Intimidation, Part Six: The Ocean and The Spirit

From Kumily, we traveled by bus to Aleppy, also known as Alappuzha. Since the second is nearly impossible to pronounce (go ahead, try it!), we reverted back to the British, pre-Independence name. I felt bad, but after the first few stumbling Ah-la-um...-poo-tsa...um...s, Ah-lep-pee won over. Normally pronunciation is easy now that we know how to read the script. Instead of our insane Roman characters that have a dozen or so different sounds apiece, each letter in the Devanagari script has just one sound, or "one sound only." However, in the south, that script isn't used. I didn't realize how much we relied on being able to read the street signs until we arrived down here. Instead of confidently striding to the correct bus, we now relied on a shaky network of "English" and the kindness of strangers.

Nevertheless, we found our bus. After the usual flurry of stuffing our (ok, my) overly large bags under the seats and scrambling for sitting space, we set off down south to Aleppy, a major backwater cruise hub and casual beach town. I already mentioned how much water dominates the landscape here, but before this bus ride, it was limited to snatches of ponds and shallow lagoons. Here, we were driving next to the ocean, which came to life as the sun went down and the palm trees cast tangled shadows into the water. Listen to Mae's live version of "Sun" and you'll get the same feeling of beauty and awe.

Needless to say, our first stop after getting off the bus was the beach. The hotel manager directed us down a side street bustling with fish sellers and children hawking shell necklaces. Arriving at the beach in total darkness, we ran towards the sound of lapping waves. I ran knee-deep in the water the temperature of bathwater. Now, when I say "bathwater," I mean bathwater. My dad's (in)famous for plunging into frigid lakes and insisting that the water's balmy. Sure, Dad. Growing up on the edge of the Pacific, I learned that oceans aren't ever really warm. Apparently I'd never been to the Arabian Sea after the monsoon season.

After splashing for a few minutes, we wandered down the deserted beach towards the activity a hundred yards down the shore. Little crab shadows scampered out of our way as the breeze blew salt against our faces. Shop lights and the glow from beach fires bobbed up ahead as we walked, searching for our friends in the clumps of people up ahead. Somehow we'd stumbled on this perfect stretch of deserted beach. We'd find out the next day that we'd been frolicking in Aleppy's public latrine, but for now, ignorance (not to mention a strong breeze) was bliss.

We found our friends along the road and found our houseboat the next morning. Alex and Gemma had already bartered for the boat a few days earlier, so all we had to do was hop onto our drifting palace. The houseboat was absolutely huge, with cavernous rooms and a staff of four to cook for us and navigate the boat. We drifted down canals flanked by palm trees, watching dhobis (clothes washers) beat the living daylights out of dirty clothes on rocks by the river. That evening, we were treated to another blazing sunset cut against palm trees and power lines. The combination was strangely beautiful, actually.

After our boat journey, half of our group headed down to Kanyakumari while Gemma and Zach headed for Varkala, our final destination. Kanyakumari, the southernmost part of India, is located in the neighboring state of Tamil Nadu. The first morning we arrived, I decided to be ambitious and get up at five AM to watch the sunset with Sara, Danielle, and Alex. We headed down to the breakwater that marks the last bit of southern land before Antarctica as the first bits of light stretched over the horizon. Those bits of light were the extent of what we'd see, as the morning sun turned into a drizzle and then into a squall. We retreated back to the hotel for another few minutes of sleep (ok, I'm the only one who went back to sleep), and by the time I'd gotten back up an hour later, the air was clear again.

Kanyakumari is a tourist destination, but only for fellow Indians. It's a site of religious pilgrimage, so even though the area was choked with tourists, we still stood out. We took the short ferry ride across choppy waters to the famous ashram on an island. Walking through the temple was interesting but strangely uninspiring. That's what I've found with most temples over here, actually... the ancient, historical temples are beautiful to me, but I don't really find much of a spiritual connection there. In the old but still used temples, the crackle of burning oil and soot-smeared walls are more palpable, more real. In this pristine and eerily silent stone temple, I looked around politely before exiting out the back. On my way out, I passed a sign near a narrow door listing about fifty different rules. The door led to a mediation chamber, and the rules demanded silence and focus. Danielle, Sara, and I looked at each other nervously before tiptoeing in.

As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I could see the hulking shadows of a dozen or so people sitting cross-legged on a thin carpet. The only light came from a glowing green "om" in the front of the room. "Om" is an essential part of Hindu spirituality. I'd try to explain it, but I don't fully grasp it myself. After a class on Indian philosophy and almost half a year in India, it's still a fluid concept. Meditating on "om" is supposed to be powerful and a strong way to focus. Back in my class at CC, we meditated by speaking/singing the word, but this room was silent. I figured I'd give it a try, anyway.

After my breathing slowed to a constant rhythm, I realized that the room wasn't silent after all. Very soft, subtle tones rose and fell with the sound of the waves outside. I'm not sure exactly where the humming sounds came from, but I was reminded of a place in San Francisco that my parents used to take my brother and me when we were younger. There's a place called the wave organ settled within some of the rocks on the coast where cement pipes have been placed. If the weather's just right and you're quiet enough, you can hear the ocean air and waves blowing through the pipes like the sound you make blowing across the top of a glass bottle. The result is an eerie, beautiful piece of music. I haven't been back to the wave organ for half a decade. In the Om room, I heard those sounds again.

I'm not sure exactly what happened next, but I know that sitting in that room, I felt a peace that I hadn't experienced before. The wave organ and the glowing Om settled into one, and everything just left me. The trip had been an amazing experience, but traveling through and living in India had tensed my muscles. In that room, I realized what I'd been doing the past few months. Somewhere in the last month or two, "living in India" became just "living." I've talked a little about how things that shocked me in the beginning seem normal now. I suppose it's a sign of adjusting and assimilating into the culture, but I'd almost forgotten what I was doing here. My casual acceptance of the differences had led me to forget how amazing it is over here. I'd almost adjusted too much, to the point of apathy. But in that room with the waves crashing and singing around me, something brought me back, and I was in awe.

Love,
Sarah!

iPod: "Sun (Live)," Mae, "Embers and Envelopes," Mae