The Gods of War and Sleep

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I'm now at the Kalari and it's just me and a load of oiled men in loin-cloths with an assortment of the most dangerously sharp weapons I have ever seen.

Getting to the 'Kalari' (that's Indian for 'dojo' or martial arts arena) was a trial in itself. It's all been a bit Kill Bill with 'The Master' not wanting to take me on at first. It involved lots of phone calls talking about 5 years of kickboxing, international competitions, paying hommage to the mother of all martial arts, a lifetime interest in martial arts, blah blah blah before he eventually conceded to take me on as a 'siksya' or 'disciple'. There were other Kalaris around, but the one in nineteenth century Dutch-influenced Kochin seemed a good idea. It may have been, however what 'The Master' didn't tell me is that the Kalari is actually 15km from Kochin.

Kalarippayat is an ancient Keralan martial art. It was created by the God Siva when the land of Kerala itself was created. Warriors were installed to keep peace between the different feuding principalities and the art has been practiced for the last 2000 years. These guys are mean. They use their limbs like weapons, though as a siksyas you train using a variety of vicious objects - sticks, daggers, butchers knives, swords, spears and the fantastic 'urumi' - a long flexible sword which is curled up and worn like a whip. When commanded with skill, it not only whips and whistles through the air (or an opponent's skin), but I've seen sparks fly. All of these are lined up against the wall of the Kalari next to stacked towers of devotional burning oil lamps. The pinnacle of training is for an un-armed combattant to takedown an armed opponent.
I knew I'd have far to go.

My training here is more austere than I'd imagined. The physical side isn't the problem. It's tough, but not really that gruelling after the 8km runs I've been doing each day. What is painful is the 5am starts (though with a temple blaring its sound system every morning at 4.30am, there's no chance of me sleeping through), the cuts on my feet from the muddy stone floor (disenfected only with with an old bottle of brandy I'd bought to help my cold), avoiding the large rats, the blisters on my hands from the stick fighting and the fact that I'm 15km from anywhere. Fortunately I'm too tired to want to go out in the evening and just crawl onto the wooden bench that's my bed. Believe me, there are no niceties about this.

To start my training I had to offer The Master a betel nut, la eaf and a coin. Oh, and I had to fill in a form that asked me if I drank or smoked and then immediately asked 'Are you willing to give up your bad habits for the sake of your health, family and country'. Tough question. Easy answer.

So, here I am and each morning I have to swear total obeisance to The Master, bow to his feet and pray in sanskrit to the gods of the Kalari. I'm not in Kansas anymore.

Needless to say I've been thinking a fair bit about sleep ... For someone who never travels without sleeping pills, an eye maks and earplugs the thing that amazes me is the Indian propensity to sleep any place any time.

In Pondicherry I would see people sleeping on roadsides or street corners. In doorways...They were invariably poor beyond extreme and no doubt overcomewith exhaustion or illness or both, as people just stepped over them.

In the unpronounceable village, I'd see people asleep on the porches of their stone or thatched huts, whether for their afternoon 'siesta' (or Indian equivalent), or to enjoy the cooling breeze at night or in the early morning. Hotel workers would sleep in the courtyard. These people are all poor, often up at the crack of dawn and lack space so, this didn't suprise me too much.

Sleep is such a private thing in the West. It happens behind closed doors, in the privacy of our own bedrooms. On our own or with lovers or very occassionally witha good friend. But here, there is no such acknowledgement to privacy. Even at Aruna's in the heat of the afternoon I'd occasionally walk into an open space to find a family member asleep in a corner and several times I'd go down to the kitchen to find 'Grandma' curled up in her white sari catching some much needed rest on the kitchen counter.

All of this is understandable when people are up early and working so dammed hard. Rest comes when you need it.

However it's on trains that the Indian capacity for sleep truly astounds me. Now, don't get me wrong... trains are great for sleeping on as the gentle rocking motion carries you off. However in India at every stop the train is beseiged by an influx of Chai-wallahs, magazine touts, coffee sellers, boys selling some kind of whistle or flourescent stick, 'lay' sellers (crisps), 'puri' purveyers (deep fried potato balls), men with water, men with puzzle magazines and baskets of deep fried food. Each one of them charges up and down the carriage shouting about their wares and invariably stopping at me, cos I'm a flagrant consumer dontchaknow?

And yet I seem to be the only person who doesn't manage to sleep through this. I guess sometimes my priveledged existence just gives me away.

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Comments

[Rachel]

Hey
Just saying hey! I'm going to France on thursday so technically i will be slighty closer to you! Keep having fun xxxxxx