New Venue, Same Village

Modern times in the West have often been accused of breaking up our families and villages. With the increase in walmarts, mobility, suburbanization and the “self” many have commented that we no longer walk down the street to meet with our butcher or walk across the street to chat with our neighbor and we spend more time on cell phones or at the gym than with our loved ones having a real connection.

Perhaps there is some truth there. In my travels through villages without all of these modern accoutrements, they do seem to have a more obvious connection to each other – spending extra time chatting with the banana seller at the market, visiting at the temple, living under one roof with three sometimes four generations.

But maybe its just the obviousness of the connection? An old friend of mine who lives in Denver received a call a few weeks ago that all of us hope we never receive. His wife, pregnant with their second child, found out she had just tested positive for either stage 3 or 4 diffuse large b-cell lymphoma. He jumped on the next plane back to Denver from Washington D.C. with the emotional support of strangers along the way. As a seasoned writer, he decided to start a blog – so he didn’t have to relay the same nightmares over and over, so friends and family could have a venue to share their support, so they could connect.

The writing is beautiful - raw and real, comments spanning the globe from family, friends, friends of friends, complete strangers. And maybe its not the local butcher or chatting with out neighbor across the street, but the same village energy is there. In the face of tragedy and grief there is love and support and rebuilding….the village may be destroyed by war or drought or persecution or injustice, but across the world the village comes together to rebuild.

Until We Meet Again.

My last day in India was the perfect synopsis of my time here – yoga to the dawn over Mumbai, a visit to the Nilanda Institute who educate Indian students with learning disabilities, an almost equal amount of time spent battling traffic to try and buy a few last minute gifts, and a walk around India at the park nearby.

The park is India – thousands of Muslims, Hindis, Parsis, Christians, all walking and playing and chatting in perfect harmony. I circle the 2 km walking path with the Indians and my emotions swirl and swim along with me…laughing with the boys trying to play a cricket match over crowded benches, envy for the two close friends walking together and missing mine, reverent to the frail woman walking with her care-taker, amazed at the number of joggers who are wearing saris, nostalgic for the proud Indian father who walks by with a “Michigan Dad” t-shirt, hopeful for the children who swarm me when I give away the last of my pencils, tearful for the small girl carrying a baby more than ½ her own size, anger at the boy who pushes the weaker brother, but mostly love for this country and everything it has shared with me.

On to Vietnam…

1,084 Documents

“Does that computer hold one thousand eighty-four documents?” asked the restaurant manager at my hotel, pointing at the laptop in front of me.
“Sir?”
“Does that computer hold one thousand eighty-four documents?” he repeated.
“Yes sir, this computer holds one thousand eighty-four documents, and I am sure hundreds of thousands more,” I tried to reply courteously.
“Oh! No, really? That computer holds one hundred thousand eighty four documents?!?”
“Yes sir, computers today can hold all of the documents you have ever created. But I do not understand, why is eighty-four so important?”
“Eighty-four is all of the business documents in the world!”
I spent a few moments trying to grasp if this was some Hindi Vedic astrology number, I finally realized what he was trying to say…

“Yes sir, this computer will hold all of your A4 documents, the standard paper size you use for managing your restaurant.”

“Can anyone steal your documents? Can you see the Internet? Ah, computers are an amazing thing. The happiest day of my life was a few years ago when I was at a small village near here and I saw Bill Gates, or some very important man who works for Bill Gates, give a computer to a poor village girl who won a computer contest. Computers will change India, open us up to the world. What do you think of India? We are having our first boom, we owe everything to computers. Can I sit down with you?”

I did a quick inventory of my desire for some alone time, his friendly face, his questionable sanity, our amusing conversation and figured, what the heck? And so we chatted about India, villages, new opportunities and the country’s future.

“India is very strong now, new opportunities all of the time. All of my children are educated. Do you think China will take us over? No? Yes, you are right, China will not take over India. India will take over China. We will win. If we can fix our villages we will win. You see, in America, people do not understand that life is still very, very bad in the Indian villages. So, in America, in small villages, people should get together for a village meeting and discuss India. They should say, oh, let’s help an Indian village. Let’s supply water and electricity and money for proper housing and education and teachers and schools and uniforms and telephones….please go back and tell America to do this for us. And can you send us computers to use? Computers are the answer.”

Ahem, check?

Exhale.

If you get a chance to come to India, try and make it to Kerala. Although fraught with tourists, thousands of ayurvedic centers, yoga shalas on every corner and street peddlers in between, it makes up for it with beautiful backwaters, delicious food, fresh air and incredible beaches. And it’s a communist state - making its population overall better educated and better off as a result.

I am staying near Lighthouse Beach which is all of the above condensed into a 200 meter beach. But, I’m on the other side of the lighthouse in a $15 room perched above the pounding surf (so loud I have to wear earplugs at night) with access to a secluded beach just out my door. I have a very difficult life right now – waking each morning to walk the labyrinth of walkways to find my yoga teacher - Lino Miele (a hilarious Italian ashtanga yoga teacher here giving a two month yoga retreat), a long brunch (usually at two different restaurants as I want to sample all the food), some writing and reading, lying on the beach, an afternoon massage, a sunset walk, fresh fish for dinner and back again to start it all over. Life is good, except for the lizard droppings left for me on my pillow last night by the lizard fairy…

The Elephant in the Room.

I read today in Hindustan Times a summary of a recent report by the UN – “The richest 1% of adults in the world own 40% of the planet’s wealth…the bottom 50% of the world’s adult population owns barely 1% of the wealth. North America, Europe and the high income Asia-Pacific countries hold 90% of the total world wealth. In the US, average wealth (total assets – liabilities) is $144,000 per adult while in India it is $1,400 per adult.” Yes, that’s 1% of the US wealth.

Each morning in Delhi I throw on my jeans, tennis shoes and winter coat and battle traffic for 20km (12 miles) to arrive at the Hope School two hours later. My driver won’t take me all of the way there because he thinks “the people are too dirty and smelly and too many mosquitoes,” the truth is that they are predominantly Muslim and he is Nepalese. I finish my day with the Room to Read teachers, find my driver and battle evening traffic through Delhi, past the foreign embassies to the Taj Palace where I throw on some lip gloss and meet my colleagues and potential partners in the Club Room on the 7th floor to compare notes on our meetings with Indian officials and teaching in the slums.

My flip-flops from the 1% of the population to the 1% of the wealth are totally exhausting me. My brain can rationalize the statistics – however irrational they are. My heart can feel the love and laughter and beauty in both sides and everything in between. My mind can understand how we got here – how everyone who has more fights for more either through addiction to the game or fear of losing, or simply through the law of those who have more, get more. But every single part of me repulses at how completely, totally fucked up it is.

My Independence.

A few weeks ago I was having lunch with a group of businessmen in Bangalore. Everyone at the table had lived in the states and were now back in India and the question came around to what we all miss most about America. The responses varied from more time on their hands, open space, less obvious air and noise pollution and then the question came to me. Only one thing (besides my boyfriend, family and friends), my independence.

With the exception of the yoga area in Mysore and the cosmopolitan areas in Bangalore and Mumbai, I won’t walk out the door without my arms and legs covered – and in Delhi I won’t leave the door unless I have a male companion, especially after dark. I could, but that only increases the presence of the Indian men and their camera ready cell phones and incessant badgering (many people ask if I feel unsafe in India and the answer is absolutely not, I just feel harassed). In my fancy hotel in Bangalore, I was greeted with a hand-written note from the manager welcoming me as a “single, female traveler” stating that they would screen my phone calls and offer me a personal escort (not the kind men hire!) if I desired. I usually walk as most Indian women do - my head lowered, never meeting anyone’s eyes, sweating under my wrap. It’s actually not a big deal.

Nothing compared to the lives of most Indian women (of course the elite women are exceptions) – married by fourteen, lucky to get four years of primary education, repressed or murdered by their husbands and in-laws (I just read there are 70 women set afire in Bangalore each month), the list goes on…and I can’t write more as it depresses me too much.

I love my country. Despite my embarrassment at the colossal mistakes my country has made (I usually claim to be Californian as opposed to American – hoping that this softens the perception), especially in the last six years, I am eternally grateful to be born American. I can dream and am empowered to fulfill my dreams, there is no greater gift. Thanks again to those American women before me who demanded more.

My Guardians

Every time I arrive at a new location, I “date” various drivers. We chat about India, education, their families, America, shopping, pollution, etc. and after a day or two I commit to one driver – usually based on their response to my word “no thank you” (if they push after 3 no thank yous, it’s a deal breaker), the connection we have in our conversations, and their ability to keep me alive in the dangerous pursuit of driving in India.

These guardians claim to be my body-guards, my tour guides, my drivers, my bag carriers and ultimately, they become my friends. They are passionate about their rickshaws, often personally painted and adorned with photos or posters on their beliefs. They complain about India’s crowding, pollution and the disparity between the haves and themselves. They prize India’s newfound opportunities and give most of their income to their children’s education – hoping they will be the first generation to complete school. And they always wait for me – through hours of meetings or dinners or shopping, every time I walk out the door, they are there.

My favorite driver was Apu in Msyore. Apu has 2 little boys, a beautiful wife and a huge heart. His vitality and curiosity rivals most five year olds - just being around him makes you feel a little lighter. Above is a photo of him reaching across to play with a little girl next to us – despite the green light ahead and hundreds of horns honking behind.

I Can't Breathe.

This is my typical garb cruising around in the rickshaws. I broke up my India travels to head to Thailand for a long Thanksgiving week to meet my boyfriend, learn how to dive and get a “western” fix of some good chocolate – more on this in the next entry. My route was car to Bangalore, flew to Mumbai and then on to Bangkok - I couldn’t help but feel the speed of my travel was literally leaving the Indians in my smog.

I am terrified for our future. I can’t breath in these places, and it was the same in Delhi and Hong Kong – and apparently much worse in China and Vietnam. And its not like people aren’t trying to make change – Bangalore mandated that all new rickshaws must use only natural gas (I discovered last night that most rickshaw drivers mix petrol (56 rupees) with kerosene (18 rupees) to fuel their engines – no wonder I can’t breathe) which is priced at 22 rupees so there is economic incentive and much less pollution. The Indian teachers I taught last year in Delhi chose to do projects on energy conservation and natural disasters when I asked them to apply their new technology skills to a presentation – and these are to students in the slums. It is top of mind for everyone. But how do we accelerate change as individuals?

Environmentalism needs a better marketer – or at least educator. The 5 minute blurb at the end of an Inconvenient Truth gave me some insight on what I can do, but I need some clear action. What refrigerator should I buy? If I buy another car should it be electric or run on hydrofuel – should I get an electric moped instead? How do I use alternative energy to heat my home built in 1890? How do I shop in America and not buy packaged foods? How do I make noise to mandate China, India, America, etc. start to enforce stricter environmental policies? How can we get the rickshaw manufacturers to build solar-powered rickshaws ? Can someone please make a cell-phone powered oxygen mask until we can breath – as everyone has a cell phone?

It’s no doomsday joke. This is scary stuff. And its real and its now – apparently there were 358,000 early deaths in China caused by pollution. I can see my next trip to India – I pay $100 for an oxygen tank at the airport to use when I walk outside in “unfiltered” air. All of my business meetings will be held in “filtered” air offices and I will pay a premium for my “filtered” air hotel. And the 3 billion people in the world who do not have access to clean water are now dying earlier because they will not have access to clean air. And I live in the country that creates 30% of the pollution with only 5% of the population.

Rena is Ratna

India and I are not friends today.

I cracked my big toenail in half during yoga this morning. With bandaged toe, I walked to the Internet café to take a conference call back in the states and discovered no electricity (usual) because a man at a hotel down the street died trying to unplug something (unusual). India telling me to get over the toenail.

I arrived home to find out, for the second day in a row, that Rena is not her name. Yesterday Meena told me it was Retna (with a T), I think she found some of our lessons in the trash. Today Ashish told me it was Ratna. And so we begin our ritual again. At 10, Meena leaves for slimming class (I don’t even want to know what that is) and puja and I spend time with Ratna working on writing her name or numbers or simple words. Then we put together a worksheet that she hides during the day and works on when no one is around ("Clean, clean, clean..." she says when I ask why its not ok to show it to others).

Today we wrote her name “Ratna.” Yesterday, after five minutes of sign language and analogies we got to what a “last name” is and she says hers is Sumalata. Who knows if I am spelling it right?

A friend took me out to some neighboring villages in the afternoon, visiting temples and looking for schools and teachers; despite a stat I read that India’s rural population had primary schools within one kilometer, there were none. Hundreds of Ratnas spent the day running after me – these not so “lucky” to have a job in a middleclass home – asking for rupees and pens and country coins. Exhausted, I decided it was time to go home.

And home brought some hope. Meena says Ratna needs to speak English better. I asked Meena how does Ratna know the alphabet and how to hold a pen and write letters and numbers? She grins widely and tells me that Ashish teaches Ratna, “I am so proud my boy has such a big heart.” Fortunately Ashish has yet to inherit his parents belief in maintaining caste, the cycle is breaking.

Just pinch, pinch, pinch...

I love Indian food. And learning to cook South Indian is almost as enjoyable – colorful spices, tasty ghee, no documented recipes, no real measuring, Indians just “feel the food” and did what their mother’s mothers did.

My two teachers have been Meena and Tina. Tina is an institution with Ashtanga Yoga students…she is a brilliant cook with a huge heart and a sassy attitude (originally from Calcutta, I have learned “moxy” is not a South Indian female trait). Apparently the brothers from Dosa (hip Indian on Valencia Street in San Francisco) learned to cook some of their their dosas from “Tina in Mysore…” This is what Tina hears anyway, I’ll have to confirm when I get back...

For those of us who don’t know much about Indian cooking, the only basic understanding we need is “masala.”

Every recipe demands your masala dabba which contains the fundamental Indian spices only in the form that does not exude smell:
Powder Form:
Salt
Chili (you choose the spice level)
Turmeric – gives color (mix with salt to keep away the ants, drink with milk as an antibiotic, put it in oil and heal a burn, notice it on Thursdays on women’s faces to remove unwanted hair, also on the third eye as yellow is good for intellect)
Seeds:
Fenugreek (seed form – not leaves)
Black Mustard Seeds (not white or yellow as those are for chutney and pickling)
Coriander (Cilantro – Tina says don’t buy coriander powder in America as it is usually just “rusk” and won’t give you the flavor)
Cumin
Then you have the garam masala which are kept whole and separate from masala daba.
Cloves
Cardamom (Black, green – must crack it open to get the seed)
Peppercorns
Cinnamon

And a few more tips…

Buy your curry leaves fresh if you can. If not, dried/crushed use at the end of the cooking process to retain flavor.

To retain your optimism, don’t try to learn it all in one day. Get a knack for sambhar, move on to chutney, then a masala and finish with dosas and idlis over a few weeks.

Oil should ideally be ghee (but if not – use white butter, saffron, sesame, or coconut oil but NO olive oil).

And a random tip - drink water stored in copper pitchers to lower cholesterol and improve the health of heart-attack patients…

And for those who want more, drop me an e-mail or comment below and I’ll send you the ten or so recipes I have tried to document after cooking with Meena and Tina. Yum.

Feed the cow, not the Monkey. And other Indian Culture traditions.

This morning I heard a racket in our driveway and went out to find Rena screaming at a monkey. “The monkey ate the cow’s breakfast,” she exclaimed to me, rolling her eyes. Of course.

Sure enough, five minutes later the cow walked into the driveway with the “cow owner” and we had to make a new plate of food. The “cow owner” walks her cow around every morning to various homes for a free breakfast. In addition to the religious benefits that accompany this act, the obviously poor cow owner gets money for the milk the cow produces. Not a bad social welfare system.

On my way back from yoga in the morning, I often see my neighbors down on their hands and knees drawing kolam. I try to picture folks back home giving up their Starbucks for drawing chalk figures before work?

I usually am offered a fresh banana from Meena’s puja in the morning as ingesting bananas that were prayed over as offerings to the gods means you are ingesting some holiness. It seems to be working, miraculously, I have yet to be run over on one of Mysore’s rickshaws.

Ashish let me know to put a kumkum on your 3rd eye and throat right before any highly-competitive table tennis match (his father was college champion) as it is supposed to improve your ability.

Placing fool (the beautiful string of flowers) on the god’s photo brings good luck, or wearing it in your hair protects against evil (and more important foul smells I later learned).

Feeding first God, then husband, then guests seems to be a good way to lose weight for Indian women.

No fried food one year after a death is keeping other heart-attack victims in the Gupta household healthy.

No “al dente” food – only fully cooked or raw, stops stomach confusion (and the former keeps my stomach at ease).

I’m sure I’ll be adding a few more to this…

I earn.

Meena is a generous, effusive, open-hearted Indian woman. If she lived in Amercia, she would be strutting around in too-expensive jeans, yelling “girrrrlfriend” as she checked out my boyfriend, and kicking some major booty in her sales job.

But Meena is an Indian wife. When she was 19 she married Mahesh in an arranged marriage. She admits she couldn’t tell if she liked Mahesh in their first meeting, but her father was happy and that was enough (apparently her father was concerned she would not find a proper husband because she is short).

Meena moved from her home in Chennai to Mahesh’s (and Mahesh’s mother, father, brother, sister-in-law, sister and 3 nephews) home in Mysore. She quickly learned to make the favorite foods, maintain the house and keep her persnickety mother-in-law happy. She said she was like Rena but with no income. Two children and seven years later, Meena was going through some tough times. Her last son was a difficult birth and didn’t listen or obey (he still doesn’t - a few times I wanted to let Meena know that in America people call it “Attention Deficit Disorder”). Her co-sister (sister-in-law) was focused on learning computers so all of the care for the household fell on Meena’s shoulders. And her own mother was going through some sad times – not eating, not getting out of bed. Unfortunately, Meena let me know that Indian tradition no longer lets her spend time with her mother. Once she got married, all of her attention must go to her mother-in-law and if she spent too much time talking or visiting her sick mother in Chennai, people would chat. After an hour of hearing about her mother’s illness, I wanted to let her know that in America, people call this “depression.” And people would call the ‘ole Indian mother-in-law rule “outrageous.”

But “after much praying” things started to change. Mahesh moved the family into a new home, Meena persuaded him to let a room to a yoga student. A few yoga students later, a Nigerian woman convinced Meena to start selling silver jewelry. And one year later, Meena has a thriving business selling silver to the 100 or so yoga students who are in Mysore at any given time. This lady can sell. “No, no, no,” she denies, blushing, “the gods are just very, very good to me.”

“I never thought I could be so lucky. Here I am, just a normal Indian housewife, and now look at me. I earn. I know people from all over the world,” she tells me proudly as we page through her guest book.

Meena let me know that the entire “competition” complex she had with her co-sister is now gone. Her mother-in-law’s nagging is just a mumble in the background. And even Mahesh is proud (and a little jealous she whispers) of her earning. She says she is so happy because it is no more just cooking and housework and children and mother-in-laws and silence around Mahesh’s friends. It is also now earning and that, says Meena, is “all mine.”

Palo Alto, India

“Yes, yes many, many changes in Mysore in the last 8 years,” Mahesh tells me over a delicious home-cooked meal which he and Meena refuse to touch until we (myself and 4 other westerners) have finished. “When I was young here, very few people, still smart, educated people because of university but not so many – now there are 20 times as many! Driving is most difficult. And now everyone wants luxury items – Pizza Hut my boys ask me for every day. They do not know what it is like to struggle. I know. My brothers and I know. Our pappa moved here from Northern India with no rupees, nothing. We were bookish in school, received top-top grades and scholarships to university. And now, now we are all very successful – one a doctor, me a factory owner (Mahesh owns two factories which make the straps on laptop bags), and the other brother…he… My sons do not know struggle and I wonder if they will be as successful?” Mahesh looks down.

Meena has let me know this is a very, very sad time for the family as Mahesh’s brother, best-friend and business partner died unexpectedly one year ago. The family mourning begins on November 8th and will last for one week, Meena must move to her sister-in-law’s house with her 3 nephews and Mahesh’s parents down the street to help out as there will be hundreds of visitors. I decided to share a beer with Mahesh over dinner that night (I think I’m the only yoga student in Mysore who drinks alcohol) as he confided the only time Meena lets him drink is if a guest wants a drink and it looked like he could use it after his 14 hour day.

I contemplated the comments in Plan B on the impact of a rising middle class in India and China, a newly paved road from Bangaluru (that’s right, Bangalore declared it had a new name in this morning’s paper, we’ll see) to Mysuru (Mysore too!), and the three (as opposed to 300) beggars who approached me in the last week. Meena interrupted my thoughts in whispers.

“So very difficult for Mahesh, so sad for him. He has two houses now, no best-friend, very very high city fees because our house so much now. Factories not well after the death, so little money. He asks himself, do I sell the brother’s house and we all live together again? So expensive now with Infosys just ten minutes away and very high paid people at Infosys, and more people move all of the time with the 4 lane highway from Bangalore, less pollution here, calmer pace…”

Amazing. I have heard the same story for the last ten years in the Bay Area, I could have concluded for Meena – and if you sell this house because of property taxes, where do you go? This area is your home for two generations, has the best schools, your family, all of your friends…

The Girl

I finalized my housing a few days ago after a hard sell from Meena Gupta – mother of 2 beautiful boys, wife of Mahesh who runs two factories making laptop straps, and silver-jewelry maker extraordinaire. I am paying $91 for the month. And at the end of our negotiating she threw in one last close – for an extra $11 I could have “the girl” clean my room/bathroom each day and wash my clothes for me. I just paid $85 per night at the Southern Star and no one was doing my laundry, we had a deal.

After moving my rolling home into the room I introduced myself to the boys and to “the girl.” Ashish (the booky-brainy boy) and Ashwin (the trouble maker) were quick to chat with me about about my yoga and my job and my boyfriend. I asked the girl her name and she mumbled in response, I then asked her to spell it for me and she gave me a blank stare. I turned to Ashish and asked again. “Rena, R-E-N-A,” Ashish reported in perfect English, he could be the star of Akeelah the Bee 2.

I returned later that evening in the middle of family dinner. The family was seated at the dining room table and pleaded with me to share some of their food, I attempted to decline about 16 times until I caved in and had a small plate. After I finished I passed by the kitchen and saw Rena eating her food in the corner on the floor. I felt some tightness in my chest and walked into my room and closed the door. Every conscience has an off switch somewhere. And sometimes in India I have to use mine more than I like.

I walked out my door at 6 the next morning for yoga to find Rena sleeping on a mat outside my door. This time the switch didn’t turn off. I don’t get it. The “help” I grew up with were Aunts and Uncles and neighbors and me when my brother and sister appeared (which I remind them of constantly). And even if we did have help, I can’t imagine them sitting in our pantry eating their food in a corner or sleeping on a mat in our hallway when there is more than enough chairs, more than enough food and more than enough couches.

I can intellectualize it. We have all heard of the supposedly abolished India caste system. But we also know this is not reality – obviously not in Gokulam, the almost exclusively Brahmin neighborhood I am staying in. Rena is 14 years old, her family is from the village and she earns good money for them in Meena’s house – education is not an option when its opportunity cost is a hungry mouth or sick family member who needs medicine. She is a lucky girl to have this job.

But I can’t stomach it. I could feel my belly dance around my knees when I passed her mat on the way to my yoga class, no, its not going to let me settle this one for a few days.

I learned later that morning that Rena is sick and Meena is taking her to the doctor. Apparently she hasn’t menstruated in 5 months. I wanted to get up on my soapbox and yell, “If you called her by her name and asked her to share the meals she has cooked for you and gave her a soft bed to sleep on maybe she would start feeling more like a woman and menstruate!” But swallowed my yell and said, “Meena, that is so kind of you as I am sure she would not be able to afford the doctor on her own.”

On Children

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine asked me to e-mail my thoughts on “Why Have Children?” She is gathering opinions on why financially stable women choose to have children in an age of over-population, birth-control, and spiritual independence? Simply – when you don’t have to get married, have children according to your religion or have children to provide you free labor in the fields – why have them?

I have always wanted children. Either my own or adopting others – the method wasn’t as important to me as having them. And the reason is simple – to affect change. Change in myself, in my children and in those we touch. Children give you lightness, inspiration, humility, frustration, unconditional love, and most important to me – eternity. They ask us to be the best of ourselves as every single action, word spoken, hug given goes on and on and on as they in turn define their own actions, their own voice, their own love and give it to this world. And we watch this evolution of ourselves in themselves to other selves and hope that at some point we have made this world a better place.

Mission Accomplished

After dodging rickshaws, horse-drawn carriages, random cows, countless mopeds, one very angry dog I finally got money out of an ATM on my fifth attempt. I then moved on to determine my lodging in Mysore, after learning that an extended stay at the famed Green Hotel was not possible I rang Shiva (he helps yoga students find long-term apartments, a recommendation from Lizzie). He answered on the first ring and asked me to come by his home in 30 minutes – located two doors down from the Yoga Shala with a sign on it titled “Shiva’s House.” I sat down with him in his office and after 30 seconds of stroking his long beard he looked up and asked slowly “What exactly is it you want?” Hilarious. I could have been on a flying carpet with a genie. I informed him I needed Internet Access and wanted a room with a bathroom in it – shared accommodations, kitchen and TV were negotiable. He continued to reflect and finally picked up the phone to no answer. After a few minutes he showed me his house and said I could rent it if I wanted – full Internet Access, 3 rooms, kitchen, Indian toilet and hot water shower for 6,000 RN ($136) for a one month minimum. Or I could wait until tomorrow and look at the room he was trying to call to see if I prefer that one (apparently nicer accommodations). I said I would love his room but will wait until tomorrow to see the other room to decide. For $135 per month plus $2 per day for food I could live on less than $200 per month here – I think I live on $200 per day in San Francisco? And then I have to remind myself that half this country lives on less than $700 per year.

My dreams of sparse living changed when I signed up for yoga. I arrived at the Shala a bit earlier than the indicated 4:30 sign-up time and was led into the back office by the guard to be signed up by Patthabhi Jois himself. If I didn’t look at his face I could have been doing a deal with Tony Soprano. I pulled out my 26,900 RN ($610) in 500 RN notes and put them in his gold embroidered hands (diamonds bigger than any wife in Houston Texas had!). He informed me that tomorrow, Sunday, was a led class and I should arrive at 5 a.m. I can’t believe this man is 91 years old, he couldn’t pass for 60.

I Must Be in India

36 hours of travel and I finally arrive in Mysore, India. My intention is to spend the next few weeks doing yoga at Sri K. Pattabhi Jois’ yoga shala and focusing on my volunteer work with Curriki.

After practicing Ashtanga Yoga for the last 8 years I have decided its time to practice the Primary Series at the birthplace. I won’t be allowed to move into the second series (despite finally making it to Ardha Matsyendrasana in the second series with the most inflexible back in the history of yoga) because I can’t not stand up on my own from doing a backbend. This is fine by me…I find primary series soothing and comfortable while second series is full of vulnerability and strange sensations in my lower sacrum (which I will happily put aside for the next month or so as India alone makes me vulnerable and full of strange sensations).

I arrive in Bangalore 4 hours earlier than my taxi is scheduled to pick me up. I decide to dive in to India and wander around outside to search for a coffee and water – a few minutes later I have my own trail of taxi and rick-a-shaw drivers, but this time with no beggars? Already Bangalore seems wealthier than Delhi. My coffee and water mission is accomplished and I pat myself on the back for adjusting so quickly to “India time” and wait in the airport for the next few hours.

Twelve hours later as I write this, I no longer am patting myself on the back. After a four hour ride to Mysore, I checked in to my fancy hotel, waited for 2 more hours for the room to be ready, failed to get money out of 3 ATMs despite my in person conversation with Wells Fargo prior to leaving, failed to sign up for yoga because the shala closed despite saying it was open until 6, failed to get online for the last three hours despite the “IT expert” at the hotel helping me. I must be in India.

Tomorrow my hope is to get money out of the ATM and sign-up for yoga.

I love the signs in India, here is what is on my window. I didn’t capture it today but we passed a truck carrying petrol with a beautiful painting on the back stating “Warning: Highly Inflammable Petrol.” Perhaps an attempt at reverse psychology? If we state its inflammable we won’t blow up?

Oh, speaking of which, I learned today that two terrorists were captured in Mysore this morning??