Varkala could have been a sleepy strip of land that faces the beating ocean just like anywhere else if not for it being on the pilgrimage route. Yet Varkala is more than a "stopover" town and is all but unspoilt, at least for the moment. I do hope that in time to come, it would stay a perfect balance between those who want a bit of the best waterfront view and those who just had a tad of thick wad to spend here. In short, prosperity and preservation? But I think I am getting too serious for a midday conversation...
We found ourselves a tiny shack made from bamboo for the first two nights. Really comfortable although I had little desire for the mosquito net if not for practicality. Felt like I was sleeping under a spider web and I was playing the role of the helpless, wingless fly that got too entangled an affair for my liking. Our plan was to land and survey the territory. There was no shortage of stays and eateries. In fact, so good was our selection that we had to hunt around for really something that we thought would fit our budget and idea for a "vacation" from our long travels. Ten weeks into the whole gig I think we found our groove phase two, but the constant planting and uprooting albeit, exciting, was taking a toll on our stamina and we thought to pull the lever and pause. Varkala, besides the odd tout beating up some drum beats and flagging maps at your face, is very peaceful and beautiful.
Local women in long, nightgownish dress walked like billowing sails on a windy day along the village roads. They moved like quiet boats, their eyes ever intensely studying you. The men, in all forms and sizes, all suited up in their veshti dragged piles of nets off the sea, cycling past with a rusty ringing bicycle selling watery ice cream that soothed the throat parched from the hotness of the oven baked day. Kids run up and down the North cliff while you go about indulging in your hard decision of a thali lunch, or some grilled prawns freshly caught from the sea tonight?
On day two, we found a lovely patch that came in the form of coconut studded garden and an airy, bright room. This would be home away from home for at least the next two weeks. Our daily routine would vary from a swim in the sea, body surfing, a run or just a sit under the morning rays. I woke to this morning, the crows beating my alarm clock. The only reason was to embrace the purity of the first moment and I saw hubby sitting outside, taking in the freshness of the still, dark morning. Worth meditating, this unspoilt rare self moment. Softly, I took my spot behind him. My mind was wandering... a lot but there was no tension but to let the moments come and go. I remembered the dying light of yesterday when we concluded our yoga session, with the sea eagles - looking like a smaller version of the American bald eagle - crying out their signals, perhaps to close another day's hunt above the waves, in a low screeching tone, all yearnful and longingly wistful.
I look down and I see our property's old uncle. Funny chap he was. He'll walk about with his little black radio, tuning it with his ear angularly tipped to one of the speakers. Sometimes I almost thought he got a signal from Russia. His face, all wrinkled up in its intensity of the act, the seriousness of his responsibility. Getting the morning traffic and headline news had never been more important a task than now. His deep betel nut red lips pursed, I guess he didn't like the broadcast that morning. Well, hope that cricket in the arvo would be better then...
He would go about watering the garden with his green snakey hose. The grass, showing no short of watering, green as ever, proudly stood tall like mini soldiers under the swaying hammock in between the coconut trees. When the sun warmed up the day, uncle would walk about, carrying his unfolded, now lunghi fashioned sarong on both sides with his tiny hands. He would parade down the path to get his chai from our local thali joint. From where I was, he looked like a ballerina prancing on stage, delicately holding the sides of his floating cloth. Other men would join as his supporting cast, in lime green, checkered blue, spotted red. They all formed a choreographed movement of men heading to fuel up like how a car would before its morning journey.
Somehow, he looked so much less frail in his white ensemble than the oversized blue security "force" shirt that he wore last night. I walked past his inspector-looking hat hidden underneath some past dated Malayalam newspapers, dusty and coughy. Thinking to myself, perhaps that was his costume to impress the chicks or just the property manager during the once in a blue moon visit? Thinking, thinking - lots of them, trying to keep little of them.
You do get a moment of clarity here after a while. You think about being in the moment. The realisation of mindfulness. Being aware. Just really appreciating the gift that is known as the present. You don't come here to find yourself. Perhaps, it's really here that you do pause and catch that moment of being "here". It's never too late. After all, what is the hurry really?
Of course it is too easy to conclude this is a farce, a highly commercialised perception of "getting away from it all". The entire strip here consisted of purely non-locals who had come to get a less crowded version of the beachier Kovalam, an original in Kerala minus the cliffs. The locals are here to trade, with mainly all living off the strip bar the few boys who sleep overnight inside the restaurants after closing hours (they are the ones who get the unenviable job of starting the early morning shift).
But this place offers a kind of anti-movement that pulses with its own beat. Quite oxymoronic, I know but then again, it was the perfect brew for me. We were so focused on getting ahead, somewhere eversince our travels started... you get the idea, train by this time, the number of hours, which stop, where to sleep, it was always on the go, seeing, getting on and off. Here, we had the rare treat while being away from the normal predictable comforts of the known at home, that the luxury of being planted for a while becomes something I could get used to a bit - at least for two weeks! Maybe this will rekindle the eagerness to hit back the dusty trail, to endure the lack of assumption and surprises (good, bad and ugly) and also I believe, make the enjoyable even more so.
I don't see India, Varkala, or the many other beautiful places that we had stopped by, as "mystical" or anything remotely close to those "extraordinary experiences" or "search my meaning in life" kind of thing. It's a bit difficult to explain but I'll try...
Yes, the Hindu civilisation is ancient, yet India, with all of Her old ways, is a vibrant mish mash of the most chaotic colours, textures, sounds, smells, religions, faces, beliefs, and that's not including the diversity of travellers who had added into this potion. It's not, although noted of its presence, all about relic-like temples perched on the top of the Himalayas. It's not just monks chanting mantra. It's not just banana leaf meals. India is as accessible as your metro ticket. She may have a way to find Herself into the nooks and corners of your mind and never let you go, but She isn't all that hard to get to know. In short, She could be termed as being as regular or direct as a friend that you just couldn't forget. She's definitely a stunner though.
You just need to give in your best. As you would have shared with me previously, in India, you get as much as you put in. So I am not going to paint Varkala, or for the matter of fact even India, as a Shangri-La type of place where you need to meditate away your wits to conceptualise this vision. It's not difficult to get to India, to arrive at Her doors. This is one intellectually stimulating place but that's only the beginning too. Heck, AirAsia will fly you to say, Trivandrum and you'll be hanging off a boogie board before you know it. That's how easy it is that it's ridiculous. But come here and think you'll just get doped up, that's all you'll get - a lot of doping and not a lot else. To pigeon-hole this place too quickly as a mythical land, or to just assume this is where you can get away with ganja (how many smokers actually go into depth the relation of the substance with the sadhu's existence and reason of application?) is just putting a fantasy cap on a country that is real, very much having their best of strengths and worst of problems.
You don't need to decide to sell off your backpack and live like a sadhu here to "get into India's mysticism". Even if you get ten reincarnations, it will be presumptious to say you will grasp all that will ever be known about understanding the multi-layered complexities of Indian philosophy and way of life. We bring with ourselves too much baggage (not the literal) and expectations, I reckon. It takes time to get beneath it all.
Hence, it's all about my loving this place because it fits into the tempo of how things had flowed since we kicked off this leg. I don't want to send off an image of it being all hippy. What I have learned here, is the finer point of knowing when to stop, even when you're on the move. It's profound, minus the usual bull and smoke and mirrors. I think I may have or most definitely have, overstayed my explanation this time...
Sigh, it's true you know. Trying to keep it simple can be so hard (smile). But you get what I mean.
