Sonic Boom

Monday August 31, 2009

7:22am

Early morning and I rise naturally. To a symphony of exotic sounds which include birds who caw incessantly. Which amongst the lush setting of green leafy trees, banana leaves, palms trees so burdened with coconuts they bend and sway in the monsoon inspired breeze seem to sound more melodious and less cacophonous. Then there are the exotic ones, feathered friends I cannot see but only hear. They emit a sound so foreign and exotic my mind projects long iridescent feathers of bright metallic blue and purple onto their backs and wings… then there are the hissing and clicking of my lizard friends.  All of these creatures seem to be having daylong conferences with themselves and each other.  There is the occasional tooting of a motorbike horn or a rickshaw as the road is shared with children riding bicycles with bells to make themselves known and animals, locals walking either with tattered sandals and many barefoot, male friends with their arms around each others shoulders, something rarely seen in the west unless the two males are gay. There is all this activity, which goes from, mild and mostly timid on the ground to harmonious in the trees until it all climaxes in a rapturous mixture of all the creatures going mad all at once.  All these sounds are supported by my favorite sound of all, the thunderous Arabian Sea crashing against the shores in the background. I’ve decided to look at it as Mother Nature’s alarm clock.

My sleepiness has been coming to me early while here for two days. This surprises me as I don’t do much but cannot say that I’m bored. It is cool and humid then when the sun comes after the morning monsoon rains; it burns and makes me sweat what feel like 3 to 4lbs. daily.

My sleeps haven’t been solid but they do seem to leave me rested. Sleeping in the sequestered zone of mosquito net (endearingly referred to as my  “Princess Bed”) with the constant whirring of an overhead fan blowing is new to me. I can sleep peacefully amongst sirens and random strangers yelling through inebriated states and arguing on the streets below but the tropical accessories still have me adjusting.

The air in Kovalam is moist. So much so that every surface is constantly damp. My papers and the pages of my journal are damp during the day. When I first arrived I took a towel and soaked it in soapy water and washed every surface. Only to have the same sticky film return the next day. I learned a quiet lesson and was humbled. What I assumed was a “dirty room” was merely a room that re-acts to it’s surroundings without the constant care and attention from an army of staff to make it all go away… like at the Leela Resort.

Aaaah… The Leela. How wonderful would it be to end my tenure or spend my 10-day break at The Leela! The place is as beautiful as the name, Leela. It is only through my familiarity with negotiating high-end hotels the world over that I made my successful entry into the compound (and believe me, it is a compound) that is “The Leela”. Heavy with security and uniformed staff and guards at gates I smiled and walked through ever stage with success. Yesterday I wore a white cotton dress that I love from Zara. Yesterday, every Indian man I encountered referred to me as an “Angel”. Even whilst walking along the beach from my side of Kovalam to The Leela all the gang of boys along the beach who troll in groups for foreigners to seduce all make this hissing and clicking sound when I pass, which I found the first day, but yesterday they were silent and just as I passed by in unison they would sing… “Aaaaangellllll”.

 I try and keep a straight face through all of this but sometimes, I just laugh a little to myself and shake my head. It seems wherever you go; the world is obsessed with sex. I’m surprised at how many foreign girls engage the local bad boys along the boardwalk on the beach. They will walk a good long distance in that bullshit banter of the bad boys trying to arrange a hook up and the foreign female saying maybe later or maybe tomorrow. I always wonder, do they really mean maybe or do they mean leave me alone but don’t know how to say it?

Yesterday I ate along the beach at Waves Restaurant, which houses the German Bakery.  Swami Santhi told me about it so I went. There I met my waiter Ramesh,whose photo I've included here.

 Upon leaving he asked me to return for dinner and I said “maybe” and I did mean “maybe” but didn’t go due to meeting Lincoln, from Pennsylvania, who arrived yesterday and is also staying to do the Level 1 & 2 Teacher Training Course (TTC).

Ramesh told me that there was once a very famous (he never stated her name, of course) Indian movie star who came to eat at the restaurant and that she was very beautiful. He then went on to say “You look so much like her, very beautiful too.” I smiled and said “Thank You” as I made my way down to the boardwalk to head back to my home at the Peacock before the rains returned.

This morning, as I sit tip tapping I see Ramesh walking the street below, looking into the compound of the Peacock. I want to say I’m certain this is his regular route to work but I guess I’ll find out as I head there for breakfast. He asked me yesterday how long I’m here for and what I’m doing here and once I mentioned Yoga TTC he said “are you staying at the Peacock?” to which of course I replied “Yes”.

All the while I always wonder what would happen to the little fantasy bubble these young Indian men build around me when they find out I’m a year away from being forty! LOL! My interaction has illuminated me to one very strong realization, aside from my two brothers and my father, I DON’T TAKE INDIAN MEN SERIOUSLY!

Much like Western men who are less than 6’ they simply don’t register on my radar. It’s like they are “background”. I know they exist, I accept they exist, they add colour and texture and drama to life and I almost expect to speak to one as I call to ask for help with my blackberry when it has a technological tantrum or my internet service does everything but provide internet service. Beyond that they are my Uncles, Cousins or the boys I never speak to in Yaletown the odd occasion I do go to Yaletown and in London they seldom to never really look at me and I don’t ever check them out. Aside from this I never engage with them on a serious level. It simply NEVER happens. The only other Indian men I take seriously are Gandhi, Nehru, and now…. Swami Santhi. To me the Indian man who is not my father or brother is the Spiritual Seeker.  Everyone else a supporting role to their journey. It is the simplest yet profound realization. Nothing in my being engages with Indian men as an equal.  I encounter them with a sense of frivolity and just passing time… yet a twinkly eyed Englishman was able to keep me in his grip of so many present moments that it turned into a good two hours while on set and hold my attention to which I surrendered wholeheartedly to answering every single one of his hundreds of questions about me with great detail and honesty. What does this mean? Does it mean anything? Why do we like the people we like? And is it true that the heart wants what the heart wants?

I have my orientation for the TTC today at 3:30 pm. So I’m going to shower and get dressed for my day and head to the Beachfront to have some breakfast before I make a second attempt to upload photos and post my blog and share my life in Kovalam with a select few. Swami Santhi said we would get 90 min. for lunch every day since we are so close to the sea and that the ocean is a powerful source of energy to keep students focused. This being from the original 45 min. This makes me very happy since it means I’ll be able to facilitate regular updates, which are much shorter because they could possibly be… DAILY?

But before all the technological machinations, there is much more important work on the agenda. This work includes me filing my long naked nails down to a pretty little curved squares and painting them the colour of the palest cherry blossom pink.

I am determined to figure out a way to reach spiritual realization and keep the pretty factor in tact. I’m sure my downward dog will be executed which much more grace and ease if I have pretty fire engine red toes and blush pink fingernails to bend towards… after all, inspiration comes in many forms and for me… today… it’s nail polish.

8:19am

 

The Mars Venus Thing ...

Starting to feel the pull of missing The Englishman. Especially when Joy Division or New Order comes to play on my iTunes. What do I call that constant feeling of seeing something my eyes have never seen, smelling something so lush warm, moist and overwhelming that it defines a moment, feeling the breeze through my hair and my soul being swept into the sea, all the while wanting just one solitary person to know exactly what it feels like to be me in this very moment. What is the name for this feeling? Is it LOVE?

And tomorrow I begin the journey of letting go and letting God. This feeling, this attachment, this constant need to share, should I embrace this journey authentically and surrender to the process, the unknown constant wanting will be eradicated from my being, and perhaps, just perhaps, I will know what it truly means to be free.

The idea of this overwhelms me. Mostly because it allows me to recognize how much of my pleasure is derived from pain. That longing that tugging at this place in my body that stems from throat to my heart and to the core of my stomach… this constant longing to be truly understood and witnessed by one person more than any other on this planet, when realized for that flash, is such pleasure. The union and that moment of getting everything you want. Then the inevitable realization that no one other person can ever bring about lasting happiness or peace. That  it actually is all up to me and I am the only person who can place myself in  a place of peace and contentment that is constant. What on earth will I do without my longing and my attachment? What on earth will I do when I realize true Freedom? The thought of it makes me want to burst into tears, because being a prisoner of my pain is a feeling I have come to know so well. It is so much a constant for me that I have no idea what emancipation will feel like.

How many of us live like this? With flashes of happiness? I’m not a gambling woman but I bet the odds are very high indeed.  My life has been filled with a journey that has led me here. And how perfect that it comes to me through LOVE. A Love that is based in freedom and not in conditions, contracts and contradictions.

I have been handed the perfect hand to fulfill my destiny and become the woman I feel I was always meant to be and more importantly, the woman I want to be. One who is free of suffering and able to feel my pain and pleasure with a gratitude and not make it become who I am. I have come to Kovalam in Kerala to live along the Arabian sea in Monsoon season, to witness the death of my ego and the rebirth of my authentic self.

I am a lost being. Comfortable tip tapping on my computer. I don’t want to be pretentious and think I know that listening to a guided meditation or playing my Indiano classical music will eradicate the overwhelming missing of someone I love.  Part of this  journey is like being a junkie who has been placed into  rehab. Having little to no contact. Studying, feeling all my feelings and focusing not on engaging or creating magic with a man with who I cannot be with or my family who is a constant source of comfort to me by virtue of familiarity. Whether it be through laughter or tears, there comes a knowingness when inside myself I know there is a group of heartbeats that I belong to. My friends, who through the world of email, facebook or bbm are moving further into the technological recesses of cyber space.  I imagine what it would be like to walk through these mud puddle paths with my most well heeled gang of girls… who would giggle and who would gag. This is called the third world but no one here would ever think they are without. No one that I have met anyways… from the truly sincere souls that have chosen not to fall into the Kovalam version of the Douche Bag life of salacious scams along the sandy shores there is a wonderful witnessing of consciousness in humanity. The need to help a genuine desire to want to make life easier for a Mermaid like me along the shores of a foreign shore.

Then the inevitable happens, I watch the same men who have gone out of their way to assist me in obtaining my Indian sim card with local phone number, a restaurant to eat at which is safe and hygienic, find my way to the beachfront without getting lost in the backwater maze of Kovalam… I watch these same men in their gentle and patient way try and tell the latest foreigner to arrive her way to the beach. A foreigner who is heavier set, openly graying (unlike mine that are creeping to the surface but still well enough hidden under the home dye job pre Barcelona from a fortnight ago) and dressed like  she’s been coming here for years, with the hippy slouch bag in bright purple over one shoulder that doesn’t lift but most definitely separates her well endowed bosom, hair pulled back in a messy stringy pony tail, Thai fisherman style pants and Birkenstocks. I witness from my top floor corner suite balcony how this woman, in need of the same guidance is shown the way around with hand gestures and left to find her own way through the windy muddy hot and sticky back roads of Kovalam. She looks like she can most definitely hold her own… but it begs to ask the question: Is Youth & Beauty a currency the world over?

It has long been proven beyond any shadow of a doubt that people like to help people who are more attractive in their eyes without hesitation. So then, what is the X Factor of Beauty?  What is my X Factor in Kovalam?

In India, I am a foreigner to Indians and an Indian in the eyes of the foreigner. It’s like being in a slipstream. Of which I’m sure there are advantages, none of which I have identified, yet. So far, it’s been a bit like being an exotic bird on loan from one zoo to another. People look, some look pleased, some look confused, some curious to the point of wanting to make eye contact , and some, often men and at times children and always… dogs… to come up and touch me.

Of course when I find myself in this situation amongst unsavoury men along the boardwalk of the beachfront who seem to always use the same line, asking me whether I like Massage (inside voice YES!!!) outside voice “No, thank you” and then it’s followed with “Where are you staying? Why don’t you come up and have a look at my room? It’s very nice…” (inside voice “FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE!”) outside voice, “No, thank you”…

This is my first trip alone to India, so I won’t be Miss too-cool-for-school and say that having such intense attention every step I take of each day isn’t unnerving, but I will say that I realize now that it is up to me to decide how I react to this.

So, along with bringing demure not so attention grabbing clothing coupled with the most sensible stash of underthings I’ve ever packed in my entire adult life, I have equipped myself with an equal dose of grace and girl power. And so far, not much has happened. So much of our experience is in our attitude. When I first visited India at age 19 with a very white skinned blue eyed boyfriend, I was volatile and my experiences reflected as much. Much of my volatility came from my sheer disgust that an entire nation of people could actually choose to live in this manner of squalor and heat and what I saw as backward deprivation. It was a testament to my ignorance as I lived my life in the cozy suburb of Coquitlam with my birth family and the privileged existence of experiencing London and the UK with Aunty Sarla and the world she opened up to me. A world where I was encouraged to explore my personal tastes away from North American trends and encouraged to be independent and travel and pursue my education. All wonderful influences from two homes, but void of any contact with what it truly means to be impoverished or how people who have much less privilege of personal space, personal freedom, personal time could ever be happy being handed down choices that are more in line with lineage than living as an individual.

My first trip to India I desperately wanted to be viewed as an Indian. And was outraged that Indians in India were very forthright in telling me that although I had a very Indian name in “Sima Kumar” and that although I looked Indian, I most definitely was not an Indian. It was a lesson that took me YEARS to learn…

Now I arrive on a solitary journey, with the recognition that I am of Indian descent, but not an Indian in the eyes of India. This simple acceptance of who I am in this country has made my introduction to the place and its people very peaceful.

What’s the lesson? Be Yourself. I am Sima, a Canadian girl with an English heart and Indian blood.

 

A Journey of a Thousand Miles Begins With a Single Step...

For Me... that step was to say the word "Yes".

I'm living in a seaside town called Kovalam on the Arabian Sea. Situated in Southern India in the state of Kerala. For nearly 3 months I will be studying in depth the age old science of Yoga, meaning Unity.

Here is how my journey to India began, in the most practical terms, of travel and observation:

August 30, 2009

3:26am

Up & wide awake in #302 at the Hotel Peacock in Kovalam. This room will be my “home” for the next two and half months. I have already, re-arranged the furniture so it is more “me”. Therefore it isn’t as “functional” but has a feeling of hominess.

I arrived via Dubai last night. Left Vancouver on Thursday morning and missed all of Friday in the process. Vancouver to San Fransisco was uneventful. Mrs. K as I shall endearingly refer to Mum, took the day off and went through check in with me. This was fun and heartwarming. It was also welcome due to the extremely late night before. The Aussie check in clerk at United gave me an upgrade when all I did was ask for a window seat. He never mentioned it but I noticed when I saw my seat number had been re-allocated to 8F.

The United cabin crew were stroppy. They looked to go through their duties begrudgingly and left me wondering why on earth this group of people would want to enter the world of customer service in the air with such an obvious disdain for it.

Landing in San Fransisco I made my way to the International departure lounge. After standing behind a 40-something Middle Eastern man dressed in that very particular strain of “douche-bag” that reads “Ed Hardy” but isn’t Ed Hardy (fitted graphic tee, bad designer jeans with embellished pockets and stealth Puma style trainers to slip n’ slide around the track known as the “Douche Bag Express” in…)

He tried for an upgrade from economy to first class to be told very nicely and with great decorum the set price is $15000.00 USD and informed the payment options. At the shock/horror of this price he downgraded his request and himself with “Can you tell if there is anything available in Business Class, Sweetheart?”

The young girl smiled and said “Yes, many options for a price of $5000.00 USD, how would you like to pay?”

He went on some long protracted story about travelling with his brother so needing two seats and being armed with umpteen million frequent flyer points and went off to conference with nearly identical “douche bag” brother but not before stating “I’ll be right sweetie, hold our place in the line”…

Which is where I stepped up for my turn at the desk. All I had to do was change my United boarding pass to an Emirates one and request a window seat. While looking into my query and re-issuing my boarding pass I asked “does it ever annoy you when men you don’t know speak to you with the references of “sweetheart” & “sweetie”? “ She said it happens a lot and depending on the day it bugs her more or less but seemed to be “part of the job”. I responded with “Don’t worry, I won’t call you Sweetheart or Sweetie but would really like to secure a window seat.” She smiled and asked “Are you travelling alone?” To which of course I responded “Yes, alone.”

Josephina, as her name tag stated then said “I’m going to upgrade you to a window seat in Business Class and put you in a seat where no one is booked beside you, would that work?” I smiled and said “Thank you so much, that will work perfectly.”

I took my place in the departure lounge and tip-tapped out my “Top 5 Top to Toe Must Haves for Back-to-School” for the Girls By Design Newsletter and sent it off to Jenn at GBD charged my BB and Mactop and celebrated by enjoying a bag of flavored jelly beans.

I boarded and laughed out loud when I saw my home for the next 15 hours. Snapped a photo on my BB and posted it to Facebook. Later during the flight I took a stroll the length of the aircraft to stretch my legs and saw the “Brothers Douche Bag” were seated at opposite ends of each other in the middle section of economy. The flight was very empty due to Ramadan.

Lesson #1: Don't objectify people. If you're going to call someone "sweetheart", especially a smart girl who could alter your sky high experience, be sure she IS in fact, your sweetheart.

I arrived in Dubai to 37c at 8:30pm with prayers being projected through speakers in the airport. The best part of being in transit in Dubai was the conversation I had with a young woman, perhaps in her early 20's who was working the security screening. As I handed over my carry on she asks me "Are you a nerd? Because those glasses are NERDY!" Me: "I definitely have some nerd in me." Security Girl: "Really, because you don't dress like a nerd, but those glasses make you look SO nerdy!" Me (smiling): "I for sure have a nerd streak in me." SG: a look of total confusion as to why someone would choose to wear nerdy glasses as my Mrs. K gifted Coco Chanel vintage frames. Me: smiling at her uncensored honesty.

Then I board with the regular folk my Emirates flight to Trivandrum. Am seated next to a man named Suresh who turns out to be a guardian angel of sorts as he stays with me and helps me locate Bijoy, my contact and pick up from the Peacock Hotel. I had no idea that landing at 4:00am would mean THOUSANDS (really!) of family members would be waiting for a loved one outside. It was, overwhelming and heartwarming all at once.

I arrive with feet so swollen my ankles have all but disappeared and I look like a girl with fat feet. Puffy and swollen and curious about my new home...