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Sama, Equanimity and Yoga

Sama, the name of our cottage at Neeleshwar, means equanimity or a feeling of tranquillity, calm, and evenness of mind. That, and yoga, is exactly why I’ve come here. It is our fourth week in South India. The trip has been fascinating, rewarding, and sometimes death defying as were confronted (and entertained, I admit) by grim traffic on the main roads between beautiful places. Now I need to quieten down my “brain traffic,” my busy brain, and try to compose myself before going home in a couple more weeks.

We missed the train in Cochin because “a political meeting” blocked the only bridge to the station. There were no more seats for us on the next train and all the flights to northern Kerala were booked. Mohan said, “The only way to get there today is to drive.”

“How far is it?” I asked.

“Two-hundred kilometres.” He said. “It could take several hours”

It took ten. We clawed our way up hillsides, cut around sharp lane changes and narrow passes. We dodged construction, obstruction and big trucks spewing diesel. Tuk-tuks, two-wheelers (motorcycles) and scooters had whole families piled on them  – fathers driving, mothers grabbing their billowing burkas and holding onto their children. A few new SUV’s, like ours, added to the confusion, some going backward, some forward, some right-side, others wrong-side, everywhere every-side.

At last we’re here dragging our travel worn bodies through the main entrance of the place we are to stay. I take a long deep breath. The night is dark, the air is warm and fresh. We can smell the sea and the only sound we hear is of the waves. We are led along a winding stone walkway to Sama, one of seventeen cottages on the 10-acre property.

It’s always an edgy experience for me to arrive somewhere I don’t know in the dark of night and I’m even more edgy now after the long drive. I’m anxious to orient myself to this place I’ll call home for the next week. I especially need to know about the yoga. Our first session is at 8am tomorrow and the night will be short. “Don’t worry, you’ll see the pavilion in the morning. It’s over there,” our hostess says, pointing into the blackness.

I can smell spices simmering. I can make out a few candle-lit tables under the palms on the beach. I know we’re beside the Arabian Sea in Northern Kerala. I can only begin to guess what else is out there in the dark and I’ll have to wait for tomorrow morning to find the Yoga.

The specially prepared delicious fish dinner with a glass of Kingfisher were just what I needed for dinner last night and after a restless sleep re-living our unnerving drive, I wake to a soft tap on the door and a gentle singsong voice. “Good morning Mrs. Mr. Sir. Bed tea.” The sun is beginning to break through giant coconut palms casting beautiful shadows on the beach.  Time for yoga and our meeting with Anil our yoga instructor. 

Yoga has gone in and out of popularity throughout history but it’s been around India for thousands of years. There could be no better place to learn about it. In Chennai, the first day, we attended a special performance of Bhartanatyam dance, and learned that the Hindu deity, Shiva, Lord of the Dance, was a promoter of yoga. I could see it in the dance. In the ancient temples of Tamil Nadu we were spellbound by the sculptures and bas-reliefs depicting yoga postures still practiced today.

By our second day in India we had started going to early morning yoga classes everyday, even though Ross had never been to a yoga class before.

Now we are ready for more.

In our meeting, Anil explains that yoga, the asana (postures,) pranayamas (breathing exercises,) and mediation, strengthens the body, relaxes the mind and invigorates the spirit. Apprehensively, I agree with Anil’s recommendation that I should take a course of five private mediation sessions before the group yoga practices at 8am. He says I could learn how to unwind, relieve stress, maybe even lower my blood pressure. “And get rid of the wrinkles on my face,” I hope, secretly, to myself.

Ross and I would have a wake up knock on the door and tea at 6:30am. Ross could have a swim. As a beginner yogi Ross already has as much yoga as he can cope with, without the mediation. Then we will take another private yoga class together before sunset. That’s two hours of yoga for Ross, three hours of yoga for me. Every day.

I buck up my courage and admit to Anil “I can’t concentrate, and try to learn to mediate here with that statue and flowers in front. It’s not me. Besides there’s a beautiful beach right there.”

“Really? You want to meditate on the beach?” Anil says smiling. “The beach will be perfect.” 

I think I’ve won a brownie point.

“Do not open your eyes. Keep them closed until the end of the session.” Anil says. “Relax your arms and place your hands on your knees. Sit with your head, your neck and your spine straight. Relax. Relax. Breathe in the fresh air. Slowly. As slowly as you can.  Breathe out. More slowly.” Anil prompts.

I try my best to sit quietly. I smell the salt and the sea. The only sounds I hear are waves. I am in awe. Each wave is different, a different resonance. I could listen forever. Just listen. There is a calmness and composure around me I haven’t experienced before. My brain is still. I am hungry for more.

“Now. Rub your hands together. Feel them. They’re warm. Gently touch your eyes with your palms, and then bring your fingers to your forehead, your ears, your neck and your face. Rub your hands together again and bring them to your eyes. Now open your eyes with a beautiful smile on your face.”

I can’t stop smiling.

Ross is waiting for me. “Weren’t they fabulous?” he says.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, happy, but confused.

“The dolphins. For a long time they were dancing right in front of you.”

I appreciate the words of Henry Miller, the American painter and author. “One’s destination is never a place but a new way of seeing things.”

Marcel Proust the French writer wisely said that travel is not the search for new sights but for a new way of seeing everything, old sights included.

I had missed the dolphins but found a new way of seeing.

Sama. Equanimity.

Delicious Kerala

I love this place. Mohan, our trusted driver these past few weeks travelling slowly through South India, told us Kerala was “God’s Own Country.” I understand now why he couldn’t wait to show us his home state.

Kerala means land of coconut in Malayalam, the local language. But Kerala is not only about coconut.

It’s tea plantations, hills, backwaters, beaches along the Arabian Sea and Mohan’s favourite, “Kerala Fish Curry.” He has it almost every day with thali, a creative compilation of small tasty local dishes. Traditionally thali’s served on a banana leaf. Wholesome and inexpensive thali includes Kerala brown rice, vegetables, chutney, yoghurt and pickle.What better place to learn how to make Mohan’s fish curry than Cochin or Kochi as it has recently been renamed – it ‘s been a centre of fishing and trading in India for centuries.

Today a visit to Hindu temples, mosques, churches and a synagogue tells the story of Kochi’s long history. With a population of about one and a half million, it is not the sleepy port we first visited in 1994. At that time we could hear explosions off the coastline. “Dynamite.” We were told then. “For fishing.” The illegal dynamiting has been stopped but the renowned Chinese fishing nets in Kochi now “are mainly for catching tourists,” our guide tells us. I’m glad the fishing nets are still there. They are a beautiful reminder of the past and a way of living in Cochin.

Many of the chefs in the small hotels we are staying in South India are pleased to share their recipes and happy to help make changes to avoid allergens, even the much-loved coconut that is in every “Kerala” dish. Chef Kardhik at Brunton Boatyard Hotel near the fishing nets taught us how to make fish curry. I’ll make it at home and maybe post the recipe.We left out the Kerala and substituted cream. Delicious.

Like most things in this beautiful part of India.

Coming Next: Sama. Equanimity 

A Beach of Two Tales: Guest Post by Ross Hayes. Architect.Urban Planner.

We had been in India for two days staying south of Chennai (Madras) at Covelong. Exploring the beach, in one direction I happened upon a fishing village, which appeared to have evolved from centuries of tradition. In the other direction, I saw high-rises, India’s response to its emerging role in the world’s high tech community. The contrast could not have been more vivid.

To the right, I make out faint silhouettes of fishing boats, people moving and the blocky outline of a village smothered in palms. I set out to explore it. I expect hopeful little voices saying, “pen please, where are you from,” but the children are preoccupied with a game of leapfrog interrupted by a dash to the shore to greet incoming fishermen.

A long open boat surfs the waves as it approaches and it is skilfully turned broadside at the beach. Two fishermen jump out and with a long pole between them, sling a heavy motor off the stern and march it up the beyond the high tide line. Then they quickly return to the boat to hoist off two bales of fish as the faces of enthusiastic onlookers light up with the sight of the catch.

I walk further into the crowd. An older gentleman wearing a dhoti with a white embroidered cap sits cross-legged at the bow of a boat and gazes into the horizon. I can’t begin to guess his thoughts, but his calmness suggests a satisfaction that this time the sea has been good.

Not far away, a group of women with young children sit on an old boat. They indicate they want me to take their picture. They laugh, shout at their kids to be still and flash broad smiles at the camera. Their red forehead markings and large gold earrings glisten. Their colourful saris flow down to the sand.

And then thank me! I thought I should be thanking them.

Close by an informal market is set up. Women sit on the sand, spreading out banana leaves in front of themselves to display the catch. There are long silver fish, glistening in the afternoon sun and mounds of shrimp. Smaller fish remind me of children’s drawings, shaped by two intersecting curved lines with a dot for the eye.

Down at the beach, a group of kids chase a floating red ball. Two Moslem women join in the fun and plunge into the surf, fully clothed in their long back robes. Three sari clad Hindu friends, who are also being soaked and tossed about in the surf, cheer them on.A few metres away fishermen are repairing nets, carefully sewing stone weights into the bottom edge to prepare for another day and hopefully another celebration.

Later on I walk to the left of our cottage. I have seen activity there, but I don’t know exactly what’s happening. I move along the beach past two abandoned fishing boats. A river flowing out to sea blocks my way and then I see a young man who parks his bicycle in the shade of the trees. My eyes follow him as he strides across the sand flats and swims across the river with his net across his shoulder. The current sweeps him toward the open sea. But I see he’s done this. He finds a perch in the sand below him before he casts his net.

I watch for a moment before I see an unexpected skyline.

A series of high rises of 15 to 20 storeys are visible. These are the new-gated communities, forced out of Chennai (Madras) by the inability of the city to cope with its new 24/7 high tech industry-world. Shops have now taken over sidewalks. People are squeezed into the road with bicycles, motorcycles, three wheel motor rickshaws, cars, trucks and thick black exhaust. Add into the mix delivery vans, construction debris and an occasional cow. The result is chaos that grinds everything to a halt.

I can taste the pollution. The sound is deafening.

I am told that the city has grown four-fold in 15 years.

A new generation of workers in the IT industry has moved out of the city to new self-contained gated communities offering housing, offices, schools, clinics, recreation and shopping centres. An add in the paper claims this is a “new paradigm of urban life,” a “verdant enclave” with “sprawling sylvan grounds” and a place where “a new life begins.”

Within an hour’s walk I had found a beach of two tales – a community intricately shaped by a way of life that is centuries old and another community that has exploded from the force of a new industry.