Between the Air and the Stillness

Red Kathakali

We swerve on the back of a yellow and black auto-rickshaw around palm-tree'd alley streets and catch glaring blue glimpses of the Arabian Sea. Varkala peeks over the edge of a red rock cliff at the Sea who spreads below for as far as the eye can see, life-sustaining blue jewel creature caressing the western hip of India. It's a town pinched between desperate development for a growing tourist demand, and the marching red of Communist Party flags. Lush agricultural Kerala is readying itself for the coming elections.

Kerala is well known as one of the most progressive states in the Indian subcontinent. It was in this state that social reformer Sri Narayana Guru emerged. Between 1888 and 1928, Narayana Guru transformed the social fabric of Kerala. To overcome the Brahmin hegemony, he began to consecrate temples where all were welcome. One of these temples is still visited by devotees on the hill of Sivagiri, a twenty minute walk from Varkala. Narayana Guru paved the way for a gradual cultural revolution that eventually led to the first ever democratically elected Communist Party in 1957. The Communist Party won the hearts of the majority of Malayalees who were, and still are, farmers.

Every evening as the sun sets over the great expanse of Sea in Varkala, the mysterious sound of drums drift on the breeze from the palm groves. As I'm walking along the cliff one day, a man hadns me a flyer that says, "Kathakali. every night. Please come and enjoy Kerala culture." The flyer shows the silhouette of inky blue dancers wearing large skirts and huge hats.

It was the rich heritage of performance art in Kerala that succeeded in popularizing communism. In 1952, a dramatic group known as KPAC (Kayangulam People's Arts Club) in Kayangulam, Kerala was formed. This traveling troupe brought dramas and songs to villages and farms around Kerala to spread the values of communism, equality especially concerning land ownership issues. Malayalees quickly became educated as to the injustices that they were facing as members of the peasant caste. When the Communist Party was elected, one of their priorities was education. Today, Kerala has the highest literacy rate in India.

I enter a dimly lit tent which has the words "Varkala Cultural Centre" written in marker on the outside tarp. Inside there are about 20 folding metal chairs placed in neat lines, and atop an ankle-high dirt stage, two men are lying shirtless as two others paint their faces. The hero, or 'paccha', with avocado-green face paint, goes through a lengthy and delicate process of gluing a white sheet of paper along his jaw-line to suggest nobility and purity of spirit. The face of 'katti', or the demoness of the story, is painted with red and black. both actors put a quarter of a roasted ayurvedic seed into their eyes to redden them for the performance.

The buzzing gold lights shudder and the room is silent except for the sound of the occasional mosquito. The make-up itself takes an hour. When they are done, they stand to be costumed. A rope is fastened to their wastes and as the actors spin, the rope held taut by another, plastic burlap sacks are folded over the rope and squashed against the actor's hip, making a huge tutu of rice sacks. A dress is draped over this tutu and lots of fake gold and silver jewelry is attached to ankles, wrists, necks. Each actor gets a huge colorful hat of varying shape, depending on the archetype that they are depicting.

Kathakali was traditionally an art form only performed in the temples in Kerala, for the priests and royalty. Narayana Guru demanded that the art be released to the other castes. This became possible state-wide when in 1936, Sri Thirunal Maharaja of Travancore made the historical Temple Entry Proclamation, opening the temples of Travancore for all Hindus irrespective of caste. Today, everyone can attend the all-night Kathakali performances in all Hindu temples, except for women during their menstruation cycle.

When the actors are ready, the percussionists begin to play their Chenda, Idakka and Shuddha madalam drums. The actors jump and dance their way onto stage and all spoken language vanishes. This is a performance using only the ancient and sacred mudras, or hand gestures which, depending on their context, symbolize different words and concepts. Each actor learns approximately 500 mudras during their 15 years of training.

The evening spins on, mixing incense, mosquito slaps and mind-spinning percussion. I am attending the performance of a story from the Mahabharata. A demoness falls in love with a prince and disguises herself as a beautiful woman, asking him to marry her. When he refuses, she reveals her identity and a vigorous battle ensues, leaving the demoness defeated by the prince. Both parts in this performance are played by men, which is traditional in Kathakali, although there are a number of new Kathakali troupes which consist of all-female casts.

There are sections of the performance that I cannot understand. Whole conversations are carried out by the actors using the mudras. The Malayalees in the audience roar with laughter at times when I am wishing I could read the story unfolding before me. Nevertheless, the skill of the actors in emoting the story through their bodies and facial expressions allows me to follow, and there are times when I am howling along with the audience. I walk out into the sea-breezed, moonlit night when the performance is over, rejuvenated by the evening. I am enchanted by a taste of this ancient language, and inspired by the revolutionary spirit of the Varkala community.

December 14

Varkala.

Palm trees curve themselves over the red cliffs here - leaning out towards that magnificent expanse of silvery blue, the Arabian Sea! Their branches like the limp wet wings of some strange giant bird that might take off in some green wooshing flight towards the mystery of an Indian horizon. I imagine them hanging like hair stuck to shoulders during the monsoons - coconuts crashing on the red rocks below like water baloons filled with milk - pop!

December 11

Trivandrum Mail, sleeper car.

Dim golden light in blue sleeper car. Dark south Indian men dressed all in black with gold and red bindi, non-blinking third eye. Black lungis with gold rim embroidery, chanting ceremony. Bright eyes sparkling in dim golden light - sprinkled with the delicate yellow of petals from gifted garlands, loved ones wishing them well as they depart for their pilgrimage. Holy Trivandrum Mail journey - the cars are strung on the outside with gold carnation garlands. "We're in a blessed car" Ries whispers to me.

Open air train, lovely warm night - Tamil Nadu to Kerala, 16 hours.

We need somehow to balance the world out. Population, environment, economy, everything is tipping out of balance. In the U.S., everyone takes half-hour hot showers every day. Here you're lucky if you can get a bucket of cold water without it being contaminated, or even without having to walk miles.

How do we balance the extremes? Kids who watch 8 hours of TV daily and only know the song of the sparrow, pigeon, and crow, who have never climbed a tree or ran their fingers along fields of wheat?

Power of money cannot grasp hearts, only grabs hold of heads and shakes them until they're scrambled and confused. Gandhi had a hold of hearts. He was able to dispel his ego until he saw himself and his body as a tool for India, for generations to come - Boddhisatva.

December 11

Auroville is HUGE. Its impossible to get around without a moped or a car, or a LOT of time. We're staying at the Center Guest House which has a huge Banyan tree in the courtyard. I think its the first time I've seen a Banyan tree - they are amazing things. With their long tap roots reaching down towards the earth from the long branches, like hair.

We borrowed bikes and rode to Matrimandir (a golden dome at the heart of Auroville). They're still working on the dome which was cool because we could look at the enormous gold disks that they're attaching to the dome. They're made of gold-flake tiles. One has to question how much such a project costs. This community supposedly does a lot of community outreach, but apparently its very expensive to live here, which would disclude the local population. And then this huge gold building in the center of it, hmmmm...

We went inside and there was a ramp circling up the dome to a room at the top. Signs that said, "Silence"all the way up. When we reached the top, we were met by a woman sitting next to a box of white socks. She put her finger up to her lips, "shhh" and handed us socks to put on (we had left our shoes at the door). Then she opened a door to her right and gestured for us to enter. I was almost knocked over at what I saw - a stark white white white cylindrical room with a ceiling about 100ft up. There were about 10 huge tall pillars in a circle near the center of the room. The floor was padded with white cloth. People were meditating in a huge circle around the outside of the ring of pillars and in the very center of the room was a HUGE crystal ball (said to be the largest in the world). It felt as if the crystal ball had a consciousness all to itself. Strange.

Auroville is in beautiful nature. We heard the strangest birds singing all night long. Beautiful haunting songs all around us. It was also pitch pitch pitch black as soon as night came, due to their conservation of energy. I would like to learn more about Auroville, I feel I judge it too quickly. We visited the health center where they help many of the local population every day for free. While we were there we must have seen about 7 injuries, all resulting from farming.

December 7

This morning we got on a local bus and waved good-bye to bill-boarded Chennai. The ride was fun - jasmine insence billowing sweet sleepy smoke across the sunny open-air seats as we rushed south past bannana stores, motorcycle repair shops, shops and shops and shops, selling everything imagineable, everyone hustles in India. South south, colors, patterns and textures I've never seen anywhere ever before. The city starts to fade and turns into the lush countryside of Southern India, palm trees and mud hut villages. Two hours and we finally catch a glimpse of the Bay of Bengal - instant mind expanse into long heart sigh of relief (phuuuuuu----). And into the busy little market street of Mamallapuram.

Mamallapuram is famous for its sculpting. Stone masons bled their fingers on hot rock as far back as the 5th to 8th centuries during the rule of the Pallava kingsof Kanchipuram. Today you still walk through alleys and alleys full of the k'chink k'chink of hundreds of sculptors at work chipping away at grey granite rock to create beautiful deities, elephants, dancers, buddhas, all types of beings emmerge all around you straight out of the ground atop of which the artists dance. The pathways are made of the chips of the sculptors that came for millenia before those still working today. Theres nothing like it, the energy is incredible, its a town of pure creativity.

There are great rock temples in the cliffs that pinch the town against the Bay, great black rock on which sculptors once carved life-size parades of elephants and royalty 1,500 years ago.

There are beach cows! The beach is tan and warm, the Bay is vital. We ate grilled masala coconut fish tonight.

(next day)

We woke up at 6am to watch the sunrise over the ocean. It was so beautiful! Theres nothing more refreshing than welcoming the day with your toes in a warm lacy ocean. I saw a beach calf playing with a dog! They were chasing each other up and down the beach. I wish I could stay here longer.

December 6

Chennai smells of strain. Strained hearts, strained patience, strained ears and emotions. The strain of desperate development, of rushed pollution and an onslaught of advertisement. Our room smells of decades-old must, and the auto driver downstairs told us a joke through his betel-stained teeth that made me want to punch the patriarchal system right in its balls. He said, "WIFE - W-I-F-E, stands for 'Wonderful Instrument For Enjoyment' harhaar".

Chennai is all mammoth billboards of gigantic sari'd and gold-jewelried women hovering over shanty huts full of starving children and foul water. Bumble-bee autos zip back and forth across the city. Haven't seen much of it but the elaborate state Bank of India's height-of-colonialism architecture and its no-so-magnificent modern counterpart, Thomas Cook, where we exchanged dollar to rupee.

The break of dawn all rush of emerald turquois,
grey and greens hushed in our train window misty and cold
while inside, the primacy of sleep surrounds us,
nestled in paisley'd berths
and the breath of a little boy -
the privacy of darkness welcoming
our morning arrival into Chennai

December 5

Now we're sitting at the Sevagram Train station, surrounded by maybe 10 young men who are very friendly, very curious, talking with Ries, they're all bursting into laughter - lots of positive energy.

We left Gandhi's ashram a few hours ago. We got violently ill from cherries that we bought on the street (it was bound to happen eventually).

The ashram was beautiful. In the evening we joined the community for evening prayers - sitting on the same long strips of red and purple cotton, on the same gravel ground where Gandhi once sat and led the prayers. Sitar and bells as the sun set, the prayers of many different religions were sung, one after the other.

The residents still live a life dedicated to Gandhi's ideals. The food is simple and grown on the grounds, electricity use is minimal, they spin their own clothes and take turns cooking (as well as other responsibilities). Their life-style is sustainable, using ash instead of detergent, for example, to wash their dishes.

After we went to bed, I started having stomach pains and I was sick throughout the night. The next day I was still violently ill but I wanted to join in for the community work at 6:30. I crawled out of our guest room and onto the silent dawn-blue ashram grounds. A resident greeted me with a tin cup of hot lemon water. When I finished, I thanked her with a smile and asked, "what can I do?" She said, "You will sweep Bapu's hut". I caught my breath in gratitude. I slipped off my shoes at the entrance of Gandhi's simple mud hut and shuddered at the exhilerating coolness of the floor as I tip-toed into the humble, empty rooms where the Mahatma once lived. "What a privilege" I whispered to myself, and silently thanked every wall, every inch of floor, every window, as I carefully cleaned the hut still full of the ghosts of spiritual revolution.

December 2

Today was a fantastic day. We woke up early, had breakfast, then got on a cycle rickshaw to find Ries' friend Sasa's guru's math and mission - the Sri Chaytanya Saraswat Math & Mission. Our rickshaw driver stopped at the Seva Kunja just down the road. It is said that every night when no one is in the temple, Krisna & Rada come to play and lie on a bed of flowers that the devotees put out for them. There are lots of monkeys and ancient stone slabs carved with Sanskrit (wish I could read what it said!) tile the crooked walkways. A really peaceful place. A young boy, Amit, gave us a nice tour and we had darshan at the alter where they gave us yellow bindis.

Then we went to the Sri Chaytanya Mat where a devotee (we both forget his name) was standing there at the gate, almost as if he were waiting for us, and greeted us.He then showed us around the Math and asked us to join him for the afternoon. There was a Russian film crew of 3 there making a video for Krisna devotees in Russia. We took a walk around Vrindavan with them, the devotee who invited us and an older man, a Swami with a staff (which symbolizes that he has taken all the vows possible by Krisna devotees). Whenever we ran into devotees on the street as we walked, they would take their shoes off and touch their heads to the ground at the feet of this great being.

It was a beautiful warm day and the presence of the people we were with made Vrindavan seem smaller and made it so much more accessible, I felt safe and comfortable. Vrindavan is so beautiful. It is ancient, medieval almost - with winding colorful streets lined with gutters, filled with life - monkeys, humans, dogs, pigs and cows, all crowded into these story-book streets. We even saw a camel! Like a dream, I looked down an alley as we were passing, and saw a huge camel pulling a cart of food. At one point an old woman sitting on the side of the road was pointed out to us, "she is 136 years old" the devotee said, matter-of-factly. White, turquois, yellow, and pink doorways that crumbled into the deep umber of the streets.

Of course, its not all beautiful. Its still hard to get used to the open sewage and garbage and decrepit roads, but every street, every face here is so alive - existing in the grime as well as the feast of life. After our afternoon walk, we went back to the Math and joined them for prasadam.

December 1

The first day of our 27-day journey around India. Ries arrived in Delhi two nights ago. We woke up, had breakfast downstairs with the Devis, went to Khan market and had coffee at the Turtle. We also bought some books at Full Circle. We had some suits made for Ries by Mr. Devi's tailor. We picked out beautiful chocolate brown and navy blue with pin-stripes material at Khan market and left it with Mr. Singh, the neighborhood tailor. Three professionals with measuring tape and chalk fussed over Ries and modified the design of the sample he had brought. Afterwards we sat with the Devis on their sunny winter veranda and had a drink, after which we joined them for lunch. There was such a warm glow surrounding the four of us during that meal - I'm really going to miss Uncle and the conversations with him, always pointing back to Lord Krishna, "Everything that I have is all a blessing from Lord Krishna".

After lunch we went to the office (WFS) where a going-away party had been organized for me by the women. We had cakes and they presented me with a beautiful black shawl with red embrodered borders. They asked me to make a speech so I thanked each of them for opening up to me in their own way. Ravi's son Rahul arrived to take us to see Ravi so we all went to the terrace where Ries took group photos of us and I gave each of my sisters a hug, still unbelieving that I may never see some of them again.

Then the long car ride North to Delhi University. We could only stay at Ravi's for a short while but it was so nice to see them again. The we took the cold and smoggy one and a half hour ride donw south to C.R. Park to visit Ajitha at her apartment. She is one of the women at WFS whom I would have liked to have spent more time with. Her liberal politics and intelligence are comfortable and we very much enjoyed her company. After about an hour, Ries started to crash and crumble from the weight of his jet-lag...and the whiskey. Ajitha and I exchanged books and hugs and left to go home to the Devis. We had a quick drink with them before going to our room to pack and sleep. We got on the train to Mathura at 7:15 this morning.

Now we're in Vrindavan, at the International Krishna Consciousness (ISKCON) temple complex. I'm writing this in our room at the guest house which is right in the temple and Rie is at a class on the Bhagavad Gita. The ISKCON temple is beautiful. White marble buildings with a black and white checkered floor. There are marble animals - elephant heads, peacocks, swans, pigeons, built into the architecture. Upstairs theres a gallery full of huge black and white photographs of Shrila Prabhupada, the founder of ISKCON. The walls of the main temple (which is an indoor courtyard) are covered with colorful murals depicting Krishna's life, the grounds have lots of dark pink flowering trees, and the male devotees (renunciants) wear peach pink clothes and have shaved heads except for a pony tail on the top part of the back of their heads. There are devotees from all around the world here. Not very many women, but some, they wear all white.

Outside the temple grounds are shops selling garlands and lassis, big white wandering cows and beggar children with red hair from malnutrition. Every evening at 7pm, the temple is open to all and food is served to everyone who comes.