India

As I exited the Mumbai airport in the backseat of a classic 30 year-old non air-conditioned corroding cab and drove towards the city, my brain struggled to process the superabundance of stimuli it was receiving. Out the open window I was introduced to the heat, the dirt, the crowds, the traffic, the noise, the cows, the dogs, the goats, the poor, the rich, the slums, the rising new shiny buildings, the smells, the honking, the colors, the frenzy of human activity, the good, the bad and everything in between. Landing in India was like dropping into another dimension. I had eagerly anticipated coming here, convinced it would be a fascinating country to see, and from the first moment, it did not disappoint.

I was headed to the Wadala East neighborhood where my friend Anne and her Indian husband Gaurav live. You may recall Anne and Gaurav from my France entry for it was their wedding that I attended last fall in the beautiful French countryside. The two of them currently live and work in Mumbai and had offered their home as a place to stay. It’s always a blessing to have a friend to host you when you drop into some foreign place, but following that ride from the airport, when Anne opened the door smiling in her nice clean and calm apartment, pure joy doesn’t come close to quantifying how grateful I felt.

That night we caught up on my recent travels and they gave me updates on their lives in India. Compared to the West, there is a multitude of cultural differences and also health issues, such as drinking properly treated water, but the immediate things that stood out for me were the services they receive. Driving in Mumbai is so hectic that most people have personal drivers to navigate their vehicles for them. Anne and Gaurav have a driver and also a woman who comes each morning to cook breakfast, lunches for the office, and dinner. There is also a woman who comes every single day to clean the whole entire apartment. These amenities may seem like absolute luxuries to most of us, but they are very common here.

The next morning I hitched a ride with Gaurav to his office downtown. This car ride was just as intriguing as the one the day before. I gazed in astonishment at the stuffed commuter trains crossing the city. And when I say, “stuffed,” I’m not talking about having no seat and having to stand on the Metro-North. I mean trains critically packed to capacity with people squeezed into the open doors holding on for dear life and countless limbs hanging out all the windows. Besides meeting masses of insane cabs and buses, the roads were full of barefoot men pulling carts right next to other carts being pulled by oxen. There were also people from the slums with buckets of water bathing on the sidewalks, more crowds, and plenty of honking.

After we reached the office, I went off on my own to explore the Colaba neighborhood where I found the landmark Gateway to India Arch, the Taj Mahal Hotel, which was the center of the terrorist attacks of last November, and plenty of vendors who wanted so sell me everything from maps to sugar cane juice to ear cleanings. Heading back to meet Gaurav for lunch, some random Indian guy on the street approached me and said, “Hey. Would you like to be in a movie?” There were two girls with him, one American and one Brit, who looked at me and said, “C’mon! We’re doing it. This will be fun.” I had actually read that this happens fairly often. The Indian movie industry, “Bollywood,” is centered in Mumbai and when they need white extras, they simply send scouts down to Colaba to look for tourists. He added, “This is a very special movie. Kylie Minogue will be here to film one scene and you will get free meals, free transportation, and be paid 500 rupees (~10 dollars).” I didn’t need any convincing. I told him I would be there the next morning at the predetermined spot.

I met Gaurav for an exquisite Indian tali meal and informed him about how I just landed my first paying job in a year. Later that day I returned back to the apartment on my own. When I looked down into a little valley nearby, I saw hundreds of kids playing cricket on an empty lot. In the distance you could see thousands of shacks, which comprised a large slum. I wanted to go down there and look around, but I wasn’t exactly sure if it would be safe and/or appropriate. After considering it for a moment, I decided to grab my camera and go anyway.

I came to the edge of the lot and snapped a few photos. My presence was immediately felt as a dozen kids turned around, then a dozen more, and then a dozen more. They started to approach me and ask questions in Marathi, the local language. Before I knew it, I was literally surrounded by at least thirty of these “slumdogs” who were peppering me with questions and making comments to each other. Individually, none of them were that large or intimidating, but being in the middle of this huge pack, considering the vulnerability of my wallet and camera, I became very anxious. One of them emerged who spoke English and asked, “What are you doing here?” I told him, “I just came down to watch the game.” Excited he replied, “Cricket? You like cricket? You want to play!”

I was amused by his enthusiasm, but since I didn’t know how to play cricket and I was still uncomfortable with this whole unfolding situation, I declined his offer and told him I was fine just observing. He suggested that I sit on a wall on the other side of the street because I was standing in the middle of their outfield. I went over to the wall while ten kids followed and sat alongside me, continuing to ask questions in Marathi. Obviously, I had no idea what they were asking and I tried to communicate that fact, but it didn’t seem to deter them. Countless people, motorcycles and cars all passed and did double takes at me sitting in the middle of this group. The kids pointed at my camera and made snapping motions. My fears of theft slowly subsided. I wasn’t going to be robbed, these kids just wanted to have their pictures taken and were loving this unusual occasion of a white foreigner showing up to their cricket field.

They all posed for multiple pictures, as our group grew larger. A few more joined us who spoke English as well as some older guys. They asked me where I was from and what I was doing in India and then translated for the group. They told me that they all lived in the nearby slum and hung out there every night before dinner. One of the older guys who had a motorcycle even offered me a ride and a tour. I was curious and very tempted to take him up on his offer, but just as I considered this, a policeman drove by. Immediately all the kids bolted in all directions. Dumbfounded, I watched them scatter like someone had just dropped a grenade.

The policeman decided to continue on and within a couple minutes they all returned. The kid with the best English came beside me as I asked, “What the heck was that all about?” He frowned and seemed confused with my question, answering me, “That was the police.” I continued, “Yes, I know that was the police. Why did you all run away?” He then replied matter-of-factly with a line that could have come straight out of Slumdog Millionaire, “This is India. They beat us.”

Just as I was assessing the profoundness of this comment, another cop began to pass. This one, however, looked straight at me and then stopped. He looked me up and down and questioned, “What are you doing here?” I told him, “I’m just watching the game.” Unsatisfied, he continued, “Where do you live?” I pointed up to the apartment buildings and told him I was staying with friends. “You go now,” he ordered me. “What? Why?” He paused and shook his head, “It’s not good here.” Besides the fact that I was enjoying myself hanging out, I certainly didn’t like being told what to do. I persisted, “Why? Because it’s not safe?” He pondered the question and repeated, “No, it’s safe. But it’s just not good.” I didn’t understand. “It’s not good? What do you mean?” He now looked like he was getting angry and declared again, “You must go home now.” I got the feeling that my well-being was the least of his concerns and that the real issue was that he didn’t want some foreigner with a camera hanging around his beat. But being unsure and recognizing that it was only my first full day in the country, I decided it was not an issue to pursue. I said goodbye to the boys and went home to tell Anne about my day’s adventures.

She would tell me later, “Oh wow. No foreigners ever go down there. That would have been quite an event for those kids.” Regarding the cop, she speculated that it was perfectly safe, but many times in India, things just aren’t easy to explain. In all likelihood, he was trying to showoff.

The next day I met the movie scout and boarded a bus full of other white Westerners and traveled up to a northern part of Mumbai known as Film City. Outside a studio we entered a wardrobe tent where we were provided with outfits. The scene we would be in was set in a dance club, so girls were given dresses and guys were given shirts, pants and jackets. I was handed a pair of black pants, a ridiculous shiny blue shirt and an even more ridiculous white “Members Only” type jacket. We weren’t told much about the movie, titled, “Blue,” but a sense of excitement was building for this was a bit of an historic moment in Bollywood. Besides the appearance by Australian diva Kylie Minogue, this movie was starring most of India’s biggest stars including Akshay Kumar, Sanjay Dutt, and former Miss Universe and former Derek Jeter girlfriend, Lara Dutta. I would learn later that those names are actually huge in India and that this was the largest budgeted film in Bollywood history. I would also learn that most of the movie takes place underwater in the Caribbean and that the movie poster has a lot of sharks on it. I think the plot was probably as absurd as my Members Only jacket.

Inside, the constructed set consisted of a large dance club with multiple tiers, a stage and bars in all four corners. The filming throughout the day would contain no dialogue but a number of different dance sequences and shots of people socializing while waiters and waitresses delivered drinks. The director of the day’s activities was a plump Indian tyrant of a woman in her forties who would bark orders at her assistants, choreographers, cameramen, and other staff. When summoning Kylie out of her trailer, or addressing any of the Indian stars, however, she would use a very courteous tone. All in, there were about 100 extras on the set and they would shuffle as around at whim. The headset-wearing assistants would roam around and direct us where to stand and what to do. On the main tier of the set was where the center of the filming took place. Either Kylie, or some of the Indian stars, or the professional backup dancers, or a combination thereof would do their routines as we extras danced on the other tiers, or sat on the numerous couches and bar stools.

It appeared that they wanted the best-looking people closest to the action where they would be in range of the camera. For different shots they would rearrange us and the assistants would scan the extras and pick different people to be placed closer to the main stars. But the director was so fickle I wasn’t ever quite sure what her vision was. After the assistants would position everyone, the director would often arbitrarily point and scream, “I want that person out of the frame!” At one point, a Russian girl who I considered quite attractive was right in front. It was obvious she was excited with her positioning, but after a couple takes the director yelled, “No! No! No! Get that girl out of there now!” The disappointment on the poor Russian outcast’s face was plain for all to see. It was a bit of a humbling experience that forced you to keep your vanity in check. I was slightly disappointed for I was continually resigned to the back, but I was confident that the combination of my rugged good looks and my dancing skills would get noticed at some point. One Dutch guy who wasn’t exactly model-esque kept trying to slip into a spot down in front, but each time just when he thought he would be left there, he was pulled out. By the end of the day he was indignant.

The morning progressed with this pattern. It was hot and it was really tiring. Being placed in a spot and told to stand there indefinitely while the director discussed things with her cameramen or reviewed the script with the stars proved to be exhausting. The whole experience was interesting, but the thrill of seeing Kylie Minogue or being in a movie barely sustained most of us until lunch. Late in the afternoon when we took an hour break to eat, Elaine, the British girl who I met the day before, pleaded, “How do we escape?” Earlier the staff had locked up all of our valuables in a room to keep them safe, but it occurred to me then that perhaps this was also to ensure they received our services for the full day. I kidded her, “You haven’t been paid your salary yet. Don’t you want your 500 rupees?” She implored, “I would gladly pay them 500 rupees if they would let me leave.”

Following lunch we returned back inside for more filming. The majority of my fellow extras, myself included, were a bit sluggish following our meal of samosas, curry, and Indian chai. After one take, the assistants yelled at us in a tone of a command, “Have fun!” This was not a light comment telling us to enjoy ourselves. We were supposed to pretend that Kylie was singing on the stage, when in fact she was resting in her air-conditioned trailer. “Kylie Minogue has just come on stage and you people should be excited. You are all standing around!” Again they hollered, “Have FUN!” I had never been ordered to have fun before.

The day dragged on. I was moved around to various spots throughout the filming, but nowhere of any real significance. I was pretty sure my leg was captured in a couple of shots and I knew there was a good chance I was in front of the camera when they filmed some scenes of the stars walking through the club. I settled that I was satisfied with this. I was relegated to a corner next to one of the fake bars for the remainder of the afternoon. A Spanish extra named Javier, who had a mohawk, was assigned to play bartender. There were a number of bottles and martini glasses filled with colored water that were to appear as exotic cocktails. After every take, with his Spanish accent, he would say something like, “Eduardo. Your dan-sing is incredible. Let me make you a drink.” The joke didn’t get old.

We edged into the early evening and it was still hot. I couldn’t bear to wear the ridiculous white jacket any longer so I stashed it behind Javier’s bar, now exposing my ridiculous shiny blue shirt. Little did I know though, it would become a beacon. One of the assistant directors scanned the extras and pointed at me, “You. Please follow me.” Oh the sudden untapped power of the shiny blue shirt. I was moved to one of the mid-tiers. People were really getting tired by this point and weren’t giving 100%. My shiny blue shirt, however, had invigorated me. For each take, I gave it my all. My hips, which don’t lie, were moving like the graceful wheels of a roaring locomotive. My shoulders were bouncing in rhythmic elegance like synchronized pogo sticks. I was even mixing in the Indian light bulb-twisting dance I learned at my friend Sanjay Pani’s wedding.

I was pretty close now, but still a tier removed from the main dancing. The capricious female director suddenly pointed at a guy in the first row and yelled, “Him! Move him now!” He trudged off in bewilderment. Since this poor guy had just been banished, he now left an open spot that needed to be filled. And whom could they get to fill this vacancy? Well, I think it’s pretty obvious that the assistant had now noticed my superior skills and the gleaming shiny blue shirt had been making waves in her mind. She summoned me to stand in his place about three feet behind Kylie. It was incredible; the white Members Only jacket had been on call for eight hours and had gotten me nowhere. The shiny blue shirt had only been in service about four minutes and I had been promoted to the first row.

Kylie would do her thing with the two male co-stars in some type of hackneyed dance-off scene where they fought for her approval. I, along with a few other extras, danced together behind them and were instructed to ogle the stars as if we were extremely concerned in who would win the contest. The director didn’t seem to take issue with me, or my performance. On the contrary, she was probably thanking a multitude of Hindu gods and goddesses for discovering such hidden talent. After a number of takes she became satisfied with the sequence. In the end, I don’t know for certain if they will use one of the takes I was in, but I think there is a fairly good chance we will see my mug and my lustrous shiny blue shirt dancing in the final cut.

Following a few more grueling hours, the day wrapped. We were given dinner, our valuables were returned, the director actually thanked everyone, and we loaded onto the bus. It was a truly demanding day. Before exiting the bus, the “background model” coordinator handed me a 500-rupee note. I was a professional actor.

My brother and sister, Charles and Sara, soon joined me in Mumbai. Sara had a friend named Kamal who lived in the city and also had a personal driver. She had some free time and generously took us all over to places like the floating Haji Ali mosque, Leopold’s Café, tea at the Taj Mahal Hotel, and to plenty of shops for gifts for the family. By day we would tour the city with Kamal, and by night get dinner with Anne and Gaurav.

The three Hadads then flew up to Delhi to see some of northern India. Before we even checked into the hotel, Charles started to feel sick. “Delhi Belly,” is the nickname for the general condition that virtually every visitor to India experiences at one point or another. A stomach bug which attacks the digestive system, it carries an enjoyable combination of symptoms including, but not limited to, headaches, diarrhea, nausea, dehydration, joint pain, and fatigue. Although, ironically, Charles was the one being most vigilant with this by avoiding vegetables that might have had tainted water on them, he came down with the Delhi Belly, and came down hard. We even had to get a doctor in to see him. For four days, Charles would see nothing but the inside of the hotel room. The proficient doctor, who’s house-visit only cost us around twenty dollars, prescribed a number of medications from the pharmacy as well as certain food that should settle the system. We were optimistic, but then Sara went down too.

Over the four days in Delhi, a city even more hectic than Mumbai, Sara fortunately was able to rally at certain times enabling us to see a number of the sites. We even spent a day hanging out with Gaurav’s cousins, who we had never previously met, but took us in to their home, made us dinner, and then took us out to an impressive Hindu temple. I was keeping the schedule of when Charles was supposed to take his different pills. Every time Sara and I returned to the hotel, he would roll over in agony and exclaim, “Give me more drugs!”

Charles finally started to garner some strength when we headed south to Agra to see the legendary Taj Mahal. Many times I think famous man-made structures don’t live up to the hype, but the Taj Mahal did not let us down. It truly is a stunning beautiful creation. While there, we were repeatedly asked by countless Indians, “Excuse me please, may we make a photo?” People wanted pictures of themselves standing with us. Sara was the one that got most of the attention and you might expect this was mainly from young unmarried men, of which there was plenty, but the requests also came from many young girls and even families. One father excitedly wanted a shot of Sara holding his infant in front of the Taj as the rest of the family looked on beaming. Numerous other Indians passing would stare in appreciation and envy.

During my time in India I’d experience this type of thing all over the country. If I was on a bus or walking down the street or eating in a restaurant, I’d turn around to see men or women just simply staring at me like I was an enigma. When I looked at them they would just keep on staring, but if I smiled, they would return a huge smile in kind. India is changing as it progresses into the 21st century and finds its way through the modern world, but its culture still holds true to itself like no other I know. Except for some of the people who live in the cities, the majority of all women still wear saris. You can also find many men still wearing traditional dhotis. For the most part, Indians eat Indian food, plain and simple, and marriages are predominately still arranged. Indians even communicate with each other in a unique way with a distinctive head wobble from side to side. This wobble can mean a number of things including, “Yes, ok,” to, “I understand,” to, “How are you,” to, “No problem, I’ll take care of it later.” Their religious customs are still strong and dictate a lot of their behavior and relationships. The thing that really distinguishes the people is that when speaking with various strangers I met about our differences in culture, many times it was almost as if they didn’t realize another way of life existed. It is this element that I have not encountered to such a prevailing extent in any other place I have been. I know they have seen plenty of white people on TV and in the movies, and there are even plenty of Westerners in the country and always have been, but at times I’d still get stared at like I was Christopher Columbus stepping off the Santa Maria. It’s one of the things I never quite figured out. It’s not because they haven’t had exposure to others or because they are ignorant, it’s just the way it is. As Anne and Gaurav, as well as many others told me, sometimes you can’t find a rational answer for things in India. It’s part of the mystique and the charm. Some things just are the way they are.

From Agra and our numerous photo shoots, the Hadads boarded a train and moved on to the northwest state of Rajasthan. On the train we shared a cabin with an Indian family as mice skirted under our feet. These long-distance trains have meals served and when people finish eating, the trays get placed on the floor for collection. The mice take full advantage of this and when any of them came anywhere near us, we’d suddenly lift our legs off the floor. The Indians gazed at our behavior in peculiarity like we were from Mars.

We visited the forts and palaces of the desert cities of Jaipur and Udaipur. Here Sara went down sick, again. She wasn’t anywhere close as bad as Charles’ former condition, but now she was the one that missed out on some of the activities. One afternoon Charles and I wanted to go for a hike in the local hills. Indians have large families and often try to entice you to visit their siblings’ stores or use their brother’s cab or their cousins’ travel agency. Our guesthouse owner kept encouraging us to visit some hilltop fortress, which we weren’t interested in. To go there it would have required a long rickshaw ride, which naturally, his brother could provide. We told him we were going for a hike instead. “Oh no, that’s not a good idea,” he told us. Already suspicious, we asked, “Why not?” “You can not go over in those hills because there are tigers.” Now, India is famed for its tiger history and there are still some found in certain areas, but nowhere near where we wanted to go and I knew this. His creativity was so amusing that I wasn’t insulted, but this statement was so outrageous it was like someone asking me for directions through Central Park and I told them to watch out for the wolves. We went on our hike without incident.

Here are a few other notable exchanges we had over the week:


When Charles was writhing back in the hotel room in Delhi, Sara and I went out in search of some safe food he might be able to handle and actually found a Subway sandwich shop. As Sara looked over the menu trying to decide what to get him, the young proud fastidious clerk kept inundating her with suggestions:

Indian clerk: Ma’am, would you like wheat bread, white bread, Italian bread, or perhaps multiple grain bread?
Sara: Um...I’m not sure.
Indian clerk: We can provide a chicken sandwich, a cheese sandwich or maybe a vegetable delight?
Sara: (Still looking up at the board) Um….
Indian clerk: We offer many delicious toppings for whichever sandwich you choose.
Sara: I know, thanks.
Indian clerk: We also offer a choice of six inches or twelve inches for your sandwich.
Sara: Great.
Indian clerk: And you can have that sandwich take-away or you can enjoy here.
Sara: Right.
Indian clerk: Ma’am, have you decided which sandwich you would like?
Sara: (said directly, but not harshly) Do you think you could just give me a minute?
Indian clerk: (gasped) Oh. Of course. It is my duty.

In most of the places you walk you are bombarded with relentless offers or solicitations from taxi drivers, rickshaw drivers, vendors, beggars, restaurant owners, and shopkeepers. Our rule, which Charles reasonably established, was that we would grant one “no thank you,” and then you get ignored. Walking down a street in Jaipur, however, a rickshaw driver gained my attention with this conversation:

Rickshaw driver: Hello sir! Where are you going? Let me supply you with transport.
Ed: No thank you.
Rickshaw driver: Why do you say “thank you” when you don’t take anything?
Ed: Ha. (Thought for a moment.) Well, that’s what we say. We say “thank you” for the offer, but “no,” I’m not interested.
Rickshaw driver: Yes, yes, I know these things that you use. “Thank you.” “Please.” “Excuse me.” You are so formal. We don’t use these things in India. If you want something, you just take it.

All over India, but in Delhi particular, you must be aware of people trying to rip you off. This could be anything from a train ticket to a bottle of water. It’s just a fact of life here. Bargaining is always part of the game, but for an unsuspecting tourist, prices can get inflated in an exponential manner. One day, we were on a busy road with no sidewalk, so Sara and I needed to obtain a short ride from an auto rickshaw. I knew our destination was very close.

Rickshaw driver: Hello! Where are you going?
Ed: We are going to Humayun’s Tomb.
Rickshaw driver: Humayun’s Tomb. Very good. Please get in.
Ed: How much?
Rickshaw driver: 200 rupees. (This was an exorbitant amount for this ride.)
Ed: 200 rupees! Are you kidding me! I can practically see the place from here.
Rickshaw driver: Ok. 20 rupees.


Following Rajasthan, my brother, sister, and I then circled on back to Mumbai where we reconvened back at Chez Anne and Gaurav. After a couple more nice dinners out, my sibbies had to board a plane and head back to the USA. A number of days later it was my birthday and unbeknownst to me Anne organized a little surprise birthday dinner complete with a French raspberry tart. As a present, friends Meera and Laura even bought me a new shirt. I really wasn’t looking for any recognition and was very touched by all of this attention.

And then it came time for the Edward Hadad Express to head out on his own again. I boarded an overnight train down to the celebrated seaside state of Goa. Goa became famous back in the sixties and seventies as a hippy hangout where people were free to do as they pleased. Today, some things have changed, for there are some beaches with fancy resorts, but the whole area still attracts quite an eclectic group from backpackers to vacation tourists to aging hippies to trance enthusiasts, and everyone seems to find their niche. I settled on the laidback beach of Anjuna and rented a nice inexpensive bungalow, which became my new home.

I went out the first night exploring the area on my rented moped and then had a number of beers with a few local guys. I woke the next morning with a pretty bad headache and noticed it was April 1st. For me the significance of this day was not that it was April Fools, but that it was the exact one-year anniversary of when I started this trip. Reflecting on the year, I thought about how much partying I had done. Being honest with myself I realized I had been doing a load of drinking in almost every country I visited. My two-month “rest” back in New York was no respite, but on the contrary, one of the more intense periods. Somewhere deep in my instincts, my body said to me, “I need a break.”

So for two weeks in Goa I went to bed early and awoke early. My morning consisted of pushups, crunches, and shoulder dips off the bed. Each day I ate only healthy seafood and fruits and vegetables. I swam in the ocean. I went to local yoga classes four times a week. At dusk when it was cool enough, I ran a few miles along the roads, many times being chased by dogs and receiving amusing stares from the Indian women doing their chores. When I wasn’t exercising, I was on the beach reading one of a number of great books, shooing away cows, and enjoying fresh bananas and mangoes delivered by one of the many roaming fruit sellers. I was filling my body with nutritious food and my mind with rich mental protein. I felt like Rocky IV training in Russia, although my battle wasn’t against a communist boxer, but simply against the physical distress I had put myself through the past year, and it felt good.

Up until this point my exposure to yoga had been just a couple of sweaty classes on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. The classes I took in Goa were run by a humorous American guy and his Israeli wife out of the side of their house. Yoga may be an ancient Indian discipline, but even in India, it has persevered much in large part due to the interest and dedication of many Westerners. I was enjoying these classes very much and in a number of the positions that I had learned it was if my body was speaking again, telling me, “Oh, nice. I’ve been waiting about ten years for you to stretch like that.”

India is home to a host of different ashrams, or spiritual retreats, and people from all over the world come specifically for the purpose of spending time in one. Considered by many to be a fundamental part of the Indian travel experience, there is a whole range of places from eccentric institutions where a “hugging mother” guru goes through marathon sessions of embracement, to simple inexpensive places for those searching peace and quiet, to extraneous high-priced spots with fine restaurants. On a tip from a friend of a friend, it was recommended that if I was interested, to check out the Sivananda Ashram down in Kerala, which specialized in yoga. Following my time in Goa, buoyed by my health kick and recent classes, I headed on down to check it out.

Set at the foot of the Western Ghat mountain range in a beautiful verdant locale, I showed up not really knowing what to expect. But comfortable with the friend’s recommendation and the endorsement by the Lonely Planet, I entered the ashram and was met by some friendly and welcoming people. There was a fairly strict daily schedule I would have to keep in addition to following a number of ashram rules, like no meat, no cell phones, no alcohol, lights out at 10:30, mandatory attendance of all classes, no shorts, no “impure” reading material, no speaking during meals, and no going into the girls’ dorm. In time I would learn the purpose and significance of the more unusual rules.

We would do two two-hour sessions of “asanas,” or physical yoga every day. There were also two “satsongs,” or sessions where we would work on meditating. Each day, we also had two meals, a lecture, and since an ashram is a community where everyone is expected to play a role, we were required to do one hour of daily volunteer service, or “karma yoga.” The different duties ranged from serving food at meal times, to sweeping up the courtyard, to at worst, having to clean the bathrooms. I was assigned the intricate task, along with a big guy from Long Island, of emptying all the trash bins. This was now my second job in a year; I had gone from a professional actor to an unpaid garbage man. Despite all the regulations and strict schedule, my time at the ashram proved to be a remarkable experience. I stayed there over two weeks and by the day I left I was doing headstands and could sit Indian style for an extended period of time without experiencing excruciating pain in my legs, as was the case on day one. I met a lot of great people from all over the world and together we all shared in the collective progress and one more aspect I really enjoyed was the daily lecture by the Swami.

The Swami was the director of the ashram and received this title only after demonstrating a certain level of mastery of the teachings the Sivananda school practices. He was from British descent, but grew up in Zimbabwe and was studying to be a doctor before realizing it wasn’t what he wanted to do. He was a very intelligent guy and it was apparent he had an extensive knowledge of anatomy, engineering and philosophy. Besides discussing the value of things like being honest and kind, he would bring up various topics and challenge the group to think about them in different ways. He claimed that the past and the future don’t even exist and outlined benefits to accepting this. He dismissed notions that peoples’ behavior was confined by their particular personalities asserting that everyone’s mind was like a computer where we are all free to write, or rewrite, whatever programs we wanted. To effectively explore some of his topics on time, the mind, the body and the ego, I really don’t have the space in this blog, but would be happy to discuss them when I get home. I’d walk out of some of his talks evaluating subjects in ways I had never before considered. Each day I was getting two great physical yoga workouts with expert instruction and a stimulating philosophical discussion each afternoon. In addition to the two hearty vegetarian meals, (which I ended up really enjoying), we had accommodation, access to personal yoga coaching, and all set in a serene environment in southern India. And, this was all for less than nine dollars a day.

I finished up my yoga training, and then along with a couple new yogi friends, I visited a beautiful area of India known as the Backwaters. The Backwaters is a whole region of villages connected by water canals. Known as the Venice of India, we commissioned a boat and floated through there for a couple of days. I then flew up to my final destination, the holy city of Varanasi. Located on the River Ganges, Varanasi is a very unique place famed for its “ghats” or series of steps that lead down to the river. When I landed and traveled into town, it was like my original cab ride back in Mumbai, but with the intensity turned up a few notches.

Varanasi, formerly known as Benares, also formerly known as Kashi, is considered one of the oldest inhabited cities in the world and is a destination for Hindu pilgrims and the principal place to cremate deceased relatives. The ancient narrow alleyways are so crowded and tight that walking through them brings you that much closer to the crowds, the dirt, the noise, the animals, the dung, the flies, the motorcycles, the children playing, the vendors hawking, and the funeral processions carrying bodies wrapped in shrouds. I had been in peaceful Goa and the ashram for over a month and returning to a city, particularly this one, was like being smacked and asked, “Did you forget you were in India?”

I was meeting another friend from the ashram here, a Swedish girl named Sanna, and together we explored the ghats and observed all the activity that takes place down at the river’s edge. The Ganges, in India, called the “Ganga,” or the “Mother Ganga,” is a holy river and is central to the lives of the millions who live alongside it. Day and night there are funerals taking place. When deceased, most people are cremated and their ashes are spread into the river. But there is a classification of people, including babies, holy men, and pregnant women that are not burned, because it is believed they do not need to be purified. Instead they are tied to stones and sunk into the water. By our standards, the river is toxic, polluted with human and animal waste, chemicals, and the decaying bodies of countless people dropped to its bottom. Every day, however, the millions of people who live here, along with the visiting pilgrims, bathe, swim, and drink from the holy waterway. From continued exposure many seemed to have developed some immunities from some of the risks.

Walking along the river on the first day, we witnessed, literally within 20 yards of each other, a man doing laundry, a mother washing her young child, a boy swimming naked, five water buffalo cooling off, a man panning for gold, a man fishing, and a body burning. I would have taken a picture, but it is considered disrespectful to photograph the burning bodies. Sanna had arrived in Varnasi a few hours before me and had found a guesthouse. When being led there through the maze of dirty passageways, I thought, “This has got to be a joke.” But out of nowhere, through an almost hidden doorway, the sun was shining through into a clean and bright courtyard with spotless rooms. Varanasi is the type of place that offers surprises.

The whole city is quite magical in a way. At dawn, it's customary to take a rowboat ride and watch the ghats come to life. As the sun rises, thousands of people come down the steps to bathe, pray, do yoga, fish, share news, and start the day. It's quite a spectacle to witness, seeing people going through their routines just as they have been doing for generations upon generations.

Edging into late spring, India was reaching heat of unbearable levels. I had been in the country for over two months and had decided next to head north to the Himalayas of Nepal. My last day in the country would prove to be a quintessential Indian experience. Sanna and I were walking through a narrow alley when we heard numerous people screaming. The normally unfazed Indians were yelling and running for their lives. A merchant saw us and pointed, “Run! Move! Move! Move!” Totally confused and caught off guard, a kind woman motioned towards us and beckoned us into a vestibule. The danger from which everyone was running was an 800-pound bull, which was in heat, and aggressively pursuing a noncommittal cow. In these alleys, which were at most four feet wide, the locals knew from experience that a human could easily be crushed if caught in the path of a determined horny beast such as this.

We hid in the vestibule and watched as the bull continued to try and mount his tepid target. The two went back and forth a few times in an unsuccessful union. The bull then decided to switch gears, and in some kind of act of bovine foreplay, he proceeded to calmly lick the cow’s hide. One shopkeeper seized this lull in the action and came out and gave each one of them a whack with his wooden stick. The two took the hint and trotted down the passage where they went on to bother or terrorize someone else.

The trouble appeared to be over as everyone started to emerge from the stores and doorways. But just as foot traffic resumed, rocks and pieces of cement started falling from the sky. Thinking we had somehow entered the Twilight Zone, I took cover and watched this, stunned. Someone yelled, “Careful! The monkeys are fighting!” There were monkeys up on the roofs of the buildings engaged in some kind of squabble. There are wild monkeys all over India and they reside in the city and country alike. They are as common as our squirrels, except that they climb all over buildings, have big teeth and claws, are aggressive, and they apparently like to throw rocks at each other.

After surviving this crisis as well, we went back down to the ghats to have one last look at the Mother Ganga. After passing a number of goats eating posters off a wall and declining numerous offers from men proposing inflated prices for rowboat rides, haircuts, and silk shawls, we came upon one of the funeral ghats. A ceremony was taking place for a baby. Its lifeless body was wrapped in a white shroud and tied to a large heavy flat stone. We watched as a boat full of men slowly rowed out to the middle of the river and then gently let the weighted shroud-covered child fall to the riverbed.

I think the events of this day precisely symbolized India for me. Just like the immense size of the physical area, the country’s people and culture encompass so much. You see things here that do not happen anywhere else. You can be exposed to kindness and dishonesty within a few feet of each other. It’s a spiritual place and religion is incredibly important, but so is making enough money to feed your family. There are just so many people that when one is lost, they are mourned, but the big engine that is India keeps on moving. Of all the countries I’ve been to, I believe India has been the most intriguing.
It’s just not possible to sum up the place in one paragraph, or one blog entry, or even one book. It’s a place that has attracted and enchanted foreigners for all of time, and that includes me, and that also shows no sign of letting up.


General Thoughts and Notes:

-The distinctive Indian head wobble I mentioned earlier is fantastic. It can mean so many things and it actually saves you energy. When someone else is speaking you can just wobble your head to agree or answer in the affirmative, you can use it to greet people, calm people, or encourage people. It’s a stronger statement than our head nod and easier. I love it. I’m bringing it back with me.

-The horn honking in India, particularly in the big cities like Mumbai, Delhi, and Bangalore is incredibly irritating and enough to drive you insane. Every vehicle honks a minimum of every five seconds. This is partly to let trucks and buses know that they are there, or to push pedestrians or animals out of their path, but also just for the hell of it if a driver hasn’t found a good enough reason to honk in the previous four seconds.

-I made it over two months in India without getting sick, not a single blip on the radar. Many would classify this as a minor miracle. Once I got to Nepal, however, this anomaly would be corrected.

-Small change in India always seems to be scarce and often if you purchase something minor like a package of cookies, vendors won’t have proper change. If they are missing a rupee or two, which is just a few cents, instead of giving you money they will give you a piece of candy of equal value.

-I’ve now been to barbershops everywhere from New York to Paris to Cairo to Mumbai. Across very different cultures and climates, one characteristic of the barbershop seems to remain consistent. There is always one or two older men who are not there as customers, but there just to hang out. They are usually overweight, haven’t been to a dentist in a while, like to rail against politics, and most ironic of all, they desperately need a haircut.

-When speaking English, for some reason Indians add the word, “only,” to the end of many sentences. “Ok, you are looking for the train station only? You walk down the street to the corner only and turn right at the store only. And then there it is! The train station only.”

-Paan is a chewing mixture of areca nuts, lime, cinnamon, many times sugar, candied fruit, or fennel seeds, often times with the addition of tobacco, all wrapped in a betel leaf. The leaf is a mild stimulant and the whole mixture causes the saliva to go red. Paan is very popular with men and is a strong part of the culture. There are paan sellers on every corner and if you walk down any street you’ll see plenty of men spitting their red concoction onto the sidewalk. There is a very distinctive smell, which has been engrained into my memory and has become one of the defining aspects of India for me.

-Corruption is rampant in India and has been for its history. There are now ads in the newspapers urging people not to give bribes when they need to obtain or expedite certain government services, things as simple as registering a vehicle. When Charles and Sara were leaving they met a man in the airport, who didn’t exactly explain his profession, but they got into a discussion on corruption. He exclaimed smiling, “Yes India is corrupt. Everyone is corrupt. We are all corrupt. I am corrupt!”

-In many places outside of the big cities you will find towns or villages that have public speakers put up on trees throughout the streets. These speakers blast music about 20 hours a day at excruciating levels. I seriously couldn’t figure out how any human could possibly enjoy or want this. I had to remember though, this is India. It is what it is.

-There are so many people in India that the concept of personal space does not exist. If a line is a three people long, or 200, you will be pushed and squeezed. It’s not exactly done in a rude way, but they do not give anyone any breathing room. I could possibly understand this for when there are a lot of people trying to get on a bus, but when there are only two of us on line for the zoo? Again, this is India. It is what it is.

-I was in Varnasi on one of the main roads in the middle of a traffic jam sitting in the back of a rickshaw. A cart passed to my right. A man was peddling a load with a huge box on the back. Instead of securing the box to his cart with rope, however, he had his young son holding on and gripping the box with all his might. The boy looked right at me, so I waved. His eyes widened. He looked down at his grip and I could tell he wanted to wave back, but if he lifted his hand, the enormous box would fall off the cart. He thought for a moment, and then lifted just one little finger off the box and waved with that.

-At the conclusion of my time at the ashram, I asked my Australian friend Dave where he was headed next. After two weeks of sobriety, he answered, “Well mate, I’ve got to find a good place to retox.”

-I wrote of how a lot of people stared and wanted pictures of us. We got a lot of attention, but I met one guy who posed for so many pictures, it was like he was the biggest star in the country. When he walked down the street heads turned in amazement. What was so special about him? He was a redhead.

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