Happy Sankaranti!(Shankranti)
All the cows seemed to have vanished, the streets are quiet, few people around, its the Harvest Holiday, a new year. Much of the festivities take place in the fields or other wise in the homes, drinking Badam Milk (almond and cow milk) and eating Pongal a specialty dish for the holiday made of mushy grains and beans (Kitchari like) in two variations, sweet and spicy.
Efrat volunteers to take me to the cow area. Its not far from where I live, we walk passed the Mandala house where I study, cross double road, named thus since it has a big, black and yellow metal fence dividing it into two equals, and down the street I can already see a cow tied to the fence of a large park. Mysore has parks galore, some small and some large, most with walking paths and benches, coconut trees, lots of plants and a fence to guard it so that no one but humans can go in, part of Mysore’s charm.
We walk towards the cow that is painted yellow in all the spots that are not dark. To our left appears another street with three sheep, a young cow and a calf, all colored yellow. My lips stretch to my ears, a bit surreal, but then again India always is a bit like a movie set, with its own orderly chaos and plenty of dotted beauties, like Bindis on a young girls forehead.
After a while using my camera, I decided that today is a good day to stretch its buttons and twist its focus ring. It was a great feeling of liberty to just walk around without the need to capture, to hold on to the visuals in a permanent form (temporary permanence really), seeing at the present moment with nothing as a barrier between reality and me. Today is a holiday, and as part of the celebration all the cows are painted yellow, turmeric is the color, so it is all natural, healthy, anti-inflammatory and strength giving. It is a great day to share my love to this beautiful animal, in its beautified form of yellow and red painted horns, sometimes with sparkles, sometimes with an Ohm painted on its rear. The camera, when used as part of the celebration, as a means of communication rather that greed, can be an enhancer of reality. It was like that on my trip to Cuba where I only had a 24mm wide angel lens, forcing me to really make contact with the people, to be part of the photo without being in it, a project I started back when I took photos of my parents, creating a triangle of emotion with out me being visually in the frame. I now have a 24-105 zoom, but this still does not allow me to hide and reach far with my zoom to capture an unaware soul, I still am in the midst of life, and with digital even more so. The kids ran up to me and asked me to take photos of them with their cow, or of their little sister, or aunt eating in the window, and then they would want to look at my little screen, to see themselves appear like magic on my magic screen. Their eyes bright with joy, open hearted and wanting to share, their moms inviting us in to eat, “please, you come inside”, when I refused gently, they would run out with a little bag of sweets, like trick or treat, sharing their blessings. Stepping over cow poop, passing by dried cow dong drying on the wall as it will be used for fire later, another cow, being painted goats horns on its forehead with red and gold glitter, little girls dressed in their fanciest cloths, with beautiful dresses of bright colors, sequence and shiny materials offering translucent material covering their arms, lots of colorful shiny bangles singing along with their anklets as they walk. Kids dragged us from one street to the next, “come see my cow”, “this is my house, please come in”, “my uncle”, or any other declarations, wanting to share, feeling pride of connecting with us fortunate foreigners.
In the evening after walking around the lake and seeing the sunset, with the left shin hurting form all the walking, feeling tired, yet hydrated with fresh coconut water, Lauren, Efrat and myself, returned to the cow area, as at night they take the cows to jump over fire. Some of the afternoon kids find us and lead us around. We end up going into one of the homes, drinking some fresh Badam milk, and I mean fresh. The first floor hosts the cows and some sheep, we enter the door, skip the urine, leave our sandals below on the nice tiled steps but not too close to the sheep that want to chew on it, and go up stairs. Downstairs the lighting was tungsten yellow, pale, contrasted with the living room that shone with bright greenish neon lights turning neutral with the light yellow paint on the wall, mostly bare, as was the room apart from a TV and a few plastic chairs. Some huge metal pots containing fresh milk stood in the hallway, one of them being heated (to drink or to clean bacteria?). We are offered seats and some food. We get plates with yummy Pongal. Some hesitation as of for the raw milk from my friends, but I dive right into it, loving the idea of fresh raw milk, a slight after taste of grass.
Load music came from outside, ”dancing, dancing, please you come”, offered the young man that until now was just standing and watching us eat, as if it were a rare view (and maybe it was). We took to the balcony watching the young kids dancing in the street. Cows near by, cow poop on the side, a bright light illuminating so the one video camera in the neighborhood could document the beautiful kids with their marvelous outfits dancing some Bollywood moves. Before long we are down on the street shaking and moving as well, the girls really, I was still finishing my Badam milk, and holding my bit too large of a camera.
We continued along to see some fire hopping. It turns to be some burning hay on the street with a man dragging the cows though it. There sure was fire, yellow cows and even a man going through it, though maybe not so much of any big hopping. The cows went back and forth a few times, there was something really amazing about this, though the cows as holy as they are were not very respected of their own wills.
The cows are holy as long as they provide he precious milk. They are mostly not eaten, though secretly some, like my landlord will admit “it gives great strength to eat a cow, as long as you do not eat pigs, witch will turn you into an evil man.”
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Monday, January 3, 2011
Mysore into the New Year
Landing at 11:30am in Bangalore after three flights, immigration and luggage, then getting into a taxi for 3 hours more. A bit tiring, but considering how crazy Bangalore traffic is during the day, we were happy to be in a cool night (freezing really for what we were wearing), and ride smoothly to Mysore. Elena, my sweet Italian friend, put us up for the night. We just changed shifts. She wakes up at 2:15am to warm up her spine, before she goes to the Shala to practice; we got there at 3:30am, and crashed like babies.
We woke up as she returned from practice, had a fantastic breakfast, got filled up on some of the happenings in Mysore, and borrowed her scooter to go search for a place to stay as well as practice.
It was a big step to move from my comfort zone and friend circle of Gukulam, and dive into Lakshmi Puram, the older part of town, or sometimes known as the real Indian as it is not as wealthy and set up for the westerners coming to practice with Sharat. There are a few of BNS Iyengar (not to be confused with BKS Iyengar) students teaching around here, and they all teach Ashtanga similar to Pattabhi Jois. Since our new pad is right near the Mandala house, we decided to give Cidanada a try. On my last visit here, I practiced with Sheshadri in the same place, now he has grown to having his own shala. I was pleasantly surprised with Cidanada. Nice calm beginning with chanting between every sun salute, a small class with lots of attention, strong adjustments yet with lots of care. BNS Iyengar still teaches pranayama, philosophy and mudra, at the Mandala house, so I was very happy for the opportunity to study with this 85-year-old man, a student of Krishnamacharya, and a character indeed. Mostly shaved head, though it has stubble as if it is shaved only once a month, with a large patch of salt and pepper hair left on the back, a red line climbing from his third eye up on his forehead for a good inch and a half, and a thick white heavy textured elongated half circle encasing it from the bottom like a deep cup holding a red stem. He wears glasses and looks at you from above the glasses as they rest low on his nose. He wears the traditional white longhi wrapped around his waist with a long Indian style cream or white shirt, with three buttons and a small Chinese like color, with one pocket on the left side, hanging over his medium sized belly. He enters the shala with his faded turquoise three quarter helmet, takes off his worn flip-flops and moves about barefoot, in slow motion. He has a similar accent to the one I remember of Pattabhi Jois; Yeit – meaning eight and a bit of singing to his sentences.
After so many pranayama coursed I have taken I am still enjoying this one, as the study is very gradual, similar to the Mysore style, one completes a pose and gets the next one, also here, when completed with a pranayama exercise, one receives the next. And do not think of this as breathing exercise, “That is respiration” Iyengar would say, Pranayama has a whole different purpose. I look forward to sharing this in my classes and workshops ahead.
Mysore changes some, but what really is new every time, is the experiences, no matter how much the same a place may look, it never is the same, as the Indians would say “same same, little different”. Experiences are of India but also of meeting other travelers, people from around the world, observing their perspective of a new place, sharing a discussion about Israel, conflicts and finding peace, learning about the yoga scene around the world, or about life as a South Korean Zen monk. Meeting an Israeli couple traveling with their three and five year olds, finding an American in his 60’s that left the US behind and now lives here. It is the little stories, the endless firecrackers on New Years Eve, the father on his scooter stopping by to wish Happy New Year as his son smiles staring at my Keen sandals, The rickshaw that would not start, and had to be rolled down the hill, kicked into second and jump started, so it can roll us through the bumpy roads to Gokulam, to have lunch at Elena’s and friends. A young women in jeans and a pretty tight T shirt showing her healthy appetite around the waist holding her tan Labrador cub, sits on the ledge of the temple square near the market hiding behind her fathers small SUV, waiting for him to return from the market. I smile and pet her shiny fur dog, an older Indian man comes to play with the dog, but obviously knows he is not allowed to touch it, so just plays from afar, casts and hierarchies are still very visible. We engage in conversation about the need to work in Bangalore and what it means, the great city and it being so over populated, she is the new middle class generation; the ones we see coming out of really nice villas planted amongst the older homes and buildings. A daughter of a doctor I project.
At the restaurant, enjoying the Indian food, Dosas and Idlis, the Thali meals, we sit in front of a man and woman, she is wearing a sari, black hair oiled and pulled back tightly, wearing a big nose ring. Him, wearing western like polyester pants and a light color dress shirt, having red color spread with a finger up his forehead tells me the importance of eating with the hands “Food tastes better you see, feeling the food, there is a connection”. They are lawyers and come the Mahesh Prasad a lot, “it is the best restaurant in the area,” she tells me. We speak of tradition, of the great necklace she wears to show the world she is married, the toe rings a married woman wears to stimulate her uterus, and that she needs not do yoga since she still squats to wash cloths in the bucket, washes dishes by hand, climbs the stairs, and in general uses very little machines. “The traditional life style takes care of me,” she says with a big smile and shiny black eyes.
Life in Mysore has its own pace, and I am greatly enjoying it. Even though much of life here has beautiful picture moments, I did not take out my camera yet. Maybe because I have been here many times before, it now feels like home, and thus I just smile at these moments, taking them in, but not recording them in pixels.
The street, the flavors are all part of one big live canvas, the amazing papayas that don’t even need extra lime to make them taste good, the walk through the colorful market, the intense smell of incense and flowers threaded together as necklaces, sold on the street or worn as ornaments on the ladies’ hair, blended with intense sweat coming off a group of men in line to make photocopies, dust and rickshaw pollution, smiling faces nodding their head from side to side, greeting hello, the colorful saris wrapping full bodied women, the smell of spices riding up the steam of milk from the small tea cups, the fruit carts on the side of the streets, the back and yellow rickshaws waiting at every corner to take you to your desired destination, and the cows.
No wonder the cows are holy, they symbolize the patience and endurance of life here. They go about slowly, eating around all that they find, sometimes being touched for a blessing, sometimes hit to move out of the way, and they, in their very nonchalant way, just move about, never getting angry, not violent, just surrendering to what life has offered them, grazing on the fields in front of them with no aspiration to become a cow of the Alps.
We woke up as she returned from practice, had a fantastic breakfast, got filled up on some of the happenings in Mysore, and borrowed her scooter to go search for a place to stay as well as practice.
It was a big step to move from my comfort zone and friend circle of Gukulam, and dive into Lakshmi Puram, the older part of town, or sometimes known as the real Indian as it is not as wealthy and set up for the westerners coming to practice with Sharat. There are a few of BNS Iyengar (not to be confused with BKS Iyengar) students teaching around here, and they all teach Ashtanga similar to Pattabhi Jois. Since our new pad is right near the Mandala house, we decided to give Cidanada a try. On my last visit here, I practiced with Sheshadri in the same place, now he has grown to having his own shala. I was pleasantly surprised with Cidanada. Nice calm beginning with chanting between every sun salute, a small class with lots of attention, strong adjustments yet with lots of care. BNS Iyengar still teaches pranayama, philosophy and mudra, at the Mandala house, so I was very happy for the opportunity to study with this 85-year-old man, a student of Krishnamacharya, and a character indeed. Mostly shaved head, though it has stubble as if it is shaved only once a month, with a large patch of salt and pepper hair left on the back, a red line climbing from his third eye up on his forehead for a good inch and a half, and a thick white heavy textured elongated half circle encasing it from the bottom like a deep cup holding a red stem. He wears glasses and looks at you from above the glasses as they rest low on his nose. He wears the traditional white longhi wrapped around his waist with a long Indian style cream or white shirt, with three buttons and a small Chinese like color, with one pocket on the left side, hanging over his medium sized belly. He enters the shala with his faded turquoise three quarter helmet, takes off his worn flip-flops and moves about barefoot, in slow motion. He has a similar accent to the one I remember of Pattabhi Jois; Yeit – meaning eight and a bit of singing to his sentences.
After so many pranayama coursed I have taken I am still enjoying this one, as the study is very gradual, similar to the Mysore style, one completes a pose and gets the next one, also here, when completed with a pranayama exercise, one receives the next. And do not think of this as breathing exercise, “That is respiration” Iyengar would say, Pranayama has a whole different purpose. I look forward to sharing this in my classes and workshops ahead.
Mysore changes some, but what really is new every time, is the experiences, no matter how much the same a place may look, it never is the same, as the Indians would say “same same, little different”. Experiences are of India but also of meeting other travelers, people from around the world, observing their perspective of a new place, sharing a discussion about Israel, conflicts and finding peace, learning about the yoga scene around the world, or about life as a South Korean Zen monk. Meeting an Israeli couple traveling with their three and five year olds, finding an American in his 60’s that left the US behind and now lives here. It is the little stories, the endless firecrackers on New Years Eve, the father on his scooter stopping by to wish Happy New Year as his son smiles staring at my Keen sandals, The rickshaw that would not start, and had to be rolled down the hill, kicked into second and jump started, so it can roll us through the bumpy roads to Gokulam, to have lunch at Elena’s and friends. A young women in jeans and a pretty tight T shirt showing her healthy appetite around the waist holding her tan Labrador cub, sits on the ledge of the temple square near the market hiding behind her fathers small SUV, waiting for him to return from the market. I smile and pet her shiny fur dog, an older Indian man comes to play with the dog, but obviously knows he is not allowed to touch it, so just plays from afar, casts and hierarchies are still very visible. We engage in conversation about the need to work in Bangalore and what it means, the great city and it being so over populated, she is the new middle class generation; the ones we see coming out of really nice villas planted amongst the older homes and buildings. A daughter of a doctor I project.
At the restaurant, enjoying the Indian food, Dosas and Idlis, the Thali meals, we sit in front of a man and woman, she is wearing a sari, black hair oiled and pulled back tightly, wearing a big nose ring. Him, wearing western like polyester pants and a light color dress shirt, having red color spread with a finger up his forehead tells me the importance of eating with the hands “Food tastes better you see, feeling the food, there is a connection”. They are lawyers and come the Mahesh Prasad a lot, “it is the best restaurant in the area,” she tells me. We speak of tradition, of the great necklace she wears to show the world she is married, the toe rings a married woman wears to stimulate her uterus, and that she needs not do yoga since she still squats to wash cloths in the bucket, washes dishes by hand, climbs the stairs, and in general uses very little machines. “The traditional life style takes care of me,” she says with a big smile and shiny black eyes.
Life in Mysore has its own pace, and I am greatly enjoying it. Even though much of life here has beautiful picture moments, I did not take out my camera yet. Maybe because I have been here many times before, it now feels like home, and thus I just smile at these moments, taking them in, but not recording them in pixels.
The street, the flavors are all part of one big live canvas, the amazing papayas that don’t even need extra lime to make them taste good, the walk through the colorful market, the intense smell of incense and flowers threaded together as necklaces, sold on the street or worn as ornaments on the ladies’ hair, blended with intense sweat coming off a group of men in line to make photocopies, dust and rickshaw pollution, smiling faces nodding their head from side to side, greeting hello, the colorful saris wrapping full bodied women, the smell of spices riding up the steam of milk from the small tea cups, the fruit carts on the side of the streets, the back and yellow rickshaws waiting at every corner to take you to your desired destination, and the cows.
No wonder the cows are holy, they symbolize the patience and endurance of life here. They go about slowly, eating around all that they find, sometimes being touched for a blessing, sometimes hit to move out of the way, and they, in their very nonchalant way, just move about, never getting angry, not violent, just surrendering to what life has offered them, grazing on the fields in front of them with no aspiration to become a cow of the Alps.
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