When It All Came Back To The Beginning

The air was cool this afternoon as I looked out of my small window, a little rectangle rounded on its four corners that framed a day listless outside scorched by the unforgiving sun. As lunch rolled out the smells of coconut gravy, pungent garlic mixed with the sourish chilli relish, I looked down at my sad chutney, the briyani stared back at a face that flashed the sight of everything sinking in. Finally.

Smells of bodily flesh intermingled with the sweet caresses of jasmine and hair oil. A chaotic yet smooth blend of local Bharat Tamil tongues lashed out the yet to be finished village gossip while I spied on the many shaven heads of the pilgrims that had paid their vows amongst the temples, the hundred steps, the offerings and the chants, the bells and the statues. I read the headlines, Tendulkar scored the highest ever in an ODI, first to reach 200. The president and the prime minister took up front corners to congratulate him. He dedicated his win to the Indian people.

Every so often a child grunted unhappily, only to be settled by its mother. After all we were squashed in ceaseless rows of black lines, cushioned and smelling of a new aircraft. Here I sat, in seat 26A on board AK238 to KLIA. The captain had just announced that it's a beautiful day out there and the crew would like to wish us a pleasant flight. We were cruising at 700km/h. I was getting two and a half hours away further from India. Some bumpy weather forecast was predicted but in the meanwhile, he told us to just "sit back and relax".

I would had been playing with a fantasy of writing from a tight little room, lit only by a melting candle. But here I was in reality, making my way back into Malaysia. I never thought I would be feeling this way but I did - miss Malaysia, home and heck, I suspected perhaps a dash nostalgic about India too. It's been a mad ride that began with many doubting if I would "last" for two weeks in India, and here I stood, after leaving my mark from as North as Kashmir to the Southern tip of Kanyakumari. I had learned about an epic 4-day train trip that will take you exactly on that sort of North-to-South excursion, and I had also been told that the Tamil Nadu part of the 4-6 laned highway had been completed, to join the rest of India's continuance in building the linking arteries of railway tracks and tarmac tunnels. Small villages may be ran over, lands breathed with life rained by the stone pellets, tar and pressure, all hammered down by the raw force of machines and back-bending labourers. In a way, it felt truly an honour to have been a small part of the witness community in seeing a great nation transitioning Herself.

Our days from the comfortable cottage of Dale Thorpe at Kodaikanal, we carried ourselves, gusto and weariness in both to the two cities dotting the pilgrim route - Tiruchirapalli (Trichy) and Tanjavur, seats of the finest Dravidian temples that were protected from invasion by the Ghats and time. Kodai was a small town up in the cool hill stations, a home built in the 1930s. A town that stretched down one road where cows, furry dogs and children pattered up and down the whole day, with an array of birds and trees that coloured the skyline as we laid ourselves down on the warm grassy carpet - throwing the days away in making rhymes, trivia and love. The manager of the place, Shaheed took care of the smallest details and it was truly a wonderful getaway to ferret away your woes and take walks in a sweater, gaping at homes built in the likes of a granny's cottage with a fireplace. The week folded out with many lazy walks to the chai shops and roadside stir-fry dinners. The home's cook whipped up really great Southern Indian meals but in what looked like a sleepy town that held funny corners, it was nice to venture out as we made a friend in a dog, fed another while also rescued a trapped finch. The flowers, were a joy to photograph. I remembered the morning I waited outside on the garden for our ride to Trichy to arrive, my eyes looked up at the acorn tree - brown little things sitting perched on the branches like faithful sparrows attending morning mass, with the early sun preaching the promise of a peaceful day that was all that common to the residents of Kodai.

Before we realised, our car flew down 2km above sea-level, passing the shrine of St. Paul the watcher of travellers, pine trees and little mosques and temples, cemeteries that buried the various brothers of different faiths, all the same when they were put to rest on the ground next to each other. Painted messages on the rocky walls shouting "Free Tibet" looked completely out of place in a location that villages cared for little except for the farms' upkeep and their children's attendance at school by the clock. Posters of the CM's son, Stalin (you read right) blasted his lion face, much to my amusement that many politicians had an affinity to portray themselves with the very same animal that symbolised power and leadership. Case in point, Munnar saw one that did a snarling facial pose next to a jaguar doing the same. I thought the latter would have been better at getting people to fall in line? Hence, Kodai was your lion. Our chatters with the cab driver yarned about the state's socialist policies, unpaid government loans and the government's corruption. Damn if you do, damn if you don't.

The heat hit you like a thousand slaps. Coconuts, sugarcanes, palms and dusty box-shaped homes ran an unsettling combination of fertile canvas smeared with the poverty reflected by the homeless, children without education, and dirty water.Yet, even the displaced craved for order. Rows of knitted palm houses planted themselves underneath free lands, next to power towers and a black, tepid pond. Not too far away, I saw a man bucketed some water to wash himself. As quickly as the film rolled past, my left was washed over with mustard yellow fields while looked at my right that was nothing but parched mahogany. A tired old man got down to push his rusty, creaky bicycle loading his day's ware - fifty over coconuts that would had weighed ten times his meagre body weight. He panted, his eyes lit the determination that aroused the feelings of empathy that came over me. This would come over me many times again. I saw lean, tightly wound muscles, blackened into rare ebony by the harsh sun in their daily struggle to wring a living out of their sweat and toil. These men would rein in cattles, dig the land, chop the wood, risk their lives on the coconut trees high above. No job was too hard. The women would match each exertion similarly. Children were to blossom through their smiles into these adults, continuing a long line of supply to ensure Tamil Nadu's core of provision for hard labour, factory productions and agriculture.

Then we were in Trichy. It felt hot and stuffy. I could barely breathe and I wasn't sure if it was the heat. My mind became really restless and I wasn't having as much fun as I thought I would, especially on my last few days on this India leg. The situation reminded me a bit of my high school graduation - all things too confusing and murky because I was too nervous and happy at the same time. I wanted to fastforward time, I didn't want to recognise the conclusion of what had been truly a journey that changed my perspective on a lot of things, discovered my strengths and weaknesses, of looking at the Devil in the eye and not run away, of one that I had to tell my hubby that as much as it wasn't easy on many fronts, I was so immensely glad that we did it together.

Beyond the ride to Tanjavur, the markets and comparing how two towns such as Trichy and Tanjavur could throw up probably the most heniously arranged township planning, one must had reminded one's self that where else you will be amongst such real living, such honesty and rawness? It was so undressed that the nakedness almost shamed the shy and the meek. India was almost challenging me. Look, at my curves, the dust on my face, smell the heady perfume, lust after my spirit. You knew that playing safe would have you going home all dry and clean but it was really such a cop out.

I got back, rained the shower on my head and allowed my emotions ran over me. I succumbed to Her frightening lure. India had a way to seriosly piss you off with how frank She could be yet like a wonderful person that you felt that you had travelled so many miles but had yet to meet only now for the first time, you fell into this absolute ridiculous infatuation that got you blushing when you saw yourself in the mirror. I hated how She made me went all uncomfortable because my ego prohibited me to show any feelings. I hated how She saw right through me. I just hated how skillful She snaked into my conscience.

I hated how I could not get Her out of my mind. If this was neither obsession nor a heartfelt touch by an angel, then I didn't know anything else.

Here I sat, still probably another two hours away to home although I already felt that I was walking away from a home that I had came to call new. One that fought through my own resistance, got into my soul and ripped my defence apart. Thank you India for showing me that to be brave to face myself was in all my weaknesses, an awareness, which I had come to find my own.

In my strongest and anew. For that, how could I ever be grateful enough?

Where We Came Together As One

Where else we come to witness a clash of sellers and buyers of all trades? Bystanders pounced upon an unsuspecting pilgrim making her way to the Meenakshi Temple, revealing themselves to be talented tailors whom can solved her nagging wonder on where could she get a replica of her yoga pants made "exactly your style, madam!" for Rs50?

Where else we see the hungry collapsing into this blissful circle around the dosa hands that ceaselessly wound themselves above the ebony pan resembling an oily, greasy UFO that hissed and spat out clouds of vapour when the idli wallah cleverly cleaned it with a spatula of water? Oh yes, you can have your stand-and-sip chai and "kaapee" that shamed your most Seattle-ran coffee joints. Where to pay? Just that old man sitting by the flaky wooden table the size of a small box. Yes, all the dosa and chai you could stuff down. Rs5 and there's change too.

Where else you get a Chennai local telling you that "Madurai is all about temples, temples, temples... and nooooothiiing else"? "And here they are nice people, not cheat you. Only maybe making one two Rupee from selling you things...". And some darn good vegetarian banana leaf lunches too. Plus, the best butterscotch ice cream I had had in a while. On the highest building in town, overlooking the temples at sunset.

Welcome to Madurai, the celebrated city of the celestial union between Lord Shiva and his consort, a reincarnation of the holy mother of Ganesh and Murugan, Meenakshi, the blessed olive-skinned Goddess with the famed fish-eyed gaze. Here, time your travel well and you can participate in just about a Lord Shiva-themed celebration every month, with some such as Thai poosam, equivalent with our home-grown Thaipusam, as one of the times in which you would be lucky to get beyond an elbow and a finger to the next warm body should you walk on the streets.

The must-see here is of course, quite recommendedly at sunrise and sunset, but also at selected times of thoroughout the day (minus lunch time okay?) to pay homage to one of the greatest Dravidian inheritance of temple architecture, reverence, communal living, faith and trade. Even though the inner sanctum of Golden Temple that housed the holy mother was off-limits to non-Hindu (a rule that hubby vehemently is against) the surrounding display of one of the finest workmanship of worship and representation of their devotion and belief in their Gods and particularly here in Tamil Nadu, in which the Goddesses are prayed to first, will have you in quiet awe. The temple's cloistures were busy but everything seemed to move in this noiseless energy, offerings, postrations, rests, bhajan were all done in this cosmic cocktail in which everyone came with a single different purpose yet we all came away with one common gift - spiritual nourishment. You may not believe in the bowing to the red-cladded and very impressive depiction of Kali nor will you understand the significance of Agni. You may stared in disbelief at young couples offering the temple's elephant cradling their newborn wrapped in a warmer between the giant's trunk in return for Ganesh's blessings. Why would men and women lay themselves flat on the ground? Why would a Nandi looked on dutifully upon the Shiva Lingam while many a one offer one after another an oil lamp?

Where else then would you find that faith and belief, no matter where you came and went, in whatever form, touched the individual as commonly as how your own God does to you? You may not participate in their Gods and Goddesses. However it was so ever humbling to see such devotion, such unwavering steadfast acknowledgement that something deeper and further than our beyond guaranteed the salvation of the soul. Nothing around the temples deterred you from whatever your chosen path, but they all served as a very real reminder on our own alliance with whatever our chosen faith, and that to me, was the single most important ingredient - faith and trust, solely and concentrated on one thing that rose above the worldly attachments, such as cares and worries.

Where else too you see Kashmiri owning yet again streets and shops, selling the most unique and exotic from Orrisan tribes to monolithic cuts of the thickest jungles? Where else would you participate in a getting-to-know-you conversations and put the knowledge of what you've learned thoroughout your journey in India and spar with a Kashmiri that perhaps knew already all that you know? (smile) The barters, the promises, the "just only for you I sell this price", the exchange of cards, the tea and unfolding of carpets, pashmina. It's Valentine's Day and the first day of the Chinese New Year. Hubby bought me a beautiful snowy cream poncho, with hand-sown flowers Kashmiri style. Flowers that live on forever, sweet and so thoughtful! Ah, at times, it's nice to be just that - enjoying all being a much loved wife and woman - uncomplicated, no need to think more!

The nights passed by with the coming and waning of the moon and the auto hornings. Another train trip overnight concluded. Another Ambassador ride to the next town. So here, we just put this little gem into the box of our travel memories in which where all the other things and "else" could rest in one warm cushion of colours, smells, sounds and words.

Where else, but here all of it, in marvellous Madurai.

The Most Beautiful Part Of My World

As one took the first step out into the crumbly road, moisted by virginal breeze of a humid morning, so did the mind search frantically for an auto that will take us to Kanyakumari. None in sight. Not good.

Our morning train allowed us to bid a few farewells and exchanged addresses that will receive our newly reacquainted habit of "snail mailing" postcards. Now two figures wandered down the same alley that they had taken last night for a sumptuous thuckpa and tribal banana leaf rice flour pancake that our yogacharya had made for us - a perfect sendoff - to a smiling Keralan boy, his early eyes glinting with the eagerness of familiarity.

"Good morning Saar, nice to see you again".

Hubby explained that he took this one to town the day before. Or was it two days before? Nevermind, but we made our "backside" first entry since we were too lazy to take off our backpacks and every auto that we did that, never seemed to fail to amuse. Given the vehicle was the size of a rat's stomach, there was a lot of graceful grunting and puffing as we adjusted ourselves into the palatial spread of PVC-coated seats at the back. Our driver was proudly beaming when he heard that I replied "I'm fine" in perhaps the only small repertoire of Tamil that I have learned.

And off we sped and thundered downhill towards the train station.

Two chai and 30 pages of my book later, we reached the Southern most tip of India, the meeting point of the Indian Ocean, Arabian Sea, and the Bay of Bengal. Our little world unfolded into another auto ride to the coast, passing sleepy stony homes that looked on stoically as we punctuated the atmosphere with a horn and beep. The odd child selling individual cigarettes, a hyperexcited chook flapped across our heads. We rocked up to a nice little clean room and booked it when we found it was available. Perched on a small man-levelled cliff, we were minutes away from the bazaar and temples, the tourist / guidebook-made famous temple and shrine by the rock, commemorating one of India's revered saints, Swami Vivekananda, and a 40m-high statue of the poetic saint, Thiruvalluvar (who wrote the famous 2,000-year old beyond Thirukkural - which today, is still in the top selling list in Tamil Nadu bookshops).

We were also living by the best (in my personal many times returning opinion) local restaurant in town. Life really couldn't had been more welcoming.

So Fate had it that tonight, was to be, the night of all nights. All Shaivite will be up all night performing pooja in remembrance and gratitude of Lord Shiva, whom had watched over them all these while, for He shall be taking a deserving kip. The amazing thing that had made the Hindu deities so endearing to their local followers would be amongst others, the fact that they exhibited the same wants and desires, the same attributes, yet possessed the far-fetched and ultimate display of abilities and powers, symbolized the ideal values in a society that mere mortals could only crave and aim to achieve within their limited lives until moksha freed them for the opening gates of Samadhi. So, tonight, as with many selected times and dates according to the holy Hindu calender, Lord Shiva will be taking a rest. What luck had for us was that, of all the Shiva Rathiri celebrations, tonight was the grand dame - the Maha Shiva Rathiri. On a scale of your EPL season, Derby, and the Carling Cup, the Maha would be the World Cup. Only one night, all night long, priests will be bathing the holy Lingam in all the temples, yards of devotees will be offering their hands in namaste and bells churning out the long duration of rites taking place, garlands of jasmine will be traded and placed by the feet of the Nandi or the lord himself. The whole small town will be bathed by the time darkness arrived, the shining gold of a thousand candles.

We were smacked in the middle of this whole thing.

Hot. Noises of devotional songs and traders yelling for the quick bargain to get your flowers and bananas on the way to the temples. Smells of chai simmering on darkened pots squatting over blue dancing flames, pak-pak rhythms made by the downfalling parang that cracked open a trail of fresh green coconuts to quench the burning taste of a many throats. Colours splashed across the throngs of varied visitors across India, some obviously from the North judging from their attire that looked funnily out of place in the tropical Kanyakumari night. As we walked towards the tip of the town, I saw for myself a sight atypical of what I had learned of a sunset's perspective in art class. I was surrounded by a blitzing bleeding sun that painted the right of my sky in the holiest of holy red, while I stood in the middle of the bazaar promenade in which hundreds moved amidst kerosene lamps and ice cream stalls, slices of young mangoes being peppered with local masala, burning chickpeas and horse rides, and my left sky was extending far beyond the limits of my eyes, creamed in a dash of cobalt blue while the lights of the fishing towns glistened like Christmas lights from a far away Finland.

Everyone sat, stood, ran and watched. I watched and was being watched. A few local lads asked to have their photographs taken. I ate a slice of young mango, felt my nose disintegrated in between my eyes, and we walked in a rare carefree manner found in the craziest, busiest town at the most packed time of the year. Literally tens of hundreds of the same stalls were selling the same thing - raw honeycomb, spices, almond and cashews by the kilogram, cups and sunglasses (yes, even at night!) and pictures of deities, oil lamps and fake plastic flower garlands guaranteed the adornment of the temples will not be any less this year. I was quite taken by the ingenuity of the local temple decoration committee - two huge tusks of green bananas, freckled by a long line of yellow lights that looked like ripe golden cousins of the former - they did look the part!

The air that night was a cocktail of Catholic mass and Hindu songs. Closer to the fishing villages, which we took a walk the next morning, between still hearing the waning hums of all-night devotional thevaram, you could close in on the local faith in their patron, St. George the dragon slayer, and the The Church of Our Lady Ransom. Many of the ways of life here were dated. Fishermen mending their nets by hand, boats that hung their cross on the boat's front along with their tiny gas tanks, bulbs and cover all intact. Yet most of the surrounding was newly constructed.

Reconstructed, perhaps was a more appropriate word. In the 2004 Tsunami, everything here was wiped out, save the holy church. In this sleepy strip of the town, the faint historical steps of St Francis Xavier and the likes of his footsteps were imprinted deep and lasting on the soil that the locals still continue to build and celebrate their feast days and important events. Hymns and passages from the Bible were decorated across walls and streets. The meditative half-gaze of St. Mary looked upon the passing as each street corner was sure guaranteed to have a small shrine evoking the valour of good over evil in the form of a moustachioed St. George - even he was adapted to look a bit of the proverbial Indian male.

And as we walked past households lining their fronts with chalk kolam, patches of lime green, girly pink and sky blue bade us farewell as we sat through the remaining hours before we found our way to the train station yet again. Kanyakumari was the perfect reintroduction into India again, and in a unique way, was everything that we had bottled up, only to consume once again because of the basic weaknesses of being human - our lust for excitement, our desire for stimuli, and our love for life.

The Thing About Choices

Day six and things are looking up.

At least from where my hamstrings are sitting (no pun).

Somehow things got around and after a blah-day yesterday when I felt totally wiped out by lunch, I was flying high from an incredibly invigorating workout on the mat. I also started getting the itch to shop for a hand-sewn yoga bag made by a lady from Karnataka, and got weak at bargaining with the big paunched old man manning the little books cum goodies-everything-you-can-imagine-you-need shop when it came to procuring my yoga mat. I hope I have better luck tonight negotiating the currency exchange for that cloth painting I had my eyes on but had been pretending my lack of interest during the entire stay here in Varkala, bore out of nothing but a strategy to lure the shop owner into thinking that an agreeable price may get me "interested" again. He's Kashmiri and known to be a tough, shrewd man. Nothing ventured nothing gained, hence may you wish the force to be on my side!

Update: The goonda next door finally ate humble pie, even if this was only for a few days. They threw an insane trance-themed party again and really got way out of line when the staff got drunk. Police reports were filed by groups surrounding the vicinity within an earshot and not even industry-strength ear plugs could save their grace this time. Pure heavenly tweetering of the birds prevailed throughout the day. Lunch was a breeze, afternoon tea became a nice walk in the park once more. Yes, they did open for business but not until later in the evening and though defiant in their choice of bad music still, it was much more subdued and endurable (is this a word?) for the rest of the world that didn't believe in sex, drums and rock 'n' roll.

I am soaking up the remaining 48 hours in this Utopian getaway. I will miss the hardened up, streetwise dogs on Hungry Eye's side, whereas I will miss equally the sweet-natured moggies on Sunshine Cafe's. I will miss my special faithful little one whose lower set of teeth protruded out like a set of funny knives. I will never forget the dolphins that came in pods of twenties, one even up close to the shore! I had my fair share of chocolate brownie to vow not to at least have another one for a while in order to let the memory sink in deep. Probably drank copious amount of mango juice to last a year. Ate my agreeable share of peanut butter home-made toast. Found my vegetarian pizza from heaven handed by the angels, the clouds parted and a light shone through to bless upon this feeble soul!

Without baring my weak soul at saying poor goodbyes - never had been good at them as I absolutely hate to get all teary-eyed - my mind ran along the little memory lane of making sure the "must-say" people that I need to at least thank and wish well before we proceed onwards to Kanyakumari. Sigh, here I was learning all about detachment and stilling the mind and when it came to crunch time, my walls come all crumbling down. Perhaps hard goodbyes were meant to make us appreciate something special that even more so? Maybe true, maybe I made that one up but it helped me to think about the wonderful time I had here without getting sad again...

Moving on.

Ever catch yourself going back to that irresistable cup of brew that you just got to have, come hail or shine? Particularly this morning, relaxing on the yoga mat after our 2-hour rally, my mind, completely out of its fenced up realm of serenity, bounced wildly off from my initial stop at the little corner Hakka eatery to order a bowl of zhoo geok chu. Succulent slivers of pork knuckles cooked lovingly in Chinese soya sauce, dripped the holy essence of old ginger, garlic and vinegar, all in the name of the nourishment of my celestial soul. Next my rumbling stomach went on to order a plate of steaming white rice, never mind it was polished beyond any form of nutrition, I would never have my Chinese wine chicken stir-fry without its snowy grain soaking up those precious liquid gold cascading down each perfectly chopped morsel balanced at the tips of my wooden chopsticks. And as my yoga teacher guided my thoughts to fly high onto the sky, feeling as light as a feather, I thought perhaps I would make a mental stopover at the roast duck stall. One whole leg piece for me, please. Oh yes, my sweet dear life. One has to get all fingers oily and stained from handling this satiating cargo. Bad to have before a yearly blood test but if this was the last day of my life, I would surely have this on my order list. Some even believed that the left leg was better.

Should this be the last day of my life, I will go for also the Seremban wet market's pork ribs dry noodles. Chewable, pale brown pieces stewed into biteable yet firmly sizeable cuts that sent your tongue running amok from the wild combination of textures as you popped a chopstick-full of those wanton noodles. A side order of salted Chinese vegetables brought back appetite sustaining memories of the day I sat by the old dining table, feet barely touching the ground, as a little girl, I drank those roasted peanut soup with lotus barks. Quieten down the heaty element brought on by the "fire" in meat. Anything goes, as long as the mind and stomach worked in unison, the soul is happy!

And as the grand finale for my exit, I would have nothing else except my mum's chicken herbal soup. The thing so uniquely indispensable and irreplacable about mothers, amongst many other qualities, is the ability to know all about your quirkiness and some beyond comprehension - such as my love for chicken necks (mum, remember when I humoured how life would be if chooks had two necks instead?) - plus still loving you no matter how or what? My mum's herbal soup will be poured into that particular bowl that would be the size of a "man bowl" that would be enough to hold at least 500ml of that carefully boiled elixir of youth, done over slow fire and at least for two hours. The chook's naked neck would be plucked off any fat and feather, laid underneath the surface, on the bottom of the bowl akin to saving the best gift for last in your Christmas stocking.

She would also pick the Malay kampung chickens instead of the commercially bred types for a firmer touch to the meat. This fine poultry would then be chopped and arranged amongst the pigeon eye-sized amber wolfberries, shavings of herbal barks and roots, a palmful of black and red dates thrown in for good measure with a glance of salt. This bowl of mine would hold the broth with a whole leg piece, gliding up to meet my soup spoon like the virginal thigh of a nymph, luring the senses and weakening the constitution of thought as you succumb blissfully to your first kiss of that caramel-coloured liquid. This would be the most sufficient meal that I could ever have.

The funny thing is that I had been privileged to be exposed to a myriad of meal selections during our travels here in India. Some of these were superbly good that they surpassed many expectations, if any were formed prior to our acquaintance. Yet, one thing hit home at a prompt time, which was the very thought that it was when you were granted the luxury of choices that you truly pondered and went back to the one true thing that you have always loved. The new experiences would be special, never to be forgotten. However, it's true that sometimes, you can take the girl out of home, but never home from her.

The even funnier thing is that, it won't be long that I will have mum's chicken herbal soup! You can be 13, 30 and beyond, but you can always bask in that space called mum's love forever.

Thankfully for choices, what would we not have known that we would have missed? Here's to your choices and what you make out of them.

Making A Home Away

The sun has just set on another day that begun painfully on the yoga mat.

We have made a three-week stay in Varkala into a little getaway that gave a sneak (just that) peek into the "India" that would have been engineered to get travellers into believing in they were in "the India" and that elusive piece that... well, almost kept eluding us. Although I would still say that three weeks are a short time, in fact, anytime would be too short to get to know a place beyond all the surface make-up, you probably could get away with a slice of the pie - after taste - depending on anything as random as your mood of the day, your ability to dive deep or rise up from it.

Today marked too, the proverbial last bastion that makes or breaks a 21-day formed habit. I have not missed (not planning to) a morning's practice as dutifully as a teenager marking off the date to that first ever concert. Also, today was the fourth day my hamstrings were reminding me of my age (and my years of ignorance) with those "good pain" shooting off the maiden stretch at our yoga class. Sigh.

What else? I went down town to soak in some atmosphere. Saw a lot of perhaps, was a more "Varkala" Varkala beyond the strip off the cliffs, strings of Rajasthani makes of little elephants and bells, rubbish amassing more apparently now observed from our early morning walk to our class, and the heady incense that perfumed the air with jasmine, vanilla, and sandalwood - all a vain and lame attempt at masking what laid submerged underneath the inherent behaviour of what we didn't notice at the initial landing. It's like breaking into guerilla territory. Getting into the hustle and bustle, with its full blast of auto horns warning cyclists, hens and kids or anything else in its thunderous way (we were told that the loud squawks were reserved purely for out of the city zone, otherwise a hefty penalty awaited the driver) that brought a smile to my face - how I missed the real deal! - was a refreshing coming up for air from the Utopian petri dish that I had been swimming in for weeks.

It was a lovely, good time. Yet I never ceased to feel that I was walking in this state of sleeping "awakening" because beyond the real pain of building my little yoga blocks of knowledge and practice, anything else beyond my yoga world was strangely coated with that sickening greasy, diabetically sweet layer of prettiness that served to motivate me to believe that I had been away from home in a foreign, exotic land. Still, we made a home out of this place and got to know more about a place that we would look back where we learned more about what we needed to learn, mixed with some very warm people who welcome us into their homes and shared their time (locals and travellers who had stopped a wee bit longer here as well as one-day stoppers) and to see a weird mix of Kashmiri, Nepalese, Orissan and all others except real Varkalans (!) faces belting out foreign (usually Western) accented greetings to "look is free, come buy at my shop", and witnessed the begging mentality.

For instance, remember somewhere along your life someone told you to buy the worst house in the best neighbourhood? We did exactly that, not exactly owning in perpetuity but paid enough to last throughout our stay here at a room (still quite civil and decent, fresh towels are all I need) that was situated on a property that had a lovely lawn. Unfortunately it was also built next to someone who considered that strip of beach prime location too. This restaurant opened up late from the evening, bringing levels of anxiety and anticipation high from its nightly board announcement - "All night happy hour!", "DJ music all night long!", "Hard rock hip hop happening all here!" - three nights ago, they closed at four in the morning, I thought I may had fainted out of exhaustion instead of sleep. The waiters behaved like real goonda from their gangster display of blatant disregard for any plea or threat to lower the music volume. This lack of courtesy and smarty ass remarks in the forms of "go find another room" prevailed due to none other than the restaurant proprietor had paid off the police. Oh, you will see him. The man strapped in his full uniform, walking like a heavy-breasted pigeon every morning, parading up and down that strip collecting his "presents" and newspaper wrapped "money donation". Nevermind the lousy music selection, the waiters were told to stand in the way of passerbys and shout out not-so-friendly greetings (almost scaring you into submission) in any presumed foreign language done absolutely on how they perceived what you looked like. I personally, got Japanese and Korean. Given hubby understood Tamil and Malayalam, it was appalling to hear these boys hooted out their hellos to foreign tourists whom are (beyond day one was enough) forming a resistance to refuse such bully behaviour, only to mouth off some crude comments about anyone who simply didn't want to sit, eat or drink at that venue. It was hypocritical and downright irritating. Sigh twice.

We made friends with midgies too. Tonnes of them come out every night. More pronounced when it wasn't a breezy night. Boy did they pack a bite! When you made up your mind to stay at a place, you dug in your heels to put up a good struggle, despite having your romantic declaration for each other before good nights interrupted by a loud smack that you realised was your right hand slapping down those green bastards on your left arm. Please excuse me as I had to kill one of these buggers.

You fall in love with the beach again. You get sick of tourist "Indian banana leaf" dinners. Snores and farts at your daily yoga class become not even the slight distraction but make juicy gossip later over pancakes.

You get creative and make friends, you invite and get invited to real Keralan cook-up. You share conversations that make good friendships that aren't too "posh" or too "adult" for a light-hearted banter on trivial considerations such as "do butterflies taste with their feet?" and London stage plays (Dr Parkster, pleasure is all ours!). You give back in any small way, you learn to not succumb to just giving pennies away to buy away your guilt.

The latter, I am talking about the beggars. Many amongst us was a group of women who masqueraded as mothers, using one baby (who usually had to endure the unenviable position of posing for the duration of the entire day's pretension that amounted, to my opinion, as daylight child abuse and robbery) to walk around asking for money to "feed my child". Men who are physically challenged in ways of deformed limbs or a seemly crutch that looked suspiciously a prop, shouting at us should we refused to give them money. Children that were made to beg, whether in forms of outright tagging along you or coercing you to come into their shops, all made more confusingly wrong when they should be in school yet they aren't. One little girl was wearing an old, ragged looking girl's school uniform that were obviously not hers. She was looking after the slippers section. I have nothing to say.

It may looked calm and balmy here. It is, but in the shadows of darkness, drugs and stabbings take place. Sometimes, maybe there is a monster lurking underneath your bed.

You develop a routine. Take the funnily named and marketed "German Bakeries". I would have the luxury of glancing at the rows of freshly baked "French baguette" and "Plain croissant" that laid in baskets that resembled little bee maggots drenched in Hershey's chocolate syrup. My favourite was the chocolate brownie. They even threw in a hazelnut to top it up!

As we edged closer to departure date, I had this sense of dread that I was leaving a pattern, a place I had got to know, a familiar smell, yet I was excited that I was getting back on the road to see the good, bad and the ugly. It was one of the best times of my life here but I knew somehow it was not a sustainable existence. Would I come back here? Never say never. Would I never leave. Definitely never say never.

But we had surely made a "home" out of a foreign place. You get your sweet notes of belonging - finding your favourite dish, making vows of returning for that dosa, knowing which shop priced their shampoos and renewed their ice cream stocks better, exchanging your books at "your preferred" stall - and also bitter ones like learning to ignore a bad neighbour's poor music consideration (4 a.m. is still too late buddy!) and tolerate the cleaning lady's forgetfulness to return your wastepaper basket (smile). You established your habits, you got past some initial coldness of the "locals" who were running a business here but who were probably missing their real homes as much as you. You got money credit when you didn't have enough change for that cup of chai. You borrowed a spoon there, you refused to pay Rs50 for The Hindu because you knew the local running rate. You basked in the warmth of Kumari Chechi who was genuinely sad because she forgot to cook the potatoes, hence not feeding you enough when you popped over for a local Keralan dinner.

You saw, no matter from where you came from, a parent's love will supersede race, colour, creed. Yes, even those kids who manned the shops. Although a blue moon, I saw one morning a young mother, deftly combed out head lice from her daughter. To us, it may not be the best or most enticing example yet the look on the little girl's face was of delight and belonging. A little man who was a big brother, used to come over to our lawn's hammock to rock his baby brother to sleep in his arms. Seeing both brothers in embrace, you knew that despite the goonda next door, the happy mix of a life that the people here made for us and for themselves served to remind you that every day is a different day, a special one that never quite repeat itself. I felt that strongly when I first arrived, perhaps it got less progressively as I got a bit used to my little "home" patterns and rituals here but it was always nice to be reminded of something important and of value.

Just like how I know I will be greeted by my little pack of dogs tomorrow as we walked to our "Sunshine Cafe" for our chai, again, served automatically as assumed by the crew's understanding built over weeks of knowledge that these two will come over, will sit down at those maroon-coloured chairs with their green checkered table, get up and pay at half past to make their way for their yoga at eight - I know I will miss home, like how I have always miss the homes I had made in our stays in India, and the hearts of our families.

ps: Mum and dad, if you are reading this, we'll be in Perth real soon! See you all, lots of love!