Two days without rain and the air is heavy with humidity. Walking any distance brings a bath of sweat. Sitting down practing tabla brings sweat. The power is off so there can be no fan. Then the rain copmesand immediately there is a relief of coolness.
Little gekko in the bathroom, caught out as I enter. Clings to the wall "I'm not here, you can't see me"
Power off. Power on. Power off. Power on. Power on but so weak that the light bulbs give off a sickly yellow colour.
Surrounded by languages and language games: Malayalam, English, French, Sanscrit. Some Spanish. And then there is mixtures - Franglish.
The Belgian family. A couple in their late 30's, 2 boys (10 and 9) and a girl (2). Victoria steals the show every night at dinner, so cute! None of the family speak much English, so once again my High School French is stretched. Lovely kids. Imagine having the experience of living for some months in an Indian village at that age. The boys have woodcarving classes and wear lungi. They are totally unphased by cultural difference. What a rich education.
Dreams shared. Surrounded by dedicated yoga students with a deep passion to incorporate it in their lives, to teach it or use it in various contexts at home. In talking to a Scottish guy about his passion and direction with yoga I thought about how wonderful it is to know what gives you delight and passion and really dedicate yourself to that.
"Do you hug friends in Australia? In Paris we kiss on the cheek but no-one hugs"
Discussions at the meal table, trying to explain "Literacy as social practice" - and giving the example to Yossi from Israel that when the Torah is read at synagogue (as an example of a literacy context), not only do you need to know how to decode words, you need to know how to chant/sing them, and you need to wear certain garments as you do it.
Learning how incredibly complex Carnatic music is. Yesterday I learnt that there are 7 "talas", which are kind of like time signatures in Western music, yet also much more complicated than Western time signatures. Each talam has a Sanscrit name which I need to memorise and memorise the pattern of that talam. Then each talam can be subdivided in different ways, each with it's own Sansrit name which I need to memorise: in multiples of 3 (Thisram) or 4 (Chaturasram) or 5 (Khandam) or 7 (Misram) or 9 (Sangeernam) The Sanscrit words do not necessarily mean the numbers - my teacher told me that "Sangeernam" means "very difficult" In other words there are 35 different combinations. Each combination has a clapping pattern which needs to be learnt and memorised. And the British colonialists thought they were bringing "Civilisation" to India!!
Morning and the alarm goes off. I don't feel like getting out of bed, but I get up and go to yoga. After sweating and stretching I feel alive and ready for the day.
The body can remember without the brain/intellect! There is a strange process of learning a complicated rhythm where the brain has to begin it, but eventually the hands take over and the brain can't go as fast as the hands.
Kalaripayat at the end of the "working day" Hard work, requiring balance, strength, stamina, flexibility. But quite beautiful. Dance. The teacher travels every day (Mon - Fri) from Trivandrum to Aranmula - 5 hours traveling every day. I hope his salary makes it worthwhile.
Had my head shaved in the village barber shop. The barber used an open blade.
I own an umbrella for the first time in my life. Just have to remember to pick it up when I'm leaving somewhere. I already thought I lost it once. But an umbrella is a must because the downpours happen so quickly.
I washed some clothes and 3 days later they are not dry yet.
Working out what the relationship with one's teacher can be is delicate. Respect respect respect, but sometimes jokes and a little teasing (but did he understand what I said, let alone the intended humour?) The singing teacher, who is not my teacher, looks to chat (whereas my tabla and mridangam teachers do not chat outside of lesson time) One of his students call him "guruji" (teacher sir) which is the kind of respect one shold give your teacher, but since he is not my teacher we seem to be developing a friendship. Perhaps... I can tell that he respects my interest and passion for music. My tabla teacher struggles to find some English words but mostly he is quite good with English (sometimes using cute old fashioned words and sayings which are common in Indian English) But my mridangam teacher has a limited amount of English - certainly enough to teach mridangam, but I don't think he can chat in English. Sometimes there is a long pause and I think he is going to say something but he doesn't - maybe he is trying to think of the words and then gives up.
One hour of practice on tabla. One hour of practice on mridangam. I get to the class and I can't do what I did in my practice - it looks like I haven't practiced at all. I get frustrated and tense, my hands tense up, my shoulders and back tense up, so of course my playing gets worse.
Roller coaster ride of emotions, harsh judgements of myself. Breathe, consciously relax the body, and begin again. Meanwhile my guruji sits and watches and says nothing.
Yesterday I learnt a rhythm on the tabla that sounded quite funky. I got to a level of playing it quite fast and I could imagine having this as the basis for a dance track with Western instruments - keyboard, bass guitar etc. This is what I'm looking for, this is what I want to use it for. I was quite pleased with myself.
Totally caught up in being here, being here now in this moment, dedicating myself to this life here. Then after a week I wake during the night from a dream and feel the familiar deep pain and loss, and memories and anxiety. This is ok, this is necessary, this is part of the journey. Do not avoid it and also do not fuse with it. And then out onto the main street of an Indian village, where the local people live out their every day, many of them never having been very far away from this village. Into the street where there are new posters up on the walls - I can't read them becasue they are in Malayalam but I recognise CPI(M) - Communist Party of India (Marxist) Out onto the streets where the little kids in their blue and white uniforms are walking to the village school and call out "Hello what is your name one pen". Out onto the street where the old men sit around near the bus stand, chewing their beetel nut and spitting the red phlegm onto the road. Out onto the street where there are huge elephant dungs already run over by buses (there are 3 temple elephants in the village) Out onto the street where so much life happens in all of it's daily routine, which for westerners seems so exotic, yet is so normal.
