I am writing with the fountain pen Tina gave Barney. Barney is left handed and doesn’t need to learn how to write with fresh ink so I have the pen. (He just kept smudging what he had just written.) I am also writing while wearing my new reading glasses. They help a lot. I had been moving things away from my eyes for too long, and a cheap test with the eye doctor (four dollars) revealed greater defects than I had imagined. I chose to only take reading glasses despite the prescription for bifocals. So there you go, no photos yet.
Gazza’s here! Joy! His knowledge of India and Hindi is insightful and very helpful – and his gentle presence breaks down the familiar familial dynamics. It is so easy and pleasant and familiar and ‘en famille’ with Gazza, it all flows.
We took Gary up Chamundi Hill. It happened to be chamundi's birthday, so there were huge
throngs of people most everywhere we went. We didn't get to visit with the sadhu in the Shiva cave, he was having the day off as far as we could tell.
We did check the count of the 1000 steps. We started at the top and worked our way down and at our count of 400, the carving in the stone said 600, so we believe them now. Each of the steps, and many of the steplike rocky parts had been imprinted with coloured powder by devotees as they climbed. you can see the colour on the photo. Climb, dip in the bag, dab on the step. We say pairs of people one doing yellow, the other red as they climbed.
The Nandi bull was decked out in fine regalia
Chamundi temple in the mist
Caught at the top of the hill in a monsoonal shower we shelter in a chai shop 
next door to Chamundi's temple
next door to Chamundi's temple
Dani did the 'good woman of the house' thing and created a mandala on our front gate step
Those of you who remember Emma's visit to the island in 2004 (she pierced some ears and taught some yoga classes) will recognise her face again. She is currently teaching 20 classes a week to some 400 students in Taipei, Taiwan. She turned up for Guruji's birthday and has delighted us with her tales of Taipei. She delighted the boys by taking them for rides on the back of her motor scooter.
Hoping I get the spelling right this time: Aryaman and Barney at the rear. Nicash, Tai, Devina and Felix (L to R)
Our friends, Tina and Sanjeev, plan to open a small restaurant for the lunch and dinner trade amongst yoga students and locals. Dani did her bit for the cause by painting a scene on the front of the servery. 
This 12 year old gave us a demonstration of incence stick rolling.
It’s about 9pm [at the time of writing] and I miss the quiet solace of Maggi. I can hear crickets but there is so much more as well. I can hear what is probably a television, a dog yapping inconsistently, a phone rings, some neighbour’s doing dishes, people are talking, someone slides a wooden chair across a hard floor. There is the occasional dull hum of traffic, and then a vehicle will pass by on the street out front. The omnipresent two stoke motors of rickshaws and scooters, the many motorbikes and even the four stoke cars and 4WD. The constant stream of humanity on wheels. Including bicycles and ox drawn carts. I can hear Hindi music and singing belting out from nearby.
The masonry boundary fence to the property we rent is only 700mm from our house (on all sides) and a similar distance from the neighbours on each of three sides. During the day there are construction noises. Not electric power tools; all hand tools. For ten or so hours of every day there is a middle aged man who sits across the road from the house next door on a pile of rocks, hewing granite. All day there is a constant banging of hammer against stone chisel as granite blocks are hewn into brick-like proportions. Chip, chip, chip, chip. Sometimes, watching him, it seems like his blows make no impression at all on the blue-white rock. And then, suddenly, it splits. Now he chip chip chips away at the split face, evening up the proportions to allow the masons to lay it straight... all Day. Every working day. Maybe half an hour off around lunch time to sit in the shade and chat to the other workers and smoke a beedie or three, then back to work. No food. Just a break. Then chip chip chip, till dusk. Then he rolls out his bicycle and rides down the hill, back home. Away from the grand houses of Gokulam back to his house, wherever that may be.
Holes or chasing in brickwork is all done by hand. The rough and dirty sand that is dropped in front of houses is sieved by hand through netting strung between timber frames, propped up as a lean to. Mortars for brickwork, or concrete for floor slabs or columns are knocked up on the road surface, passed up to the masons by hand on wok sized metal containers, the mud (mortar) so thick and dry there is no need to rush, the mortar beds under the soft, friable bricks are often thick and uneven and sometimes out of level.
But there are other noises beyond those of construction. The earliest noises of the day are related though. There is a family of builders who live in the house next door, by which I mean the house under construction. When we arrived they had just commenced laying the brick walls on the floor of the second floor. Now they have almost finished laying the brickwork, with timber door and window frames fixed in place and will soon be able to form up for the flat concrete roof. All this time, and for weeks beforehand, I’m sure, there is a family of two women, two toddlers and at least one man living in the ground floor. It’s part of the typical building contract here. They have rigged up tarpaulins across the openings and get to make use of the electricity and water that is on site while ensuring 24/7 security for the home owners. They have very little in the way of possessions. They cook and launder and wash up on the footpath outside the house.
The masonry boundary fence to the property we rent is only 700mm from our house (on all sides) and a similar distance from the neighbours on each of three sides. During the day there are construction noises. Not electric power tools; all hand tools. For ten or so hours of every day there is a middle aged man who sits across the road from the house next door on a pile of rocks, hewing granite. All day there is a constant banging of hammer against stone chisel as granite blocks are hewn into brick-like proportions. Chip, chip, chip, chip. Sometimes, watching him, it seems like his blows make no impression at all on the blue-white rock. And then, suddenly, it splits. Now he chip chip chips away at the split face, evening up the proportions to allow the masons to lay it straight... all Day. Every working day. Maybe half an hour off around lunch time to sit in the shade and chat to the other workers and smoke a beedie or three, then back to work. No food. Just a break. Then chip chip chip, till dusk. Then he rolls out his bicycle and rides down the hill, back home. Away from the grand houses of Gokulam back to his house, wherever that may be.
Holes or chasing in brickwork is all done by hand. The rough and dirty sand that is dropped in front of houses is sieved by hand through netting strung between timber frames, propped up as a lean to. Mortars for brickwork, or concrete for floor slabs or columns are knocked up on the road surface, passed up to the masons by hand on wok sized metal containers, the mud (mortar) so thick and dry there is no need to rush, the mortar beds under the soft, friable bricks are often thick and uneven and sometimes out of level.
But there are other noises beyond those of construction. The earliest noises of the day are related though. There is a family of builders who live in the house next door, by which I mean the house under construction. When we arrived they had just commenced laying the brick walls on the floor of the second floor. Now they have almost finished laying the brickwork, with timber door and window frames fixed in place and will soon be able to form up for the flat concrete roof. All this time, and for weeks beforehand, I’m sure, there is a family of two women, two toddlers and at least one man living in the ground floor. It’s part of the typical building contract here. They have rigged up tarpaulins across the openings and get to make use of the electricity and water that is on site while ensuring 24/7 security for the home owners. They have very little in the way of possessions. They cook and launder and wash up on the footpath outside the house.
Many mornings we have been woken by the crying of one of the children. It never lasts long, but they are so close that it sounds urgent and there’s the little startle or panic, as a parent, that snaps you awake. The baby quietens, or is quietened, and I sleep again. Sometimes Dani sleeps again too. Often she lies, wakeful, knowing that soon she must rise and prepare to leave for the yoga shala. Later there may be the call of birds; but not many, not around here, surrounded by houses. Mostly crows are what we see. Occasionally you hear something singing a sweet or cheerful song, but they are unseen. Brahminy kites wheel across the sky in the afternoons and early evening, but do not call so we can hear them.
Later, well after sunrise, comes the squeaking of gates and the sloshing of water. Now also begins the two-stroke put-put-putting of countless motor scooters and bikes. All the houses round here have gates, and as the daughter or maid comes out to clean and draw the mandalas in chalk the noise of noisy hinges and latches, the mini waterfall from bucket, or the splashing of a hose is small but insinuates into sleep and especially snoozing.
From the house behind us, later in the morning, comes the slap, slap, slap of washing being belted. I’m not 100% sure, but I think it is during the rinse ‘cycle’ that the wet laundry clothes are slapped down onto a rock or hard flat surface. It works; the clothes are clean. When done they are hung anywhere necessary. The people behind have one line the length of their house, any excess is draped over the boundary fence. The women in the construction site sometimes use our front fence to hang out their washing, or on top of the piles of gravel waiting to be used in concrete, or in trees, on bushes, where ever she can.
During the mornings the guys in their bicycle “shops” come up and down the streets. You can hear them calling from a block or more away. “Pa-pay-a” for the fruit seller. Beans, tomatoes, cucumber, apples, limes, pomegranate, carrots, bananas, papaya (paw paw), mangos (in season here), plastic utensils, carpet rugs, mats may all pass. They all call out their ware as they power walk up and down. If you want something you go to your front door or gate, commence inspection and haggling.
One metre from the lounge room window is he northern neighbour’s water pump. Upper-class Gokulam houses have electric pumps and reticulated water systems. There is still a pump and tap two blocks away if you need to get water the traditional way, but that’s for emergencies or the lower economic classes. The neighbours pump is less than 2 metres from the window. That makes it about 9 metres from our bed. It will click into action without warning, run for 5 minutes and click off. During the day it’s just another noise. Two hours after you went to sleep it could be a train coming, a bomb ticking, what ever you happened to be dreaming at the time, but it’s bloody annoying. The northerners have four motor cycles in the family. They are parked inside a wire mesh cage that runs along the boundary wall and back to their house. Its secure parking. So if someone is coming home on their bike it goes something like this: the bike revs its way up the hill from the bottom of the street. It comes to a stop, and the motor usually turns off, right outside their front gate. Their front gate is 2.5m from Gazza’s pillow. Their front gate squeaks as the metal bolt slides open, and then squeaks again, slightly different high-pitched tone, as it opens. It sounds a lot like the noise our gate makes. Then they kick start the bike again to drive in through the gate and up to the enclosure, a journey of about 1.8m, then they stop and open the enclosure, if necessary, and drive in and park. Once they enter the enclosure, and for the short period of time the motor is running in there, they are in a canyon formed by the brick walls of our neighbouring houses. The noise reverberates back and forth and in through our windows and, if you are in our house, it sounds like some tin-pot Hell’s Angel may have bust down the front door and be about to terrorise the family with much head-waggling and requests for information about your country of origin and marital status. But it doesn’t last long, and after about 3 and a half weeks you learn to go back to sleep. Of course they have to shut the enclosure door, with that particular “meshy” sound of metal framed wire mesh banging on itself. Then there’s a brief respite while they lock it, and then the familiar squeak squeak of the gate closing and being latched. Then the front door opens and shuts and there will be maybe 60 seconds of conversation as the arrival is greeted and welcomed home.
Later, well after sunrise, comes the squeaking of gates and the sloshing of water. Now also begins the two-stroke put-put-putting of countless motor scooters and bikes. All the houses round here have gates, and as the daughter or maid comes out to clean and draw the mandalas in chalk the noise of noisy hinges and latches, the mini waterfall from bucket, or the splashing of a hose is small but insinuates into sleep and especially snoozing.
From the house behind us, later in the morning, comes the slap, slap, slap of washing being belted. I’m not 100% sure, but I think it is during the rinse ‘cycle’ that the wet laundry clothes are slapped down onto a rock or hard flat surface. It works; the clothes are clean. When done they are hung anywhere necessary. The people behind have one line the length of their house, any excess is draped over the boundary fence. The women in the construction site sometimes use our front fence to hang out their washing, or on top of the piles of gravel waiting to be used in concrete, or in trees, on bushes, where ever she can.
During the mornings the guys in their bicycle “shops” come up and down the streets. You can hear them calling from a block or more away. “Pa-pay-a” for the fruit seller. Beans, tomatoes, cucumber, apples, limes, pomegranate, carrots, bananas, papaya (paw paw), mangos (in season here), plastic utensils, carpet rugs, mats may all pass. They all call out their ware as they power walk up and down. If you want something you go to your front door or gate, commence inspection and haggling.
One metre from the lounge room window is he northern neighbour’s water pump. Upper-class Gokulam houses have electric pumps and reticulated water systems. There is still a pump and tap two blocks away if you need to get water the traditional way, but that’s for emergencies or the lower economic classes. The neighbours pump is less than 2 metres from the window. That makes it about 9 metres from our bed. It will click into action without warning, run for 5 minutes and click off. During the day it’s just another noise. Two hours after you went to sleep it could be a train coming, a bomb ticking, what ever you happened to be dreaming at the time, but it’s bloody annoying. The northerners have four motor cycles in the family. They are parked inside a wire mesh cage that runs along the boundary wall and back to their house. Its secure parking. So if someone is coming home on their bike it goes something like this: the bike revs its way up the hill from the bottom of the street. It comes to a stop, and the motor usually turns off, right outside their front gate. Their front gate is 2.5m from Gazza’s pillow. Their front gate squeaks as the metal bolt slides open, and then squeaks again, slightly different high-pitched tone, as it opens. It sounds a lot like the noise our gate makes. Then they kick start the bike again to drive in through the gate and up to the enclosure, a journey of about 1.8m, then they stop and open the enclosure, if necessary, and drive in and park. Once they enter the enclosure, and for the short period of time the motor is running in there, they are in a canyon formed by the brick walls of our neighbouring houses. The noise reverberates back and forth and in through our windows and, if you are in our house, it sounds like some tin-pot Hell’s Angel may have bust down the front door and be about to terrorise the family with much head-waggling and requests for information about your country of origin and marital status. But it doesn’t last long, and after about 3 and a half weeks you learn to go back to sleep. Of course they have to shut the enclosure door, with that particular “meshy” sound of metal framed wire mesh banging on itself. Then there’s a brief respite while they lock it, and then the familiar squeak squeak of the gate closing and being latched. Then the front door opens and shuts and there will be maybe 60 seconds of conversation as the arrival is greeted and welcomed home.
One member of the household comes home around 8pm, another around 9pm, and the final one around 10 or 11pm (I’m not sure exactly about the last one because we are inevitably asleep prior to their arrival).
And in the mornings, it is just the same, but in reverse. At least they don’t start the motors until they are out on the road.
You must remember, we come from a place where six cars in a row is tantamount to a traffic jam.
Two more sleeps and we’ll be heading home. The boys are saying things like, “I really miss Maggi but I wish we could take India with us.” The last two weeks have flown. We’ll be there again, and this will become like a dream: so different, so vivid, engaging all the senses, challenging, providing insights into human existence and our place in the world.
in some ways, this has been a bit of a whinge, but you just adapt and get used to how life is here.
this is part of how it is -
and
that's part of why we are here!
thanks for those asking about the floods. Mysore has not been affected by the floods, and we are assured that the flooding will not affect our car journey from Mysore to Bangalore airport where we fly out from on Saturday morning soon after midnight (Friday). There have been 13 deaths from the floods in the Mysore district alone, but this is very low compared to the rest of the country.
We'll be back on the Island by 12:30pm Sunday (God willing and weather permitting). Maybe there'll be one more blog after we get home. thanks for checking in here, hope you enjoyed your part of our journey,
Love,
Felix, Barney, Tai, Daniela and Peter
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