Our first experience on the sleeper bus, but there was no alternative – the trains to Mumbai were all full. It was a relatively pleasant surprise. The Volvo bus was designed with beds instead of seats – two tiers of skinny flat bunks two across, either side of a very narrow aisle. My one concern was that there was no toilet – a twelve hour bus ride with no toilet? But three or four hours into the ride, the conductor came down the aisle yelling “Toilet! Toilet!” And the bus stopped by the roadside just long enough for the men to go on one side, the women on the other. Four hours later, at around 4 am, there was another stop, this time outside a dark restaurant, where a man was also serving glasses of hot tea.

Our stop in Mumbai was just long enough to have breakfast and buy Gerard a $4 pair of sunglasses before taking an eight hour train ride to our next destination. (his stolen Raybans we wanted to replace were more expensive in Mumbai than back in Boston). Mumbai is a city of contrasts. I took away two impressions: as we entered the city – the miles upon miles of slum dwellings I could see from the slit of a window on the two tier bus; and then leaving Mumbai – the Harijan family that boarded our train for a couple of stops. “Harijans” was the name given to the untouchables by Ghandi. A sweet, sad faced man with three children: the two ragged girls sank on to the seats and fell asleep in utter exhaustion; their little brother perched on the remaining seat edge between them in bewilderment. The ticket inspector tried to throw them off the train and then after the man’s pleading, moved them out to the corridor where the girls resumed their sleep on the floor, the little boy still emotionless, frozen between them. I wondered why they were on the move, where was their mother. In the despair of poverty, had she abandoned them? Or had she died? They were dependent upon the mercy of the ticket collector; I was moved by their helplessness.

We got down from the train in Khandwa, a nondescript town although it did have some military importance during the Raj. In fact, the guesthouse (the only suitable one in town) was an army barracks built in 1857. It’s now owned by a Rhada Soami family who have a spiritual practice the same as ours. We were all happy to meet each other.

This year we’ve had more problems booking trains than previously – hours spent at internet cafes trying to find trains with availability that fit our itinerary. In Khandwa we needed to book a train for Varanasi four days later. After observing us struggling for over an hour, a kind man trying to book his own train offered to help us. He works for GE in Hyderabad but had come home to Khandwa for the weekend to be with his wife and teenage daughter. He helped us find a train and then used his credit card to purchase the tickets when the Indian Rail site refused to accept our US Master Card. Without his help it would have been impossible for us to book. Then he insisted we come home with him on the back of his motorbike and meet the family. His wife and daughter were equally gracious, feeding us chai and sweets. He gave us his mobile number to call if we ever have a problem and even offered us his credit card! The trust Indians bestow on us often after a relatively brief meeting continues to be amazing.

Khandwa was a starting point for a trip to two more remote places of interest that involved a series of bus rides. Travel was slow – the crowded local buses moved leisurely from one small town to another. I had to curb my impatience…one bus crawled so slowly that trucks; bicycles…even cows were overtaking us! But no one else was impatient. Why was I in such a hurry? With or without a seat, wedged in beside each other, the local Indians just seemed to enjoy the bumpy ride through the countryside, accompanied by the high pitched singing of Hindu “filmy” music.

I felt as if I’d entered a Bollywood movie – the bus had plenty of colorful characters with the conductor, an agile young man, playing the lead – his long red scarf streaming behind him as he leaned into the wind from the open door of the bus, chanting the name of the next destination. Another bus actually had a TV planted on the wall behind the driver, and we watched a typical Bolllywood story of a boy courting a beautiful light skinned Indian girl and trying to win over her parents while making matters worse with each bumbling effort. This particular movie took him to Goa where he danced on the beach with barely clad girls. The passengers in this remote country area – from young boys to old crones- were all fixated on the screen.

Our first overnight stop was in Omkeshwar, so called because it sits on an Om shaped island in the Namada river. It is one of the five sites that host the Kumbha Mela every twelve years. The town was preparing for Shiva’s birthday the next day and pilgrims were arriving to take a sacred dip at one of the bathing ghats. Omkeshwar isVaranasi on a much smaller scale. One restaurant alone catered to the few western tourists that pass through. Set in a pretty garden beside the river, it is run by the Nepalese. Our waiter had been hanging around westerners so long he behaved and dressed in a way that would be more at home on Malibu beach. He moved trancelike until a monkey appeared in the garden. Leaping into action he chased the monkey brandishing a stick and yelling. Then he returned to his languid state until the next monkey arrived.

The next day we set off for Mandu , a small town up in the mountains– a trip that involved another three bus rides. We’ve traveled on buses with goats, but this was the first time our cases rode at the back of the bus in a luggage compartment with two goats!

Mandu today attracts Indian tourists but very few westerners. It is the best example of Afghan architecture in India. In the town and surrounding countryside are palaces and tombs built in the 1400s and early 1500s. Two of the most interesting places were inspired by passion for women. One was a palace Hoshang Shah built for his large harem of reportedly 15,000! It was reminiscent of a ship’s bridge – using a little imagination – sitting between two large tanks of water. Hoshang’s tomb nearby is the oldest marble building in India. The other remarkable site was a pavilion on a high plateau outside of town built by another Shah called Baz Bahadur to lure a beautiful renowned singer, Rupmati, from the plains below. The story had an unhappy ending. Emperor Akbar, lured by the tales of Rupmati’s beauty marched on the fort and the Shah fled, leaving his lover to poison herself.

But most fascinating was a mosque built over a Shiva temple, and now once again a functioning Hindu place of worship. Remarkably, the Hindus had not destroyed but repurposed the site – Islamic writing praising Allah is still evident on the walls. It was Shiva’s birthday, and the little temple was abuzz with activity. Pilgrims had flocked there to make offerings and receive blessings.

Another distinguishing feature of Mandu is the beobal tree, imported from Africa via Afghanistan. This is the only place in India where you can see the ancient tree. Huge and hollow inside, the branches are bare until just before the monsoon when the appearance of leaves signify the rain’s imminent arrival. The countryside is flat – dry leafed trees are scattered around mature wheat fields, golden in the sunlight. Farmers are harvesting, bundling and threshing the wheat.

At times the countryside is so dry it reminds us of the edge of the Moroccan desert south of the Atlas Mountains. Huge herds of goats pass through town. We even see camel trains – people from Rajasthan 400kms away; the migrant workers in red turbans, their wives in red and gold saris, with their rope beds strapped to the top of the camels. We rented bicycles and rode out through the countryside to more remote sites. The bikes were decidedly tinny and with no gears, the ride slow and bumpy. As we bicycled around the little hamlets people were generally friendly smiling and waving at us.

We picked a pleasant hotel made up of single room cottages built around a large lawn where we ate our meals and overlooking a valley with a good view of the sunrise. Again there were very few westerners – Susie and Cedric an upper crust couple in their seventies from Norfolk, acted as if they were left over from the Raj. They were traveling with a driver they affectionately called “Mommy”, and a good supply of Indian beer. Their trip had begun with skiing in Kashmir with their daughter married to a Dutch diplomat stationed in Delhi.

We traveled to Mandu in a semi circle, and now had to complete the circle returning to Khandwa to catch the train to Varanasi. Getting back from Mandu was no easier than going there. Strictly off the beaten track it involved a series of buses, with the guide book providing little to no help on the route. So we had to go by faith in the bus drivers’ advice with no idea if we were going in the right direction or not, and if we would indeed find a connecting bus at the destination they instructed. But they were more than helpful – leading us around to the correct bus, even saving us seats, and storing our bags – all done without asking for hand out. Madhya Pradesh does not get a lot of foreign tourists and they have not yet been jaded by us! Six hours later we arrived back in Khandwa.

Going to Mandu invoked one of Gerard’s favorite expressions: “What man has done, man can do”. If I complained about the arduousness of the travel, or the lack of conveniences, Gerard would quote, “What man has done, Mandu!”

Since it was Valentine’s Day, Tony, Jen, Gerard and I decided to go to Blue Planet, a renowned health food organic/vegan restaurant. To get there from the beach involved an hour long trek through the jungle of coconut palms and cashew trees all choked with a mass of flowering vines and undergrowth – butterflies fluttering by. The restaurant sat in an opening in the woods. The hike was well worth the effort – it was the best food we’ve had in recent memory, in India or elsewhere. It rivaled Greens of San Francisco. We savored the food for three hours before setting off. My relationship with Jen is one that develops slowly, and improves over time, as the British reserve fades. A good thing, since we’ve extended our stay to three weeks. I can’t believe it….three weeks at the beach!

Another day, the four of us walked across the headland over rocks and steep inclines to small coves with names like Honeymoon Cove, and Butterfly Beach – too rocky for swimming, but pleasant spots for a picnic.

Saturday is Market Day in nearby Chowdi. A little bus took us along with another 50 odd passengers (the bus capacity is 31+1) through the country lanes. On the way to the tailor (to pick up a shirt being made for Gerard) I notice a sign for an Aurevedic doctor. It took some persuading but I managed to get Gerard to take his place with a handful of other people waiting to see the doctor in what, with some stretch of imagination, could be called a waiting room, open to the street. After three-quarters of an hour, the doctor finally rolled in and began to dispense his diagnoses and patients at lightening speed. “When my turn came”, Gerard told me, “I entered a tiny office cluttered with papers and half opened pill boxes. The rafters were covered with thick cobwebs and brown dust. I thought I’d just reentered the 18th century. An elderly man wearing bifocals motioned me to sit down. I quickly realized he could speak little English. I showed him the red welts in various stages of irritation and with no hesitation he exclaimed, “Yes, rash!” I thought to myself I didn’t need to wait three quarters of an hour to hear that….I knew it was a rash.”

The doctor wrote out a prescription of a lotion and three different pills (no connection to the ones prescribed last year – and which had had no success this year). Somewhat relieved to depart the Dickensian chamber, we were back on the street filling the prescription, buying fruit and vegetables at the market, and left town.

A few days later, we finally managed to extricate ourselves from Fatima’s and the constant yoga crowd, to a small guesthouse at the end of the beach. A change of scene is welcome. It’s a peaceful spot, with birdsongs in the morning, not drowned out by the crows. Breakfast is served graciously in the ‘garden’, by Dominique and Rita, the owners of the guesthouse and who live downstairs. Best of all, Gerard’s spots have cleared up – maybe it wasn’t a rash after all, and some creature at Fatima’s was biting him.

This guesthouse has its regulars: a French couple who live in the mountains near Avignon, and have come here every winter for eight years; an Italian woman who stays long enough to decorate her doorway with seashells, a German couple in their mid 70s who travel in India every year and were once attacked in the North East Kingdom and have the scares to show for it. And then, Johnny arrives, an ex Buddhist monk from England and our friend from last year. We’ll be lucky if we can get a booking here next year.

As we were waiting for our room to be cleaned, a Russian couple was just leaving. Up until now, we’ve met few, if any, Russians. Some people draw the conclusion that they’re not friendly. To the contrary, this couple was very friendly and polite. He stood up and shook Gerard’s hand! From Samara, 1,000 km east of Moscow, they are traveling around Goa on a motorbike. During our conversation. Gerard quizzed them on why there is such an interest in yoga in Russia (his wife is a yoga teacher. He replied that since things had opened up there, there is a pent up interest in pursuits beyond the mundane.

Because this is a holiday destination, people here are not in a hurry – it’s easy to make contact. Among the numerous characters are “Brown John” a retired fireman from Lancashire who has a large Buddha tattooed on his tanned back and an even larger drinking problem; the English couple who look like the oldest hippies in Agonda; the man who bicycles back and forth on the road with a huge inner tube around his waist; the blonde who walks the beach daily wearing a pink bikini, a bottle of water balanced perfectly on the top of her head….and then there’s the local Goans..the breadman who delivers Portuguese loaves and rolls, blowing his rubber bicycle horn to announce his arrival; the little old man who hobbles down to Anita’s teashop every morning for his plate of beans…he’s been doing it long before the tourists came. His limited sight assisted by large coke bottle glasses, but not good enough to prevent him walking off in Jane’s flip flops instead of his own…and so on.

Lulled by the sun and surf, I’m entering a new phase (for me) of relaxation. My morning hike down the beach has slowed to a stroll; I’m more disposed to indulge in conversation over meals…perhaps I’m finally experiencing a little of living in the moment, resisting my habitual urge to project into the future – to visualize the next destination. A futile exercise since it always misses the mark.

Unknowingly, Jen and I chose an eventful Sunday to go to church in Agonda – a communal baptism of six babies and almost twenty boys and girls taking their first communion. The little girls in their white bridal dresses and veils; the boys in crisp white shirts and some with garlands of white flowers on their heads.

The Catholic Church is quite plain in its whiteness – a huge carved wood crucifix hangs above the altar, with Christ’s suffering body looking down on us. Along the sides of the church are pictures of the Stations of the Cross. Hanging plastic baskets of trailing flowers in multi pastel colors are strung across the ceiling.

At nine o’clock the church suddenly filled – everyone in their Sunday finery – a mix of Goan dresses – floral cotton or iridescent satin, Indian saris, black suits and peacock colored shirts. The service was highly interactive – the priest invited members of the congregation to come up and read prayers, the congregation responded in song. When he talked to the first communicants, the priest posed question to a small child the children and held the microphone to their lips for the answer. An electric keyboard accompanied the enthusiastic singing, sometimes with organ and trumpet, sometimes with piano. It sounded more like Portuguese dance music than the stately British hymns of my childhood.

A sweet Goan lady sat next to me and pointed to the page in the hymn book and then followed the words with her finger so I could sing along. With all the ceremonies the service went on and on….we crept out during communion. It was nice to see the local villagers getting on with their lives regardless of the tourists. They may serve us in the restaurants and shops but on Sunday they go to church.

In the evening there was a concert in celebration of the children confirmed that day, in the churchyard, a stage with a painted background and crooning singers. It was like any band concert on a Sunday evening at the beach in the summer. Ending with a rousing version of “We are the World” that we could hear all the way down the road towards our hotel at the other end of town.

Even after three weeks, it will be hard to leave Agonda. We have made so many friends here – both the local Goans, and tourists who like us are here each year, some who’ve been coming ten or more years.

Agonda has now become so familiar, returning is like a homecoming. Strange to feel at home somewhere so far away as India. But Goa is not really India – the Portuguese influence is still very strong and the people more Portuguese than Indian. At a tiny café that serves freshly cooked samosas and the best chai in town, directly across from the large white Catholic Church, the choir music wafts out over the early morning air – pretty but decidedly Portuguese.

Nothing much has changed here. There seems to be fewer tourists this year – a combination of the snow (cancelled flights) and the economy in Europe. But at the same time, after last year’s good season, there are more restaurants, more knick-knack shacks geared towards women wandering to and from the beach. Thankfully everything is still on a small scale – no high rise flashy hotels. And the lack of night life in Agonda appeals to an older age group like us.

Fatima welcomes us warmly at her guest house and we get the best corner room on the upper floor facing the ocean. But there have been some changes at Fatima’s. She has rented out her large roof terrace to a yoga teacher dressed for the part, who holds classes and discourses throughout the day. He’s attracted a fair sized group of young tourists. For some reason, he feels the need to communicate via a loud speaker and begins singing and chanting before 7 am. He stays on the roof except when he takes off for the beach on his motorcycle with two scantily clad female students on the back. Day long, there’s a constant stream of young people in yoga clothes going back and forth past our room to the roof. It interferes with our morning meditation in a way that a Hindu temple or mosque does not. Why does it put me out so much, I wonder? I’m supposed to like yoga. The invasiveness –into our space uninvited. Taken over by a yoga camp – if I wanted to attend, it might be different, but I am not encouraged – the good looking, well robed yoga teacher, the intensely earnest students… It’s all a little too trendy for me – like something out of Eat, Pray, Love. Maybe a room change is in order.

The sea is a positive constant. It is the most beautiful beach I’ve known. Unlike the never ending beach in Kanur, Agonda is a very large cove (3 kms), bordered each end by grassy bluffs. One of the reasons I love the sea so much is the buoyancy and lightness I feel when swimming. Perhaps a release from the stresses and worries that weigh me down on land. The soothing rhythm of the waves; the water warm and viscous on my skin. Like a dog, Gerard acts indignant at being coerced into water, but with a hint of a smile as he paddles around, betraying that maybe he’s quite enjoying it!

There are surprisingly few mosquitoes, but a spider has bitten its way across Gerard’s back and one of his feet. As last year, an allergic reaction has set in– the bites have become hideous red welts. The sea water is soothing, and he’s started to take the same anti allergen medicine prescribed a year ago.

Two of the couples we met last year are here as well: Richard and Jane and Tony and Jen from England. We all pick up where we left off. I’m glad I loaded Gerard’s paintings on the netbook; Tony spends a long time peering at them appreciatively with a magnifying glass. He ended up saying he was prepared not to like them because he’s not drawn to cities where he feels nature is obliterated (they live in an old cottage with Norman sections in a village in Norfolk).

At lunch with Keith, an elderly fellow (older than us) from Vancouver, who is remarkably healthy considering how many cigarettes he smokes, we talk about metaphysics. Keith was moving apartments and had a two week wait, so decided to do a little traveling in the meantime – that was two years ago! He says he’s learning too much to go back home. This morning we had breakfast with Manfred who left Germany last July to travel to Uzbekistan and Tajikistan before entering India via Nepal. He’s a nurse, enabling him to take off for long periods and still be ensured of employment when he goes back. Even though the prospect of going to central Asia is very appealing, he mentioned he felt forced to give up being a vegetarian for the time he was there. Like us these people are taking a break from the harsh reality of India in the ease of Agonda.

After two weeks or so, we will probably have had enough of sun and surf (Will I ever have had enough…?) and will be back on the road again.

Our next destination was Kannur, a town on the coast of Kerala. Gerard had discovered it in a blog on the internet and pulled it up on Google maps and could see a very long white beach…so we thought we’d give it a try. When we called ahead to make a reservation, the man spoke unusually good English – with an accent, but not typically Indian. He had a room with kitchen facilities and a washing machine. Strange, we didn’t really want that – the price was more than we normally pay but cheaper than anywhere else available in town. So we took it and he offered to meet us at the train station because our train was arriving after dark.

Waiting for us was a European close to our age. We should have guessed! He introduced himself as Sarkis, a Swede – but even then we couldn’t put the pieces together of who this man was…Sarkis didn’t sound Swedish. Anyway, we got ourselves to his house, to find that we were the only ones staying in a large sprawling complex of two buildings and five bedrooms. He offered us the pick of bedrooms, showed us the kitchen and gave us the keys, saying he’d return in the morning to negotiate the price.

It was pitch black and we couldn’t see the ocean, but from the roar of the surf it had to be close by. Tomorrow we would decide what we’d do next. The morning light revealed that we were right next to a long empty beach on a road with very few residences, not a hotel or guest house in sight. Sarkis arrived and after hearing we had been mediating, launched into a long conversation about spirituality and mysticism. It was hard to get Gerard and Sarkis to stop talking long enough to get down to the business of whether we were going to stay and if so, for how long. Another issue was how far off were the shops and restaurants because there were none in sight. He explained they were only a fifteen minute walk. We didn’t relish the idea of going back into town and trying to find other accommodation. Certainly none would have the beach frontage of this. So after some negotiation we agreed on a price for five days. “How do you find me?” he asked. “Are you a friend of Tulla’s?” (Tulla from Sweden had just left). ”No, we found you on the internet.” “But I’m not on the internet.” “Oh yes, you are,” Gerard said. He does not advertise, but we found him in a blog. (He’s clearly not terribly concerned about renting, and only does to friends – and friends of friends).

Gerard and Sarkis continue to talk. Over the next few days, the picture of who this man is slowly emerges. First and foremost, he has a strong pull towards the spiritual side of life and is anxious to share what he’s figured out. Gerard and he have a great time expounding. (And Gerard was worried that he would have no one to talk to in this empty house!) He lives with his Indian wife back in town, but comes over here twice a day (at least while we’re here). As the conversation broadens, there’s much more to this man than being a Swede implied. He’s actually Armenian, and his family fled in 1917 during the Turkish massacre to a remote mountainous region bordering Iran, Turkey and the Soviet Union. No one was quite sure what country it was. In the early 50s, his parents emigrated to the US and sent Sarkis to school in Calcutta (through the Greek Orthodox Church). After nine years he was restless and ran away. He ended up in Iraq unable to speak the language but got a job through a US company out of Kuwait. That was short lived – he met a group of Swedes en route to Afghanistan who needed a driver. Once he fulfilled his obligation, they would give him contacts to help him migrate to Sweden. When he finally got to Sweden with no papers, questioned by the authorities he was told his contacts were known drug traffickers. Nevertheless they granted him entry. After working for Volvo for a short time, he was stationed in the middle-east and stayed for 26 years working in all the major capitals there.

Sarkis met his India wife in, of all places, Yemen! Gerard was green with envy – a place he’s always wanted to go but it’s too dangerous. In his mid 40s Sarkis had triple bypass surgery and took early retirement. Now he spends the winters in India and summers in Sweden. (Swedes get good government paid pensions.) We still haven’t quite figured out why he built such a large complex down here when he had a house in town. If it was a commercial venture he doesn’t seem terribly motivated to rent the place. He says, his wife didn’t like the effect of the salt air… (Sarkis talks with a levity quite familiar to those of us who know Berge!) Oddly enough he’s exactly the same age as Gerard bar one week!

While all this unfurled, I have spent time on the beach – but feel somewhat weird being alone and surrounded by so much empty sand and sea. The water is warm and clear, without the undertow so many places on the west coast have. So far we feel that in Kerala the people are more friendly and the countryside less contaminated. When we walk down the lane to the restaurant, it’s clear the locals are not accustomed to seeing westerners and yet they are eager to say hello. Even though the population is supposed to be greater, it doesn’t feel it at all. Hotter than we expected, Sarkis says it’s one of the hottest spring in years. The weather is odd, even here!

Although the beach is empty for most of the day, at around 4 pm things begin to happen. A group of Indian boys, and old Englishman Jacob and slightly younger woman Lucy- (also English), drive up in a van and sit on the edge of the beach for the “English Lesson”. They come every day. Jacob has his story: he fought in World War II in Burma and instead of returning to England after the war, worked in Nigeria and then the middle east where he met may Keralitees. So when he reached retirement age he decided to retire in Kerala. Then there’s the man who comes to fly a kite, and the Indian headmaster who meets Sarkis on the stone wall outside the house to converse daily on spiritual matters. Today, the theme of their conversation is an article in the Hindu Times: Selfless Service as a route to Self Realization. The locals also turn out to walk on the beach and enjoy the spectacular sunsets, and young men play football at the edge of the water.

Two days into the stay the idyllic atmosphere changes. Having never had anything stolen during our previous four trips to India, this time I am a victim of stealing…not once but twice! Here in Kannur, during the night someone gets over the locked fence and takes my swimsuit off the line…and I later discover my shoes also gone. I still haven’t come to terms with losing my clothes in Trichy, and now the point is being driven further home.

I had so wanted this trip to be perfect. I’d planned and packed perfectly and wanted – and expected – everything to turn out the same. I was angry – an anger that undoubtedly came from a resistance to accept what is; frustrated over not controlling my environment. I knew I should let go, but I missed my possessions too much. I wanted to know why this happened to me, and what could we have done to prevent it, rather than focusing on how I was handling the unwanted/unexpected…or, why not me?

Everything that had previously seemed light and happy was now dark and threatening. I sort out solace in the sea and went swimming in my clothes like the Indians. But even the ocean was hostile, the waves menacing. For the first time, I saw young boys on the beach leering at me; in the lanes the men were hostile.

Finally the next morning – after a long night – my mood shifted. With difficulty I reached the realization that through adversity I have a better chance of learning something about myself than if I had a perfect trip. Why do I need to control? Insecurity…when those things I’m depending on for security fail me I become reactionary, a victim. I realized that the contents of my suitcase were a security blanket. Does a real traveler need this? I’d packed my belongings to protect myself from the uncertainties of traveling. But do I really need to always know where I’m going? It’s time to move on…

Then Gerard lost his new sunglasses – also stolen. My own angst was subjugated in sympathy for him. I could now play a more familiar role. It is easier for me to help him deal with his loss than with the feelings of my own. The last couple of days have been spent looking for lost belongings and then shopping unsuccessfully to replace them. It has been exhausting. But then something sweet happened in the third optical store – with still nothing suitable for Gerard we asked the shopkeeper for directions to get back to the restaurant we used for dinner. He can’t help us, so he says instead, “I will take you there!” And he leads us behind the shop to where his car is. After spending half an hour in his store and not buying anything, he is happy to drive us to our next destination. And later in the restaurant, they bid us a fond farewell when we say we’re leaving the next morning.

Our host, Sakis, was very disturbed by what had happened. He was upset that his house had been broken into; the first time in the whole 15 years he’d owned it. Oh…wait; we’re not the center of the universe? The situation was upsetting to others too. The night watchman of courser also felt responsible for us and spent a long time searching the lane behind the guesthouse. Even the two resident cats wailed more than usual. The next morning Sakis brought Gerard a pair of sunglasses he no longer needed to replace Gerard’s lost ones and insisted on paying for the rickshaw to the train station. He’s a very caring person.

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What should have been simple…simple? What were we thinking of? In India, is anything simple? A four hour bus ride to the next town turned into a day of trying to find the right bus with no one speaking English – one man points in one direction, one man in another. Finally we take a bus part of the way, and have to repeat the same exercise to reach our destination, Kumbakonam. We have come only to see examples of Tamil Nadu temples.

At Swaminathan’s suggestion we hire a car and driver for a day to visit seven temples located in the countryside around the town. Our driver arrives in an immaculate white Ambassador, titled “Black Moon”, with a furling pendant stately positioned on the hood of the car – a warning to all other lesser vehicles to acknowledge our status and make way. Unfortunately the car has more personality than our driver. Granted he does not speak English, but we have been in similar situations and still managed to be familiar without the need for language.

The temples of Tamil Nadu are famous for their unique architecture and importance as places of pilgrimage.They stand out for their soaring gateway towers, and intricately carved pillars. There may be multiple shrines, but the central one is an inner sanctum often housed in a building located in the middle of the complex (Hindus only allowed). Flanking the entrance are two large stone carved deities protecting the idol. The edifice of the building and interior are intricately carved out of granite. Since many of these temples are a thousand years old, one wonders how it was possible for the artisans to see what they were doing in these cavernous interiors, probably working only with the illumination of smoky butter lamps.
Two temples that stand out are Sri Abirami – huge and cavernous, over the top in its colorful decorations and bustling with activity to the point where western tourists pass unnoticed. The other, more remote, is quite the opposite. The temple is simple, tranquil and the unpainted architecture glowed in the golden light of the setting sun. Equally enjoyable was just being in the country, driving down lanes that we would otherwise not have been able to reach. It was a bit of a splurge, but worth it.

On the way back to the city, we make a prearranged stop at the house of Swaminathan’s elderly parents. (The reach of our Indian family extends further than had known.) “Please make two very old people happy by stopping for idli,” he pleads with us. We have no problem in obliging. His eighty-something year old father who can speak some English greets us. He is sitting in the middle of a large unfurnished room save for several plastic chairs, Simply dressed in a white waistcloth matching his snow white hair, his skin is dark, his eyes bright and alert. He beckons to us to sit opposite him and then as Gerard engages in conversation, he moves his chair closer to hear Gerard better. They discuss the temples and he comments, “There is no way that these temples could be built today; the knowledge is lost.” It is true, as time progresses, architecture becomes cheaper and cheesier.

Two temples that stand out are Sri Abirami – huge and cavernous, over the top in its colorful decorations and bustling with activity to the point where western tourists pass unnoticed. The other, more remote, is quite the opposite. The temple is simple, tranquil and the unpainted architecture glowed in the golden light of the setting sun. Equally enjoyable was just being in the country, driving down lanes that we would otherwise not have been able to reach. It was a bit of a splurge, but worth it.

On the way back to the city, we make a prearranged stop at the house of Swaminathan’s elderly parents. (The reach of our Indian family extends further than had known.) “Please make two very old people happy by stopping for idli,” he pleads with us. We have no problem in obliging. His eighty-something year old father who can speak some English greets us. He is sitting in the middle of a large unfurnished room save for several plastic chairs, Simply dressed in a white waistcloth matching his snow white hair, his skin is dark, his eyes bright and alert. He beckons to us to sit opposite him and then as Gerard engages in conversation, he moves his chair closer to hear Gerard better. They discuss the temples and he comments, “There is no way that these temples could be built today; the knowledge is lost.” It is true, as time progresses, architecture becomes cheaper and cheesier.

Previously a French Colony, Pondicherry is laid out on a grid, running along the oceanside. There’s no beach and surprisingly for me it doesn’t seem to matter. Every morning and evening the promenade is filled with French, Hindu and Moslem all promenading in their appropriate attire – along with a smattering of western tourists. The old French quarter – the cobblestone streets, mustard yellow townhouses, with verandahs and shady tree lined streets – are reminiscent of New Orleans. A number of streets away from the coast, the more typical Indian section begins.

Tourists are predominantly Indian; with a small showing of Westerners, mostly French. The main draw is the Sri Aurobindo ashram and nearby Auroville which seems to have more appeal to our age than the younger generation. Sri Aurobindo was a yogi who was educated in England, returning to India became a nationalist and later exchanged politics for spirituality after a few years in prison. He came to Pondicherry in 1910 and was joined 4 years later by Mother, a Frenchwoman who became his spiritual collaborator and after his death, successor. Both Sri Aurobindo and Mother have a large following primarily in India and France.

We’re fortunate to get a room at a guest house managed by the Ashram, where there are strict rules of no drinking, smoking, a 10.30 pm curfew and quiet time between 9pm and 7am – all of which suits us well. Guests are predominantly Indian and preference is given to the followers of Aurobindo. Unusually peaceful, it is the hotel with the best location and the best price. It sits right beside the sea and the sound of the surf pounding the rocks drowns out traffic and other noises. Our room, named “Liberation” (next door to “Concentration”) is simple but clean with a window facing the ocean, and huge flowering bushes similar to bougainvillea outside the door. An artfully conceived garden includes a Japanese rock garden and statues of gods and goddesses are positioned among flowering bushes, with a large lawn for meditation, yoga and “mindful walking”.

The family interaction continues: Arvind’s cousin, Swami Nathan, and his wife arrive and show us the “vital points” of town, which include a fresh juice bar, excellent veg restaurant called Surguru, and some all important women’s clothing stores! Swami’s wife manages a Montessori school, while he commutes to Banagalore. He leaves every Friday night, returning on Sunday night – a ten hour bus ride each way. It’s exhausting to think about. Meeting us a few hours after he arrives on Saturday, he seems remarkably refreshed from his night on the bus. They entertain us for dinner in their home and we meet their two smart and highly excitable daughters, one still in school and the older studying postgraduate. She sings Carnatic music after the meal. Their English is limited but we manage to understand each other, with the exception of when Gerard and I talk among ourselves. When we did this in Chennai, Mrs Mahadevan accused us of speaking in “foreign tongues”. This reminded me of when we were first married and Gerard’s mother would make the same accusation! Some things don’t change.

After a few days we decide to visit a nearby temple town, Chidambaram. The rickshaw driver takes us the most convenient route to the bus station, i.e. driving for several minutes against the traffic on a one way street to avoid having to backtrack. It’s not the first time we’ve been subjected to this risky behavior in India. Waiting at the station in the early morning – enjoying the sun rise, the friendly chai wallah, the helpful young Indian girl who struggles to speak English – I feel a rush of love for India (aided by two strong cups of chai!) But when we finally cram on to the bus, the seats and aisle tightly packed with people and start the slow drive through the traffic congested streets, I’m brought down to earth by the flipside- India’s phenomenal and disruptive population growth. We are surprised at how large Pondicherry is – but it’s the same everywhere.

At the time of Independence in 1947, India represented one-fifth of the world’s population with 400 million. Today, the U.S. is 310 million, but India which covers one-third the space, has grown to one billion. The government encourages one child per family, and there is some compliance within the Hindu community; conversely Muslims believe they should have as many children as possible to spread Islam. In about 20 years, the Muslim population is expected to equal the Hindu population in India further straining communications between the two communities.

The bus to Chidambaram must be the most crowded we’ve yet experienced in India – fortunately we have seats. Whenever we stop, the interchange of outgoing and incoming passengers defies description. How can one exit or enter when there isn’t an inch of space to move? But in typical Indian fashion they manage. It’s a long two hours, but the temple complex makes the ride worthwhile. Magnificent steepled temples wouldn’t look out of place in Mayan Central America; in the dark interior, mysterious and complex ceremonies are being performed by monks, wearing only loincloths. But disappointingly photography is forbidden and the large dancing Shiva statue we hoped to see is out of bounds for non Hindus.

Back in Pondicherry in the evening, we finally get to an Internet café to post the blog and try to finalize our plans for a three day visit to remote temple towns. But on the way home, Gerard trips in the dark and badly hurts his foot. We’re afraid a bone is broken, and for a while all our plans are jeopardized. How can we proceed if he can’t walk? I am abruptly reminded that our lives are as fragile as sugar candy and you can’t depend on anything. The good times in India I was previously taking for granted, could so easily be disrupted. But miraculously in the morning, although his foot’s sore, he’s able to walk again. It’s not too swollen and we assume nothing is broken…and we continue on.

Chennai (previously Madras) is an old trading port on the east coast of Tamil Nadu where we’re only staying for a few days to visit friends before heading down the coast to Pondicherry.

Arvind’s parents generously host us in their small but comfortable home. We’d only met them a few times previously, but we’re soon familiar and space is not an issue. The temperature is between 80-85F with high humidity and the mosquitoes are rampant. Once again they’re after Gerard’s sweet blood and choose to leave me mostly ignored – although I do have two bites strategically positioned on the end of my nose. (Two days later, I have as many if not more bites than him.)

In the evening at sunset we visit Marina beach proclaimed as the second longest beach in the world. It seems at least half the inhabitants of Chennai are promenading or sitting in groups on the sand, but swimming has been forbidden since the 2004 tsunami swept people and cars out to sea. Today’s newspaper actually reports someone drowning after trying to swim against the strong rip tide. Along with others, Arvind’s mother and I paddle in the waves close to the shore. She puts her sandals down behind us and tells me to do the same. With uncharacteristic caution, I keep holding them. A few minutes later, a huge wave comes in, soaks her sari and my pants. She turns around and finds only one sandal on the beach – the other has been swept out by the wave. We search the shore which is littered with single sandals, but to no avail.

Discarded shoes are a common sight in India, whether on top of a mountain in the Himalayas, or on a path beside a rice field, or in the gutter of a busy bazaar. A year ago I had a brief idea of making a photographic study of these unpaired shoes for a coffee table book. Worn shoes have always possessed a fascination for me – they seem to absorb the personality of whoever wore them. When I was very young, a favorite possession was a tiny old-fashioned leather boot we found on Dartmoor in England. A woman who truly believed in fairies persuaded me it belonged to a boy captured by moorland fairies. I believed her – the sandal had a decidedly mournful personality.

After the beach, we visit the nearby San Thome Church, supposedly built over the tomb of the Apostle Saint Thomas who came to India in AD 52 and was martyred there ten years later. The legend is that St Thomas at the request of the king pulled away a huge log that had washed ashore and was blocking the narrow mouth of the river and causing floods. None of the king’s army could pull it. St. Thomas prayed and touched his girdle and the men pulled it out with no difficulty. Pleased, the king gave the land to St Thomas to construct a church. The church has been rebuilt over the centuries and is now cathedral size but with simple white plastered walls and an arched wooden ceiling. As we arrived, we could hear music that had no similarity to any church music that I’d ever heard. Inside, a dark-skinned South Indian priest was belting out a catchy syncopated rhythm to the accompaniment of prerecorded choir, beating his hand in time on the lectern as if it were a tabla.

It amazes me how our meeting with Shruti several years ago has drawn us into an intricate fabric of family relationships that continues to evolve. Like an epic Indian novel the size of Vikram Seth’s Suitable Boy (I’m currently reading), you need family tree charts to understand the many relationships both vertically and horizontally. Each time we’re here we meet new uncles, aunts, cousins…all offering their friendship and help. And then there are the virtual families branching out from Shruti’s friends we’ve gotten to know in Boston. Vadya’s parents live across town – a forty-minute auto rickshaw ride that would be a sightseeing pleasure if not for the traffic congestion and diesel fumes. They feed us a banquet of south Indian food, quite different from the Punjabi food we eat in most Indian restaurants in the west.

One of the more attractive elements of traveling is the luxury of not being tied to a tight schedule even though the route may be planned. You arrive at a place and stay as long as you want; or move on if you don’t like it. And if you decide to deviate from the planned route you can do that too. But the consequence is you can’t book accommodation too much in advance. It takes us a lot of time to book a guest house for tomorrow for our next stop, Pondicherry. Being told repeatedly, “We’re full till February”…even March, I get panicky. Of course, we eventually find something (though the one we want most and within our budget is on a “first come, first serve basis’, which doesn’t give me huge confidence.) I realize I can’t consider myself a real traveler until I let go. And I have to remind myself why I’ve elected to travel this way. An underlying principle of traveling is the surprise of the unknown. If everything is known where’s the surprise? The more you try to control, the less the spontaneity.

On the third day in Chennai, our hosts take us to the world headquarters of the Theosophical Society. It’s situated in rambling grounds with an abundance of flowering plants and trees. A tranquil respite from the hubbub of Chennai. The air is clear, numerous bird calls…it’s like being in the country. Buried among the trees are a mosque, church, Buddhist shrine, Hindu temple and individual houses where “lifetime” members live. Madame Blavatsky’s French colonial style house has a verandah with high ceiling supported on tall white columns. It’s easy to visualize her sometime in the 1920s sitting there surrounded by tropical plants sipping an ice cold limeade while propounding her views on theosophy. The center now hosts conferences with attendees from all over the world.

From there we move on to a very large Shiva temple, back in the midst of Chennai. Its gateway tower is a mass of carved figures, now painted in rainbow colors, in part to protect the soft sandstone from the elements. Inside the temple’s bustling with activity mostly because it’s one of numerous auspicious days. Why it’s auspicious, no one can explain. A huge statue of Shiva and his wife Parvati is adorned with so many garlands that the figures are nearly obscured. The statue is carried under ceremonial umbrellas in a procession through the temple and out into the adjoining streets with tremendous fanfare and accompanied by music that is a cross between Indian and English marching music.

The day we move on to Pondicherry begins with a bit of excitement on the street. Our hosts live beside a busy exit road from the city and the bus for Pondicherry conveniently leaves from almost outside their house. But it’s a request stop and the traffic is so busy that we are unable to flag it down. Observing our plight, a group of people hail a rickshaw already carrying customers, and tell the driver to take us as well and chase after the bus. Our bags are stuffed on to the rickshaw and we push ourselves in. Five minutes later we catch up with the bus at the next stop, everyone tumbles out with our luggage, we get on the bus and they carry on to wherever they were going before our needs interrupted.

It was mid summer before the desire to go back to India was rekindled. Gerard managed to plan a new route but including two old favorites, Goa and Varanasi, and of course the obligatory stop in Delhi to see our Indian family.

The day before we left a storm dropped a foot of snow on Boston and shut down the airport for 24 hours. But thankfully, there were no problems with our departure. As we flew above the city, I understood the meaning of crystal clear –the darkness had already descended and a brilliant mass of golden lights were polished by the cold winter air, drained of moisture after yesterday’s snow.

We used frequent flyer miles to fly to Delhi via Paris. Both flights were surprisingly uneventful with no crying babies and no disturbances. The brief layover in Charles DeGaulle airport felt like a mini Parisian vacation, including cappuccino and fresh baked croissants in a little cafe! After I complained about our seat assignments on our second flight, we were upgraded to business class in the upper level of a Boeing 747 – remarkably spacious with a wonderful wide ledge next to my window seat for my sundry belongings. Secluded from the main cabin below and with our own friendly cabin crew, it felt as if we were part of a select group flying in a small private plane.

We arrived at the brand new Delhi International terminal- gleaming and orderly; so different from the chaos, dirt and confusion of our first arrival here 33 years ago. But like certain smells that bring back childhood memories, the familiar mix of aromas that is distinctly Indian is welcoming in the face of change. We both agree that is seems like we have just left – indeed it has only been nine months. We’re both very happy to be back.

Our friend Shruti’s husband Arvind and her father Bhushan have come to meet us. Arvind is tall by Indian standards and as we exit the airport into a huge throng of Indians come to meet arrivals, a waving arm above the mass leads us to Arvind’s welcoming face.

We joke with our Indian friends with what they like to call “Indian time” – what that amounts to is that they are habitually later than scheduled and for no apparent reason. They don’t defend it. But “Indian time” could also be interpreted as the manner in which Indians always have time for each other. Whether it means going to the airport at 2 am on a cold January morning to meet a friend or relative, or stretching their already confined living space to accommodate an elderly mother who can no longer take care of herself; or a daughter, son-in-law and grandchild whose lives have taken an unexpected turn and need time to relocate; or travelers from the US like ourselves who are passing through and appreciate hospitality for a night or two.

Indians often live to a very old age (perhaps it’s the antioxidants in all the chai they drink…) Shruti’s paternal and maternal grandmother both now live with her mother and aunt respectively. Shruti’s grandmother tried to communicate with us to no avail. But when I said, “Radha Soami” (the spiritual path we all practice), she smiled and touched her forehead and said the name of her Master. Something in common, something shared without words.

The Mahajan’s home may be crowded, with Shruti, Arvind and their two year old daughter Simrita staying here temporarily; but no one complains. They accept the situation and deal with it. Simrita is surrounded by three generations of adoring relatives, and with constant attention has grown in confidence. Her grandfather, Bhushan, has taught her to chant boldly, “I am brave…I am strong… I am not afraid of anything! I am not afraid of Gerard Uncle’s beard!” And she touches his chin to prove it. Six months ago, the first sight of him and his beard would send her off screaming!

Shruti is happy to be back in India where she no longer feels alone; she has plenty of help with the baby, and no longer has to cook, clean and wash. Practically, life is much easier for her than in the US. Asked what she misses if anything, Shruti says without hesitation: “The space and cleanliness. We used to enjoy driving out into the open country easily. Here any outing is exhausting. And the weather, especially spring”. Delhi goes from winter cold, straight into the broiling heat of summer. It is cold here right now – not as cold as Boston – but the concrete houses without central heating are frigid. You can’t expect to come in from the cold outside and warm up.

Delhi also has a new metro system which is changing the face of the city. Shops and businesses are springing up along the route where previously there were none. Progress was spurred on by the Commonwealth Games held here last summer, and it is now almost complete. Fairs are cheap (one rupee per km) and the trains are numerous, which is good because even later in the evening they’re still crowded.

After only two days in Delhi, we leave on the night train for Chennai in the south. I was not looking forward to the 33 hour train ride, but now half way through it I must admit it’s not that difficult and many times preferable to the long bus rides we took last year up in the mountains! Like our flight, the train is unusually peaceful with no screaming babies or even loud voices. We share our compartment with two young men who are relatively quiet and spend most of the journey sleeping. Indians have an amazing capability to pass long periods of waiting/travel in sleep. They can literally sleep through the day and following night also. Lulled by the motion and sounds of the train moving along the tracks, we also sleep and catch up on our jet lag.

The family from jillander who give us a ride insist that we are now family. Of course we should squeeze into their little car and with effort pack our cases in back with theirs. Our ride through the mountains down to Pathankot was a jolly time. Bushan waited for us, coming from Delhi on the night train several hours before. He tells us his family is waiting to greet us. We hug our new Jillander family goodbye and move on to meet the next one. Two families of relatives live side by side in neighboring houses. Four generations of people welcome us so warmly. The women cook lavish meals, the young boys proudly show us the neighborhood. So much friendship.

The next day we took the train a short distance to Amritsar. Again we were treated so lovingly by Bushan’s brother and his wife. Amritsar is the Holy city of the Sikh Faith. We were amused by the names of some of the stores like Simran Shoes, Satguru Electronics – and the less inspiring Dreamland Resort, sitting right next to a chemical plant spewing obnoxious smoke. Over three busy days, we saw the main points of interest.

The Jallianwallah Memorial

Jallianwallah is a moving memorial at the site of the 1919 massacre. It began as a peaceful demonstration ordered by Mahatma Ghandi against the Rowlatt Act which enabled imprisonment of Indians suspected of sedition without trial. No one had guns. At the order of the Brisith General Dwyer, 2,000 Indians were shot to death and many more injured. The site is now a beautiful garden but with several gruesome reminders: the narrow passage way where the soldiers entered blocking any exit; the bullet holes in the brick wall where people were shot in the back as they scattered; the well where 150 perished when they jumped in for cover. The event prompted Ghandi’s civil disobedience campaign and ultimate liberation from the British. Looking at the many photographs and newspaper coverage of the event, I felt ashamed of my heritage.

Golden Temple

Westerners are allowed to visit the Golden Temple – the spritiual center of Sikh faith – after covering the head and washing feet. The marble temple has a large lake, in the center of which sits the golden inner sanctum. The best times to go are at sunrise or in the evening when the Sikhs are singing bhajans – devotional songs. We went in the evening; despite the crowds of visitors and pilgrims it was surprisingly peaceful. I was awed at the fierce looking turbaned Sikhs sitting quietly in prayer beside the lake.

Bedlam at the Border

Amritsar is only 27 km from the Indian Pakistan border and every evening at sunset it is closed in a flag lowering ceremony with much pomp and ceremony. Indian guards wearing elaborate costumes with plumed hats perform synchronized speed markcing along a 100 meter walkway to the border gateway, turn and stomp back. A guard lives his feet so high, he hits his hat. The crowd cheers raucously. Then the Pakistani guards emulate – and try to outperform – the Indian efforts, while the Parkistani crowd yells spiritedly. National music blasts on both sides while the crowd dances in patriotic enthusiasm. The flag lowering ceremony is turned into an opportunity for a disturbing (to us) show of extreme emotional patriotism. It was intriguing to watch the Pakistanis on the other side, women in black burkhas, men in simple white cotton suits – but otherwise they looked no different from the Indian crowd.

We say goodbye to our gracious hosts at 4.30 am and take our last train ride to Delhi. For the last time, we step over the sleeping bodies and listen to the familiar voice over the PA system announcing the arrival of each train with: “For your kind attention…”

Khahjjiar is basically a large open meadow sitting in a tall lush pine forest, high in the mountains. Everything looks so green and healthy here, more so than anywhere else we’ve been; a stark contrast from Badami, Orccha, Ajunta… We’d had such a good time in Chopta up in the mountains in Uttrakhand, and wanted to enjoy one more day in a similar environment before descending into the hot plains of the Punjab.

Khajjiar is not really a town – only a couple of hotels and restaurants border the meadow. It’s a popular day trip from Dalhousie for Indian families who take horse rides, picnic on the grass, and have their picture taken in traditional costume. Our guesthouse is set back a little way in the trees – just a few rooms looking out on a pretty garden.

The last couple of days in Chamba the weather kept chasing from cloudy to thunderstorms to clearing off – and continues to do the same here. After three months of continuous sunshine, it’s a novelty to have this changeable weather.

While waiting for dinner at the guesthouse, Gerard starts a conversation with the family in the room next door to us. They inquire where we’re going, and then surprise us with an invitation to join them driving to Panthakot. They happen to be going to the same way we are! We enthusiastically accept. I’m reprieved from one last bus ride in the mountains!