the edge of a glacier. We've been gifted a bottle of whiskey to help with the below freezing temperatures under the stars, and the cook has promised warm chai and coffee at sunrise. A different kind of sun salutation---the "ashram" yoga will have to wait. The photos here are just a few images captured around town between errands.
More soon