Brothers from Different Mothers

Before tearing ourselves away from our wonderful friends in Ashoknagar, we squeezed in a few more adventures that I didn't have room to mention in the last blog. I could go on forever, noting all of the week's highlights, but here are just a few more....

When we first arrived at Bina Station, we were warmly greeted by Raj and a jubilant Rabu and Rohan. Vikramjit (or, "Driverjit") was parking the luxurious SUV they had borrowed from friends for our comfort. It was so great to see their smiling, familiar faces. After a small snack and some chai we headed back down the long, long road to Ashoknagar. Being monsoon season, the rains had washed away the main roads and we were left with the bumpy, pot-hole ridden back farm roads for our three hour journey. It was our first of what would be many adventures on Madhya Pradesh's 'bone-shaking' roads. It was so great to see them, and we had so much catching up to do, that we barely noticed when our bags bounced off the seats or when our heads came dangerously close to the ceiling. Being the wonderful, generous people that they are, Vikramjit, Raj and the kids had endured a three hour journey, in the monsoon rains to pick us up and we then turned around and did the whole thing all over again!

We can't say enough about wonderful everyone in Ashoknagar was, and how warmly we were welcomed everywhere we went. It was always more like a home-coming than an introduction. We drank the best chai (multiple times a day) and snacked on the most tastey home-made Indian snacks at every stop along the way. Everyone wanted to have us over for tea (which was always accompanied by enough snacks to be considered a meal) or a full official meal (after which we would literally have to be rolled out of the dining room). Even when our hosts who had invited us over for tea, didn't speak much English, we were made to feel like honoured guests. Of all the wonderful chai (and I had a lot- I'm a little obsessed, I admit), Raj's chai was my absolute favourite. 'Raj Mahal' we called it, as Raj only use the very best black tea leaves made by the 'Taj Mahal' tea company. Oh how I miss Raj Mahal. This is the chai dreams are made of. Chai, not tea. There is a difference. And a secret recipe- which I have.

And the food. Wow, these people can cook. Seriously, the food we packed in (literally) in Ashoknagar was by far the best food we ate in our entire time in India and, probably our favourite food of the entire year. I would go into detail, describing the spectacular flavours and magical combinations, but then I would just start drooling all over our computer...and the keyboard is already misbehaving, so I won't.

Not only were Vikramjit, Raj and their family and friends wonderful chai experts and talented chefs, they were also some of the most generous people we have ever met. So generous, in fact, that over the course of a week we somehow managed to accumulate many, many thoughtful gifts which we will be able to proudly show off once we get home! I personally, can't wait to wear my beautiful suits, scarves, bangles, watch and 'floaters'! Memories of a wonderful week in Ashoknagar. We are very lucky.

Another fun event that I wanted to mention, as you may have already seen the great photos, was the day that Vikramjit put Jonathan's hair in a turban. It was really, great fun, and so entertaining to see everyone's reaction when we went around to visit. I didn't know until that day that the cloth used to tie the turban was so huge! The size of a queen-size sheet! It takes two people to stretch the cloth out and fold it perfectly to prepare it for wrapping. Before all this, though, you have to set the beard. To say trying to tame Jonathan's beard was something new to that bristly red
mass of chin hair would be the understatement of the year. I half expected the Irish in his beard to revolt to such an idea. But with a tightly tied bandana secured around his chin and tied on top of his head, and a little (ok, alot) of hairspray, J's beard morphed from an unruly, overgrown mess to an orderly, shapley 'work of art' (he claims). The turban itself is the real masterpiece. Vikramjit pained until every fold was perfect and every corner was in its place. It was really quite impressive to watch. When J and his turban were all set, he and Vikramjit posed for a photo. 'Like brothers from different mothers!' Raj and I exclaimed.

A special thank you goes out to Vikramjit, Raj, India's Future Model, the Eating Machine, Mommy Jit, Pradish, Mr. & Mrs. Sandhu, Sandeep, Sykhdeep, Abijeet, Mr.& Mrs. Ram and their family. It was truly an honour to be your guests in Ashoknagar.

ps. The picture in which J looks like the love child of Chewbacca and Princess Leia is the result of his hair being tied in the turban all day- Hilarious!!

pps. Happy birthday, Looch!!! Hope you're having a great time in Vancouver! Happy b-day, Jane!

One Raj Mahal Chai, No Please, No Thank You!

When we met Vikramjit and Raj on the train ride from Delhi to Amritsar I don't think any of us imagined that just over a month later we would be such close friends as to consider them our Indian family.

Our week visiting their hometown of Ashok Nagar in the Indian state of Madhya Pradesh was a highlight of our larger trip and the absolute best part of India for us. We had planned to stay only a couple days, but as those couple days came and went we found ourselves so comfortable, so happy, so welcomed and so well fed that we ended up staying an entire week. We could have stayed even longer, basking in their comfort, conversation and friendship. We all would have enjoyed it, but we tore ourselves away: the Nepalese Himalayas were calling us to hike in their short optimal season before our visa expires.

This blog entry would be pages long if I were to detail all the wonderful things we did in Ashok Nagar. The days seemed to fly by in this beautifully green countryside. We visited a magnificent old fort, a temple full of monkeys and a hilltop temple with vibrant live music and dancing. We hiked a mountain and visited a farmhouse. The single best thing about Ashok Nagar though, was the people. Not only did we have the privilege of spending time with Vikramjit, Raj and their kids Ravneet and Rohan, but we were also lucky enough to meet so many of their wonderful family and friends. The people we spent the most time with, were Mr and Mrs Sandhu and their family and Mr and Mrs. Ram and theirs. Vikramjit's mom, 'Mommy Ji' we called her, also came to visit for a few days and we loved being with her as well. We are so, so lucky to have met such fantastic, caring, generous, fun people and we are very thankful for the time we spent together.

We learned so much too. First, and very important, how to make the perfect cup of chai. I'm sure you know this, but 'chai' is just the Indian word for 'tea' so when we order a 'chai tea' at home, of course we mean an Indian tea, but we are really saying we would like a 'tea tea', which must sound quite entertaining to anyone who knows the language. Raj uses the Indian brand of black tea called Taj Mahal. She says its the best, and she is the expert, and makes the best chai in India, so we believe her. Jonathan dubbed Raj's delicious chai 'Raj Mahal chai' playing on her name and the tea brand. 'We want chai, not tea, please. A Raj Mahal! Only the best will do!' we would joke with Raj. I can't wait to see if I can recreate a Raj Mahal chai when I get home....

Many an evening I stood in the kitchen with Raj, notebook in hand, jotting down notes as she prepared food. 'Its so easy' she would always say, as she scooped handfuls of this and that into pots, not measuring a single thing. Sigh. She made it look easy, that's for sure. Her kitchen always smelled so delicious. The spices, the ghee, the stewing veggies, lentils and sweets. Yum! One of the things we really wanted to do in India was to take a cooking class, since we love Indian food so much, so I really enjoyed spending time chatting with Raj as she cooked, watching and learning. Raj and Sandeep, Mr. Sandhu's daughter joked that when we got home we could continue to have cooking classes over Skype. Only I'm afraid that their dishes cooked over here on the subcontinent will turn out far more delicious than mine and then I will have to watch them enjoying their food through the computer resisting the urge to lick the screen! But, really, the food we ate in and around Ashok Nagar was absolutely scrumptious. The best food in India by far, and possibly even the best food of the trip this far was what filled our bellies in Ashok Nagar. We tried so many different dishes prepared by so many different, very talented cooks. We probably gained ten pounds this week, but, oh my, was it worth it. We especially liked all the food cooked by Raj, the feast at Mr. Ram's farmhouse and everything prepared by Mrs. Sandhu and Sandeep. Our last morning in Ashok Nager we went to Mr. Sandhu's for a delicious breakfast and before we left, Mrs. Sandhu and Sandeep had packed us a huge lunch, complete with cake, to take with us on the train ride! Our bellies were very, very lucky!

We learned that the pleasantries that we use constantly in English are not used really at all in India. Between friends, especially, you would never say, please, thank you, or sorry. Its not rude at all to neglect any of these sayings. They are implied and don't need to be spoken every time. For us, of course, these manners are so deeply ingrained in us that it was nearly impossible for us to stop saying 'thank you' every time someone did something for us, which was often. 'No thank yous!' everyone kept telling us. We tried to remember, but the words just kept popping out. It became a running joke. 'No thank you,' Vikramjit would respond every time he was in a situation that one would normally say 'thank you' in. It was funny. We laughed a lot in Ashok Nager.

Vikramjit and Raj's two young kids are great. Ravneet, their daughter, is about five years old and is super smart. She is a serious gal who loves school and learning. Everyday after school she would run immediately into the room that had a big chalkboard and a bucket of chalk and would start playing 'Teacher, teacher.' A game where she was the teacher, writing on the chalkboard, and scolding her student, namely Rohan, her younger brother. I think at times he was disciplined for being a less-than-willing-student, but as any good little brother, he knows that older sisters are the boss and not to be argued with. Rabu, as the family calls her, has no interest in toys, dolls, makeup, jewellery, dresses or games (other than 'Teacher, Teacher', of course). Unlike Rohan, the typical little brother, who loves all things loud, messy and destructive. Give Rabu pens and paper and she is happy as a clam. In fact, she loves stationary so much that she scolds her father for being a dentist. Rabu told Vikramjit that it would be much better for her if he would close his dental clinic and instead open a stationary store so she could have an unlimited supply of pens, pencils and notebooks at her disposal! haha! The other thing about little Rabu is that she is absolutely beautiful. Our digital camera was a novelty to her and she loved having her picture taken. Every time she would come up with a different pose, (how do five year olds know how to pose?) tilting her head, crossing her legs or resting her hand on her jutted out hip. It was adorable and earned her the title of 'India's Future Model.'

Rohan, their son, is about three years old, and within a day or so of being at their house, Jonathan had nicknamed him the 'Eating Machine.' Eating Machine is a ball of energy, so, quite reasonably, he needs a lot of fuel to enable him to continue on his mission of crawling (sometimes literally) up and down the walls until it is finally his bedtime. One day we had an outing planned so Raj had cooked up a really big, filling, delicious breakfast so that we would all be full until mid afternoon. Eating Machine had eaten his breakfast early, when he had gotten up, and then ate a second breakfast with everyone else later in the morning. We got on the train and a man selling samosas came by, so, of course, Mr Machine had to have a snack. Then, we got to the station and he saw a food stall and suddenly really, really needed a bag of chips, so he ate that. Then, because I saw his hungry eyes wandering, I gave him a candy that I had found in my purse. About twenty minutes later or so a man with an ice cream cart strolled by. Rohan ran up to Raj and started telling her some sad sounding story in Punjabi. There were actual tears in his eyes. "What's wrong?" I asked Raj. She laughed. "He says he's starving because he hasn't eaten since breakfast."

We also learned that cows like to sleep in the middle of the road. Only the middle will do. And that this is totally acceptable. As cows are representations of dieties to Hindus, they are pretty much safe no matter where in India they are or what they are doing. So, why not sleep in the middle of the road, really? The first night we arrived in Ashok Nagar it was late. Being the wonderful people that they are, Vikramjit and Raj had driven almost three hours in the monsoon rains to pick us up at the train station, and then of course, we had to drive back. 'Driver Ji' we began called Vikramjit, as he chauffeured us around that week. ('Ji' is a general term of respect. You can add it to the end of people's name to be polite. Its kind if like saying 'Sir') The main road was closed because of monsoon damage so we had to follow a series of small, barely paved, pot-hole laden roads from the station back to their town (if you can imagine it is even worse than Drummond Hill!). 'Bone-shakiii' MP roads we would all learn to love to call them. When we got about three kilometers outside the city we were met with a mass exodus of cows. It seemed as though they were fleeing the city. It was crazy the number of cows that were strolling down the middle of the narrow road. Maybe even a hundred of them! Ones that weren't strolling, were already lying in the middle of the road, resting. Watching the traffic like it was late night television. Seriously, it was like they each had a special 'middle of the road' spot that they liked to call their bed, and that, like a bed, they returned to every night. Driving in India is like an obstacle course, and all the ridiculous objects in the way that would be completely unacceptable to us, as westerners, are just normal, every day pylons to Indians. Cows, for one, are huge. Both annoyance wise, and their physical size. Travel is slow going not only because of the state of the roads themselves, but also because everyone has to slow down to maneuver around the cows, or 'Speed Breaks' as Sandeep calls them. Or, a 'cow jam,' as I liked to call it. I also delighted in yelling 'MOOOooooove!' out the window every time we had to screech to a stop centimeters in front of a cow and wait for it to look at us for a few long moments in its cowy way and eventually, after it was sure we knew just how much we had displeased him, saunter out our path (and into someone elses). I thought it was hilarious! Most others didn't share in my hilarity.

Besides the cows obstacles include herds of goats and water buffalo, sometimes being shepherded by their owner, sometimes wandering freely. There are stray dogs and stray children, sometimes carrying other children (probably strays, too), bikes, rickshaws, people pushing carts of produce, people talking on cell phones while walking their livestock.... 'Sometimes, when you are really in a rush,' Driver Ji informed us as we swerved around fence dividing the road and towards a herd of oncoming goats, 'you are allowed to drive on the other side of the road.' Why not? After all, this is India, and in India, 'Everyt'ing is possible!'

ps. In the next Ashok Nagar installment I'll tell you all about the day Jonathan wore a turban, an adventure up a mountain, servants, gifts, our new Punjabi vocabulary, and I'll probably talk about food some more too.

Guardians of the Taj

Probably everyone reading this knows something about the Taj Mahal. Still I shall here regal you with some well-known, taken straight from the guidebook, facts about this magnificent monument.

A lot can be gleaned by a name. Taj Mahal is an informal shortening of the name Mumtaz Mahal, which means "Chosen One of the Palace". Mumtaz Mahal was Mughal emperor Shah Jahan's favourite wife (he had many). When she died shortly after giving birth to their fourteenth child, his grieving process took an historical turn when he decided that she must still be set apart from all his other relations. Twenty two years later, her body was enshrined in the newly completed mausoleum, which became known as the Taj Mahal. It is constructed entirely of marble. The only exception to this marble is the precious stones used to inlay ornamentation and verses of the Koran into the white marble. The big picture of the Taj that everyone is familiar with is justifiably famous, but these details deserve the spotlight, I would say, just as much. I kid you not that the level of artistic execution achieved in even a single inlaid emerald petal is second to none. And that's where the trouble started.

Kristen is in touch with her five senses like no one else I know is. She loves the sound of lapping waves on the shore; and she always points out when she smells lilac in the air; our 'morning hug' is an important part of her day (and mine); her chronically overdeveloped interest in photo taking (we currently have 50,000 plus photos from this trip alone) shows how fully she appreciates seeing things (and maybe how little she appreciates the Delete button); and rest assured that taste is still her favoured of the five senses. Anyway, after a trigger happy storm of macro photography, Kristen was getting even more up close and personal with the fingernail-sized-stone-carvings. All of the stone, marble and other, is polished in such a way that it almost grabs your wrist and begs you to run your hand over its facade.

In this particular corner we were the only ones present. We didn't have to share it with anybody. As we have been so many times on this trip (but in general too), we were thankful for this particular good fortune that happened upon us. Here, Kristen gave in to the marble's urgings and put her hand on one of its inlaid carvings. There isn't any sign that says not to touch the stone. But neither was there any information about the Guardians of the Taj. These Guardians are like ninjas: shadows are their home. And it is for this reason that we were made to believe that we were alone. Before she knew what happened, one of the Guardians reacted to her having a hand on the carving. With startling speed and precision the Guardian went right for her hand. Kristen didn't stand a chance. In all of this, the Guardian didn't even so much as leave the shadows to deliver his warning. Giving her a moment to let what happened sink in, he then said, "You can look, but you can't touch."

Or that's at least the most probable translation that we could come up with for "Coo". Without ever showing his beak, he forced Kristen to wash and sanitize her hand, and he forced me to swipe the camera out of Kristen's hands to photo document yet another time that a pigeon had landed a direct hit on my wife.

But let this be a lesson to you. You won't know they're there, but they are. They are keeping a watchful birds-eye view on all goings-on at the Taj Mahal, these Guardians of the Taj. And before you reach out to touch that oh-so-fine geological ornamentation, just think to yourself: Coo.

Moooooo-ve

Soooo, I fed a cow some ice cream the other day. Stop reading now if you already think that this was a bad idea. The ice cream was no good (taste wise) and I was thinking might have been re-frozen, which is bad, according to Jonathan so I was looking t get rid of it. There was a kid passing by, but I thought it might be rude to give a poor kid an ice cream that I had half eaten. And then I saw a cow. Cows beg for food from people like your dog would at the kitchen table. They look at you with their glass cow eyes and push their big, black, slobbery noses (the riches of which are another favourite treat of theirs) at your bag of chips as you pass by (Lays Magic Masala flavour being their favourite). I held the ice cream-on-a-stick out for the cow and he slurped it up right away. Is it weird for a cow to eat dairy? ("You're sick, Jesse. Really sick.") I wondered. But then, as I watched the cow eat my ice cream I started to panic a little. What if he choked on the popsicle stick? What would we do? I didn't want to watch a cow choke and die! Cows are sacred to Hindus. What if they thought I murdered a symbol of their deities on earth? The popsicle stick was hanging out of the cow's mouth, crunching up and down, up and down as he ate the ice cream. I changed my mind about giving the cow my ice cream and reached out to snatch the stick from his mouth. As it would happen, this is the exact moment that the cow inhaled the stick into its mouth. Darn! He probably knew what I was up to. They are smarter than they look. We watched in time-that-seemed-to-stand-still as the cow continued to munch happily away. What kind of person feeds a cow ice cream? I scolded myself. And the plop. Out pops the popsicle stick completely unscathed. Not a lick of ice cream left. Seems as though this cow has eaten ice cream before...funny, since every time we see them they seem to be eating cardboard....

Get 'Er Done

India does not seem to be a country that sits by and lets things happen. (Although we do sit around and wait for trains and buses a lot...) Ever since Gandhi's salt march (and perhaps before), protest, both violent and non-violent, seems to run in their blood. In the first two weeks that we were in India we witnessed two major protests. The main one being, of course, the Anna Hazare fast to end corruption. News of the fast was everywhere. Shopkeepers hung posters, cars were adorned with bumper stickers, an entire TV channel seemed to be devoted to broadcasting Anna's every breath. There were gatherings and ralleys in the streets every night of people showing their support for the cause. It was really impressive to see, in every city, how many people were aware and involved. Everyone was talking about it. Witnessing such a vast country united for one cause was remarkable!

In Vashist, a smalll town a few kilometres from Manali, where we spent our time, we witnessed our second protest. Vashist has a stunning waterfall. We had enjoyed the short hike out to it ourselves and were pleasantly surprised by both the walk and the waterfalls themselves. Turns out there are plans of building a hydro dam to harness the power from the falls and the town people are none to happy about it. They planned a protest. We watched from our balcony. The protest walk sounded like quite the party! There was music and instruments and drums and singing. They held posters and chanted. The most amazing thing about it was that everyone, in Vashist, but also in the bigger city of Manali closed down all their shops and restaurants for the entire day! This is a major tourist destination and these people were willing to lose a whole day's income for the cause. Of course, it wasn't so great for us, since there was literally nowhere to eat, but we did appreciate their commitment. Although, their commitment also meant that I didn't get to buy the gorgeous gold and turquoise silk pashmina I had been eyeing for days, working up the courage to buy... now that was the real sacrifice...

Incredible India!

India. Guaranteed to bamboozle your senses. This country is a true overload of colours, smells, sights and tastes. How it manages all this, and more, within ten minutes of your arrival on the subcontinent, really, is quite impressive.

Our first port of call was Delhi. We stepped out of the modern, air-conditioned airport, and into a wall of hot, sticky, smelly Delhi-ness. Then, on to Delhi's brand spankin' new, ultra-modern Airport Express metro line that wizzes passengers from the airport to downtown in a mere 16 minutes, all while telling you, in English, in that unique English/Hindi accent (Hinglish), where to 'alight'. A complete contrast to the outside world. Its like being on London's 'Gatwick Express,' only cleaner, sleeker, faster, and a tenth of the price. Weird, but wonderful. Then, of course, you arrive at the New Delhi station (too bad it only takes 16 minutes- because that is one luxurious quarter hour) and are thrown from the comfy-cool metro Delhi back into the hot, sticky above-ground Delhi. Couldn't we just stay on the train? I asked Jonathan, sweating withing seconds of 'alighting'. Apparently not.

India's capital is hot, loud, polluted, frantic, chaotically busy, and hot. Did I mention hot? But, really- its just fascinating. I had prepared myself, mentally, for India. Expecting to have to dodge the dodgy constantly and out trick tricksters on the side. But, there we were, standing outside the New Delhi Rail Station and we had yet to have anyone even talk to us, let alone be bothersome. Seriously, no one had talked to us, not even the Indian immigration officer, who just grunted while (rather) forcefully stamping our passports, and that doesn't really count as a conversation as far as I am concerned... It felt like an accomplishment. We had made it this far, without incident. Maybe some rickshaw wanted to take us somewhere, and maybe some guy on the side of the road wanted to sell us a drum or something equally as useless, and definitely everyone tried their darndest to run us over, but it was in no way, at all, the hassle I was expecting (and dreading). Maybe all this chaos is just normal to us now? Maybe taking your life in your hands crossing the road is a given? Maybe we looked like seasoned travellers, not to be bothered? Maybe it was just too hot for people to be annoying? Maybe they were intimidated by Werewolf Jonathan? Who knows? But whatever the reason, Delhi, to us, was a breeze. (Relatively speaking...but without an actual breeze). And, everyone speaks English! What an absolute treat!

India has poverty, the likes of which I have never seen before, and barely like to imagine. In China, they planted huge, emerald rice fields along the train tracks, long long ago, purposefully to paint a picture of China's abundance for train travellers. In India, there was no such scheming foresight. From our grubby, wide open, second-class, train window, the images we saw also leave poignant images in our memory- although of the significantly less pretty sort. People not only live beside the railroad tracks in India. They live on them. On them. Many Indians die because of this. The slums our train passed through on its way from Delhi to Amritsar, were simply shocking. There is no doubt that my jaw was literally hanging open in a mix disbelief, horror and fascination. People live there? Some areas looked as though there had once been a building there. Only it was blown up. Fragments that remained were painted odd, super bright colours. Plastic sheets, ropes and scraps of corrugated metal were somehow strung together haphazardly (or perhaps not) to close the wreckage in. Tiny little spaces held a large number of people.

When we stopped at train stations, small begger children approached our open windows, hoping for handouts. They aren't shy about it either. They stick their little hands through the window bars and poke at your arm until you pay attention to them. Then they look at you with their watery, brown, shiny eyes and put their hands to their mouth- showing that they want food. It was very hard to look at their ragged clothing, dirty skin and scrawny bodies: Many of us from the West have seen beggars before, but here, in India, the poverty is different; it is real in a way that might be hard to fathom. 'Give me your chocolate!' one child demanded. I would have laughed, seeing as the kid had chosen the person on the train who would be most likely to have chocolate, but it was too sad. Older beggars boarded the trains and played music, sang, banged their tin beggar bowls on our seats or just stuck their hands in our face for a long, awkward period of time. Second class train travel is a constant string of people trying to convince you to part with your rupees. Either in exchange for whatever they are selling, or just because they want it. It was exhausting for me, so I can't imagine what it would be like to be on the other end.

While in Delhi we spent a moving afternoon at the Gandhi Smirti. This is where Mahatma Gandhi spent the last months of his life, and where he was assassinated. In a loud, chaotic city, and for being a place where such a tragedy occurred, the Smirti was a quiet, even peaceful sanctuary. The house in which he lived has been converted into a very interesting, interactive museum dedicated to Gandhi's life and works. Gandhi's bedroom and living areas have been left just as they had been. The walls are all white. The only decoration is a small framed piece of paper that reads, fittingly: 'My life is my message,' one of Gandhi's famous quotes. The garden path that Gandhi took to his nightly prayer spot, the night he was shot, has been outlined by small concrete footprints to a small gazebo built in the exact spot he was killed by the Hindu extremist. Visitors can walk along side where the Mahatma took his last steps.

India reveres Gandhi, and for good reason. He was instrumental in their independence, he empowered his people and was passionate about his country, their happiness and prosperity. The Mahatma, a name which means 'Great Soul,' adorns every Indian Rupee note. Being at the Gandhi Smirti where one of the greatest Indians of all time lived out his last days was the number one highlight of Delhi.

J: From childhood I've played a "connections" type of game with myself not completely unlike the Seven Degrees of Separation from Kevin Bacon. I have always been interested in overlapping lives (aka Who do I personally know who was alive when this person was living or that situation happened?). Gandhi, more than any other person in this little game, is most special to me for a few reasons. One reason is that he was such an important historical figure. He had a lot to say about how costly real peace is but was also a living example of how a person can strive for peace despite this reality. Too, along the way he was both serious and funny...and had a penchant for simple dress: something I have an personal affinity for, especially back in Canada. To be more precise, though, I should say his death is particularly special to me (I know that sounds morbid, but I promise you its not). The other reason is how clearly I can picture the day he was assassinated. Its not Gandhi's day that I spend much time envisioning, though. Its the day of my "personal connection" with Gandhi that I have thought so much about: my dad. The date and time of the assassination make it very easy for me recreate my dad's day: he was exactly fifteen days old. Even without being a parent myself, I know there isn't much to the daily routine of a fifteen-day-old infant. Taking the time change into account, it was about midday for my dad. He was either sleeping or feeding at the time (or having his diaper changed, I suppose). He probably cried a little bit that day and was comforted and made to feel safe in Nanny's arms. On top of this, I can also picture Nanny attending to some sick despite having a newborn. And Pappy was probably beaming because of his young son and this could be seen clearly by all the villagers he was working with. Numbers help me think more clearly and having a specific time and date so close to my dad's birth lends itself quite nicely here. To stand right were Gandhi was gunned down and be able to paint that exact hour in my dad's day a continent away, was quite a powerful moment for me and not one I will soon forget.

ps. Yes, our India blogs are a bit out of order. Kinda like the country.

pps. Happy Anniversary (in two days) to Walter and Penelope!!

Mr. Fantastic...Totally Bombastic

We had just arrived in Rishikesh. It had been a very, very long, frustrating day of travel from Shimla. It was dark and and we had just found a guesthouse to stay in, thankfully. It was hot, even though the sun had long set, we were hungry, thirsty and exhausted. We really wanted some cold water. Conveniently located right beside our hotel was a little store. These are the kind of stores everyone buys everything at in India. No big department stores or supermarkets. Just a collection of little shops, none with doors or windows- all open air, selling everything from shampoo and razors to candy and bulk rice and spices.

'Do you have any cold water?' I asked the shopkeeper, a younger Indian man with a smiley face and big maroon oval (tikka) painted on his forehead. "Everyt'ing is possible!" he cried. Well, is it possible for me to just have a bottle of water then? I thought cynically. 'I have the best and most fantastic water in the whole city!' he reported cheerfully. He was very excited. His enthusiasm over the bottled water caught us off guard. 'Great. We'll take it!' I said, half wondering if our water was going to come with a side of ecstacy. As he reached into his fridge to get us the bottle, he started singing. "Mr Fantastic! Mr Bombastic! Mr Lovuh Lovuh.....Everyt'ing is possible" We couldn't help but smile. After such a rough day, his happiness was a wonderful relief. 'What are your names?' he asked us. Knowing where he was going, Jonathan played along and said, "You can call me Shaggy." We knew, though, that he couldn't hear our response as the incessant honking of the motorbikes and trucks on the road behind us had suddenly increased in already deafening decibel. 'My name?' he asked, without any prompting from us. 'I'm Mr. Fantastic! Mr Bombastic! Mr Lovuh Lovuh...' We laughed. He had his speech perfected. Mr Fantastic continued on his spiel of all that was fantastic and bombastic in the world. He had a lot to say. Turns out, we live on quite the fantastically bombastic planet. Our bellies were rumbling though, so we unfortunately had to move on after hearing only ten minutes or so of Mr Fantastic's bombastic ramblings. Note to Self: don't stop by for one of Mr Fantastic's "Everyt'ing-is-possible-best-super-cold-fantastic bottles of water" if you are in a hurry. 'Ok! See you later alligator! In a while crocodile!' Mr Fantastic called to us, waving goodbye wildly as we left in search of dinner.

The best part about Mr Fantastic was that he was just genuinely friendly. Every time we passed his shop he smiled wide and waved. "Everyt'ing is possible!" he would remind us. Every time. His shop was beside our hotel, on the main road. Mr Fantastic repeated his mantra a lot. Not that it is bad to be reminded that Everyt'ing is possible!

Hoping for some more bombastically cold water we went to visit Mr Fantastic a few days later. There was an older Indian man in the shop and Mr Fantastic was bent over a film camera that looked to be perhaps even older than the old man. He looked up from the camera that he was dissecting, saw us and smiled. 'His camera has a bombastic problem,' he told us grimly. We laughed, despite the probable demise of the old man's old camera. Was his camera going to live to take another snap? Well, it didn't look promising, but as Mr Fantastic would say, Everyt'ing is possible!

ps. Happy First Anniversary to the Fantastic, totally bombastic Mr and Mrs Lovuh Lovuh, Sarah and Ed!!

Riding the Rails

'Catching the Train' has a whole new meaning here in India. Here they take the saying more literally. If you can 'catch' the train, you can ride it. We love watching people scamper down the platform after a departing train, grabbing onto the handles outside the open door and swing themselves inside. Old, small, young, regardless of luggage- this is how Indians 'catch' trains. This morning, waiting for our train to finally make its appearance at the station, I laughed, watching the scene replay itself over and over again. I remembered that time Jonathan, Gramma and I were in Dublin, catching an above ground metro train. There was a bit of a crush and Gramma and I made it onto the train just before the sleek, glassy doors slammed abruptly shut in Jonathan's face. We watched, stunned, as our train pulled away and left Jonathan standing there on the platform. Its funny now, of course. That would have never happened in India. Jonathan could just hang off the back!

All the trains in India have a name. At first, I thought that not only was this a fun idea, but also it might help us decipher the faster trains from the 'milk delivery' sort. The Something or Other 'Express', they are all called. What a complete and utter fallacy. There is nothing express about any of India's trains. I just had to get that out there. The train that we are currently sitting on is called the Dedra Dun Express. We are going a total of 447km and it is going to take us a total of 10 hours and 13 minutes, assuming, of course, that it is on time, which it isn't. 'Express', it seems simply to mean a pretty slow train that will only stop every ten minutes, as opposed to every five, and will probably arrive before the non-Super Fast train. But, who am I to complain? Our train from Delhi to Amritsar, second class, open window, which took a total of 8 hours cost us $5. Total. For both of us! And we had reserved seats! Its even cheaper in the non reserved section. (Not that anyone should ever, ever do that to themselves). Its Literally pennies to travel by train. And, train travel is far more luxurious than the buses we have been taking through the hill towns. Especially when you 'splurge' for the AC coach- which we have done since our long, hot ride to Amritsar. And by 'splurge' I mean and eight hour train journey with more spacious seating and aircon will cost $10 each, instead of $2.50. Big percentage more, small amount. Worth every penny.

Speaking of those ridiculously cheap non reserved train cars, the class in which most Indians travel, our guide book says it well. 'Incredibly packed... and best avoided for longer trips...unless you are exceptionally hardy or unusually poor.' These trains are 'so cheap as to be virtually free.' We have had our share of free train rides here, though! Fifty cents, total, for both of us to travel two hours, as an example. It would have been really hard for me to imagine how 'incredibly packed' these trains could be if I hadn't seen it with my very own, wide, unblinking eyes. (Thankfully 'seen' not 'experienced'). I was looking out the window from the comfort of my airconditioned berth. We were at a station and were slowly passing a local train. I couldn't look away (for once, I was the one stare-er as opposed to the stare-ie). There were bodies and body parts in every available inch of space. Men sat on eachother's laps, feet, legs, arms, torsos were jutting out everywhere, so tangled that you couldnt tell which limbs belonged to which body. Random feet were resting on stranger's heads, arms around necks, bodies hanging out of the train. People were trying desperately to grab the window bars and shove whatever part of their faces that they could through the grimy bars, just to gasp some air. The space between the cars was jammed. People were suspended in the air, being held up by the bodies of other passengers. It was almost comical. Only because I wasn't one of the people on the train. People were crammed in to the point where it looked impossible that it was actually real. There was a guy sitting, his back against one car, his feet propped up against the next car, only his bottom wasn't on the ground! He was being held up by everyone else. One other young guy sat on the steps between the cars, pressed up against the side of the car, one side of his head resting against the car, the other padded by a large man's round pot belly! Seriously! He couldn't move his head. It was, to me, a fascinating display of what is considered to be in the realm of 'acceptable' here in India. If you can find space, its yours. There's crammed like Rome at World Youth Day, like the subway at rush hour in London, the train in Spain, but no where we've been, nothing I've seen, compares to this. If that subway or that train would have been in India, they would have figured how to jam another 100 people in somehow.. plus 50 hanging off and another 20 on the roof. Its impressive to the point that is horrifying. Clown cars have nothing on Third Class Non Reserved India Rail cars.

Sitting in the air-conditioning, in a berth that had four of the possible six passengers, the juxtaposition was overwhelming. Watching the kids with dirty clothes and painted faces beg for money and food from the passengers. Gazing at people, young and old, going to the bathroom between the tracks. The dogs scampering in front of oncoming trains. The cows begging for treats from people like they are household pets. The shanti men in their white and orange cloth carrying their alms bowls. All this is happening while I am sitting there, sipping chai, delivered to me from a chai wallah that roams the train dispensing sweet tea to those who have the 5 rupees to pay for it. Sitting there, trying to decide whether I should watch or look away. But this is India. A country of contrasts. And its too fascinating and foreign not to look. You attempt (and fail) to take it all in.

India, to me, is colour. If I had to pick one word to describe this great subcontinent, colour would be my choice. Of course, India is so much more than one word. Its hot, its beautiful, its bountiful, its poor, its rich, its incredible... but in all this, its colourful. Today, on the train, I am reminded again of why my word for India is colour. The trains are a bright blue, to start, not the boring dark navy blue like in the west, blue like the bluest sky. The people crammed onto the trains are dressed in sparkling saris, or patterned suits or even just colourful shirts and pants. Their skin is warm cocoa, in contrast to the bright blue train and red and yellow clothes. Just the sheer number of people on the train, all dressed in their everyday clothes is a shockingly colourful sight. One thing is for sure, thankfully, India is not a country ashamed of showing off its colours.

Are You Married?

India has been wonderful. By far one of our favourite countries to visit of all time. One of the things though, that will (almost) never fail to frustrate me though, is the staring. I know, I know, we look very white and pastey and we dress funny, this is true. And I'm not complaining about this, I'm just saying, so all of you at home can get a realistic picture of what travel in these parts is all about. Ok, maybe I'm complaining a little bit- but mostly I'm informing. ok? Anyways, I think the three months we spent in China was a good breaking-in for us. Now, sometimes I barely even notice that everyone in the entire train station is looking at me. E.V.E.R.Y.O.N.E. (Not complaining- just saying).

The reason I even write this is because a funny thing we've noticed -the staring here is different, somehow. Staring is staring, yes, but the feeling I get in India (creeped out) is not the same as in China (not creepy). Its (some) Indian men, of course, that are doing the creeping. They leer. Its like you can tell that they are unabashedly staring at you, and that there are little creepy wheels turning in their creepy little heads. And you don't want to know what is going on up there. Where as in China, they stared like their brains were turned off. In China it was like we were too foreign to comprehend. In India, they are creative.

The other thing is that there are far, far more Indian men out and loitering about. In restaurants, on trains, on the street-its men, men and men. Everywhere. I don't know where all the women are hiding. I'm not usually the kind of person who is intimidated by this sort thing, and its not that I am intimidated, per-say in India, but still I find myself forcing Jonathan to do all the talking (this is hard for me, you can imagine). He just gets a better response than I do. If I try to negotiate I often end up just getting super annoyed by the way some men talk to me. Sometimes they just plain ignore me. A swift slap might fix the problem... haha. Its not always an equal playing field, and it is very obvious to me, as a woman. And being in a room where I am the only female is surprisingly uncomfortable. So, both sides are bad, really- there's the rude-ness in contrast(?) with the leering...not a good combo.

Men almost always talk to Jonathan only, even if I'm standing right there. If they do address me, they call me 'sir.' Although I don't know why. If I had a rupee for every time I witnessed this conversation... well would probably only have about 50 rupees and that would be just over a dollar...

Creepo is watching us and saunters over, creepster fashion.
'Is this your friend?' asks creepy Indian man to Jonathan. I am standing beside Jonathan, rolling my eyes.
'No, this is my wife.' Jonathan responds.
'Oh, very good,' or something equally as irritating, he will say. I sigh as the creepster looks me over, wondering what would happen if we weren't married. How many water buffalo am I worth? If it weren't for the leering, it would be rather entertaining! Maybe we could even convince creepo to throw in a goat for good measure!

ps. There are so many people who give us this feeling in India. Remember, though, that this is a country of about one billion people: there is also so many more people who are the exact opposite of this. We are even fortunate enough to know a healthy handful of them personally.

A Walk on the Wild Side

There are plenty of nice ashrams and temples to go walking to in the Rishikesh area. We have spent quite a bit of time walking about, although the heat and scorching sun have been a deterrent. Feeling brave, and needing to stretch my legs after all the work at yoga we decided on the 6km walk out to the Phool Chatti ashram, at the apex of a clear, blue stream and the muddy, swift opaque ganges. We ate breakfast and sipped spicy chai at our favourite breakfast spot and left the comfort of the fan for the steamy, sunsoaked outdoors.

The walk is along an Indian road, which poses dangers in itself, what with all the jeeps crammed with locals flying (sometimes literally) up and down the narrow way. And the motorbikes, with no less than three passengers, none of whom seem to be actually paying attention to the road. Most of the road is covered in cow patties. I guess that's one of the main downfalls of all the friendly, resident, wandering cows that beg passerbys for a chip or two from their bag, 'Magic Masala' preferably. (Or their favourite treat: cardboard boxes. Those they eat with relish. They especially like the Coca Cola variety.) Anyways. Poo. Everywhere. And these cows eat a diet consisting almost entirely of garbage and pretty much anything and everything, except grass, so you can imagine that they aren't perhaps the healthiest of beasts. This is reflected in their spattering, smearing, stinky poo that they effectively spread over every inch of the road. Impressive, really. They rarely miss a spot. A stroll anywhere in India is, essentially a Cow Pattie Obstacle Course. And many people seem to like to complete this obstacle course barefoot! So, to summarize, the 'steps' of walking.

Step One: Avoid being hit by a wayward vehicle. They honk, you moooove. That's it. The cows seem to manage... then again, they are the sacred ones.

Step Two: Good luck trying to avoid walking through cow poo. Get your wellies!

The thick, jungle-y forest that lines the road is sublime, though. And the monkeys!
Sometimes I think about the time when monkeys running amok, clambering through trees and peering curiously at you from the side of the road wasn't a normal, everyday sight. I would think it was a sad time- if the monkeys themselves weren't so terrifying. They don't mean to be, I'm sure. But they don't know any better. People have fed them in the past, and they are still optimistic about handouts, they get yelled at a lot, because they are so very mischievous, and people sometimes even hit them with sticks (sad, I know). So, really, people are much to blame for some of the behaviour. When we were getting all our shots for the trip, the nurse recommended we get a rabies shot, in case a monkey jumps on us. I laughed when she said that. What the heck kind of situation would we find ourselves in that a monkey might jump on us. Ohhh how little I knew. The nurses warning has stuck, and now, to me, monkey = rabies. And rabies = a lot of needles. You can die from rabies within 24hours. This I didn't know until the needle nurse horrified me with this little tidbit. Sad, but true.

Step Three: Don't feed the monkeys.

Anyways, on a positive note, there are two kinds of monkeys here in Rishikesh. Feisty smaller red-bummed rhesus macaque and large black-faced, grey bodied 'Hanuman' langurs. Both are abundant and abundantly mischievious. So, we begin our walk by hiding our water bottle and making sure that there is nothing fun-looking or shiny dangling from our beings. Although we see monkeys now, everyday, everywhere, I still can't help but be charmed by their monkey ways. "Hahaha! That monkey just clambered across the roof and stole that apple, and then skidded across the electrical wire, down the drain pipe, scrambled across the street and scared the wits out of that couple!' 'Hahaha! Its 6am and those monkeys are wrestling on the tin roof, causing one heck of a ruckus!' Its probably less entertaining when you live here.
So, what I am actually trying to say is that you have to have your wits about you when walking through the forest.

We walk to the edge of town and are joined by a cute black dog with an incessantly waggy tail. Stray dogs join us on walks often. 'Maybe because their doggie sense tells them that we're friendly?' We originally thought. But, no, its because we don't immediately yell at them, kick them, throw sticks at them or jump at them aggressively trying to scare them. That's what most locals do. Earning a dogs love in these parts is not hard. They do not have high standards. Therefore, dogs join us for walks, and use us for protection (and often protect us against other animals!). They seem to have figured out that people won't hit them if they are 'attached' to other people. We walked along, our new doggie friend heeling in between us. The monkeys and dogs aren't friends. "Dog" (aren't we creative with names?) hid from the monkeys behind us. We're walking along, sweaty in the mid-morning sun, taking in the green, the monkeys and the rushing ganges. Dog is sniffing a bush. Recipe for disaster. All of the sudden a large monkey, aggressively jumps out at him, barring his teeth in warning. We all jump in surprise and Dog runs to hide behind us. Sigh. And the adventure begins.

Step Four: Watch out for cute, trouble causing tag-alongs.

People stop us to take pictures. Its all part of the routine now. One snap of us, then everyone takes turns taking a photo with us, they thank us, shake our hands and we move on. I feel bad that I am so sweaty and gross-looking for their photos. One guy even insists on hugging us. I am wet with sweat. Its so hot. Poor guy. I'm gross.

Step Five: Smile for the camera.

We keep trucking. If it wasn't so darn hot, it would be very enjoyable. 'I wish it wasn't so hot!' I whine for the tenth time in as many minutes. There's barely even a breeze. Dog lies down in a river that has taken over the road, covering the patch in muddy, cool water. He slurps up the drink. Yum. I, on the other hand, don't do heat so well. I complain. 'I wish it weren't so hot!' I say again, in case Jonathan didn't hear me the first eleven times.

Step Six: Get your sweat on.

As if on demand, a wonderfully cool, even cold, breeze envelopes us. Wow! Its such a contrast that I look around to see if we have passed some sort of hidden, magic air conditioned shop with its doors open, somewhere in the middle of the forest. Weird. Its soooo nice. But not free. A very black cloud appears over the ridge of the mountain and almost instantly huge raindrops start splattering around us. Splat! Splat! Splat! Of course, we haven't brought our umbrellas as the sky has been a hot, hazy blue for days. Splat! Stupid! Its monsoon. We've been tricked again. We dash under a dense tree and hope to use this jungle canopy to our advantage. The cooler air is welcome, and we wouldn't really even mind getting wet- but I have my cameras in my bag and Jonathan has the passports and money. The tree diverts some of the rain, but not for long. The rain gets heavier and the drops find their way through the leaves and onto us. 'Well, you got your wish. It's not hot anymore,' Jonathan says to me as his shirt changes colour the wetter it gets. We stand under the tree, getting soaked. So, this is what they mean by 'monsoon,' eh? Realizing that we probably couldn't get any more wet than we were we decide just to walk through the rain back towards town. Jeeps and motorbikes pass at breakneck speed, aiming for puddles (I'm sure) and defiantly splashing us with the entire contents of the puddle. 'Thought that is as wet as you could get?' they seem to be mocking.

Step Seven: Bring your umbrella.

We stomp on. My sandals are slimy and slippery and really annoying to walk in. Jonathan's hair is plastered to his head and his pants are dragging in through the mud (we're telling ourselves its mud anyway...). I am about to complain about our new set of frustrating circumstances when my thoughts are zapped from my head by a massive, shocking, terrifying BOOOOM!!! right above us. I yelp and jump impressively high, no doubt. We look up in time to see a burst of yellow and orange sparks/flames exploding from the power box on top of the wood posts and quickly showering towards us. 'That thing just EXPLODED!' I cry, my heart pounding. 'It EXPLODED right over us! There is a fire! Fireworks!' Do we run? What happens next? We are too shocked to do anything but look at each other. Swerving jeeps and motorbikes, killer monkeys, curious Dog looking for trouble, a monsoon and now an explosion. This was some morning walk! 'If Ronnie were in charge here, that would have NEVER have happened!' I tell Jonathan. Its still 'monsooning' but we push on. A few minutes later, we hear another loud BOOOM!!! from behind us and think that maybe our luck is changing. Explosions from a distance are probably of the safer variety.

Step Eight: Maybe bring a hard hat too.

We finally get to the edge of town. Its still raining with vigor. The roads are flooded and the water covering them is the grossest variety of gross. The cow patties are now floating, disguised in the muddy rain water, and nearly impossible to avoid. People's garbage has grown legs (that they all insist on haphazardly throwing out into the middle of the road) and is chasing us down the street. Garbage cans are not popular here. Why, when the street is closer, bigger and there. Food pieces float by, wrappers, diseases. Who knows, really. Its so gross I can't bare to look what I am wading through anymore. It couldn't have been raining more than twenty minutes and everything is a disaster. And flooded.

Step Nine: Don't get caught up the flooded street without a paddle.

A man sitting irritatingly dry and comfy in his shop tries to sell me an umbrella. I glare at him. I think its a little late for that. In town, everyone is hiding in come cubby hole or another. Under this plastic or that, sipping chai, staring at us as we pass. Soaked to the bone. Our clothes are stuck to us, and I am trying to cover my bag with my dripping shirt, to protect the cameras. My clothes are falling down under the weight of the water. I don't want to think what my feet are touching.

We arrive back at our hotel and leave a trail that looks like a river to our room. Jonathan is happy because he has an excuse to wear his sarong the rest of the day.

Step ten: Be careful what you wish for.

ps. Happy Birthday Fun Aunt Maryann!

pps. We felt the earthquake, but we are fine. Although extensive, damage did not reach to the Annapurna. This should mean we will have no troubles getting into our trek.

Jonathan and the Belt of Triumph

Yoga, by definition means to 'unite'. The aim of practicing yoga is to 'unite' an individual's consciousness with the divine. For me, it was more like uniting my body with a following week of barely being able to walk.

Rishikesh- 'The Yoga Capital of the World', or so they claim. A statement which I suppose a town is allowed to make when every other building is an ashram, temple or yoga school. And everyone, ok, mostly the tourists, all stroll around looking ridiculously flexible and wearing overly baggy 'yoga' clothes and orange scarves patterned with Hindu deities, barely breaking their chants for strictly vegetarian food. Heck, even the Beatles came here, famously, to Maharishi's ashram, just outside of town, for some good old fashioned stretching and 'ommm'ing. On the holy river 'Ganga' (the Ganges) Rishikesh and it's neighbouring towns are a mecca, for varying reasons, for pilgrims, tourists, sadhus (somewhat itinerant holy men who are sustained mostly by alms, but also find supplemental income as hotel touts, tour guides etc.), people who want to learn the secrets of yoga, people who think they already know everything about yoga and want to show off, and, of course, as all Indian towns, for cows, dogs and monkeys.

As a rosey-eyed travel planner, I am guilty of imagining the perfect 'Liz' senario. Liz (Gilbert), of course, from Eat, Pray, Love, whose months spent at the nameless Indian ashram enlightened her in so many ways. (ps. I am NOT the only one who has come to this decision, looks like, from the innumerable single women wandering around wistfully, obviously just waiting to be enlightened) (side note #2: I know, I know this isn't completely fair and quite a bit cynical) In my personal Indian-yoga fantasies, I would sit, cross legged, before a soft faced yogi, breathing deeply feeling the oxygen run through me, filling me with energy, a gentle breeze on my face, the soothing sounds of distant chanting devotees, and I would revel in the peace and stillness. I would leave town feeling rejuvenated, refreshed, and alive. Sigh. What an imagination I have.

Granted, the large studio at 'my' yoga school has a grand wall of windows that look out over the fast moving Ganges. Sitting on my yoga mat, I can hear the rushing water and see the faded, but colourful temple across the bank backing onto the thick, steep, forested hills. Then again, my eyes are supposed to be closed, and I probably should be focused more on contorting my sweaty body into the impossible pose that the calm, pretzel-like yogi is demonstrating... But, oh.. and theres a cute little monkey lumbering along the balcony! The yogi always smiles at me in the way one smiles at a child when they are trying so very hard to do something that is clearly impossible for them to do. Everyone else knows that they are headed for failure, but the child, naive, keeps on trying anyways. Anything is possible, right? How cute.

The first class Jonathan and I took (yes, even Jonathan gave it a shot- we are in the Yoga Capital of the World, after all) was Astanga Yoga. Astanga yoga links various poses into a series of flowing, aka, exhausting, movements. 'Guaranteed to make you sweat,' promised the yogi who greeted us, like the sweating was something to look forward to. The only thing that I could think of as we twisted and lunged and I successfully drenched in sweat, every item of clothing I was wearing, my yoga mat, and most of the floor around me, was 'what a scam that popular, trendy, new 'hot yoga' stuff is that everyone is talking about at home!' 'Hot yoga,' I'm sure, was 'invented' by someone who came to India and took an astanga yoga class in India's scorching hot weather on a day where the power was out, as it was that day for us. (Not that the decrepit fans would have made much of a difference). Guaranteed to make you sweat out at least a half liter. This is no special hot yoga, people. This is just yoga in India. Yoga, where in a place where it is insanely hot. And there you have it: hot yoga was born. I'm sure of it. I loved every minute of it, of course.

Ever more entertaining than myself, was dear ole' Jonathan. I had done many of the moves/positions before in classes at the gym back home (most I had been doing incorrectly, it turns out. Because when you do them the proper way- it hurts... but, anyways). It was a whole new world for Jonathan.He did well, though. He was the only proud recipient of a blue belt, half way through the class. We were sitting, legs out, reaching towards our feet. The yogi came around and was trying to help each of us reach further. He came to Jonathan and pushed lightly on is back. Jonathan laughed. 'Oh' said the yogi, surprised, and he returned with the belt. 'The Rope of Superiority,' 'the Gold Star', 'The Belt of Triumph.' All names Jonathan came up with for his new accessory. Really, what was it? A handicap. Because Jonathan can't touch his toes. Not, really, I'm sad to report, even close. (J: Why would anyone want their fingers to touch their toes when those toes, strapped in thongs, have been walking around in mud, disease-infested water, cow splats, garbage and some other gross things all day long? In this context, inflexibility should be rebranded as Sanitary Yoga). With the rope wrapped around his feet, he could use the resistance to aid in his 'stretching.' This, needless to say was the last astanga yoga class Jonathan came to with me (J: I said I would attend one class of each type offered (three in total)).

I continued to attend, although not the next day, as I could barely move my legs as a result of the class. I am more flexible than Jonathan, but nothing compared to the pretzel-people in the class. Wowzers. Seriously, these people can contort themselves, seemingly effortlessly into poses that you only see in those disturbing forwarded emails. I am hoping that flexibility is contagious. I think the yogi likes when I come, for my entertainment value. In that first class, by some stroke of otherworldly assistance, I'm sure, I managed to fanagle my legs almost behind my head. The yogi looked up in alarm and frantically motioned one of the assistants over to 'assist' me in my efforts. Most likely to do his best in making sure I didn't break my neck. That would probably be a lot of paperwork. Then again, this is India. The yogi in training, without really any help from me, somehow rearranged my legs and feet and arms so that I was almost pretzel-ed in half, kinda like the rest of the class, (except Jonathan). I was stunned. How the heck was I doing this? 'Look at me! Look at me!' I hissed to Jonathan, craning my neck to the side and peering in between my jumble of arms and legs. You don't talk loudly in yoga class, obviously. As I hoped, he looked over and was equally impressed, shocked and horrified. I could tell by the way his jaw dropped and was filled with panic. 'You're folded in half!' Jonathan exclaimed in a loud whisper. Ms. Yoga herself glares at us from between her legs, showing off her perfect 'downward dog.' She's moved on from this pose. Too easy for her. The yogi had left me, all twisted up. I was so impressed with myself. Look at me! Look at me! I'm a pretzel! Yes, I was thrilled, and was wishing that we had the camera to provide proof of this feat, as it was likely never to happen again- and then I realized. Not only had I not the slightest idea how I had gotten myself into this 'pretzel' (mostly because I hadn't), more importantly, and causing a significant onset of panic, 'how the heck was I going to get out?' My limbs were all secured tightly within each other and I couldn't move them at all. Everyone else was gracefully moving on to the next pose. Except me. I was on my back, butt in the air, flopping around like a fish on the beach. Graceful, yes, and attractive, I'm sure. Jonathan was no longer impressed and was laughing. I knew right then, as I had finally wriggled one leg free and flopped it onto the ground with a resounding 'thump' that I had lost any right to make fun of his 'Blue Belt of Triumph.' Darn. As I lay there, flat on my back, breathing heavily I remembered that I was a pretzel, just moments before and smiled widely. 'Did you see that?' I mouthed to Jonathan, referring to the pretzel, not the unflattering depretzelization. To which, he just laughed harder. Whatever, Blue Belt!

As the week wore on, I got better and better at the positions, and every morning I woke up my leg muscles ached less and less. Yesterday, my second to last class, I was feeling particularily daring. The yogi described and demonstrated some complicated pose where one leg was tucked up into the other and the other leg was bent, and one arm went around this leg, but backwards, or something equally as impossible. I watched the rest of the class twisting and reaching and pushing themselves into position, and I tried to imitate them. 'This pose is very hard for some, very easy for others,' the yogi called from the front of the classroom. I wriggled my way into position with relative ease. Wow! I could do it! I was one of the ones it was easy for. One week of yoga, and I was practically a pro. I smiled and closed my eyes. I practiced breathing the way I was taught. I made sure all my muscles were active. I sat there, eyes closed, impressed with myself. Maybe I should become a yoga instructor! Maybe I could be more successful at meditation, now that I've conquered yoga. Maybe... there was a tap on my knee. The yogi was smiling, inches from my face. The same way I smile at cute dogs. He shook his head, still smiling and dutifully attempted to rearrange my limbs into a position that more closely resembled that of the rest of the class, I realized. He was greatly unsuccessful. There was no way my leg was going there, nor was my arm reaching that far. My limbs were fiercely uncooperative despite his gentle coaxing. Not even close. 'Oh.' 'Not so easy any more, is it?' he laughed, good naturedly. Maybe I will stick to sitting at the back of the class...

The yoga school offers three different kinds of classes. Hatha yoga, which is traditional Indian yoga, Ashtanga Visyasa yoga, a more fluid yoga and meditation. Jonathan and I have tried every class. Jonathan, not surprisingly, liked the mediation the best. And he was far, far better at it than I was. After a half hour of 'breathing' and another excruciating half hour of staring at the flame of a candle, I determined that meditation was boring. Although instead of sitting there "concentrating", as I knew my perfectly figetless husband was doing, I had used the time 'wisely,' planning where we would go for dinner, if this hour did, in fact, ever end, which earrings I wanted from the Tibetan lady down the street, I considered which train we should take to the next town, decided that we should do our laundry the following day...

ps. Happy Birthday Uncle Stephen, Uncle Dan and Candy Dandy!!

pps. Welcome to the family Daniel Ricardo!

ppps. Has anyone in Canada received a postcard from Nepal yet? We mailed them six weeks ago!