3:30am, my eyes open after six and a half hours of sleep. I still have an hour till my alarm will go, but I get up.
I want to type a few words while I have my neighbor’s power cord. Mine smoked yesterday as I plugged it to the socket at the Internet café. Electricity here fluctuates…
Normally getting up at 4:00 or 4:30 I have an hour to get ready, meditate and walk over to the shala for morning Mysore practice.
The shala holds around 60-70 students practicing with Sharat and Saraswati, the grandson and the daughter of Pattabhi Jois. The students here seem to be mostly teachers when not here. The level of practice here is very high, at least from the Asana (posture) perspective. Some pretty amazing things happening in that large room, twisting and bending, that involves also strength and concentration. The room is filled with strong energies.
As I finish my practice and walk out of the shala which is on the first floor of their house, the street is quiet and the sound of student talking about their Kapotasana (a crazy backbend) while sipping on coconut water fills the morning air. It is already 7:30 and the sun is out. Like going to the movies but reversed. You enter in the dark and leave when light is out.
Sip my first coconut and ask for the second with ganji, meaning coconut meat. He cracks the green nut open and hands it to me with fresh white coconut flesh sitting on a spoon made from a chopped piece of my coconut.
Off to my room to refresh and then breakfast, either at home with some curd, banana and muesli or at one of the nice places around. We are surely spoiled here. I love Tina’s place with steamed spinach and sesame seeds, her fenugreek leaf (fresh leaves) rotis (flat bread, like a thin pita), that are served with splendid tomato chutney, along with boiled eggs and a papaya mint juice. At any one of the few “westernized” breakfast places you can find many other yogis, talking about their lives or the meaning of life. Discussing a book or making plans for the day. (Swimming pool anyone?)
I hop on my motorcycle and head downtown. Driving through India madness I reach the home where Narasima teaches philosophy, the yoga sutras and much more. Narasima has vast knowledge, from science to philosophy, form the sutras to the Vedas.
Narasima is a medium sized man with white hair jumping around, a white cloth around his waist and a white undershirt to cover his chest and belly. A red line is drawn on his forehead from the hair towards his third eye. He sits on a small bed crossed legged, as we cover the straw mats placed on the floor in the small room. All around us are books. It can almost remind one of the little study rooms that the orthodox Jews in Jerusalem study in, maybe even more simple and basic.
He is surely a manifestation of his teachings. It’s beautiful to see someone who lives his own dogma.
Returning home To Gokulam the neighborhood of the shala, I give Lisa and Stephanie a ride. Motorcycles here and even scooters have amazing capabilities. Small engines, tiny bikes, yet a whole family of 5 can easily fit on. Sometimes it can be many sacks of potatoes; so much as you can’t really see the scooter or driver. A huge part of a banana tree a passenger holding a TV box or anything else that might need to be shipped.
Well, it was my last threesome on a bike as we did get stopped. After bargaining with the police, we agreed on 300 rupees fine (about $7).
They asked for 700, and the real fine is probably around 40.
"Civediamo a green leaf?" Asks me Elena, and I set to meet her for lunch at the huge restaurant where mostly you find Indians eating a classic tali; a large stainless steel plate with many little bowls that contain heavily cooked veggies, dhal, curd and sauces, a bowl of rice, some bread like a chapatti or roti and if its fancy, even a small desert.
Elena orders noodles (she is Italian after all), and paneer 555, a fantastic Indian cheese fried in a way that I would rather not know to transform it to become Chinese, but has some what of a tikka flavor, a yummy satisfying dish that is not swimming in a curry like most other Indian dishes. Recognizing your veggies as separate pieces, or having them not so cooked and with no sauce is rare. Raw salads are not common either.
Lunch and dinner many times merge into one meal, as we tend to go to sleep pretty early. Dinner is usually light, maybe a rav idly (a nice light cutlet made of fermented rice/dhal flour with hint of veggies), a dosa (large, thin paper like dough rolled with a potato curry in its center), or if I’m at the internet cafe, then maybe one of Anu’s famous’ smoothie, a bowl of frozen banana yogurt with optional dates and nuts, real yummy.
A stop at the coconut stand for another fresh heavenly sip, chopped open with a machete right there, while saying hello to beautiful yogis from at least 6 different nations. Canadians and Brazilians win this round…
Evenings I try to keep quiet, read, and meditate, take a walk in the park in front of my house and maybe some body cleaning (with a bucket and cup, very economical and ecological too).
I am working on a photography show I’ll open next month here in Mysore at India song house. It will include two outdoor large screen projections, and some prints hanging like laundry in the main gallery space.
For those that never saw my work, some can be viewed at www.doronhanoch.com
The opening shall be at the night of the new moon, candlelight and images floating through space. Say hello if you’re in the area…
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Thursday, January 10, 2008
The Patabhi express
An easy flight to Bangalore, landing and searching for another ATM to fill up the amount needed to pay the Patabhi Jois Yoga Shala fees.
The Spice Jet flight was filled with Ashtagis (Ashtanga Yoga practitioners) that are heading to practice in the main shala (Yoga studio) of Patabhi Jois. A group of Italians, including a famous teacher from Milan and her hilarious son of 14 that is in India with his mom for the year as she practices her Yoga, Kate a teacher from the US, Avi, an Israeli from Maui with his famous dreadlocks, and some others from around the world.
We pick up the luggage including Kate’s new missing wheel on her suitcase, and Avi gets us the taxi. Two hours of roundabouts in Bangalore as the driver doesn’t really know the way to Mysore. It is already 11:30 at night and I am grateful for Yoga as I manage to curl up in weird shapes in the back of the tiny car to try and get some rest.
The Shala reopens its doors this weekend and considering the great weather here, and the 3 week time off students had, the place is expected to be packed. Many warnings about never finding a place, and not being able to even practice in the shala have planted minimum fear in me, and somehow I’ve decided to go with no plans or reservations and see what happens.
I landed at Lisa’s place on my first night, as she arrived that morning with a 20-hour train.
The next morning, I get a tour in the really nice neighborhood of Gokulam; beautiful houses and even nice cars around, very calm.
I meet the great Shiiva, the man that can take care of any of your needs here in Mysore, and even he doesn’t seem to have much to offer as for where to live. After wandering around and asking quite a bit, a find a beautiful little room across from a park, and settle in.
Indeed the yoga here is the most expensive one can find, but everything else is very inexpensive, even compared to Goa.
4:30pm registration to the shala opens, and at 12:30 there are already a few lining up outside. By 3:30 the road is filled with Yogis greeting each other, hugging and sharing stories, catching up from the last time they all met here.
Climbing up the stairs to the shala, filling out my form and counting my money. From the outside a few Japanese were organizing and guiding the eager students to the shala.
In the inside room, Sharat (Patabhis grandson and the one that pretty much runs the show now) is behind one table, with a beard, concentrating at his task. At the table next to him sits the great and famous Patabhi Jois also known as Guruji. He is wearing a brown wool hat that covers his head, ears and neck. He seems different than when I’ve seen him in NY some years back. His hands that have adjusted so many students, that have guided many to become great Ashtangis and devotees, are now resting on the table, adorned with gold and diamond rings, his eyes gazing over towards his grandson as he is doing hid tasks. Guruji seems only half present, yet he still wears a kind face as he sees so many of his long time students.
Across from him sits his daughter, Saraswati. She gets up, moves around and makes sure we all know what the new rate is.
Next, calls Sharat. I enter, place my stack on the table and await my faith; at what time will I need to show up for practice? He puts the money through an automatic money counter like in the bank then turns back to me, pulls out a card. The first shift is at 5:00. They have the advantage of not waiting. Sharat tells me 6:15 and then changes it to 5:45. The ones before and after me are at 5:00, not sure why. I think I was even hoping to be later, like 6:30. I admit that getting up before 5:00 has never been exciting for me unless it was to catch a plane for a great vacation once in many years.
The line is still long when I exit. To the coconut stand or home?
After celebrating my last night in Goa with a swim in the ocean followed by a delicious tandoori Pom frit at Shore Bar, my stomach is a bit sensitive, and I head home to rest. Curd and 12 hours of rest put me back on my feet, for a free day before the practice begins.
The Spice Jet flight was filled with Ashtagis (Ashtanga Yoga practitioners) that are heading to practice in the main shala (Yoga studio) of Patabhi Jois. A group of Italians, including a famous teacher from Milan and her hilarious son of 14 that is in India with his mom for the year as she practices her Yoga, Kate a teacher from the US, Avi, an Israeli from Maui with his famous dreadlocks, and some others from around the world.
We pick up the luggage including Kate’s new missing wheel on her suitcase, and Avi gets us the taxi. Two hours of roundabouts in Bangalore as the driver doesn’t really know the way to Mysore. It is already 11:30 at night and I am grateful for Yoga as I manage to curl up in weird shapes in the back of the tiny car to try and get some rest.
The Shala reopens its doors this weekend and considering the great weather here, and the 3 week time off students had, the place is expected to be packed. Many warnings about never finding a place, and not being able to even practice in the shala have planted minimum fear in me, and somehow I’ve decided to go with no plans or reservations and see what happens.
I landed at Lisa’s place on my first night, as she arrived that morning with a 20-hour train.
The next morning, I get a tour in the really nice neighborhood of Gokulam; beautiful houses and even nice cars around, very calm.
I meet the great Shiiva, the man that can take care of any of your needs here in Mysore, and even he doesn’t seem to have much to offer as for where to live. After wandering around and asking quite a bit, a find a beautiful little room across from a park, and settle in.
Indeed the yoga here is the most expensive one can find, but everything else is very inexpensive, even compared to Goa.
4:30pm registration to the shala opens, and at 12:30 there are already a few lining up outside. By 3:30 the road is filled with Yogis greeting each other, hugging and sharing stories, catching up from the last time they all met here.
Climbing up the stairs to the shala, filling out my form and counting my money. From the outside a few Japanese were organizing and guiding the eager students to the shala.
In the inside room, Sharat (Patabhis grandson and the one that pretty much runs the show now) is behind one table, with a beard, concentrating at his task. At the table next to him sits the great and famous Patabhi Jois also known as Guruji. He is wearing a brown wool hat that covers his head, ears and neck. He seems different than when I’ve seen him in NY some years back. His hands that have adjusted so many students, that have guided many to become great Ashtangis and devotees, are now resting on the table, adorned with gold and diamond rings, his eyes gazing over towards his grandson as he is doing hid tasks. Guruji seems only half present, yet he still wears a kind face as he sees so many of his long time students.
Across from him sits his daughter, Saraswati. She gets up, moves around and makes sure we all know what the new rate is.
Next, calls Sharat. I enter, place my stack on the table and await my faith; at what time will I need to show up for practice? He puts the money through an automatic money counter like in the bank then turns back to me, pulls out a card. The first shift is at 5:00. They have the advantage of not waiting. Sharat tells me 6:15 and then changes it to 5:45. The ones before and after me are at 5:00, not sure why. I think I was even hoping to be later, like 6:30. I admit that getting up before 5:00 has never been exciting for me unless it was to catch a plane for a great vacation once in many years.
The line is still long when I exit. To the coconut stand or home?
After celebrating my last night in Goa with a swim in the ocean followed by a delicious tandoori Pom frit at Shore Bar, my stomach is a bit sensitive, and I head home to rest. Curd and 12 hours of rest put me back on my feet, for a free day before the practice begins.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Fish Buffet at Coffee Heaven
4:30am, I await Derk to open the gate to coffee heaven.
I park my scooter inside the gate and hop on the back of his. The morning is very chili and I am wearing all the layers I could find. Dirk is a 36 year old German that has discovered India 10 years back, and 3 years ago has moved to Goa with his girlfriend Diana to open a café, a place that serves all German baked goods, and his famous smoked fish.
Thursday night is the special fish night buffet. Dirk leaves early morning to go to the fish market in Panjim. It’s the main one, where the market is on the dock right by the fishermen’s boats. It’s still dark when we arrive, just a bit of light over the baskets of fish shrimp and squid that were just swimming happily a few minutes ago.
Dirk comes from Hamburg, a city of docks and fresh fish, grew up in a house that had veggies in the back yard and smoked their own fish.
Checking under the guilds to make sure the fish is really fresh, looking for that redness, for the clear eyes, we choose some king fish which is the most available in Goa, we buy some shrimp, calamari, snappers and the mystery fish. The mystery fish is one that we both don’t know by name, one that is very rare to find, but has such a beautiful meaty taste on the grill (sorry, my veggie friends), that dirk is willing to pay triple the snapper price.
We tie the bags of fresh sea life to the bike between Dirks legs and head home. As we drive back, the sky is red with the big sun rising over the rice fields. Some low fog, like a blanket of white clouds floats low on the fields adding to the magical feel. Birds are waking up, the hum of the old scooter’s rotating engine and Derks voice telling me about his philosophy of life. No helmets jackets or gloves in this part of Goa, so the air, sound and surrounding penetrate deeply within.
I leave Dirk to do the cleaning on his own as I rush to my Yoga practice with Rolf and Marci,
In the evening, many arrive to coffee heaven. Simple chairs with natural wooden tables stand on the earth amongst the trees. The buffet offers many vegetarian offers and some of their fantastic dark German bread.
Dirk believes in grilling the fish simple, only a brush of oil. The sauces are aside, and one can choose which to use on which fish.
Coffee Heaven runs as a simple family place, with many regular costumers, especially German. The couple like many westerners in Goa, aim for 6 months of hard work, and 6 months of living in the west.
Goa offers today amazing business opportunities. As such even Diana and Dirk thought of upgrading to a more serious restaurant in a better location and getting another chef to run the show (me). For now I said goodbye nicely as I head over to practice more Yoga in Mysore.
I park my scooter inside the gate and hop on the back of his. The morning is very chili and I am wearing all the layers I could find. Dirk is a 36 year old German that has discovered India 10 years back, and 3 years ago has moved to Goa with his girlfriend Diana to open a café, a place that serves all German baked goods, and his famous smoked fish.
Thursday night is the special fish night buffet. Dirk leaves early morning to go to the fish market in Panjim. It’s the main one, where the market is on the dock right by the fishermen’s boats. It’s still dark when we arrive, just a bit of light over the baskets of fish shrimp and squid that were just swimming happily a few minutes ago.
Dirk comes from Hamburg, a city of docks and fresh fish, grew up in a house that had veggies in the back yard and smoked their own fish.
Checking under the guilds to make sure the fish is really fresh, looking for that redness, for the clear eyes, we choose some king fish which is the most available in Goa, we buy some shrimp, calamari, snappers and the mystery fish. The mystery fish is one that we both don’t know by name, one that is very rare to find, but has such a beautiful meaty taste on the grill (sorry, my veggie friends), that dirk is willing to pay triple the snapper price.
We tie the bags of fresh sea life to the bike between Dirks legs and head home. As we drive back, the sky is red with the big sun rising over the rice fields. Some low fog, like a blanket of white clouds floats low on the fields adding to the magical feel. Birds are waking up, the hum of the old scooter’s rotating engine and Derks voice telling me about his philosophy of life. No helmets jackets or gloves in this part of Goa, so the air, sound and surrounding penetrate deeply within.
I leave Dirk to do the cleaning on his own as I rush to my Yoga practice with Rolf and Marci,
In the evening, many arrive to coffee heaven. Simple chairs with natural wooden tables stand on the earth amongst the trees. The buffet offers many vegetarian offers and some of their fantastic dark German bread.
Dirk believes in grilling the fish simple, only a brush of oil. The sauces are aside, and one can choose which to use on which fish.
Coffee Heaven runs as a simple family place, with many regular costumers, especially German. The couple like many westerners in Goa, aim for 6 months of hard work, and 6 months of living in the west.
Goa offers today amazing business opportunities. As such even Diana and Dirk thought of upgrading to a more serious restaurant in a better location and getting another chef to run the show (me). For now I said goodbye nicely as I head over to practice more Yoga in Mysore.
Auntie’s Story
A true Goan she is, tells me the son of her best friend. She is from a family that has been in Goa many generations. A true Goan is usually a mix of Indian and Portuguese; Christian of course. He tells me this, as we sip our Fenni (a strong alcohol made from cashew nut) with Limca (a lime soda) at the Starco bar. Funny old rock tunes are filling the air along with incense and cheap after-shave. Andy, Aunties best friends’ son, is a very proud Goan. Born in Kenya and brought up in England, he still feels very Goan. He has a strong connection with Portugal and visits there often. He has still to master the language, but that will surely come in time.
Andy is staying at Auntie’s house with his family as they are on Christmas holidays from Bahrain, where he now works at the Arabian bank. Auntie told me that they prefer the freedom they have in her place rather than being with his mother that might be more demanding..
“It is important that the kids know their Goan roots”, he tells me. Would you ever come to live here? I ask. “ I could never live here. There is too much bureaucracy, too much corruption, too dirty, and too poor. We saw a woman washing her dishes on the street, in something that looked like a running sewer. It was important that the children see this, and appreciate what they have.”
“ Can I offer you another drink?” he asks. I barely could drink the first one, but wanted him to feel good, now, apologizing I order a ginger lemon honey tea. A cow is chewing on some garbage over the fence, Christmas lights are hanging above and a group of 5 beautiful Russian girls enter and sit at the table next to us. Bikinis and sarongs, one has a mini skirt on with samurai like boots, the other has a shirt that is all slits on the back, sex is pouring here like the drinks ordered at the table of Brits, on the other side.
We then go on talking about politics, Middle East, terror and Yoga. He asks me to tell him everything about it, as he has only heard about Yoga briefly.
Auntie offers the visiting family tea as I come in to fill up my empty plastic bottle with some filtered water from her fancy filtering system. They kindly deny, asking for only hot water so they can use their Tetley bags.
“Her tea is too strong he tells me”. Auntie’s tea is beautiful, strong, fragrant, a bit sweet, and served with milk. I am grateful every day as she offers me her cup of sweetness (She is 72…) with a piece of her daily cake or coconut sweet.
Auntie grew up in a poor family, with two other brothers that got to go to school.
“You are girl, why you need to go to school? You marry and take care of house” is what her mom would answer when she would ask about school.
Auntie learned to sew and cook and all the other important tasks a girl needs to know.
When ready, at 16 she was sent off to live with her husband. They moved to Africa for a few years to work at a restaurant. By the time they returned, they had 3 girls and the husband was drinking way too much.
Her husband has received a nice size property in Goa that had a small house on it. Auntie decided to stay in Bombay and raise the girls on her own. She would do alternations, sewing, cooking and whatever it took to make a living. She managed to send all her girls to school and pay for higher education for the two that were interested.
30 years ago, the husband died, and auntie moved to the property in Goa,
Over the years she managed to build three large houses on it, one for each daughter.
Auntie wears dresses, simple ones with some flowery prints, no saris. There are big marble slacks on the floor, and a Jesus on the wall. She is not too religious in the Christian manner, but indeed a religious person in human kindness.
Today she runs the business on her own, waking up early to greet the milkman and the bread man. Then with the help of one girl she takes care of the other entire house needs,
All the profits from renting the rooms are sent to her daughters.
Then she awaits them to give her money back for spending. Medicine is the most expensive, as she has too many illnesses too mention. Not that anyone could ever tell as she roams her place with a straight spine and joyful smile. Even her gold bangles and jewelry has been passed on. Only one necklace is left. “What I need now? I have enough” she tells me with a kind smile. “You have one more piece?” Her delights are a mix of western style cakes and Indian cookies, somewhat like herself. I always eat too many cakes at her house. At least they are home made, mostly with coconuts from her own trees surrounding the property and jaggery (an unrefined sugar). Her telling me stories seems to give her a purpose in life, a moment of joy and connection. I am happy to be there and relive her stories while sipping strong tea full of fragrance.
Andy is staying at Auntie’s house with his family as they are on Christmas holidays from Bahrain, where he now works at the Arabian bank. Auntie told me that they prefer the freedom they have in her place rather than being with his mother that might be more demanding..
“It is important that the kids know their Goan roots”, he tells me. Would you ever come to live here? I ask. “ I could never live here. There is too much bureaucracy, too much corruption, too dirty, and too poor. We saw a woman washing her dishes on the street, in something that looked like a running sewer. It was important that the children see this, and appreciate what they have.”
“ Can I offer you another drink?” he asks. I barely could drink the first one, but wanted him to feel good, now, apologizing I order a ginger lemon honey tea. A cow is chewing on some garbage over the fence, Christmas lights are hanging above and a group of 5 beautiful Russian girls enter and sit at the table next to us. Bikinis and sarongs, one has a mini skirt on with samurai like boots, the other has a shirt that is all slits on the back, sex is pouring here like the drinks ordered at the table of Brits, on the other side.
We then go on talking about politics, Middle East, terror and Yoga. He asks me to tell him everything about it, as he has only heard about Yoga briefly.
Auntie offers the visiting family tea as I come in to fill up my empty plastic bottle with some filtered water from her fancy filtering system. They kindly deny, asking for only hot water so they can use their Tetley bags.
“Her tea is too strong he tells me”. Auntie’s tea is beautiful, strong, fragrant, a bit sweet, and served with milk. I am grateful every day as she offers me her cup of sweetness (She is 72…) with a piece of her daily cake or coconut sweet.
Auntie grew up in a poor family, with two other brothers that got to go to school.
“You are girl, why you need to go to school? You marry and take care of house” is what her mom would answer when she would ask about school.
Auntie learned to sew and cook and all the other important tasks a girl needs to know.
When ready, at 16 she was sent off to live with her husband. They moved to Africa for a few years to work at a restaurant. By the time they returned, they had 3 girls and the husband was drinking way too much.
Her husband has received a nice size property in Goa that had a small house on it. Auntie decided to stay in Bombay and raise the girls on her own. She would do alternations, sewing, cooking and whatever it took to make a living. She managed to send all her girls to school and pay for higher education for the two that were interested.
30 years ago, the husband died, and auntie moved to the property in Goa,
Over the years she managed to build three large houses on it, one for each daughter.
Auntie wears dresses, simple ones with some flowery prints, no saris. There are big marble slacks on the floor, and a Jesus on the wall. She is not too religious in the Christian manner, but indeed a religious person in human kindness.
Today she runs the business on her own, waking up early to greet the milkman and the bread man. Then with the help of one girl she takes care of the other entire house needs,
All the profits from renting the rooms are sent to her daughters.
Then she awaits them to give her money back for spending. Medicine is the most expensive, as she has too many illnesses too mention. Not that anyone could ever tell as she roams her place with a straight spine and joyful smile. Even her gold bangles and jewelry has been passed on. Only one necklace is left. “What I need now? I have enough” she tells me with a kind smile. “You have one more piece?” Her delights are a mix of western style cakes and Indian cookies, somewhat like herself. I always eat too many cakes at her house. At least they are home made, mostly with coconuts from her own trees surrounding the property and jaggery (an unrefined sugar). Her telling me stories seems to give her a purpose in life, a moment of joy and connection. I am happy to be there and relive her stories while sipping strong tea full of fragrance.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)