there is a season

I hiss loudly to prevent myself from crying out as the nurse dresses my open wounds.  Otherwise I remain pacified by shock only intermittently spitting information such as my name, observance of sensation, and the brief details of what brought us to the emergency room.  It is the sight of my companion’s raw bloodied limbs that sends a surge of guilt to my consciousness as I feel myself surrendering the battle of equanimity.  Had it not been my hands at the helm, my attitude would have been much more undisturbed.  However, self-indulgent pity is swiftly dissolved as a large, scantily-clad man on a stretcher is wheeled into our room with five others excitedly at his heels.  He too had met his fate in a motor bike accident.  The man’s left foot is trembling involuntarily and I observe that his right eye is swollen shut.  Inasmuch as I try to overt my gaze, the visual imprint of his blood spattered body remains married with the thought that his pain was so immense he could scarcely make a sound.  As I softly murmur a prayer, I am again reminded as to how fortunate we are.

Aside from roadside spills, the time spent at Varkala beach was pleasant and reasonably low-key.  The beach itself lay violently underneath picturesque cliffs which would have proved to be a vision to behold had they not been populated with tourist restaurants and resorts falsely claiming Ayurvedic expertise.  The tide appeared to resent such a presence as it was almost impossible to swim amidst the strong undercurrents.  However, as per usual, I was in good company and receiving an abundance of experiences and insight of matters existential and Indian.  

On a more successful night of motorbike navigation, we found ourselves on remote peninsulas dancing with the setting sun on a more inviting part of the coast.  Gazing at palm tree lined shores it was hard to imagine that so many inhabitants were still chasing the illusion of going to the West when equally as many Westerners dream of places like the Keralan backwaters.  The grass is always greener...

Nonetheless, limp and all, it was time to move on to Kerala’s neighbouring state in the south, Tamil Nadu; the destination and final stop in India being Tiruvannamalai.  Although my main objective was a reunion with an old friend, a driving force for several ventures, coming to this city also coincided beautifully with my desire to see the holy mountain Arunachala, a mission inspired by Paul Brunton’s account in “A Search in Secret India”.

The dry heat in Tiru was initially overwhelming, but not as much as the mountain itself.  It’s difficult to put into words the power of this particular location, but I can assuredly say that if I had started my journey here I would have undoubtedly seen much less of the rest of India.  I’ve encountered countless amounts of individuals who have been unable to escape the pull of Tiru with endless stories of cancelled train tickets and abandoned flights.  In fact, it is the first place that I have met travellers who have rented their accommodation by the month, even by the year. My original thought was to visit neighbouring cities on my way out, but I’ve joined the masses in rooting myself here for the next two weeks despite the zealous mosquitos and unwavering heat.  I've found a mountain and not a moment too soon.

Kerala!

Bleary eyed in Jaipur, I found myself in the unexpected company of a good friend who, after two weeks of having parted ways, burst through my door at an early hour (only early considering that I had spent the previous night dancing and eating my heart out at my first Indian wedding – lavish).

“So I hear you’re coming south?”

I’m rendered speechless.  Only the night before had I flippantly mentioned to another a flirtation with the idea to head to Kerala, the Southernmost Indian state, after a period of near certainty that I would spend my remaining time in Rajasthan.  In fact, I suffered a fitful night’s sleep debating the suggestion only to wake up to a very clear answer.  End scene.

A few days later we were gasping for air as our eyes grew immense with disbelief.  A wave of heat immediately suffocated us as we disembarked from the comfort of a short air conditioned flight (I’ve been living very modestly during my travels, but a 45 hour train ride just wasn’t written in the stars - as yet).

Like kids on Christmas we excitedly squealed at all the new visual delights that the city of Cochin had on offer.  Altered appearances, atmosphere, and climate equalled a different world entirely.  Unlike the major cities I had visited in the North of India, the swarm of rickshaw drivers and hotel attendants at the airport exit were lacking; in fact we were approached by no one.  Everything and everyone were far more relaxed and the addition of palm trees and humidity told me for the first time in my travels that I was on holiday.

new best friends made in seconds

Our stay at Fort Cochin was intended to be a one night affair but the light of day made it impossible to escape.  We loudly rejoiced as the Arabian Sea tickled our feet followed by an introduction to drinking out of green coconuts while making friends with the masses.  Mountains of fresh fruit and fish (not together mind you), bookshops neighbouring historical churchyards,  sipping strawberry tea whilst listening to Neil Young battle the sounds of the crashing waves, not to mention an abundance of tiny cats…  I believe this is referred to as paradise.

After stripping down to bikini- wear on Cherrai Beach (yes, in India!) we fulfilled our dreams of driving a rickshaw and spending a day in lemonade waters before dragging our feet onwards.  However, it only got better.  The backwaters of Kerala are famously known as one of the top ten bucket list sights.  I won’t disagree.  A night in Alleppey offered a brief glimpse of the canal grids that make up the serene backwaters.  The only trauma’s endured were mosquito attacks and having to rescue a drowning gecko that fell from the bathroom ceiling into the toilet while I scrutinised my mozzie bites in the mirror (he’s al­­­ive so three cheers for vanity). 

The next day, my friend and I parted ways temporarily as I head to Amitapuri, the village hosting Amma’s Ashram, the ashram of the “Hugging Saint”.  Aside from my simple curiosity, the main purpose for this excursion was to meet another dear friend.

A man on the bus whose distant wide-eyed stare should have said it all confides that, “Hugging Amma is an experience out of this world.  Her vibrations are not like any other person”.  I had to take this with a pinch of salt as this was later followed by a declaration of love for psychotropic plants coupled with incessant chatter about how the American government would likely detain him for no reason.  

From my understanding Amma is an enlightened woman whose ashram is responsible for immense acts of charity and philanthropic work.  Good on her.  However, despite Amma’s golden reputation, my experience at the ashram was slightly overwhelming and blatantly disappointing.  Although I attempted to keep any expectations at bay, that glorious moment where I was hugged by a stranger was marred with a great deal of aggression on behalf of those eager and impatient for their turn, and surprisingly by those who were working/volunteering at the ashram.  In fact, a great number of the staff managed their interactions with the visitors quite poorly, which is a shame because I am sure it has very little to do with the code of conduct at the ashram and more to do with the individual’s inability to exercise self-awareness.   I got the feeling that many a lost soul went to Amma looking for guidance and instead found an outlet in which to escape and repress the trials of everyday life.  It was a floating sea of people wearing hollow smiles whilst feigning everlasting love but then drivelling and losing all semblance of control at the first minute indication of conflict. 

After accepting the reality of this stay I happily made my way further south to the ayruvedic beach town of Kovalam to reacquaint myself with a sorcerer of many trades who I originally met on the ferry from Alleppey. These "chance" encounters that begin as fleeting moments end up building the fabric of internal change and have thankfully established a beautiful recurring pattern during my travels.