It's 4.35 in the morning. Not a time of day with which I am particularly well acquainted. Outside it's raining heavily. But I'm indoors, in a large, dimly lit hall with a low ceiling. My eyes are closed and my legs are crossed awkwardly underneath me, slotted in between cushions and blanket. Around me, arranged precisely in rows, 44 similarly positioned men, and beyond them 45 women. In the trees surrounding the hall, nestled in the foothills of the himalayas in northern India, the birds haven't started chirping yet. But the room is far from silent. Speakers project a deep groaning; recorded chanting by an elderly man in a language nobody understands.
The noise is irritatingly evocative of the early rounds of X-factor, perhaps a heavily intoxicated Elvis impersonator. And yet, like all of the young, mostly European audience, I fully intend to battle boredom, frustration, pain and embarrassing smells to remain statuesque for a further two hours, just as on each of the previous 9 mornings. For someone who counts sleeping, fidgeting and letting rip with impunity among his principal vices, this is surely evidence of the Indian spiritual brainwashing so many had warned me about. The cult that finally got me: Vipassana meditation.
And now for the defence (but am I speaking under duress?). 1. I was curious about meditation before coming to India. I had been to some classes in London as an antidote to hectic and stressful corporate rat-race I had entered one day whilst doing something called the 'milk round'. 2. Vipassana is not a (very) religious thing, it's a technique of meditation, open to all (granted, with a sprinkling of buddhist philosophy and even the ultimate target of Enlightenment, a life free of all negative emotions, for those so inclined).3. They don't ask for money.
I'd heard talk of people achieving a calmer mind, improved ability to enjoy the present rather than worrying about the future or past and greater concentration and awareness. Add to this rumours of exotic tingling sensations around the nipple area and I was sold. Why would I not enroll in the 10 day intensive course to master the basics?
Well, it turned out there are numerous reasons why not; let this be a warning to anyone considering following in my (now unhurried, deliberate) footsteps. The course requires 100% compliance with a draconian timetable of practice. You meditate from 4 in the morning until 9 at night (4 at night until 9 in the afternoon for those still on Goan hedonist time), with short breaks for toilet and meals. For 10 whole days (and 2 half days) all talking is forbidden, as is eye contact, writing, books, mobile phones, cameras, exercise, physical contact and 'sexual misconduct'. Boys are kept separate from girls except in the hall (where it's too dark to ascertain gender). If you have a serious issue you can speak to the instructor at set times, but otherwise it's just you, yourself, yours truly, your mind, the occasional gurgle from a withering Burmese bloke and some pre-recorded instructions.
Some advice for anyone sufficiently unhinged to consider giving it a go: (please note, sporadically attended monthly 45 minute classes at Brixton Lido are not sufficient preparation for the cerebral marathon that lies ahead)
4.00.- 4.30. Wake up call. vigorously suppress all questions to self about why you are doing this. If raining, do not hear rain.
4.30 - 6.30. Morning sitting. Place body in least comfortable position possible to avoid all dozing. If sleep hits, try not to snore. Make all efforts not to fantasize about porridge and weak tea.
6.30-8 Breakfast. Remain equanimous about the porridge and weak tea. After breakfast is a good time for pooing (except on day 3, strangely). Get 45 minutes shut eye (essential). Thumping the guy when he rings a bell in your ear at 7.50 will not help to balance your mind.
8-9 Sitting of strong determination. Eyes should be shut for the full hour and all movement is prohibited. Do not fixate on what position to sit in; you will be in agony by the end of the hour regardless.
9-11. Pre-lunch sitting. A good one to let thoughts wonder, but be careful, you'll pay for any cravings. 'Doing' all the cricket fielding positions clockwise is good brain food, and the Top Gun script is something of a gold mine. Resist temptation to assume more positions than Phil Neville in his England career. No, there is no way to get comfortable with one leg in front of you and one leg behind.
11-13. Lunch. Use first 5 minutes to bend body back to something resembling straight. Successful recovery of your status as a biped, where possible, makes it easier to get to the canteen. Food is described on the website as 'healthy and vegetarian'. This is like when your mate's girlfriend describes her cousin as 'great company and really pretty, you'll get on well'. Post-lunch on day 3 is a good time for pooing.
13. - 14.30 Post lunch sitting. More of you-know-what. The hardest stint due to full stomach.
13.30-15.30 Sitting of strong determination. Another one of the no-movers. Brace yourself, your knees won't thank you.
15.30 - 17.00. Early evening sitting. Try not to crave anything. Don't be despondent when this leads to craving everything.
17-18.00 Evening meal. Yeah right. 2 biscuits and weak tea. The caffeine is your friend though. 18-19.00 Sitting of strong determination. Walk away from this one and you're almost done for the day.
19.00 - 20.30 Discourse. The day's undoubted highlight. A video of some bloke's head explaining the technique - in the context a veritable audiovisual spectacular.
20.30 - 21.00. Final sitting. A nightcap to round of the day's binge.
21.00 21.30. Instructor questions. Sign up in advance, you'll get 2 minutes max. typical dialogue: "I'm frustrated, It's not working for me, and the chanting annoys me".Broad smile "don't be worrying. Keep up the trying. The chanting is there to make us feeling nice".Blank expression. Head wobble. "O.k. thanks"
Understandably, for the first few days I was plagued by confusion and regret at having inflicted this situation on myself. I'd come to India to escape the corporate grindstone and here I was doing an 80 hour week, sitting in the same place for hours on end with people telling me not only what to do but what to think, all for the promise of immeasurable rewards. It felt uncomfortably familiar.
2 days before I was on holiday, now I was torturing myself 17 hours a day, the only discernable rewards a squeaky dorm bed and cold chapatis. Yet I managed to convince myself that leaving would represent catastrophic failure. The course was reduced in my mind to a game of survival. I would not be like the fat bloke at the front who walked out cackling with demonic laughter, or the troubled looking pale guy who scarpered amid rumours of a row with the chef. I'd do whatever it took, whilst playing by the rules, to get to the end.
One of the hardest aspects was the simplicity of the technique, the scarcity of ideas or theory. The basic aim is to enhance your mind's sensitivity and strength of perception by first focusing on the breath (3 days) and then on innocuous sensations that you feel on all parts of the body (7 days). After some time, you can appreciate how certain thoughts lead to particular sensations, which in turn cause further thoughts. Repeatedly experiencing this cycle, thoughts - feelings - thoughts, at the initial stages eventually helps you work out how to stem the tide. By training the mind not to react to these feelings or sensations, the onset of strong emotional states can be prevented, resulting in a more balanced and content outlook.
Thus the intense exhilaration of reaching lunch on the first day was replaced by a stoic appreciation on day 7, while the deep sorrow felt at the passing of the tomato rice on day 2 turned into a dispassionate acceptance by day 8. Such adjustments made life increasingly bearable. And, we were told, with years of diligent practice we may eventually, like Buddha, reach full enlightenment; a state of constant deep uninterrupted happiness. Like a pig in an eternal cesspit.
A key weapon in training yourself not to react to sensations is the understanding of impermanence. The idea is constantly drummed home; nothing lasts, all things arise and pass. Successful inculcation of this message can certainly take the edge of some of life's darker moments, like the downer the day after the end of the football season or the day Helen Daniels left Neighbours. Your sore knees wont be sore for ever so why worry about them now.
There's nothing particularly revolutionary about these ideas - most people would accept them as largely rational. But understanding them is a far cry from controlling their effects. That's where 100 hours of meditation comes in - its only by investigating and experiencing the process that prevention becomes possible. So they said.
And low and behold, after a few days of intense concentration I started not only to understand but also to feel explanations for many of life's great mysteries. Like how a kettle can be prevented from boiling simply by continued observation. Or why it's harder to start a conversation with the hot barmaid in front than the fat bird eating pork scratchings to your right. Or why thinking of Anne Widdecome sucking lemons has only a patchy record when it comes to improving sexual performance.
The combination of strict rules and the relative paucity of external stimulus has the effect of sharpening the senses, with some pleasing consequences. Without such heightened visual awareness I would never have been party to a masterclass of primates mutual grooming, nor puzzled at the daily routine of ladybirds nor confirmed my long-held suspicions that moths are the animal kingdom's stupidest member. Similarly, with better hearing than Stevie Wonder I was able to follow conversations between finches about the weather, and even tell which member of my dormitory was urinating in the bathroom in the dead of night.
Unfortunately, nobody's hearing was good enough to hear the curly haired Indian from dorm C, locked in the shower room, patiently tapping at the door determined not to break the rules. We learned at the end that he'd emerged, perfectly calm, and bone dry, after an hour and a half meditating naked on the toilet, when the cleaner went in.
Many things got easier with time and force of habit, but after days going cold turkey on the wrong sort of thoughts, biology dictated that certain thoughts entered the consciousness with particular frequency. The two monkeys romping like John Holmes and Linda Lovelace on the roof of the toilet block on day 6 didn't help. Yet ultimately, with concerted effort (100% mental. Honest) I was able to resist even these most basal of urges.
By day 7 or so I'd learned largely to avoid thinking about stuff that would increase frustration, but, even so, it was hard by day 9 not to get a little excited about getting back to real life. I spent a whole afternoon session considering my first words, and debated whether I'd rather know the champions league scores from last Tuesday or the number of swine flu deaths in the south of England.
Yet, in the event, my ill-disciplined anticipation didn't come close to preparing me for the surge of emotion, sensations and thoughts that engulfed me when, after one final particularly focused hour sitting the silence came to an end on day 10. I expected sheer elation at having stuff to say and being able to say it, but what I felt was an intense but profound, controlled contentment, and a warm sense of achievement at having completed something that had been at times bloody hard.
Of course, the resumption of normal linguistic activity brought a few surprises. Sharing a confined space with 44 complete strangers is an oddly intimate experience, even without communication. So there was a little re-adjustment required in accepting that the tall muscular German personal trainer who slept opposite me was in fact a squeaky writer from California with a lisp. And the Israeli who had sat three feet ahead of me 10 hours a day for 10 days was in fact called Gary and was from Shrewsbury.
In the days since the course, brainwashed or not, I have perceived myself to be enjoying many of the reputed benefits. Whether I'll still require a little help from Anne Widdecombe at crucial moments in the future remains to be seen, but I can say for certain that I'm calmer in the face of Indian rickshaw drivers and less fearful of exotic-looking spiders. And I'm absolutely convinced that expending a little effort adjusting how we look at the world is more worthwhile than persisting with trying to mould it to our satisfaction (an impossible task?)
Buddha, or at least some chap writing down his ideas thousands of years later, used a little adage. Think of life as a walk down a long path, littered with thorns and pebbles. People spend the whole time attempting to dodge the thorns and avoid the pebbles. But why not just put some shoes on?
Now, fully Enlightened or not, I don't agree entirely with him on this. 80 years of walking down a path in comfortable shoes seems like quite a boring existence to me, and with shoes on you're less likely notice the fiver on the ground that the guy in front has dropped. But I'm slowly learning that a mix of external challenges and the occasional internal MOT may well be the best approach. So that, after a few miles of happily dodging thorns and pebbles, when a family of hedgehogs crosses the path (the oldest child juggling sea urchins and the grandma carrying an upturned plug socket on her back), you can take out some boots from your backpack, slip them on and carry on down the road.
I guess we're going down the path like it or not, so it makes sense to do it as comfortably as possible. And who knows, with the odd trip to India to observe the air going in and out of your nose, you may find it leads to your very own eternal cesspit.
Thursday, 18 June 2009
Wednesday, 17 June 2009
The Paranoia of Solo Travel
PREFACE:
I wrote this in 2009 as a 24 year old. It does not reflect my preconceptions or thoughts today. If there is a lesson that I wanted to convey with this story, it's that my immediate impressions of India in that tired state were completely incorrect. I hope that this conclusion comes across at the end of this article, and in the other posts in my India blog. That said, my initial preconceptions in that paranoid state in the middle of the night after just arriving in a faraway country were influenced by incorrect and unfair stereotypes. I would write the article in a much more respectful way today. Felix (Oct 2020)
I wrote this in 2009 as a 24 year old. It does not reflect my preconceptions or thoughts today. If there is a lesson that I wanted to convey with this story, it's that my immediate impressions of India in that tired state were completely incorrect. I hope that this conclusion comes across at the end of this article, and in the other posts in my India blog. That said, my initial preconceptions in that paranoid state in the middle of the night after just arriving in a faraway country were influenced by incorrect and unfair stereotypes. I would write the article in a much more respectful way today. Felix (Oct 2020)
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Two Tales from Kerala
BOATMEN OF THE BACKWATERS
The setting
The southern Indian state Kerala is named after the local (Malayalam) word for coconut. From the Western Ghats, the hills that dissect the southern tip of the subcontinent, to the Indian ocean in the west, the flat landscape is characterised by wet paddy fields, hot and bothered cows, persistent flies that like to annoy cows and endless coconut trees. The coconut is a valuable asset - almost all of the tree has some use, from wood to fuel to medicines to cookery to, most profitably, the oil. Keralan women are known for their long straight black hair, which they apparently oil meticulously every night before going to bed.
The state is one of the most progressive, and wealthiest, in India. A communist government has been elected many times since independence, and the literacy rate is almost twice as high (90%) as neighbouring Tamil Nadu. From the important trading ports of Trivandrum and Cochin the hammer and sickle is as prominent on election posters (of which there are a lot at the moment) as the Indian flag.
The commute
In the west of the state, mile after mile of inland waterways connect the towns, villages and hamlets. To get a taste of local village life I took the 7.30 commuter boat from Allepey, on the coast, to Kottayam, 30km directly inland.
The old wooden ferry was packed full, a hundred or so workers and schoolchildren squashed onto long benches. In the middle of the seating was an imposing black engine, and as I boarded the driver was making a few last-minute adjustments to the mechanics with a screwdriver. We set off, chugging along the wide canal that runs through the centre of the town.
Leaving the town, the ferry weaved up the waterway, crossing from one side to the other to pick up and drop off passengers as requested.In the small settlements that line the banks, rural life went on as per usual. Cows kneeled down in the shade under trees. Women washed their clothes or naked toddlers in the murky brown river water Women without clothes or children carried things on their heads. Men sat outside mud huts drinking chai or adjusting fishing nets. Girls helped their mums with washing or carried less heavy things on their heads. And boys finished off early morning games of cricket before dashing to school.
Inside the boat men read newspapers, women shuffled bags of things around and older schoolchildren sent text messages. Directly in front of me, a younger child was reading a comic. The story appeared to be about a footballer called 'David Beckam' - his name the only Roman characters in a sea of curly Malayalam squiggles.
Towards the front of the boat sat the driver who, I noticed, was sill preoccupied with the engine. Next to him was the engine, which, I noticed, was giving off a lot of dark smoke. To the side of the boat was a rope man, responsible for tying up the boat and helping people off as quickly as possible when it stopped at a jetty. He wore a uniform of smart dark trousers and light a blue shirt. I guessed he was in his early twenties, far younger than the driver. Using the polished cylinder of the engine as a mirror, he began carefully combing his hair - three brushes of the top for every one of the moustache.The woman to my right had long straight black hair. As we passed a picturesque fishing net on her side I reached around behind her with my camera. There was a strong whiff of coconuts.
The problem
The boat had set off late. Something to do with the motor, the man behind explained in broken English. Then, an hour into the 90 minute journey, we ground to a halt.Some passengers sighed. The driver looked forlornly at the motor. The child in front of me did not react - he had given up on Beckam and fallen asleep. One of the more academic looking schoolchildren mentioned something to the driver and pointed to his watch. The older schoolchildren were now listening to music on their mobiles. The rope man put his comb down.
The solution
The driver called to the rope-man, who replied and then walked over looking quite sheepish.There was a shortish discussion between the two ferry staff. The driver was gesticulating, pointing at his watch and simulating the motion of the engine with his arms. Then he produced a small sickle from under his seat and handed it the rope man who took it and walked past me to the back of the boat, into the toilet that was actually not really a toilet but a door to the deck outside beyond the roof.
The child in front had now woken and was speaking to his mother. Nobody apart from me seemed to be paying any attention to the driver or the rope man. The comic book was now open on the child's lap; Beckam had scored a free kick and was being mobbed by adoring fans.
There was a large splash to my left - it was clear something had just fallen into the water. Up bobbed a man wearing nothing but a loincloth and holding a small sickle. The driver approached and started pointing and calling to the man in the water, who took a deep breath and disappeared. Some of the passengers looked over, others continued reading their newspapers. The man re-appeared holding the small sickle in one hand and a clump of weeds in the other. He disappeared similarly and re-appeared, before repeating this five or six times. The water was a deep brown colour.
The rope man clambered back onto the boat, his red bloodshot eyes stared nervously at the driver. He was dripping brown water on my sarong and had algae all over his shoulders. The driver turned the engine over. It rumbled, spluttered and eventually shuddered to life. The man looked relieved and scrambled up onto the roof of the boat.
We chugged along down the narrowing river towards our destination, now over an hour late. The people boarding the boat looked exasperated. The driver was still paying as much attention to the engine as the river ahead. David Beckam was beginning a long monologue in Malayalam with a full trophy cabinet behind him.
The unsung heroThere was a clunk and the door to the toilet behind me swung open. Out walked the rope-man, strolling non-chalently down to his original seat, adjusting the collar of his immaculately clean shirt. Nobody reacted. The driver barely seemed to notice. The rope-man-freediver-mechanic sat down, produced his comb and set his completely dry jet black hair before sprucing his moustache.
The sun was now high in the sky. At what was clearly a school the schoolchildren hurried off, ushered by the rope-man. When an old woman stumbled, he helped her up.
What a man, I thought. If there was any justice this guy would be in the local comics. I mean, what has David Beckam, or David Beckham for that matter, ever done for the people of Kerala?
THE BEACH
The coconut trees and paddy fields stop further from the sea at Varkala, held back by towering red cliffs. Here a long sandy beach stretches the length of the town. Locals terd to bathe towards the south, where religious ceremonies often spill out of the temple on to the beach. Because these ceremonies usually involve men with long grey beards and spices with unusual smells, the Westerners stick to the other end, along with the cricket-playing locals.
In the morning I got up around 6 and clambered down the steep steps of the cliff onto the sands below. Here I ran barefoot along the shore, back and forth following the shimmering line where the wet sand becomes dry. Sometimes I would stray too far from the sea where it was hard to keep going. Other times the water would catch me out and I would splash around until the wave retreated to reveal an unblemished stretch ahead. Crabs scuttled into their holes, sensing the vibrations from my approaching footsteps.By this time there were usually several games of cricket in full swing. The locals play before going to work in the restaurants and hotels on the clifftop. There were also other runners, although it clearly didn't rival cricket in the popularity stakes. Indians seem to prefer a sort of energetic walking. I sensed a reluctance to do anything that couldn't be done in trousers and shirt.
On my final morning in Varkala I noticed when descending to the beach that one game of cricket was attracting more interest than usual. There were umpires and several people sat on a log watching the action. I guessed it was a cup final of some sort. The man fielding at point was right in my path as I set off, but each time I passed I was careful to run behind him, respecting his line of sight.Coming to the end of my run I increased the pace, wanting to break my record for 12 beach-lengths. The serious game of cricket was at the far end of the beach and I was able to follow the play while running towards it. A skinny batsman was facing a fat bowler and played and missed twice. The number of spectators on the log had increased noticeably since I started running. My stopwatch said 54.21 - comfortably inside PB pace.
As I came to what was roughly the boundary, the fat man trotted in and bowled a full toss. The batsman stepped forward and whacked it into the air over the fielder at point. It sailed towards the sea shore, metres ahead of me.I had often thought about asking to participate in some beach cricket, but didn't have the nerve to ask; now I sensed my chance for glory. By speeding up to a sprint I was in with a chance of catching the ball without breaking my stride.
What flair - running 12 lengths of Varkala beach -possibly further than any Indian has run in history - and then topping it off with a glorious cameo in the year's most important match.
As the ball flew through the sky I diverted my path slightly, heading further in to the water. I knew I could dive and land reasonable comfortably in the shallow swell. 'Focus on the ball' I thought, raising my knees as the water deepened, recalling what the guy at the yoga class had told me about concentration.As I took off, heart racing, body covered in sweat, I sensed the surprise from the fielders to my right. 'Watch me go, watch and learn' I thought. When I next get to my feet, I'll be a hero - at worst mobbed by both sides and invited into bat, at best offered free hospitality at the five-star hotel where the wicketkeeper works.
I don't know where the ball went, but I do remember feeling a crunch in my neck as I collided with him, then untangling myself from him and staggering up. Behind me the ball was bobbing up and down in the surf. My relief at being able to move my neck quickly turned to irritation. Where did he come from, I thought? He must have been fielding behind the batsman. What was he playing at, coming from there, ruining my moment, stealing my catch? Yes, you, fatso - i didn't see you doing 12 beach-lengths. Just because you're actually playing in the match, doesn't mean you've got a right to that, I smouldered, before muttering an embarrassed 'you ok?
'Sorry, so sorry. Im terribly sorry, sir' he stuttered as he wobbled to his feet, but I could barely hear him because the crowd, and most of the players, were bellowing with laughter, falling about. A few came over to re-enact the collision. Nobody seemed at all interested in me.I jogged on, slowly, my neck clicking as I ran, imagining the pool at the wicketkeeper’s hotel. The game restarted behind me. Perhaps I should have just asked to join in, I thought.
Just then, a man in a sweaty shirt and trousers overtook me.
The setting
The southern Indian state Kerala is named after the local (Malayalam) word for coconut. From the Western Ghats, the hills that dissect the southern tip of the subcontinent, to the Indian ocean in the west, the flat landscape is characterised by wet paddy fields, hot and bothered cows, persistent flies that like to annoy cows and endless coconut trees. The coconut is a valuable asset - almost all of the tree has some use, from wood to fuel to medicines to cookery to, most profitably, the oil. Keralan women are known for their long straight black hair, which they apparently oil meticulously every night before going to bed.
The state is one of the most progressive, and wealthiest, in India. A communist government has been elected many times since independence, and the literacy rate is almost twice as high (90%) as neighbouring Tamil Nadu. From the important trading ports of Trivandrum and Cochin the hammer and sickle is as prominent on election posters (of which there are a lot at the moment) as the Indian flag.
The commute
In the west of the state, mile after mile of inland waterways connect the towns, villages and hamlets. To get a taste of local village life I took the 7.30 commuter boat from Allepey, on the coast, to Kottayam, 30km directly inland.
The old wooden ferry was packed full, a hundred or so workers and schoolchildren squashed onto long benches. In the middle of the seating was an imposing black engine, and as I boarded the driver was making a few last-minute adjustments to the mechanics with a screwdriver. We set off, chugging along the wide canal that runs through the centre of the town.
Leaving the town, the ferry weaved up the waterway, crossing from one side to the other to pick up and drop off passengers as requested.In the small settlements that line the banks, rural life went on as per usual. Cows kneeled down in the shade under trees. Women washed their clothes or naked toddlers in the murky brown river water Women without clothes or children carried things on their heads. Men sat outside mud huts drinking chai or adjusting fishing nets. Girls helped their mums with washing or carried less heavy things on their heads. And boys finished off early morning games of cricket before dashing to school.
Inside the boat men read newspapers, women shuffled bags of things around and older schoolchildren sent text messages. Directly in front of me, a younger child was reading a comic. The story appeared to be about a footballer called 'David Beckam' - his name the only Roman characters in a sea of curly Malayalam squiggles.
Towards the front of the boat sat the driver who, I noticed, was sill preoccupied with the engine. Next to him was the engine, which, I noticed, was giving off a lot of dark smoke. To the side of the boat was a rope man, responsible for tying up the boat and helping people off as quickly as possible when it stopped at a jetty. He wore a uniform of smart dark trousers and light a blue shirt. I guessed he was in his early twenties, far younger than the driver. Using the polished cylinder of the engine as a mirror, he began carefully combing his hair - three brushes of the top for every one of the moustache.The woman to my right had long straight black hair. As we passed a picturesque fishing net on her side I reached around behind her with my camera. There was a strong whiff of coconuts.
The problem
The boat had set off late. Something to do with the motor, the man behind explained in broken English. Then, an hour into the 90 minute journey, we ground to a halt.Some passengers sighed. The driver looked forlornly at the motor. The child in front of me did not react - he had given up on Beckam and fallen asleep. One of the more academic looking schoolchildren mentioned something to the driver and pointed to his watch. The older schoolchildren were now listening to music on their mobiles. The rope man put his comb down.
The solution
The driver called to the rope-man, who replied and then walked over looking quite sheepish.There was a shortish discussion between the two ferry staff. The driver was gesticulating, pointing at his watch and simulating the motion of the engine with his arms. Then he produced a small sickle from under his seat and handed it the rope man who took it and walked past me to the back of the boat, into the toilet that was actually not really a toilet but a door to the deck outside beyond the roof.
The child in front had now woken and was speaking to his mother. Nobody apart from me seemed to be paying any attention to the driver or the rope man. The comic book was now open on the child's lap; Beckam had scored a free kick and was being mobbed by adoring fans.
There was a large splash to my left - it was clear something had just fallen into the water. Up bobbed a man wearing nothing but a loincloth and holding a small sickle. The driver approached and started pointing and calling to the man in the water, who took a deep breath and disappeared. Some of the passengers looked over, others continued reading their newspapers. The man re-appeared holding the small sickle in one hand and a clump of weeds in the other. He disappeared similarly and re-appeared, before repeating this five or six times. The water was a deep brown colour.
The rope man clambered back onto the boat, his red bloodshot eyes stared nervously at the driver. He was dripping brown water on my sarong and had algae all over his shoulders. The driver turned the engine over. It rumbled, spluttered and eventually shuddered to life. The man looked relieved and scrambled up onto the roof of the boat.
We chugged along down the narrowing river towards our destination, now over an hour late. The people boarding the boat looked exasperated. The driver was still paying as much attention to the engine as the river ahead. David Beckam was beginning a long monologue in Malayalam with a full trophy cabinet behind him.
The unsung heroThere was a clunk and the door to the toilet behind me swung open. Out walked the rope-man, strolling non-chalently down to his original seat, adjusting the collar of his immaculately clean shirt. Nobody reacted. The driver barely seemed to notice. The rope-man-freediver-mechanic sat down, produced his comb and set his completely dry jet black hair before sprucing his moustache.
The sun was now high in the sky. At what was clearly a school the schoolchildren hurried off, ushered by the rope-man. When an old woman stumbled, he helped her up.
What a man, I thought. If there was any justice this guy would be in the local comics. I mean, what has David Beckam, or David Beckham for that matter, ever done for the people of Kerala?
THE BEACH
The coconut trees and paddy fields stop further from the sea at Varkala, held back by towering red cliffs. Here a long sandy beach stretches the length of the town. Locals terd to bathe towards the south, where religious ceremonies often spill out of the temple on to the beach. Because these ceremonies usually involve men with long grey beards and spices with unusual smells, the Westerners stick to the other end, along with the cricket-playing locals.
In the morning I got up around 6 and clambered down the steep steps of the cliff onto the sands below. Here I ran barefoot along the shore, back and forth following the shimmering line where the wet sand becomes dry. Sometimes I would stray too far from the sea where it was hard to keep going. Other times the water would catch me out and I would splash around until the wave retreated to reveal an unblemished stretch ahead. Crabs scuttled into their holes, sensing the vibrations from my approaching footsteps.By this time there were usually several games of cricket in full swing. The locals play before going to work in the restaurants and hotels on the clifftop. There were also other runners, although it clearly didn't rival cricket in the popularity stakes. Indians seem to prefer a sort of energetic walking. I sensed a reluctance to do anything that couldn't be done in trousers and shirt.
On my final morning in Varkala I noticed when descending to the beach that one game of cricket was attracting more interest than usual. There were umpires and several people sat on a log watching the action. I guessed it was a cup final of some sort. The man fielding at point was right in my path as I set off, but each time I passed I was careful to run behind him, respecting his line of sight.Coming to the end of my run I increased the pace, wanting to break my record for 12 beach-lengths. The serious game of cricket was at the far end of the beach and I was able to follow the play while running towards it. A skinny batsman was facing a fat bowler and played and missed twice. The number of spectators on the log had increased noticeably since I started running. My stopwatch said 54.21 - comfortably inside PB pace.
As I came to what was roughly the boundary, the fat man trotted in and bowled a full toss. The batsman stepped forward and whacked it into the air over the fielder at point. It sailed towards the sea shore, metres ahead of me.I had often thought about asking to participate in some beach cricket, but didn't have the nerve to ask; now I sensed my chance for glory. By speeding up to a sprint I was in with a chance of catching the ball without breaking my stride.
What flair - running 12 lengths of Varkala beach -possibly further than any Indian has run in history - and then topping it off with a glorious cameo in the year's most important match.
As the ball flew through the sky I diverted my path slightly, heading further in to the water. I knew I could dive and land reasonable comfortably in the shallow swell. 'Focus on the ball' I thought, raising my knees as the water deepened, recalling what the guy at the yoga class had told me about concentration.As I took off, heart racing, body covered in sweat, I sensed the surprise from the fielders to my right. 'Watch me go, watch and learn' I thought. When I next get to my feet, I'll be a hero - at worst mobbed by both sides and invited into bat, at best offered free hospitality at the five-star hotel where the wicketkeeper works.
I don't know where the ball went, but I do remember feeling a crunch in my neck as I collided with him, then untangling myself from him and staggering up. Behind me the ball was bobbing up and down in the surf. My relief at being able to move my neck quickly turned to irritation. Where did he come from, I thought? He must have been fielding behind the batsman. What was he playing at, coming from there, ruining my moment, stealing my catch? Yes, you, fatso - i didn't see you doing 12 beach-lengths. Just because you're actually playing in the match, doesn't mean you've got a right to that, I smouldered, before muttering an embarrassed 'you ok?
'Sorry, so sorry. Im terribly sorry, sir' he stuttered as he wobbled to his feet, but I could barely hear him because the crowd, and most of the players, were bellowing with laughter, falling about. A few came over to re-enact the collision. Nobody seemed at all interested in me.I jogged on, slowly, my neck clicking as I ran, imagining the pool at the wicketkeeper’s hotel. The game restarted behind me. Perhaps I should have just asked to join in, I thought.
Just then, a man in a sweaty shirt and trousers overtook me.
Indian Friends
In India it's easy, sometimes too easy, to meet new people. After a few month's on the road, my Indian mobile address book looks like this:
Anil
I met Anil on the train to Goa. I wouldn't say we're friends exactly - I am his 'good sir'. Anil is a doctor from Mumbai, but was going to an interview for a management position in a Goa hospital. He was interested in me because I was reading 'midnight's children' by Salman Rushdie - Anil's sister had just been sacked from her job as a journalist for writing an article in support of the Satanic Verses and author's right to free speech. The newspaper was worried about compromising its multi-ethnic readership.
Gendun
Gendun is a Tibetan monk who lives in a monastery close to the permanent residency of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government-in-exile in Dharamsala. He's spent over 10 years in monasteries in New York and Colorado, speaks fluent English and is trying to quit smoking because 'it's not strictly allowed'. Tobacco-based indiscretions apart, Gendun is a proud monk and has the job of chant master. When monks chant buddhist verses, one monk has the role of leading the chanting - Gendun's deep gutteral drone is apparently the most refined in the region. Calling upon a mastery of circular breathing and skillful contortion of the throat muscles he once held a note for 24 hours. He gave a demonstration in the tea shop where me met, but only quietly because apparently it can cause the unprepared to choke on their chai.
Gendun was at the Grammy awards in 2004 to pick up a gong for a CD of sacred chants he recorded with other monks from his monastery. They were put up in a plush hotel and couldn't resist de-robing for a dip in the pool, where a woman was doing lengths. When the monks got a bit boisterous, splashing water at each other, the woman got out and called a stocky looking man who came and asked them to leave. They found out later the woman was Julia Roberts.
At the ceremony, Gendum was personally invited by Ricky Martin to give a teaching at his home. Gendun agreed, happy to help (Buddhists believe that all sentient beings, regardless of previous actions or behaviour, have the right to be happy). The house was apparently very big. Ricky was delighted with his quick dose of eastern philosophy and they are still in touch. A Buddhist monk advisor is evidently the latest must-have accessory amongst the Miami gliterati.
Jago
Jago is a Tibetan who I met near Dharamsala, but that's where the similarities with Gendun end. She was born 41 years ago into a farming family in rural southern Tibet. Second child in a family of four, she and her older sister took on responsibility for bringing up her younger brothers after her mother died when she was 6. At 17 she was involved in a religious ceremony in her village that was interrupted by the Chinese police. Some of her friends were arrested. Months later she heard that her name was on a list of dissidents held by the authorities and knew she had to leave.
With a small group from her village she walked for 14 days at high altitude carrying a sack of tsampa, Tibetan barley porridge. They hid near the Nepali border and crossed at night, close to where western mountaineers filmed Chinese soldiers shooting and killing escaping Tibetan civilians in a well publicised incident several years ago. From Nepal they continued to India, where a monastery in Delhi gave them food and money for a bus to Dharamsala. With no funds and no knowledge of English or Hindi, Jago presumably had little choice but to shave her head and join the nunnery, where she has lived ever since. She often thinks about her elderly father, but can't contact him because she fears he would be punished. Of her family, she only hears from her brother, who fled later to South India.
Like many nuns in Dharamsala, she's more than curious about the west. She's learning English and regularly attends the conversation classes where we met. With little hope of seeing her father again, her dream is to strike lucky in an annual ballot where nuns are sent to monasteries in the English speaking world. Her number hasn't come up in 11 attempts, but she remains hopeful.Jago had a Blackberry. I wondered if the monastery got them on a corporate rate.
Krishna
Although he's from Darjeeling and of Nepali origin, Krishna works as a waiter at the sea view cafe, Anjuna, Goa. Krishna likes to sing, in Nepali, Bengali, Hindi or English, and last year auditioned for Indian idol. This year, he'll be better prepared; his train ticket to Mumbai is already booked. He serenades me with a different song each time I sit down; on my first visit treated me to the whole soundtrack of Slumdog Millionaire. Without meaning to sound ungrateful, I don't think Krishna's time at the Sea View will be coming to an end anytime soon.
Prabhjot
Prabhjot is a pharmacy student from Amritsar who studies in Bangalore. Like many young middle class Indians, Prabhjot likes anything western. And like most Indians, Prabhjot is embarassingly generous.
I met Prabhjot and his uni mates at Varkala in Kerala - they were on a 4 day holiday. Then, since I had 10 hours to kill in Bangalore between trains, Prabhjot met me outside the station on his bike, and we spent the day driving around the modern metropolis, down 8-lane highways, weaving in and out of rickshaws, lorries and the like, going from shopping mall to bar to cinema to pool hall.
Helmets are compulsory, but only for the driver, and not for Sikhs, so none on our bike; the brown man in a turban, the very dusty white man, 40 degree heat and a lot of fast food. I couldn't meet his two mates who work for Deutsche Bank because they were asleep - like a lot of Bangalore's single yuppies they work the better-paying night shift. As London's bankers finish for the day, India's finest young minds are just starting work, debugging systems and re-crunching spreadsheets to have things ready for the morning in the square mile.
Sanjay
It's impossible not to make friends on Indian trains. Sanjay simply couldn't fathom why I was in second class - 'but you are having loads of money in inglish no sir?'. He lives in Chennai but commutes weekly to his job in Trivandrum. For those with no idea about Indian geography, Trivandrum is bloody miles (16 hours) from Chennai. And for those with no idea about Indian trains, two out of seven nights a week in sleeper class is quite an effort.
Shiva
I met Shiva when I had just arrived in Goa. Shiva had a nice smile, a fast scooter and knew the only bar in town where I could watch the champions league. Shiva is a jewellery designer from Mumbai, was in Goa on holiday, and told me all the best places to go in Mumbai. Shiva was very proud of India. He pointed out how nice Indian people were, and how westerners love to meet and spend time with Indians when they travel.
Shiva was always hanging around one particular restaurant. I thought this was a funny way to spend your holiday, but he had a regular group of friends so I assumed it was an Indian thing.One day I had nothing much to do so sat down with Shiva for a chai. Shiva, it turns out, was very interested in my trip to India. 'no real fixed plans and multiple entry 6 months visa - that's great, you can go wherever you like'
Amongst his many generous tips for the remainder of my travel, Shiva was keen to highlight that tourists can in fact work in India, and what's more they can work for his Jewelery company.
That sounded like an interesting experience, learn about India etc but much more, yes, apparently I could earn myself $8-10,000. Wow, amazing, just for having a tourist visa, all I have to do is work as a 'courier' for a few days (sounded easy enough) taking jewels for my personal consumption back to the UK, where I then have to sell them to a guy who will meet me at the airport.
The real shame, I thought, was that I wasn't going home anytime soon. But no, Shiva had already thought of that: provided I went to meet the necessary people to explain the process, they would pay for my hotel costs, taxis and return flight back to India.
Shiva clearly a hugely talented guy - he had a way of resolving any difficulty I pointed out with the scheme. But despite this I decided to leave and not speak to him again.
yGary
Gary's at the end because after using my rucksack as a pillow my mobile has a cracked screen and I typed his name wrong.
On Monday morning, Gary, as with every Monday for the last 7 years, phoned his boss to tell him he was staying in India and sowouldn't be coming to work (not that this was really India). "I did go back once, for my son's wedding, but kept it quiet, didn't want to piss him off"
Gary's birmingham accent doesn't stand out at all amongst the sun-burned beer bellies and bolton wanderers shirts, hot, bothered and bad at bargaining, when on Wednesdays he mans his massage oil display between Frank's Leather and Fur-coat Emporium (not for here, for taking home, you wally) and Parvati's Indian Crafts and Clothing stool, in Anjuna market. Parvati likes Gary too, since they both get there early, Gary to avoid the scorching heat and Parvati to unpack her trinkets and tie-dye sarongs, shipped monthly from the Phillipines, from their cellophane wrappers.
I ran past Gary's massage centre- 'Yoga for lazy people - all the stretching, no effort' -, just beyond the Pink Floyd Cafe and before Andy's Tattoo Studio, on my way to dodge the angry expat dogs by the waterfront each morning.Gary's Massage flyer is sellotaped to every tree in Arambol (no tree is naked in Arambol below 6 foot), often below Hula-Hoop Healing (experience the spiritual empowerment that comes uniquely from practicing guided relaxation and prayer from the sacred space within the spinning hoop. Equipment provided. No children) and Walking On Hot Coals For Beginners. I was gutted to learn that hot coals was canceled for 2 weeks because the teacher, Jill, was in Sri Lanka renewing her visa.
I first met Gary down the front of a packed gig (30ish people, most elligible for concessionary travel and guaranteed bottom bunks on Indian railways, I guessed) by a band called Death's Melody. He was a bastion of relative coherence in a sea of swaying zombies, next to the guy who looked like Ian McKellen dipped in Ronseal and his mate, probably in his 30s, 40s, 50s, 60s or 70s who wore a fez and had legs like twiglets that couldn't always sustain his chaotic writhing. Death's Melody, from the singer's knee length grey hair to the tag team drumming partnership - neither of which spontaneously combusted - dutifully complied with all necessary stereotypes
I didn't speak to Gary's girlfriend (Goldie Hawn with the collagen removed) because she was busy sharing a strange wooden pipe with the golfer Craig Stadler and his wife, Mick Jagger's sister.
Overlooking my board-shorts, T-shirt and flip flops, my cropped hair, the lingering scent of management consultant and the taste of saliva on the soggy end of an incorrectly smoked joint, Gary, like so many people in India, accepted me uncoditionally, allowing me a brief but enlightening glimpse of his world.
Anil
I met Anil on the train to Goa. I wouldn't say we're friends exactly - I am his 'good sir'. Anil is a doctor from Mumbai, but was going to an interview for a management position in a Goa hospital. He was interested in me because I was reading 'midnight's children' by Salman Rushdie - Anil's sister had just been sacked from her job as a journalist for writing an article in support of the Satanic Verses and author's right to free speech. The newspaper was worried about compromising its multi-ethnic readership.
Gendun
Gendun is a Tibetan monk who lives in a monastery close to the permanent residency of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government-in-exile in Dharamsala. He's spent over 10 years in monasteries in New York and Colorado, speaks fluent English and is trying to quit smoking because 'it's not strictly allowed'. Tobacco-based indiscretions apart, Gendun is a proud monk and has the job of chant master. When monks chant buddhist verses, one monk has the role of leading the chanting - Gendun's deep gutteral drone is apparently the most refined in the region. Calling upon a mastery of circular breathing and skillful contortion of the throat muscles he once held a note for 24 hours. He gave a demonstration in the tea shop where me met, but only quietly because apparently it can cause the unprepared to choke on their chai.
Gendun was at the Grammy awards in 2004 to pick up a gong for a CD of sacred chants he recorded with other monks from his monastery. They were put up in a plush hotel and couldn't resist de-robing for a dip in the pool, where a woman was doing lengths. When the monks got a bit boisterous, splashing water at each other, the woman got out and called a stocky looking man who came and asked them to leave. They found out later the woman was Julia Roberts.
At the ceremony, Gendum was personally invited by Ricky Martin to give a teaching at his home. Gendun agreed, happy to help (Buddhists believe that all sentient beings, regardless of previous actions or behaviour, have the right to be happy). The house was apparently very big. Ricky was delighted with his quick dose of eastern philosophy and they are still in touch. A Buddhist monk advisor is evidently the latest must-have accessory amongst the Miami gliterati.
Jago
Jago is a Tibetan who I met near Dharamsala, but that's where the similarities with Gendun end. She was born 41 years ago into a farming family in rural southern Tibet. Second child in a family of four, she and her older sister took on responsibility for bringing up her younger brothers after her mother died when she was 6. At 17 she was involved in a religious ceremony in her village that was interrupted by the Chinese police. Some of her friends were arrested. Months later she heard that her name was on a list of dissidents held by the authorities and knew she had to leave.
With a small group from her village she walked for 14 days at high altitude carrying a sack of tsampa, Tibetan barley porridge. They hid near the Nepali border and crossed at night, close to where western mountaineers filmed Chinese soldiers shooting and killing escaping Tibetan civilians in a well publicised incident several years ago. From Nepal they continued to India, where a monastery in Delhi gave them food and money for a bus to Dharamsala. With no funds and no knowledge of English or Hindi, Jago presumably had little choice but to shave her head and join the nunnery, where she has lived ever since. She often thinks about her elderly father, but can't contact him because she fears he would be punished. Of her family, she only hears from her brother, who fled later to South India.
Like many nuns in Dharamsala, she's more than curious about the west. She's learning English and regularly attends the conversation classes where we met. With little hope of seeing her father again, her dream is to strike lucky in an annual ballot where nuns are sent to monasteries in the English speaking world. Her number hasn't come up in 11 attempts, but she remains hopeful.Jago had a Blackberry. I wondered if the monastery got them on a corporate rate.
Krishna
Although he's from Darjeeling and of Nepali origin, Krishna works as a waiter at the sea view cafe, Anjuna, Goa. Krishna likes to sing, in Nepali, Bengali, Hindi or English, and last year auditioned for Indian idol. This year, he'll be better prepared; his train ticket to Mumbai is already booked. He serenades me with a different song each time I sit down; on my first visit treated me to the whole soundtrack of Slumdog Millionaire. Without meaning to sound ungrateful, I don't think Krishna's time at the Sea View will be coming to an end anytime soon.
Prabhjot
Prabhjot is a pharmacy student from Amritsar who studies in Bangalore. Like many young middle class Indians, Prabhjot likes anything western. And like most Indians, Prabhjot is embarassingly generous.
I met Prabhjot and his uni mates at Varkala in Kerala - they were on a 4 day holiday. Then, since I had 10 hours to kill in Bangalore between trains, Prabhjot met me outside the station on his bike, and we spent the day driving around the modern metropolis, down 8-lane highways, weaving in and out of rickshaws, lorries and the like, going from shopping mall to bar to cinema to pool hall.
Helmets are compulsory, but only for the driver, and not for Sikhs, so none on our bike; the brown man in a turban, the very dusty white man, 40 degree heat and a lot of fast food. I couldn't meet his two mates who work for Deutsche Bank because they were asleep - like a lot of Bangalore's single yuppies they work the better-paying night shift. As London's bankers finish for the day, India's finest young minds are just starting work, debugging systems and re-crunching spreadsheets to have things ready for the morning in the square mile.
Sanjay
It's impossible not to make friends on Indian trains. Sanjay simply couldn't fathom why I was in second class - 'but you are having loads of money in inglish no sir?'. He lives in Chennai but commutes weekly to his job in Trivandrum. For those with no idea about Indian geography, Trivandrum is bloody miles (16 hours) from Chennai. And for those with no idea about Indian trains, two out of seven nights a week in sleeper class is quite an effort.
Shiva
I met Shiva when I had just arrived in Goa. Shiva had a nice smile, a fast scooter and knew the only bar in town where I could watch the champions league. Shiva is a jewellery designer from Mumbai, was in Goa on holiday, and told me all the best places to go in Mumbai. Shiva was very proud of India. He pointed out how nice Indian people were, and how westerners love to meet and spend time with Indians when they travel.
Shiva was always hanging around one particular restaurant. I thought this was a funny way to spend your holiday, but he had a regular group of friends so I assumed it was an Indian thing.One day I had nothing much to do so sat down with Shiva for a chai. Shiva, it turns out, was very interested in my trip to India. 'no real fixed plans and multiple entry 6 months visa - that's great, you can go wherever you like'
Amongst his many generous tips for the remainder of my travel, Shiva was keen to highlight that tourists can in fact work in India, and what's more they can work for his Jewelery company.
That sounded like an interesting experience, learn about India etc but much more, yes, apparently I could earn myself $8-10,000. Wow, amazing, just for having a tourist visa, all I have to do is work as a 'courier' for a few days (sounded easy enough) taking jewels for my personal consumption back to the UK, where I then have to sell them to a guy who will meet me at the airport.
The real shame, I thought, was that I wasn't going home anytime soon. But no, Shiva had already thought of that: provided I went to meet the necessary people to explain the process, they would pay for my hotel costs, taxis and return flight back to India.
Shiva clearly a hugely talented guy - he had a way of resolving any difficulty I pointed out with the scheme. But despite this I decided to leave and not speak to him again.
yGary
Gary's at the end because after using my rucksack as a pillow my mobile has a cracked screen and I typed his name wrong.
On Monday morning, Gary, as with every Monday for the last 7 years, phoned his boss to tell him he was staying in India and sowouldn't be coming to work (not that this was really India). "I did go back once, for my son's wedding, but kept it quiet, didn't want to piss him off"
Gary's birmingham accent doesn't stand out at all amongst the sun-burned beer bellies and bolton wanderers shirts, hot, bothered and bad at bargaining, when on Wednesdays he mans his massage oil display between Frank's Leather and Fur-coat Emporium (not for here, for taking home, you wally) and Parvati's Indian Crafts and Clothing stool, in Anjuna market. Parvati likes Gary too, since they both get there early, Gary to avoid the scorching heat and Parvati to unpack her trinkets and tie-dye sarongs, shipped monthly from the Phillipines, from their cellophane wrappers.
I ran past Gary's massage centre- 'Yoga for lazy people - all the stretching, no effort' -, just beyond the Pink Floyd Cafe and before Andy's Tattoo Studio, on my way to dodge the angry expat dogs by the waterfront each morning.Gary's Massage flyer is sellotaped to every tree in Arambol (no tree is naked in Arambol below 6 foot), often below Hula-Hoop Healing (experience the spiritual empowerment that comes uniquely from practicing guided relaxation and prayer from the sacred space within the spinning hoop. Equipment provided. No children) and Walking On Hot Coals For Beginners. I was gutted to learn that hot coals was canceled for 2 weeks because the teacher, Jill, was in Sri Lanka renewing her visa.
I first met Gary down the front of a packed gig (30ish people, most elligible for concessionary travel and guaranteed bottom bunks on Indian railways, I guessed) by a band called Death's Melody. He was a bastion of relative coherence in a sea of swaying zombies, next to the guy who looked like Ian McKellen dipped in Ronseal and his mate, probably in his 30s, 40s, 50s, 60s or 70s who wore a fez and had legs like twiglets that couldn't always sustain his chaotic writhing. Death's Melody, from the singer's knee length grey hair to the tag team drumming partnership - neither of which spontaneously combusted - dutifully complied with all necessary stereotypes
I didn't speak to Gary's girlfriend (Goldie Hawn with the collagen removed) because she was busy sharing a strange wooden pipe with the golfer Craig Stadler and his wife, Mick Jagger's sister.
Overlooking my board-shorts, T-shirt and flip flops, my cropped hair, the lingering scent of management consultant and the taste of saliva on the soggy end of an incorrectly smoked joint, Gary, like so many people in India, accepted me uncoditionally, allowing me a brief but enlightening glimpse of his world.
Amma's Ashram
Our faces were similar - they were American, I guessed, and probably about my age - but our attire was a conspicuous reminder that we were here for very different reasons. Most other 'locals' had completely blanked me up to that point. But now, squashed together in a tiny lift, conversation was unavoidable.
'Did you just arrive' one asked me.
'yup, earlier today'. I responded, 'what about you guys?' I added, attempting a sort of disarming naivety
'i think it was about six months ago...'
Then, after I mentioned my vague travel plans one confessed, quietly..'you know, I'd really like to leave...to see some of India. But I just can't. I tried once but couldn't'.
'but you can leave, can't you? Nobody would stop you, right?' I asked, now quite confused.
'No, nobody would stop me.' came the reply 'but I just can't, my legs won't work. They wouldn't walk...It's something wierd. I can't explain, I just know it's Her. She wants me to stay'
*
The all-powerful force apparently holding her back was Amma, one of a number of big-name new-age Indian gurus each followed by millions of devotees from all corners of the globe.
Amma, now in her sixties, began to attract disciples following some good deeds in her village, a tiny settlement nestled amongst the thick vegetation of the Keralan backwaters. Nobody I met seemed able to explain exactly how Amma's popularity grew so quickly, but soon people were traveling long distances to hear her preach the importance of love and goodwill.
She became known as the Hugging Saint because of her efforts to improve people's lives by embracing them. Soon it was westerners as much as Indians who were choosing her path, so an ashram - literally 'place of striving' - a kind of spiritual or religious camp housing devotees - was established, despite the remote location, on the site of her birthplace.
As donations from followers flowed in, the ashram mushroomed out of the jungle; a huge auditorium, temples, restaurants, shops, a university and two 14-story accommodation tower blocks all shot up. Now, with hundreds of thousands of followers, her organisation has become truly international. The university has several campuses in India and Amma spends most of her time traveling, leading dharshan (teaching and prayer) in countries throughout the world. But mostly the USA (the right blend of gullible and wealthy?)
Amma's organisation now attracts US$10m of private foreign donations a year.
*
The fact we were in a lift, let alone a 14-story lift, was pretty remarkable for this part of rural South India - there can't be many in the entire state of Kerala. Regular power cuts mean that the chance of getting stuck for a while are high, and on the wall a poster helpfully outlined 'Tips for the stranded' - two anecdotes about residents who were killed or maimed by dangerous behaviour following an outage. Wait to be rescued seemed to be the message, although the implication was that you might be there a while.
The ashram is open to visitors and every day a few travelers come, some out of curiosity, others from some stronger attraction that I was hoping to understand. Many, as I did, choose to stay overnight in the cheap accommodation, the imposing centrepiece of the camp. My 11th floor room had unobstructed views of the vast green coconut tree jungle below (this was also the case from the 3rd floor).
The place had the appearance of a sort of tropical Butlins. There were groups of devotees, all in plain coloured robes, some carrying books, chatting and milling around. A few of the white-skinned ones were waiting in line at the fast-food eatery. Others were queueing for the internet. Most gave the same distinctive aura, transmitted by blank, emotionless expressions and a zombie-like demeanour.
My room was basic but clean enough. The walls were littered with Amma stickers and posters: 'Live in peace and tidiness like Amma'. 'Amma says: chant your mantra' and on the ceiling, a photo of Amma's not-particularly-clean feet. Downstairs in the Lobby, a large noticeboard was plastered full of newspaper cut-outs, Amma in the Media. Closer inspection revealed that the vast majority were taken from Amma's own newsletter or website.
*
The Californian who dealt with visitor formalities was as white as his long cotton robes (despite the harshness of the Indian summer). He explained, staring blankly at my chin, that he came to the ashram 12 years ago and had been there ever since. He looked no older than thirty. Along with other new arrivals, I was guided around the site - the laundry, the swimming pool, the printing press for newsletters and posters - and then shown a video about the work of Amma and her organisation.
As well as highlighting her undeniably impressive contribution to humanitarian work, the video explained that, to date, Amma has hugged over 4 million people. At larger events the logistics of the hugging is carefully managed, with staff employed to force the two parties together and then pull them apart before the allotted few seconds is up.
After a run-down of the rules (no tobacco, alcohol or sex) and daily timetable, we were asked to say where we came from and whether we had met Amma before. This, as I was to find out later, was significant; anyone coming to the ashram having met Amma in the west was much more likely to be a serious candidate for permanency. And with wages or savings in dollars or euros, permanent western residents are the lifeblood of the orgnisation.
The day begins in Amma's world at 5.30, when residents wake and attend 2 hours of chanting (Amma's name, 1000 times. Repeat.), the men in the auditorium and the women in the temple. Before breakfast there is time alloted for more prayer followed by individual worship. In the afternoon there is free time and a slot for voluntary work and after dinner services are held at one of a number of ornate shrines where Amma's image graces the back of the altar. In one shrine it looked like a photo of her face had been blu-tacked to the head of the Hindu god Krishna. But I wasn't allowed close enough to be sure.
All visitors are encouraged to help with the running of the ashram - in Amma's words to experience the bliss of 'seva', or work. Residents can be seen doing all sorts of strange things at this time - one American woman, whose young family were residents, had even set up a small factory making Amma dolls.
'My baby wouldn't stop crying. In a dream, I realised that she wanted to be closer to Amma' she explained in one of the many promotional leaflets distributed around the site 'At first I wasn't sure whether it was disrespectful to make an Amma doll, so a friend suggested I contact Amma to ask for thoughts'. The leaflet explained how Amma, thinking of the children, had selflessley agreed to the request. 'now we make thousands of dolls each year'
Medium sized (8") Amma dolls currently retail at US$90.
*
I clearly wasn't going to be much use on the soft toy production line, but my efforts peeling vegetables in the kitchen seemed to breaking down the barriers between me and some of the permanent residents.
Enver was Albanian, but had been living in London for 8 years when he attended a talk by Amma on the recommendation of friends. As we scrubbed potatoes he recounted how he was chosen out of the thousands present and offered a personal invitation to come to the ashram. Within a year he had quit his job, sold his flat and donated the proceeds to the you know who. He immediately felt a strong connection with Amma, and it has grown to the extent that now, over 10 years later, he's the only person in the ashram who can smell her even when she's not there.
'Back then it was beautiful here, just a few of us, a small temple and Amma always had time for us. Now it's horrible, all this development and the commercial side. None of the older ones like it, but we put up with it because of her'
When I asked Enver about the slightly downbeat atmosphere I was told the devotees were deflated because of their guru's absence. I should return to see her, for only then would I understand the power of her kindness. At that moment a gust of wind blew the smell of curry from the kitchen complex below. Enver inhaled deeply: 'there - can't you smell her..that's her'.
It was becoming clear that Amma's world tours were a key tenet of the ashram recruitment programme. Christian, from Seattle, had a similar story to Enver. He had first met Amma in San Francisco, where, at a congregation of thousands she singled him out and asked him to come to India. At the time, Christian was having a difficult time at home ('my family didn't accept me'), and Amma's affection was 'my only hope'. He was planning to fly on 11 Sept 2001 via New York, but a few weeks before Amma called him to say he should come sooner. The fact she had, in doing this, saved his life was one of the many reasons why he chose to stick around. At least until he was forced to return to the states for a year ('the hardest time of my life') to earn enough money to come back. I wondered exactly how much money it must be costing him.
It would be unfair to say there was no evidence of community amongst the westerners, many of whom congregated around the swimming pool during the 45 minute opening window (one for each gender). Here I chatted with some of the younger residents - Kyle, 9, came with his parents 4 years ago. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he was happy to tell me all about how wonderful life was, and how Amma had cured his younger brother, the ashram's youngest member, of a life threatening illness shortly after he was born.
But despite the jolly atmosphere in the pool, none of the foreigners displayed any evidence of integration with the Indians - at mealtimes, by-passing the good quality Keralan food, they stuck resolutely to the overpriced burgers and pasta in the snack bar.
*
I'd decided to come to the ashram after a strange encounter with an oddly dressed woman at a beachside diner in Varkala. I started talking to her because she was reading a book I knew in Spanish. It turned out she was Venezuelan, but had been living in India for 22 years. When I told her I was from the UK she mentioned that she'd also lived in London for many years. 'When was that?' I asked, confused because she didn't look old enough and had already said she couldn't speak English. 'Oh many years ago. At the time of Anne Boleyn. In a different life. I loved London'
I made a poor attempt at hiding my scepticism while she gave me a run-down of her favourite Indian mystics, sages and spiritual leaders. Clearly something of a guru junkie, she had spent the last 20 years moving from one ashram to the next. As well as Amma, her list included two characters, hugely controversial, who are allegedly guilty of far more than a well-proportioned ego and accutely-honed commercial awareness.
Strong supporting evidence for L.Ron Hubbard's assertions about the financial rewards of founding religious groups, Osho and Sai Baba are both shrouded in rumour and heresay. Osho, known as the sex-guru, died in 1990, but still has hundreds of thousands of followers. His ashram in Pune, near Mumbai, recieves over 30,000 western visitors a year. Here, next to some of India's worst slums, the almost entirely foreign clientele get up to all sorts of wierd shit in a complex that boasts theatres, nightclubs, alternative therapy centres and sports facilities. Apparently, zen tennis, 'zennis', is particularly popular.
At the cost of a few thousand pounds (no proceeds to charity) and an HIV test, interested parties can join the ashram for an 'introductory month', before applying for permanent membership. Osho, who once owned a fleet of 85 Rolls Royces (to demonstrate that wealth is unimportant, he claimed), has been accused of fraud, embezzlement, blackmail and even bioterrorism, although, as is often the case with wealthy indians, none of the charges stuck.
Sai Baba's organisation is similarly lacking in a discernable humanitarian purpose. The original Sai Baba was, it is generally understood, a good man who helped the poor (a la mother theresa) and was respected by both Muslims and Hindus (a rare accomplishment for a spiritual leader). He never set up an ashram, lived something of a humble existence and died in 1919. 21 after this, a cunning 14 year old boy, calling himself Sai Baba (was that what did it?), proclaimed to be the re-incarnation of Sai Baba.
Sixty years, some good conjuring tricks, numerous world tours, several police investigations and a couple of allegations of sexual abuse against boys later, he has achieved, depending on who measures, between 6 and 100 million followers, with 1200 'centres' in 114 countries. On top of all this, despite being in his 80s, he has maintained a huge afro; matched in size only, perhaps, by his astronomic bank balance.
There is currently something of a debate about where the next incarnation of Sai Baba will spring from. With millions up for grabs, it's surely worth a punt for some opportunist parents. Especially if their offspring turns out to have the right combination of charisma, self obsession, financial nous and aptitude for magic tricks.
*
The following day, thirsty for some sort of normality after less than 24 hours in Amma's ashram, I took a walk to explore the surroundings. We had been told not to do this because people in the nearby villages were supposedly hostile to westerners. And we were asked not to spend money outside because (in an state where the average wage is a few dollars a day) it would 'de-stabilise' the local economy.
I sat down for tea in a shack with a man who spoke broken English. He said he didn't know much about Amma, but that his family was invited to the ashram when his father was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease. A group of European-looking women in full robes walked by. Then two more ashram residents, both men - I guessed in their forties and both exponents of the mildly-narked-zombie look, sat down opposite. Encouraged by my successes of the previous day, I managed to spark some conversation. The story was a familiar one - they had been there a couple of years or maybe more, Amma was wonderful, incredible, fantastic.
Then, perhaps because I represented an opportunity to talk about the outside world, one began describing his life back home: an unpleasant divorce and time spent in prison for drugs-related offences. The other was quick to interject at this point with further praise for Amma.
As our host prepared more tea and the Germans puffed away on their cigarettes, it struck me that some sense of community, a clear routine and one constantly re-enforced reason for existing was perhaps just what these people needed in their lives.
Living Gurus have been revered in India for thousands of years, often at the same time as traditional religious gods. And it could be said that it makes as much, if not more, sense to worship a living person than a long dead one whose existence is based on consensus or legend. But even so, something about the two middle aged Bavarians in long white robes puffing on cigarettes in the Keralan jungle whilst asserting the supernatural powers of an overweight Indian spinster with badly kept feet seemed wrong, even a little sad.
After my brief experience in this strange place I was confused lots of things but certain of one: like many westerners coming to India, for the German pair, living in the ashram was as much about what they could leave behind as what they had found here.
Yet I suspected that for some of the people calling the shots at the ashram, what residents had left behind didn't matter a great deal. Provided they remembered to bring their chequebook.
'Did you just arrive' one asked me.
'yup, earlier today'. I responded, 'what about you guys?' I added, attempting a sort of disarming naivety
'i think it was about six months ago...'
Then, after I mentioned my vague travel plans one confessed, quietly..'you know, I'd really like to leave...to see some of India. But I just can't. I tried once but couldn't'.
'but you can leave, can't you? Nobody would stop you, right?' I asked, now quite confused.
'No, nobody would stop me.' came the reply 'but I just can't, my legs won't work. They wouldn't walk...It's something wierd. I can't explain, I just know it's Her. She wants me to stay'
*
The all-powerful force apparently holding her back was Amma, one of a number of big-name new-age Indian gurus each followed by millions of devotees from all corners of the globe.
Amma, now in her sixties, began to attract disciples following some good deeds in her village, a tiny settlement nestled amongst the thick vegetation of the Keralan backwaters. Nobody I met seemed able to explain exactly how Amma's popularity grew so quickly, but soon people were traveling long distances to hear her preach the importance of love and goodwill.
She became known as the Hugging Saint because of her efforts to improve people's lives by embracing them. Soon it was westerners as much as Indians who were choosing her path, so an ashram - literally 'place of striving' - a kind of spiritual or religious camp housing devotees - was established, despite the remote location, on the site of her birthplace.
As donations from followers flowed in, the ashram mushroomed out of the jungle; a huge auditorium, temples, restaurants, shops, a university and two 14-story accommodation tower blocks all shot up. Now, with hundreds of thousands of followers, her organisation has become truly international. The university has several campuses in India and Amma spends most of her time traveling, leading dharshan (teaching and prayer) in countries throughout the world. But mostly the USA (the right blend of gullible and wealthy?)
Amma's organisation now attracts US$10m of private foreign donations a year.
*
The fact we were in a lift, let alone a 14-story lift, was pretty remarkable for this part of rural South India - there can't be many in the entire state of Kerala. Regular power cuts mean that the chance of getting stuck for a while are high, and on the wall a poster helpfully outlined 'Tips for the stranded' - two anecdotes about residents who were killed or maimed by dangerous behaviour following an outage. Wait to be rescued seemed to be the message, although the implication was that you might be there a while.
The ashram is open to visitors and every day a few travelers come, some out of curiosity, others from some stronger attraction that I was hoping to understand. Many, as I did, choose to stay overnight in the cheap accommodation, the imposing centrepiece of the camp. My 11th floor room had unobstructed views of the vast green coconut tree jungle below (this was also the case from the 3rd floor).
The place had the appearance of a sort of tropical Butlins. There were groups of devotees, all in plain coloured robes, some carrying books, chatting and milling around. A few of the white-skinned ones were waiting in line at the fast-food eatery. Others were queueing for the internet. Most gave the same distinctive aura, transmitted by blank, emotionless expressions and a zombie-like demeanour.
My room was basic but clean enough. The walls were littered with Amma stickers and posters: 'Live in peace and tidiness like Amma'. 'Amma says: chant your mantra' and on the ceiling, a photo of Amma's not-particularly-clean feet. Downstairs in the Lobby, a large noticeboard was plastered full of newspaper cut-outs, Amma in the Media. Closer inspection revealed that the vast majority were taken from Amma's own newsletter or website.
*
The Californian who dealt with visitor formalities was as white as his long cotton robes (despite the harshness of the Indian summer). He explained, staring blankly at my chin, that he came to the ashram 12 years ago and had been there ever since. He looked no older than thirty. Along with other new arrivals, I was guided around the site - the laundry, the swimming pool, the printing press for newsletters and posters - and then shown a video about the work of Amma and her organisation.
As well as highlighting her undeniably impressive contribution to humanitarian work, the video explained that, to date, Amma has hugged over 4 million people. At larger events the logistics of the hugging is carefully managed, with staff employed to force the two parties together and then pull them apart before the allotted few seconds is up.
After a run-down of the rules (no tobacco, alcohol or sex) and daily timetable, we were asked to say where we came from and whether we had met Amma before. This, as I was to find out later, was significant; anyone coming to the ashram having met Amma in the west was much more likely to be a serious candidate for permanency. And with wages or savings in dollars or euros, permanent western residents are the lifeblood of the orgnisation.
The day begins in Amma's world at 5.30, when residents wake and attend 2 hours of chanting (Amma's name, 1000 times. Repeat.), the men in the auditorium and the women in the temple. Before breakfast there is time alloted for more prayer followed by individual worship. In the afternoon there is free time and a slot for voluntary work and after dinner services are held at one of a number of ornate shrines where Amma's image graces the back of the altar. In one shrine it looked like a photo of her face had been blu-tacked to the head of the Hindu god Krishna. But I wasn't allowed close enough to be sure.
All visitors are encouraged to help with the running of the ashram - in Amma's words to experience the bliss of 'seva', or work. Residents can be seen doing all sorts of strange things at this time - one American woman, whose young family were residents, had even set up a small factory making Amma dolls.
'My baby wouldn't stop crying. In a dream, I realised that she wanted to be closer to Amma' she explained in one of the many promotional leaflets distributed around the site 'At first I wasn't sure whether it was disrespectful to make an Amma doll, so a friend suggested I contact Amma to ask for thoughts'. The leaflet explained how Amma, thinking of the children, had selflessley agreed to the request. 'now we make thousands of dolls each year'
Medium sized (8") Amma dolls currently retail at US$90.
*
I clearly wasn't going to be much use on the soft toy production line, but my efforts peeling vegetables in the kitchen seemed to breaking down the barriers between me and some of the permanent residents.
Enver was Albanian, but had been living in London for 8 years when he attended a talk by Amma on the recommendation of friends. As we scrubbed potatoes he recounted how he was chosen out of the thousands present and offered a personal invitation to come to the ashram. Within a year he had quit his job, sold his flat and donated the proceeds to the you know who. He immediately felt a strong connection with Amma, and it has grown to the extent that now, over 10 years later, he's the only person in the ashram who can smell her even when she's not there.
'Back then it was beautiful here, just a few of us, a small temple and Amma always had time for us. Now it's horrible, all this development and the commercial side. None of the older ones like it, but we put up with it because of her'
When I asked Enver about the slightly downbeat atmosphere I was told the devotees were deflated because of their guru's absence. I should return to see her, for only then would I understand the power of her kindness. At that moment a gust of wind blew the smell of curry from the kitchen complex below. Enver inhaled deeply: 'there - can't you smell her..that's her'.
It was becoming clear that Amma's world tours were a key tenet of the ashram recruitment programme. Christian, from Seattle, had a similar story to Enver. He had first met Amma in San Francisco, where, at a congregation of thousands she singled him out and asked him to come to India. At the time, Christian was having a difficult time at home ('my family didn't accept me'), and Amma's affection was 'my only hope'. He was planning to fly on 11 Sept 2001 via New York, but a few weeks before Amma called him to say he should come sooner. The fact she had, in doing this, saved his life was one of the many reasons why he chose to stick around. At least until he was forced to return to the states for a year ('the hardest time of my life') to earn enough money to come back. I wondered exactly how much money it must be costing him.
It would be unfair to say there was no evidence of community amongst the westerners, many of whom congregated around the swimming pool during the 45 minute opening window (one for each gender). Here I chatted with some of the younger residents - Kyle, 9, came with his parents 4 years ago. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he was happy to tell me all about how wonderful life was, and how Amma had cured his younger brother, the ashram's youngest member, of a life threatening illness shortly after he was born.
But despite the jolly atmosphere in the pool, none of the foreigners displayed any evidence of integration with the Indians - at mealtimes, by-passing the good quality Keralan food, they stuck resolutely to the overpriced burgers and pasta in the snack bar.
*
I'd decided to come to the ashram after a strange encounter with an oddly dressed woman at a beachside diner in Varkala. I started talking to her because she was reading a book I knew in Spanish. It turned out she was Venezuelan, but had been living in India for 22 years. When I told her I was from the UK she mentioned that she'd also lived in London for many years. 'When was that?' I asked, confused because she didn't look old enough and had already said she couldn't speak English. 'Oh many years ago. At the time of Anne Boleyn. In a different life. I loved London'
I made a poor attempt at hiding my scepticism while she gave me a run-down of her favourite Indian mystics, sages and spiritual leaders. Clearly something of a guru junkie, she had spent the last 20 years moving from one ashram to the next. As well as Amma, her list included two characters, hugely controversial, who are allegedly guilty of far more than a well-proportioned ego and accutely-honed commercial awareness.
Strong supporting evidence for L.Ron Hubbard's assertions about the financial rewards of founding religious groups, Osho and Sai Baba are both shrouded in rumour and heresay. Osho, known as the sex-guru, died in 1990, but still has hundreds of thousands of followers. His ashram in Pune, near Mumbai, recieves over 30,000 western visitors a year. Here, next to some of India's worst slums, the almost entirely foreign clientele get up to all sorts of wierd shit in a complex that boasts theatres, nightclubs, alternative therapy centres and sports facilities. Apparently, zen tennis, 'zennis', is particularly popular.
At the cost of a few thousand pounds (no proceeds to charity) and an HIV test, interested parties can join the ashram for an 'introductory month', before applying for permanent membership. Osho, who once owned a fleet of 85 Rolls Royces (to demonstrate that wealth is unimportant, he claimed), has been accused of fraud, embezzlement, blackmail and even bioterrorism, although, as is often the case with wealthy indians, none of the charges stuck.
Sai Baba's organisation is similarly lacking in a discernable humanitarian purpose. The original Sai Baba was, it is generally understood, a good man who helped the poor (a la mother theresa) and was respected by both Muslims and Hindus (a rare accomplishment for a spiritual leader). He never set up an ashram, lived something of a humble existence and died in 1919. 21 after this, a cunning 14 year old boy, calling himself Sai Baba (was that what did it?), proclaimed to be the re-incarnation of Sai Baba.
Sixty years, some good conjuring tricks, numerous world tours, several police investigations and a couple of allegations of sexual abuse against boys later, he has achieved, depending on who measures, between 6 and 100 million followers, with 1200 'centres' in 114 countries. On top of all this, despite being in his 80s, he has maintained a huge afro; matched in size only, perhaps, by his astronomic bank balance.
There is currently something of a debate about where the next incarnation of Sai Baba will spring from. With millions up for grabs, it's surely worth a punt for some opportunist parents. Especially if their offspring turns out to have the right combination of charisma, self obsession, financial nous and aptitude for magic tricks.
*
The following day, thirsty for some sort of normality after less than 24 hours in Amma's ashram, I took a walk to explore the surroundings. We had been told not to do this because people in the nearby villages were supposedly hostile to westerners. And we were asked not to spend money outside because (in an state where the average wage is a few dollars a day) it would 'de-stabilise' the local economy.
I sat down for tea in a shack with a man who spoke broken English. He said he didn't know much about Amma, but that his family was invited to the ashram when his father was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease. A group of European-looking women in full robes walked by. Then two more ashram residents, both men - I guessed in their forties and both exponents of the mildly-narked-zombie look, sat down opposite. Encouraged by my successes of the previous day, I managed to spark some conversation. The story was a familiar one - they had been there a couple of years or maybe more, Amma was wonderful, incredible, fantastic.
Then, perhaps because I represented an opportunity to talk about the outside world, one began describing his life back home: an unpleasant divorce and time spent in prison for drugs-related offences. The other was quick to interject at this point with further praise for Amma.
As our host prepared more tea and the Germans puffed away on their cigarettes, it struck me that some sense of community, a clear routine and one constantly re-enforced reason for existing was perhaps just what these people needed in their lives.
Living Gurus have been revered in India for thousands of years, often at the same time as traditional religious gods. And it could be said that it makes as much, if not more, sense to worship a living person than a long dead one whose existence is based on consensus or legend. But even so, something about the two middle aged Bavarians in long white robes puffing on cigarettes in the Keralan jungle whilst asserting the supernatural powers of an overweight Indian spinster with badly kept feet seemed wrong, even a little sad.
After my brief experience in this strange place I was confused lots of things but certain of one: like many westerners coming to India, for the German pair, living in the ashram was as much about what they could leave behind as what they had found here.
Yet I suspected that for some of the people calling the shots at the ashram, what residents had left behind didn't matter a great deal. Provided they remembered to bring their chequebook.
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